Few things make me gibber like fabric does. It’s like buying possibility in one metre bites. Whether my actual kreations live up to the wild notions I carry around in my head is a matter for private debate and angst but whenever I stagger to a counter under the crippling weight of bolts of cloth my potential is infinite. You see, not only does a gorgeous fabric make my noggin explode with ideas for funky bags but it also turns me into one of those trowel-eyed maniacs you see snatching handbags in the opening minutes of the Harrods New Year sales.
Take a recent trip to a local fabric shop, a huge place with remnant bins big enough to house entire humanitarian disasters. I had six year old Kraken Junior with me, dragging her feet at the prospect of me cooing over lengths of elastic, and as I opened the shop door I spotted, in a distant bin, the brightest, spottiest, shag-me fabric I had seen in weeks. That was the good news. The bad news was that lurking near said bin was a customer, a customer who was edging ever closer to my fabric find. So did what any self-respecting sewist would do. I abandoned my small child, sprinted the length of two aisles, vaulted over a cushion display and leapt headfirst, Esther Williams style, into the remnant bin. Reader, I got the fabric. Even better, I had enough of it to wipe away the tears of my only-born after promising to never shove her to the ground in the name of 100 per cent cotton again.
So you can imagine the state I’ve been in after snapping up my latest fabric stash, the pictured geometric print. I actually hopped from one foot to the other when I found it. I might even have skipped, not a good move for a woman with E-cups. Now my only job is to do it justice. I’ve rustled up a tote with an electric blue lining and I’m working on a notebook cover, both of which will be sold on here in the next week. I have approximately 236 more ideas too. Fabric covered small child, anyone?