I feel another rant coming on soon (dogs, in case you’re wondering), so to avoid having two rants in a row and making you think I’m some sort of Mrs Angry, I’d like to stick in a wee paean of praise to my Singer sewing machine. I bought this little beauty for £5 at a jumble sale, hence the post’s title. I got it for a fiver because when the bloke selling it told me the price, which was £10, I replied,”Ten pounds?” incredulously, thinking “That’s so cheap!” He mistook my incredulity and said, “Ok, five pounds then.” I didn’t argue – I just called my husband to carry it home for me. (That’s what they’re for. That and killing spiders.)
The model I have dates from about the 1950s and is one of the earliest electric kinds, which is handy because I have never got the hang of a mechanical foot pedal. It is probably made of cast iron (although it feels like it’s made of lead), requires regular oiling,
and is painted pretty colours in that old Singer way. It came with an integral compartment full of useful bits and bobs, including an instruction booklet that smells very old. (I love the smell of old books. Especially 1960s paperbacks for some reason.)
The Singer earned back its £5 layout the first time I shortened a pair of jeans. Since then, it’s been in profit. It’s also become more ambitious, moving on from just shortening legs to taking in waists, converting jeans to a skirt, and even producing an authentic(ish) Regency Period dress for a Jane Austen ball out of some sheets and pillowcases.
I’m not actually much of a sewer (no, really – crochet is my bag), certainly not a dressmaker, but despite that I have had reason to be glad of my purchase many times. And its sturdy carrying case even makes a handy additional coffee table. Probably the best five pounds I’ve ever spent.
K C Murdarasi 
There’s something sweet and homely about the Singer – brings back memories of my gran’s bouse, where there was one of the old foot-pedal ones. Lovely.