With that title, I may get a slight increase in my male readership, if only for a few days.
I’m a dangerous woman with a sewing machine. And not in a good way (If there ever was a good way to be dangerous?) I am uneducated, out of practise and generally a bit of a maverick.
I bought a sewing machine about 3 years ago half price, naturally, and every now and again I get a hankering to stitch things back together. This usually occurs after I’ve shoved my arm in a jacket only to find that it won’t come out the other end – there’s a hole in the lining and my arm is now hopelessly embroiled. Despite flapping my arms like a swan on speed, the only way I’ll be able to disengage myself is by waiting for assistance from ES, who usually appears with a bemused look on his face once the crescendo reaches its squawking peak about 5 minutes later.
My latest sewing machine victim was my green Jigsaw skirt bought from Shelter Scotland a few weeks ago. I had not noticed before placing it in the washing machine that the lining had been ripped, and the 4 hour wash and dry cycle that it later endured meant that the lining was badly lacerated and frayed by the time I extracted it.
“No matter!” I thought, I’ll work my (black) magic and stitch it all up together. Let’s bare in mind that this skirt is a size 8 and as such, was not exactly roomy on me…
Of course, I didn’t give this the proper consideration that it deserved and decided instead to overlap the fabric, bypassing the fraying edges, and re-stitch it. Unsurprisingly, and many of you will be wondering how I didn’t see this coming, this meant that I lost approximately an inch off the circumference of the skirt.
So there I was this morning, happy as Larry, deciding what to wear. After my excursions in a black dress yesterday I wasn’t keen to pair this skirt with a black top, so instead I chose a very pale grey 3/4 sleeve top by Oasis, bought from Sue Ryder charity shop for £4.
This presented me with two problems:
- As soon as I had zipped the skirt up taken a step forward, my mistake with the stitching of the lining hit me with blinding clarity. My stride length was reduced from the usual 3-2 feet to around 4 inches, and represented more of a waddle than a walk.
- The top I chose was too long to be worn outside the skirt and still look chic, so I had to make the call; do I leave it out and spend the day feeling unkempt, or do I tuck it in and spend the day feeling elegant, smug and little bit restricted.
I decided, in the interests of fashion, to suck it up (or suck it in, as it were) and, with some effort, forcibly impound the bottom of my top within the waist of my skirt. This was an excellent decision until I needed the loo, the schedule of which went something like this (be warned it gets graphic):
Thought: I need a wee – 1 second
Action: Waddle downstairs to the ladies loo – approx 8 minutes (usually 2)
Action: Undo zip and pull skirt down – approx 4 minutes (usually I would just lift the skirt up)
Action: Pull my skirt up, taking care to tuck the top in neatly and with no ruffles – approx 4 hours
Action: Waddle upstairs – 4 minutes (It turns out that going up is much easier than going down, contrary to the laws of gravity. I suspect Newton is no longer my friend)
This leaves me with a further predicament. I love this skirt, but I can’t waddle everywhere forever! I think my only option is to remove the lining completely as the current one is not worth saving and my haberdashery skills are not up the the job of replacing it with a new one in a funky colour, say, perhaps…. ORANGE!
If there’s a happy ending to this story I’ll let you know. If I go strangely quiet on the subject of this skirt, you will know that it didn’t end well and I accidentally massacred it.