Fabric US1


Ever walked into a fabric shop and made such a tit of yourself that the owners were forced to hit the under-the-counter panic button? Well, I have. And not just once but pretty much every time I’ve stepped inside a fabric shop. In fact, such is my excitement at being surrounded by bolts of cloth that my old psychiatric nurse has probably included the problem in my medical notes. So, in the spirit of throwing a bone to haberdashers while sparing you the ordeal of festering indignity, here are all the things you should NEVER do in (or near) fabric shops…

Unwittingly saunter past a fabric shop, doing such an enormous double take that you invert your vertebrae before pressing yourself against the window, star shaped, while weeping and licking the glass;

dress forms

Fling yourself through the door so hard that the owner thinks it’s a terrorist attack;

Call Mark Carney, before entering the shop, to thrill him with the news that the UK economy is about to receive an unexpected boost;

Upon entering, do three laps of the shop while holding your arms out like Julie Andrews atop a mountain running your fingers over every bolt of cloth before collapsing while muttering the words to My Favourite Things;

Sniff the entire length of a bolt like an extra from Pulp Fiction;

Then lick it;

Fabric US1

Wait until an assistant has grasped the raw edge of a roll of fabric before running off with it, uraveling it like an Andrex puppy;

Become so excited at the new Burda catalogue for Spring that you approach the counter with a list of pattern numbers that resemble the Pi equation of 3.141592653589793238462643383279502884197169399375105820974944592307816406286;

Need a fire crew to rescue you because you’ve tried to steal trims by shoving them down your pants only to severely knot your thriving bikini line;

Take a selfie of yourself dry humping the window display;

fair 1

Have no discernible clue what a metre looks like, thus pushing the shop assistant to spontaneously combust by muttering, as she cuts the fabric, “I’ll have one metre. No, make that two. Oh, hang on. What about three? No, no, two and a half. Wait, what’s a metre look like again?”;

Consider shagging the manager because it might get you a discount on Liberty prints;

Buy without any recent measurements, thereby needing a complete stranger to measure your bust as you adjust your greying bra and cackle about feeling sweaty;

Spot the last of your fave fabric at the same time as someone else and wrestling them to the ground as their toddler sobs and screams in a panic under the Coates display;

scrap bag2

Spend a full hour deciding which fabric to buy only to slash at yourself with pinking shears when you get to the counter and realise there’s only half a metre of it left;

Gurgle bewilderingly about drag queens when the shop assistant casually asks what you’ll be making with the 36 metres of sequinned fabric you’ve just bought;

Nest in the remnant bins;

Ask the shop assistants if they have a deeper shade of pink in that dupion silk because you want to make a giant vagina costume for Halloween.

All of which should stand you in good stead, I think you’ll find. So if you have the urge to buy fabric chew on a Valium, measure your tits and google the number for the Bank of England. Take it from a woman who knows. Now, does anyone know what a metre looks like?

metre rule