So, we left the doomed t-shirt at the point where it was flecked with white bleached bits from the doomed toilet-cleaning exercise, and about to be rescued by the mighty Dylon. We have established that all that is available in Bath is hand dye, possibly because news of the washing machine hasn't yet penetrated the Guildhall Market.
Well, it is obvious now that things did not go well. But when I began, I was full of optimism. Don't get me wrong, Marcus is a very clever chap. He has a great many qualifications, and not satisfied with the four or so degrees and postgrad qualifications he already has, is now studying for another. However, he makes Dyloning seem SO EASY. 'Oh, let me take those trousers for you' he'll say. You hand over your slightly faded trousers (having first changed into another pair, it is not that kind of workplace). You receive updates on the trousers all week. At the end of the week, the trousers are returned to you, a deep, beautiful colour, the colour of their former selves, the colour that first drew you to them but they have since become such an old favourite that you haven't noticed them losing it (hmm, does this happen with husbands?). The trousers are freshly laundered, ironed and folded, and emerge from Marcus's special rucksack. All is well with the world and at no point has he mentioned being covered in sloshy murky water and scrubbing dubious brown marks off his kitchen work surface. So yes, when I began, I was full of optimism.
I ignored the first part of the instructions, 'Weigh dry fabric' - felt a bit mad weighing clothes.
I was marginally less optimistic when I was asked to dissolve the powder in 500ml of water, and got this:
It looks quite beautiful but equally quite disconcertingly mottled. I put the mottled stuff into a big pan and added more water and about a ton of salt, as advised.
I then read the next stage of the instructions (I am not a forward planner). 'Put unfolded damp fabric into bowl, dye for one hour. Agitate continually for first 15 minutes by squeezing the dye through the fabric and lifting out of the solution. Stir regularly for another 45 minutes, keeping fabric submerged.'
I got a ladle and started to 'agitate'. This is what I was working with at this point:
I am not sure who in their right mind would wish to spend an hour agitating and stirring a big pan of brown. I thought about putting it in the food mixer but Dylon are very concerned that you know that the dye dyes EVERYTHING that is not steel, I was too scared to. Equally, I was too bored after three minutes to carry on. I phoned Marcus.
The most amazing coincidence occurred! Marcus had, ONLY THE DAY BEFORE, travelled to his parents' house to dye his mother's shirt and, not having found the colour he wanted, had forsaken the machine dye for the hand dye! He did not give it rave reviews. Apparently he had spent the best part of his parental visit standing in the garden, leaning over a bucket with a big stick. To top off the glamour, the shirt had turned out a bit dodgy. I sensed he had lost a bit of faith in the Dylon.
My experience did not end well either. Marcus had put in maximum effort for little joy. When you hear that, you are not all that motivated to put in maximum effort yourself. I halfheartedly stirred the thing for a while and left it to soak. Hauled the shirt out, dripped brown everywhere, and left it to dry. It looked perfect when it was wet. When it was dry however, lo and behold, the little white spots returned.
My mum suggested colouring them in with a felt pen every time bf wears the shirt. This protocol has not been adopted and the much-loved shirt now sits forlornly at the back of the wardrobe.
The moral of this very, very long story is: abandon all hope of hand dye. Possibly actually leave the dyeing to Marcus. He is In the Know. And he irons your clothes for you.
