A domestic god gets nimble with a needle

Until I joined the alterations department at Harvey Nichols, I had forgotten what a hoot it was to work in a department store. Eighteen years ago, I spent the Christmas season in the 'adult games' section of Harrods, and had an absolute riot.

There is something about the amusingly obsequious manners one acquires by osmosis, the cosseted vibe, and the shameless flirting with staff, that make a department store a pleasant place to while away a few years.

But these days, Harvey Nichols is like Grace Brothers on steroids - and its alterations department is no exception. I imagined it to be a couple of ladies with an old Singer and an ironing board. But I was wrong. Catriona Smith, the smartly suited boss, explained that Harvey Nicks handles over 27,000 alterations every year. During the winter-sale period it looks after around 8,000 a month. It has 20 staff, a battalion of heavy-duty, Orwellian rag-trade apparatus - steamers that hiss like premenstrual Komodo dragons and scary-fast overlocking machines that run off like shoplifters - and a lot of impatient, big-spending, demanding customers.

Catriona took a look at my pork-and-beef fingers and decided it would be wise to keep me away from tailoring. Instead, I was to take up the hem of a dress for a personal-shopping client. The fact that the frock was by L?onard, that it was worth £1,510, and that the customer appeared to be a) very fussy and b) capable of murder should I screw it up, wasn't supposed to faze me.

So, with Catriona watching, I exchanged my watch for a wrist-mounted pin cushion (not quite as macho as a Rolex), chucked my knee-support pad on the floor and got to work with my wooden yardstick.

Simon's step-by-step

1 I was told to ask the (rather attractive) lady to keep her heels on so I could see exactly how the dress would fall. (Catriona explained that chubby calves look better with a mid-calf dress length and sometimes it seems only correct to delicately inform a customer of this fact. Fortunately, my client had slim calves.)

2 With my yardstick resting on the floor - and while politely encouraging my client to stand still - I measured 16 inches up, marking a line with horizontal pins, parallel to the existing hem. This was very difficult. The dress, like most women's dresses these days, was made of a recalcitrant and uncooperative rayon and acetate mix. Yes, it hugs a girl's contours, shows off her curves and does a sexy swing when she walks but, believe me, it's a nightmare to work with. Catriona watched as I worked like an anti-dexterous lummox (I even stabbed the customer's ankle at one point - sorry), and helped me to establish a straight silver pin line.

3 I turned up the hem, using the pins as a guide, and stood back to check for alignment. Catriona explained that because of the nature of the material, much of the work had to be checked by eye.

4 Back at the workshop, I sat down with a needle and thread. I had always thought sewing to be rather erotic - thread passing through the eye of a needle, needle plunging in and out of sensuous folds of fabric - but when I found myself with 1,500 quid's worth of frock in my hand, my fantasies evaporated.

5 I took a nasty-looking unpicking tool (think Ronnie Corbett's slasher-movie weapon of choice) and unpicked the existing seam, trying - failing - not to stab a hole in the expensive material. 'Not to worry,' said Catriona, kindly. 'That bit won't show.'

6 I started to sew a new hem using a zig-zag stitch, making sure I did little more than nip a thread of material on either edge so my work would be invisible from the other side. Unbelievably, I did this rather successfully.

7 We moved on to the steaming and pressing machine, where I finished my work with a sharply creased hem. The ironing board had a brilliant vacuum feature that sucked the garment on to the board when you hit a foot pedal. As I pumped the pedal like Schumacher, Catriona advised me not to press too hard with the iron because it would create 'hem show-through' and we'd have to start all over again. And I really didn't want that.

How to be a snappy seamstress