The local haberdashery shop was once a magical place.

Who remembers the little haberdashery shop? Sadly, I don't remember having a local one on my high street (John Lewis was and is my local, although its haberdashery department has been removed from its prime spot on the ground floor). I thought of this as I read a Ladybird book to my daughter: Shopping with Mother. Delightful 1950s children living cosy 1950s lives with their beautifully dressed mother, going shopping with her open basket, which she carries in gloved hands. And there on the high street, in the wonderful illustrations by J H Wingfield, is a butcher and a fishmonger and a toyshop and a draper. It's enough to make you weep.

The haberdasher's is a place of magic. As a teenager, I would spend hours, intent on making my own clothes, looking at the rows of ribbon and maribou that could be cut to order. I would giggle at the foam bra-cups (I never worked out what these were for; I guess making your own, very sophisticated swimwear). The cotton-reel display would teach me about colours beyond the primary wheel we had at school. I remember thinking that Gütermann sewing thread must be the most sophisticated you could get, as it came in so many shades.

It was there that I bought my first scissors, where I experimented with Velcro, and where I would browse through doorstep-sized pattern catalogues for inspiration. Many hours were lost at the button counter, where you'd pick a card, sewn over with buttons of a certain "family" in different sizes, and take it to the lady behind the counter, who would count out your order from tiny plastic drawers.

Some buttons seemed almost unbelievably luxurious. I remember looking at the pink-and-blue teddy-bear buttons and musing that, perhaps, one day, when I grew up, I would be able to sew them on to some handcrafted wonder for my own child. (Ha! When you have your own child you don't have time for such pursuits. Thank God for grandparents and extended family, who fulfilled that particular fantasy.)

These days, it is ridiculously difficult to buy darning wool. Sure, you can get it still, on certain high streets, if you're lucky, and on the internet, to which some haberdashers have fled to avoid high rents and rates. But on the internet you can't match it to your original, holey garment. You can't feel it. The process isn't immediate. How are we meant to make or mend our own clothes if we're not given the wherewithal to do it?

Haberdashers are cosy, safe places - like tea shops, but without the guilt. Nothing bad can happen in a shop where you can say, "Can I have some petersham, please?" I want them back. Jamie, Nigella, Delia, they've all encouraged a nation to cook and care about ingredients. By doing so, entire shelves of ingredients can sell out at a mere mention. Who will inspire us to sew, and do the same for the little haberdashery shop?

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