The dangers of recovering patio furniture

So, it all started fairly innocently. We have outdoor furniture that we inherited when we arrived in the Valley in 2008. It's really good quality, but to say that the cushions on the chairs were looking a bit tired would be an understatement.

The problem is that outdoor furniture is all about patterns, flowers, fronds, and swirls, and stuff, and I am not a girl who likes a pattern. I don’t mind a check or a stripe, but generally, I like things plain.

In my days of touring with stand-up, I would refer to the cheapness of the digs I was staying at by how many patterns there were in the room: Pattern of bedding clashes with pattern of curtain was one thing, but when the pattern of the wallpaper and the towels join in, you know that's a cheap stay. The cheapest digs I ever stayed in had not one plain surface in the room - I'm lying. There was a sink.

Anyway, in terms of the cushion covers, I made a plan. I’d buy a sewing machine and some plain outdoor fabric and I’d make my own.

So I did - buy a sewing machine that is. And I bought a big roll of non-pattered outdoor fabric (red for danger) and set about learning to sew.

And it’s been ok. Once I learned to thread the machine, it was mostly plain sailing. I'm clearly no Versace but cushion covers are mostly straight lines, so it’s just a matter of getting the right size of fabric and putting your foot on the pedal. Even I can do that.

But the sewing machine only came with one needle, and the outdoor fabric is pretty tough. So when the needle burst over the weekend, everything went on hold till I could go and buy a new one from the store I bought the machine from.

Simple, right? At least that’s what I thought when I nipped into the store at 9.30 on Monday morning, planning to pick up some needles before going to meet my friend Ken for breakfast at 10.

The store is part of a chain over here that stocks everything anyone could need for sewing, knitting, crafts, or general toot collecting. The branch I popped into expands over two floors (upstairs for sewing and fabric, downstairs for knitting and assorted toot). It was virtually empty apart from a couple of women in uniforms who pottered downstairs. I headed upstairs where there was one lone guy sitting at his laptop.

“Excuse me,“ I smile, “Where can I find the machine needles? ”

Without looking up he flapped his hand. “Over there,” he said “Behind the tower”

I couldn't see any tower.

“What tower?”

He looked up and sighed.

“Just walk in that direction and you'll find it,” he said, motioning.

Full confession, I’ve never looked for a needle in a haystack, but compared to looking for a needle behind an invisible tower in two floors of craft supplies, it has to be a breeze.

Eventually, after wandering aimlessly, I managed to find a couple of nice wee ladies in uniforms who show me where the needles are. Though they turn out to be security locked ( who knew there was a black-market trade on $10 sewing machine needles?) so even if I had managed to find them by myself, I still wouldn’t have been able to get them without a staff member.

I thought about saying as much to my laptop friend, but he had left his laptop and now pottered about downstairs moving plant pots with much importance.

I went downstairs to the payment area - victorious in having found what I needed - but the woman in the uniform on the cash desk told me that I couldn’t pay for the needles downstairs. They had to be paid for upstairs

So I headed upstairs.

Laptopguy was back in position. Seeing me appearing on the escalator, he found something to study very intently on his screen.

“Excuse me. I need to pay for the..”

“Downstairs,” he interrupted. “You pay downstairs. “

“But the woman downstairs just told me upstairs. So what am I meant to do?”

“You can't pay upstairs.” he stated “Only downstairs”

“But.”

“DOWN. Stairs”

“Oh FFS. Really? So what would you advise? Shall I just stick these needles up my ass and walk out the store?”

Now I had his attention.

“Do not use that language with me. I do not appreciate that language in this store”

He stood - a thin white guy of about 30. Obviously a supervisor of some sort as he didn't wear a uniform. He bristled with indignation.

This was getting properly weird. I’d literally just wanted to pop in, to get some sewing machine needles before meeting my pal, Ken, for breakfast. But clearly, I'd wandered into a drama.

I moved towards him “Can you explain to me what customer service is…?”

His face turned ashen.

“Don't come any closer!” He exclaimed loudly. “Keep your distance!”

Standing maybe about four or five feet away from him, I was completely bemused. Clearly, he wanted the rest of the store to know he saw me as a viable threat.

But I couldn't work out why? I just wanted to pay for the needles for my sewing machine, not demand the codes for the safe. And we were standing in a crafting store in LA on a Monday morning.

What was he afraid I would do? Dress him up in gingham? Smother him in some crushed velvet? I couldn't work out how he'd gone from actively dismissive to full crisis response in a matter of a couple of sentences.

The two women who had helped me earlier stood, shuffling ‘bargain offcuts’ sheepishly.

“Keep your distance.” he repeated loudly.

This was now surreal - like when you see someone in a TV drama try to negotiate with a suicide bomber. But this was just a wee thin guy in polo shirt and chinos and I am a fifty-something-year-old woman in a craft shop.

It became clear to me that, should I continue down this evidently foolhardy road of trying to fix my sewing machine, there was a very good chance this guy would call the cops.

So I put the needles down, and said I was leaving. Laptop guy looked visibly relieved, nodding like I’d made the wise decision that may have just saved my life.

As I walked away, I asked his name. ‘Ryan,” he responded proudly, looking like any minute he may be getting an award for hostage negotiation.

As I disappeared down the escalator, I called back.

“Ryan I know it's Monday morning and we're all a bit rusty, but pull your shit together There's stuff to get done.”

The women in uniforms bowed their heads to hide a laugh.

Weirdly afterwards, I felt scared. Like the world was full of threat. Because the whole thing had escalated really out of nowhere and I couldn't make sense of it.

But sitting with Ken over breakfast, everything started to feel better - nothing like an omelet and a pal to reset the day.

As we sat chatting in the restaurant, two guys came in and sat at the next table. They looked like they'd been round the block a bit. Both of them were no stranger to the tattoo parlor, and the bigger of the two sported a giant etching on his neck.

And as Ken and I talked, it seemed like they might be listening in to our conversation. I got the feeling they wanted to say something.

That made me worry. I had already been profiled as a sewing materials terrorist and it wasn't even noon. I began to feel like I had some kind of target on my back.

But then the shorter of the two called over, “Excuse me, where are you from in Scotland?”

And we chat. And the tattoo guys are lovely. And the smaller of the guys has a Grandma from Glasgow. And the other, with the massive neck tattoo, used to live in London. And I am reminded how lovely LA can be, and how much I enjoy meeting new people.

But I can't quite shake off the feeling of Ryan and his ‘Keep Your Distance”. What the Hell did I do? And then it dawned on me, it was how I talked. It was my accent.

When Americans swear in LA, it has a casualness to it. But when you throw in a curse word over here with a Scottish accent, the words hit a whole different level - in fact some words that aren't even curse words, sound threatening to the sensitive American ear.

That was what scared Ryan. It was laughable. Sort of. Ridiculous really.

This week when I've talked about it with friends, we’ve laughed. Kinda. Because it's funny.

Except I can’t help thinking it's also not.

I have a black friend who moved to Panama. She says that one of the things she enjoys about living there, is that she no longer gets followed around stores being suspected of shoplifting. When she told me this I laughed, thinking she was joking. She explained, completely practically, that it’s ‘just something that you get used to when you live somewhere that's predominantly white and you're black.’

An Asian friend, cycling home one night, was followed by another cyclist who would not leave her alone. He said she shouldn't be on the roads and should go back to her own fucking country. She would have explained that this is her fucking country, but she knows better and just cycled faster.

I keep thinking about how unsettled I was by Ryan. How I questioned how this craziness could possibly happen to me. And I realized I have never been so conscious of the whiteness of my skin, or the blueness of my eyes. I have never been so aware of what the term “white privilege” means.

Sandra Bland died after a routine traffic stop. Trayvon Martin never reached the age of 20 because he wore a hoodie, and had a pack of Skittles in his pocket. Tamir Rice was 12 years old and picked up a pellet gun.

I do not like a pattern. I like things plain.

Recovering your patio furniture shouldn't have to be dangerous. Not for anybody. But there is no avoiding the fact. For some people it always potentially is.

Till next week xo

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Learn more about Lynn’s Story work at YouTellYours.com