I’ve been working on this cursed hat for the past thirty-six hours.
I’d whipped up a confection of a portrait ensemble—all white, vintage linens, chenille, and crocheted lace—which was almost divine. Almost. It just needed a hat.
Way back seventeen months ago when I started sewing children’s couture I designed a simple cloche, but could I just modify that pattern? Could I possibly take the sensible route? Let’s not be ridiculous. I couldn’t.
I had to, instead, study and modify a downloaded pattern that was pure crap (which would probably explain the free-ness of it), draft and alter a new pattern several dozen times, and rip out seams like the star of a horror movie. Nic the Ripper. That’s me. Incidentally, how many calories do you think one burns per hour ripping seams? My right wrist seems twice as muscular as its counterpart, what with all the deft flicks of each pulled stitch.
But back to my misery. I’m now on the twenty-something-ith version of the crown, and the ninth version of the brim. But each attempt is closer to the shape I’m pining for, and with a bit o’ luck, I just might have this completed and photographed by tomorrow evening.
I shall keep you posted. If I don't have a coronary first.
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