OK. So we all know that fabric can cast a spell on you. One moment you’re idly browsing, with no intention of adding anything to that guilt producing pile of stashed cloth. Just looking.
Then fabric starts whispering your name. “Hey, looky here. I would make a lovely, cosy winter sweater dress.”
“And Me, so flippin’ cheap . A fair amount of wool in me, three metres is plenty for almost anything.”
But fabric knows how to play hard to get. Try designing just the right garment in the colour dream that would complement your wardrobe with added zing. Then start looking for the fabric. Suddenly, the perfect wool velour in taupe, mustard, dirty pink, sand has ducked right out of sight. Most likely New York has it all with eye watering postage and customs charges. We’ve got it in grey, green, red and half a metre of black.
Yes, fabric can shout out to you, conjuring up half a dozen tantalising designs, but the instant you slap down your credit card the teasing starts. “Can’t make a decision can you? Maybe I’m too crisp, too floppy, a colour that drains your face. I could be a dress, or shorts, or a shirt, perhaps a cape? But you can’t find the right pattern can you? That one’s perfect, but you got stingy and bought a metre short. Too bad.”
But just once in a while, as you hesitatingly cut the pieces for the garment you’re unsure about, hit on in desperation, a last ditch bid to make a small dent in the stash, fabric sues for peace. “OK,” it says. “This could work. I’m so nice to work with, fine but tough. Like a flower petal in beaten metal. I press nicely. I don’t stretch out of shape. I glisten, but subtly. My slubby texture stops me being too upfront with the glitzy. You win”
In short I liked working with the shot silk, it’s surprisingly forgiving. It’s had to be, as a distracted day had me ripping out wrongly assembled pieces like a crazy woman. An artistically frayed self trim looked naff with the new mauve on black zip and had to go. The first collar didn’t cut it. Mrs Mole’s brilliant new-to-me zipper insertion came out too stiff to let the blouson blouse. The silk recovered from this onslaught. The unpicking didn’t leave guilty traces. I got it finished.