more on mauds

(photo from J.G. Martindale, The Scottish Woollen Industry, (1954))

You may remember that a while ago I got all excited about the maud — the traditional shepherd’s plaid that’s woven and worn in the Scottish Borders. You can see one above being used for its original function — protecting the shepherd and his lambs from the elements. You may also remember that my enthusiasm about the maud extended to making myself one. It is a garment of which I rapidly became very fond, and since then, it’s been pretty much maud crazy round here. Using a variety of tweeds and linings, I’ve whipped up maud-shaped gifts for many of my friends and relatives. These mauds have been a real hit with all the women who’ve received one. They are more substantial and cosy than than a pashmina, but much easier to manage about one’s person than a gigantic shawl. Pat, who gets around in a wheelchair, was particularly pleased with hers: she told me to tell you that she finds heavy coats difficult to wear, but that in her maud she can zip about in Winter in a manner both warm and stylish.

A few of you have also emailed me to ask me how I made my maud. It is very simple. Here’s how:

You will need: sewing machine, basic sewing skills, two rectangles of warm tweed fabric, (18 inches x 40 inches) and the same amount of light lining fabric.
Begin by cutting out your rectangles of tweed, and lining to exactly the same dimensions. Take your time: cut slowly and neatly!

Click on diagram to see a larger version! (Diagram shows steps 1, 2 and 3).

1. Place the two tweed pieces right sides together as in the diagram. Pin.
2. Using 0.5 inch seam allowance, stitch together.
3. Open flat, press seam to the side.
4. Repeat steps 1 to 3 with the two lining pieces
5. Right sides together, pin lining to tweed, — take your time over this step, matching up corners and edges, ensuring the fabric is entirely flat, and using lots of pins.
6. Starting half way down one long edge, and using a 0.5 inch seam allowance, stitch all the way round your maud — leaving a 4 inch gap for turning.
7. Trim corners. Turn maud out to right side. Press all seams flat.
8. Press raw edges of turning point to inside. Pin.
9. Hand-stitch the turning gap closed, using invisible slip stitch.
10. Press again.
11. Finally: using a scant seam allowance, overstitch all the way around the edges. This gives a neat, professional finish, and ensures the lining lies nice and flat. Take your time and keep your stitching even!
12. Press for a final time.
Bingo!

Here is my Ma, happy in a maud. She is wearing it with the point just behind her left shoulder, but, as you can imagine, there are many ways to drape a maud, depending on your preferences. You could also easily make your maud longer, wider, or narrower, by simply cutting smaller or larger rectangles. My inner YorkshireWoman feels compelled to tell you that this particular incarnation is made from stitched together waste lengths of Hiningan tweed that cost me *less than a pound*. (I splashed out on a tana lawn lining, of course, ahem). My Ma’s brooch (which I love) is designed and made by Edinburgh textile artist Saskia Gavin, and you can find her work at Concrete Wardrobe.

If you are interested to hear a bit more about mauds, here with the permission of Sew Hip is the text of a feature about Border’s tweed I wrote for them a few months ago (it appeared in Sew Hip 4. This is my original text, not the published edit).

Oh, and I mustn’t forget to mention: if any of you stateside peeps are interested in meeting me in person, the lovely ladies at Rosie’s Yarn Cellar have invited me round to their place next Sunday afternoon. This is very exciting for me: whenever I’ve been in Philadelphia for work over the past few years, I’ve always looked forward to visiting Rosie’s. I’ll be bringing the original o w l s sweater, and a few other designs along, so do drop by for some knitting and a chat if you are out and about in Philly next weekend — I would love to meet you!

And finally, for those of you who have been asking, the neep is indeed imminent. . .

tweed frock

In a couple of weeks time, I shall be going to the US for some work-related events, chief among which is delivering a talk in this public lecture series. I don’t mind admitting that I’m the sort of person who thinks about what they will wear some time in advance of such an occasion. My lecture is about the intellectual and material lives of women in revolutionary Philadelphia — and I wanted to combine the material with the intellectual in another way, by delivering it in an outfit I’d made myself. So this is the dress I have made — the first of what I imagine will be many tweedy endeavours this Autumn.

The pattern is Vogue 8469, and I made it with two fabrics: russet coloured tweed I bought on Harris a few weeks ago, and Liberty tana lawn, in a print I’ve always liked — a sort of pleasing paisley rendition of cut apples and pears. I really love the combination of warm tweed and light lawn. I find both fabrics simple but luxurious – and together – very seasonal.

I wanted to make a dress which was made of tweed, but which was not stereotypically tweedy — that is, I did not want it to look the least bit matronly. I think tweed is ideally suited to winter dresses, and can look very feminine — the diagonal weave of the fabric makes it hang so beautifully, and this can also suit womanly curves (not that I have much in the way of curves, mind, but still…) Anyway, I picked a light, feminine pattern and made a few modifications to suit the tweed fabric. The principle change was to replace the recommended gathers on the bodice and skirt with darts. Tweed does not like gathers, but the darts worked out just fine. The waist ties are also folded in the pattern, but this would have produced a very heavy belt, so I lined them instead in the contrasting lighter fabric. My final modification was to accent the neckline and hem. I cut long strips of bias binding from the tana lawn, and bound the seams in exactly the same way you would the edges of a quilt. I love the way this looks. The pattern is a good one, with well-thought out, simple details. I tend to like vogue necklines, and this one is cut very nicely.

Though reasonably simple, the sewing required some focus and concentration to get right. I’ve been working on it a little bit each day.

The end result is a frock that fits well, hangs nicely, which can be worn in a few different ways, and that I will be very pleased to deliver my lecture in. I like it so much, in fact, I am already contemplating making another. Meanwhile, I am knitting a rather foolish hat of russet hue that can be worn with the dress. (Worry not, I’ll remove the hat when I give my talk).

In this final pic, you can see me running to John Lewis to buy a couple of hooks and eyes for the top closure.

tweed

So, you didn’t think I could travel to Harris and Lewis without mentioning tweed?

Tweed is woven through the landscape of these islands and its important traditions are still very much alive. I spent several days in tweed heaven. Just imagine the sensory overload of this fabric-filled warehouse in Tarbet. Tweed as far as the eye could see! It was such a delight to spend some time here, amidst an incredible range of hues and designs — individual skill and creativity is apparent in every very different bolt of this glorious handwoven fabric.

It was a privilege to see Katie Campbell weaving at Plocrapol.

In Stornoway, I was very interested to find the work of many young artisans at the New Harris Tweed co-operative, and also enjoyed the exhibition of this beautiful quilt, made by residents of a local care home, at An Lanntair.

I am currently thinking and reading a lot about Harris tweed. And I don’t know if you saw the first part of the BBC4 documentary which aired the other evening? If not, it is available to watch on the iplayer. It is quite gripping stuff.

I acquired some tweed, of course, and I am looking forward to some tweedy sewing and thinking this weekend. More soon.

repair

A few weeks ago, something rather unpleasant happened while we were camping on Islay. I’ve not talked about this much. I found it quite disturbing at the time, and — because it happened in a place I am very fond of, while engaged in an activity that I love — I’ve not really wanted to mention it here either. I didn’t want to put anyone off either Islay, or camping. But, thinking about it, I realise that anyone who likes either the place or the activity isn’t likely to be put off.

We were camping here.

It is a great spot. We camp here every year. We occasionally see other tents, and it is a familiar and accepted place for wild camping. We are always quiet and considerate of the wonderful environment we camp in. But on our last night on the island, three local lads saw fit to hurl stones at us from the top of the outcrop that you can see on the left.

Here is one of the many stones they threw. As you can see, it is not a small stone, and if it had hit either of us it would have caused serious injury. We were lucky that the only injury was to our tent.

While Tom went to find the police, and to stop what was going on, the lads continued to hurl rocks at the tent and me. I could hear stones thudding, and fabric ripping about me. I’m sure you can understand why I found the whole thing quite disturbing.

Now, being predictably geeky types when it comes to outdoor equipment, we have decent gear, and our tent was a decent one. It was badly torn in many places. We are waiting for our insurers to replace it. Meanwhile, we have a trip planned. I had to fix it. To be frank, I have been putting this off — I didn’t really want to examine the holes those stones had made too closely. But this afternoon, I steeled myself for the task, and repaired it.

I cut out patches from the bag that holds the tent (made of the same waterproof rip-stop fabric as the tent itself) stitched them securely behind each tear with a double seam, and then carefully oversewed the sides of each tear to its corresponding patch. I found myself in immense sympathy with anyone who has to stitch textiles in any sort of industrial quantity for for a living. Feeding something this size through the machine is no fun at all. I had radio 3 on, and the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra were playing Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring. The whole thing felt a bit manaical.

But after a couple of hours, several broken needles, a lot of swearing, and some sticky wrestling with a tube of seam sealant, I have managed to recreate an eminently serviceable tent. Hoo-fookin-rah! I honestly feel appreciably better. I was never angry at the stone throwers — what they did was silly, it was senseless, and it was quite dangerous too — but all one can say about that is that the young are often senseless. However, I did feel bad on the tent’s behalf. Perhaps it was doing some of my hurting for me. In any case, repairing it has certainly had a restorative effect on me too. As in many other situations, there is a lot to be said for the therapeutic powers of stitching. So we’ll be off again in a few days time for some walking, and some wild camping. I’ll see you in a week or so.

V8468

. . . is the pattern number of my new dress. It is an ‘easy’ vogue pattern, and, having worked myself up (or perhaps down?) into the the zen-like state that I must be in to cut out fabric and sew at the machine, I knocked it up over a few hours yesterday. I used some remnants of hedgehog fabric, the remainder of the liberty tana lawn I used to line these ties with a while ago, and just over a metre of linen for the dress’s main section. I was pleased I actually managed to get a front and two backs out of that length of fabric, as it was touch and go when laying out the pattern pieces. In this instance, it is clearly good to be short. I didn’t include the pattern’s pocket-flaps (without pockets!), but added my own patch pockets instead.

. . .with buttons from Duttons. I think the fabric of the dress is brown, but Tom and my knitting buddies say it is green. I’ve always had a bit of an issue with colours on that olive-grey-brown boundary. Anyway, I’ve been wanting to experiment with some home-sewn summer clothes that are good for walking in, and this was the prototype garment. This dress seems designed for maximum ease of movement. There’s enough space in it for striding along at speed, but, it does not flap about. I can happily confirm this last, as, to test its walk-ability this morning, I ascended a small hill.

Here I am at the top of North Berwick Law. That white blob behind me out at sea is the Bass Rock, home to seventeenth-century prisoners and twenty-first century gannets. Tom had to move about a bit to get the right angle, as on a few earlier shots I appeared to be wearing the bass rock like a jolly hat. And in this next pic, the wall and I seem to have more or less the same palate.

interesting.

Anyway, I would recommend this pattern both for straightforward sewing and ease of movement. I like the cut and fit and it has some neat, simple finishing details (yoke facing catches all edges &c). And whatever colour that linen actually is, I like it too. And very lucky that I already had a cardigan in exactly the same indeterminate shade . . .

finish

I’m working on something at the moment that is relatively simple in design. Lots of plain knitting, but now the fun begins, since its devil is definitely in its detail. This garment is all about the finish, and I’ve re-worked the bottom hem and its edging several times to get it just right. Despite ripping out, and working back, and fashioning acres of time-consuming i-cord, this process has been a genuine pleasure — for there is nothing more pleasing than the perfect hem. The me of just a few years ago would be astonished to hear me say that: for I was once definitely of the mind that it really didn’t matter what your hem looked like, or how neat your finish was, as long as it didn’t really show too much.

My ma tells a story which combines one of my (many) fashion disasters with my generally slip-shod attitude to finishing. While a student away at college several aeons ago, I had found a 1970s wrap-around skirt in a charity shop: one of those nice, naturally-dyed Indian cotton hippy things with generic elephant design. I really liked the fabric, but I wasn’t that keen on either the mumsy length of the skirt, or the potential of the wrap-around to display one’s underwear in a breeze. (This last is rather ironic, since the use I later put it to ended up being far more ‘revealing’). I decided I would transform the knee length skirt into full length trousers. But they would be no ordinary trousers: they would be glorious, enormous flares. Indian elephants would proudly march around each of my legs and I would look the business. So I simply chopped the skirt in two, and hand-sewed each half into a gigantic cone. The top of each cone was the width of my thigh while the bottom edge was over a metre in circumference. These were going to be fantastic pants! But hang on, at the moment they were only fantastic pant legs: I had merely created two ankle-to-thigh-length leg cones with no actual trouser part. No matter, for I had an excellent idea. I chopped off the legs of an old pair of leggings, put on the resulting stretchy shorts, then, with a handful of safety pins, attached the elephant cones to the raw edges of the short-legs. My pants were complete! Brilliant! Now I just had to make sure I wore them with a nice, long sweater that disguised my unusual tailoring solution.

When mum and dad arrived for their parental visit, I was clad in a huge grey sweater, a pair of voluminous elephant legs, a ripped up pair of leggings, and 30 safety pins. What a fabulous outfit! Just the thing to buzz around town in with mum and dad! I thought my finishing secret was safe, but when I moved about or sat down, the sweater of course rode up, revealing several inches of my pinched, bare, safety-pin adorned thighs, and a hint of arse, uncomfortable in its torn-off leggings. The horror! I considered myself at the vanguard of style, but I was merely a figure of fun. I wore the elephant ‘pants’ just that once. I think they later became a headscarf.

Anyway, here is my hem from the right side. I wanted to have quite a plain, stark, i-cord edging, but found that the i-cord on its own wasn’t robust/ stable enough to stop the stocking stitch from curling. I am knitting top-down, so my eventual solution was to create a turned-up hem along a row of purl stitches, to pick up another row of stitches along the raised-purl bumps, and to bind them off in i-cord. It took a while, but I love it. So neat!

And just to prove that the wrong side doesn’t involve safety pins and raw edges:

I like the contrast slip stitches along the hem’s cast off edge — and keeping them at the same tension as the knitted fabric makes for a flat and a flexible hem. In fact, I have been foolishly admiring both the right and wrong sides of the fabric in equal measure.

is it possible to be drunk on i-cord?

two-kates project bag

I’ve written a tutorial so you can stitch up your own one of these:

I’ve named it Two-Kates because two of us were involved in the design.
It’s very simple to make and I’m hoping (fingers crossed) that my instructions are easy to follow, even for a very beginner sewer. I’ve tried to spell everything out, but if you find anything woefully unclear, please do tell me.

You can download the PDF here:
TWO KATES
feel free to link, but please don’t reproduce the PDF on your own site.
Thankyou!

the grand owl prizegiving!

Yes, its time to announce the parliamentary victors, and give away some owlish prizes!

There are 57 owls in the parliament. I excluded myself and my knitting comrades (Hannah, Kate B and Melanie) from the fun; put the remaining 53 names in a ‘hat’, and selected one at random.

Congratulations, Elizabeth! You are officially the Parliament’s prime owl! You win 10 x 50g of New Lanark DK (more than a sweater’s worth . . perhaps two sweaters), a fabulous Owl tote bag from these Edinburgh designers (on whom I have a post coming shortly), and a large selection of the owl-themed goodies mentioned below (as befitting a prime owl).

I have really enjoyed the, um parliamentary process – - it was always thrilling for me when another photo turned up in my inbox and I’ve felt proud and humbled at the same time (if that’s possible) to see so many fabulous women wearing o w l s. What I’ve most enjoyed, though, is seeing how every knitter made the sweater somehow entirely hers — through yarn choice, customisation, personal style, or the sheer vim of her knitterly character. So here are some other prizes reflecting the parliament’s owlish variety and vim:

Most impressively owlish photo: There were a few candidates for this one, but the prize has to go to Stacey, who is perching on a branch in her photo.
Most original customised owls: This was a difficult decision to make, as there were so many amazing owlish transformations through the additions of steeks, button-bands and colour. In the end, though, I thought I’d give this prize to Suzanne, who customised her owls into a cardigan complete with stars and embroidered branches.
Early bird : This prize goes to Gabrielle, who knit the sweater in record time, and sent me her photograph on January 23rd.
Ma’s prize owl: For this category, I asked my mother (who is a great admirer of the parliament) to pick her favourite sweater. She selected Karen (USA) because “her sweater fits beautifully, and in the colours she chose, the owls really stand out.”

Congratulations, all of you! You all win 100g of New Lanark Donegal Tweed & Silk (tasty!), a selection of owl-themed goodies, and a wee project bag to store your owlish loot in — made by me.

The design of these project bags is based on one owned by my knitting comrade, Kate B, originally made by her mum. I’ve often noticed the bag and thought how satisfyingly neat and simple its design was — ideal for a couple of balls of yarn, some needles and notions. So using Kate’s prototype as a template (thanks, Kate!) I whipped up these babies! I am quite pleased with how they turned out and may post a tutorial about making them later . . .

. . . Anyway, on with the matter in hand. More prizes!

Is it just me, or are owls everywhere at the moment? I became quite excited when I discovered (thanks once again to Kate B) that owls had colonised the shelves of a prominent chain of UK stationers. I am such a sucker for this stuff! I just can’t help myself! Inevitably, I found myself with a small excess of owl-themed treats — stickers, badges, sticky-notes, tea towels, and pencils — to give away. I picked five of the remaining names from the hat and five happy owls have won a selection of these goodies. You are:
Rebecca (from Canada), Orianna, Jules, Fa-Linn, and Meghan (from Nottingham).
I will be in touch with the winning owls soon to confirm addresses, and suchlike. Meanwhile, things are busy and beelike here. More anon.

remember . . .

These? I had forgotten just how much I liked them until I stitched up another. This one was made for my friend Mel, who I am thinking about today.

You will recall that the basic construction of these pincushions is Japanese, but the aesthetic of this one has (to my mind, anyway) somehow morphed toward the USA. I think this is probably because I recently fell in love with the marvellous ‘huswifes’ that Theresa has been making (examples of which can be seen here and here). Now I look at it again, though, one might just as well read those colours as Italian . . .but in any case, I am about to make another pincushion, with other national connections — with a particular link to a particular aspect of British textile history. I’m also writing up a tutorial for the cushion, and you will soon be able to find this here.

out with the old

You may remember that a year ago I decided to stop buying clothes for the duration of 2008. My decision to do this was sparked by a couple of things. I had been reading a bit about darning and mending and wanted to think about what repairing and caring for one’s clothes meant. Also, since I heard this very-well researched series of documentaries on the BBC world service, I had been increasingly bothered by textile waste — the sheer amounts of it, as well as the complicated politics of its disposal. I then had a moment of utter revulsion after seeing Florence and Fred’s Affordable Elegance advertisements, in which the disposability of the 20 quid dresses they had designed for Tesco’s was “cleverly” celebrated.

(textile waste now makes up 30% of rubbish destined for UK landfill sites)

The year is up, and here’s my summary of the project: During 2008 I have fashioned or refashioned for myself 7 tops, 5 skirts, 4 dresses, 3 sweaters, 3 pairs of socks, 2 shrugs, 2 cardigans, 2 hats, 1 shawl, 1 coat, 1 maud, 1 tank top, 1 jacket, 1 pair of gloves, and 1 scarf. Additionally, I have repaired and re-repaired the sleeves of sweaters, the seats of pants, the hems of coats, the heels of socks, the tops of mittens, and the feet of stockings. I made lots of things from patterns and kits and in doing so, have participated, in a vicarious sort of a way, in the design process of some really talented people. I also designed several items of clothing for myself from scratch, and have encountered my own limits and shortcomings along the way. This year of stitching and knitting and learning has been both enjoyable and thought provoking. It has certainly changed the way I think about the making, consumption and meaning of worn textiles.

(clothing myself in 2008)

Despite the apparently prohibitive terms I set myself (“you will not buy clothes”) this project was never about denial. As you may have gathered, I am someone who loves clothes. I mean, I really love clothes. The things I wear are a source of tremendous pleasure for me, and I regard dressing up in them (however foolishly) as a sort of creative act. So I was not about to deny myself that pleasure or that creativity, but rather wanted to think about focusing it a little differently. One other thing that the project was not was generically anti-consumerist. For I am undeniably a consumer. I exchange money for stuff. I do not regard The Commodity as the root of all evil and in fact I think that commerce — of ideas and words as well as things — is generally a very necessary good. So I did not deny myself the pleasure of clothes, nor did I cease to be a consumer. I bought notions and fabric and quite a lot of yarn. I continued to cut pictures out of magazines, read about fashion history, and dream about the qualities of fabric, and the possibilities of different outfits, just as I had done before. Raw materials, ideas and images continued to be rich sources of inspiration and enjoyment to me. And I had many, many clothes already. To be frank, I had no need of any more. But if there was something that I wanted, as opposed to needed, I would have to think about how to make it, about where the stuff to make it was coming from, and then about how to sew or knit it up for myself. So, in fact, the only thing that I stopped doing this year was spending a lot of time in shops, and buying a lot of clothes in them. And I can honestly say that I’ve not missed this in the slightest.

(handsome Romney. Diamonds Farm. Horam, East Sussex)

What I started rather than stopped doing over the course of the year is much more interesting (well, it is to me at least). Of course, I made things, and I thought about what I was doing when I was making them. But additionally, I also visited farms, crofts, mills and other businesses where fibre is spun, dyed, and woven into cloth. I have learnt how fabric is produced from animal or plant to finished garment, how and where it is sold, to whom, and why. My love of finished textiles has developed into an interest in the process of their production, and the history of those processes. I’ve started thinking in a new way about the importance of textiles to different local economies; about the provenance of materials; about how Britain’s regional fabric is a very literal thing; and about the ways in which different national, local and global histories are all woven up in, and told through, textiles. I’ve also met and learnt from lots of wonderful people who live and work with fibre and fabric. Through this, I have also started to regard the value of textiles very differently indeed.

Clothes are not cheap. Time and care and labour are all expended in the rearing of a British sheep, but the three pence the farmer receives for the fleece makes it hardly worth the shearing. At the other end of the production-consumption chain, 2 million tonnes of largely man-made textile waste is discarded in Britain every year. The quality of this stuff is so low that charity shops cannot re-sell it, and laudable schemes like Oxfam’s wastesaver find it difficult to re-use or recycle. Our cheaply bought and easily discarded textiles swell mountains of domestic landfill, or are exported in containers for other countries to deal with. In the Czech Republic, for example, the outbuildings of former collective farms are now filled, floor to ceiling, with Western Europe’s abandoned clothing. Meanwhile, in Sri Lanka, adults and children suffer the indignity and poverty brought by brutal employment practices that we should more accurately term indenture or slavery. And all to make a mountain of transitory crap that is daily bought and thrown away.

(Antonio Ricci (Lamberto Maggiorani) exchanges his bed linen for his bike in the Bicycle Thieves)

Now, I am not making any great claims for myself here. I know that my 2008 make-your-own project was an exploratory luxury. While I could go on about how I have learnt new things about production, process, and materiality, I also know that fundamentally, this is the politics of luxury: of someone who has enough disposable income to spend on yarn and fabric, and enough leisure time to make things and (crucially) to enjoy making them. People do not have the time or money for such luxuries, and they certainly still need cheap textiles. But we also need textiles of durable, lasting quality. We aren’t pawning our good bedlinen (as in the Bicycle Thieves), we are chucking it out and buying another flimsy ten-pound duvet cover whose seams were sewn up by an impoverished ten-year-old on the Indian subcontinent. A recent consumer survey for Asda has apparently shown that supermarket shoppers now value durability as much as price where clothing is concerned. Asda is now changing its “George” ranges to reflect this shift in priorities. Wouldn’t it be nice if they added a guarantee of fair, non-exploitative labour into this mix?

I want to conclude with some inconclusive remarks about mending and representing mending. I’ve been doing a lot of darning this year, and have become very interested in the care and repair of clothes, as well as in the way that mended and re-made textiles are such rich repositories of personal and cultural memory. A lot of really good British artists are interested in this as well. I particularly admire, for example, Kirsty Hall, Celia Pym and Tabitha Moses, who all use the processes of mending or repair to explore the evocative and ritual nature of textiles. The work of these artists is rich with thought and meaning. But their practice is now one of the only ways, it seems to me, that contemporary audiences can look at made and mended things as public objects upon which to think and reflect. And sometimes, I am a little troubled by how the only way to approach the acts of women and men that were once quotidian and exceptionally ordinary is through extraordinary forms of representation, such as those that art affords. While the work of the three artists I mentioned is without exception, truly brilliant, there are certainly many other art practitioners whose work does little more than decontextualise familiar household textiles and the practices associated with them to very little end. I am naming no names, because this is something I am still thinking about . . . but I am wondering . . . could there be another way? Or if this is just a matter of there being Bad and Good textile art, as with any other form of art or practice. Anyway, there’s something to mull over further. (Any thoughts on this issue appreciated).

Scrap of linen check (1759) used to identify foundling number 13169. (London Metropolitan Archives)

Making and mending my own clothes will continue in 2009, as will the thinking about the making. But I might just have to buy myself the odd pair of pants, and also hope to have a bit more time for some other truly luxuriant crafty things that I enjoy and have not done much of in 2008 — in particular, embroidery. I also have a new and exciting year-long project for 2009. More on this — and on my lovely trip to Islay — anon.