Tilly and the Buttons Coco - Hours 6 to 19

I promise I won't start every post with an ode to one of the online sewing greats, but I loved Tilly when she was on the Sewing Bee. She has a style and a confidence that's totally aspirational. Plus she's built something pretty amazing from her passion for sewing. Since I started sewing properly I've spend many happy hours reading tips on her blog and drooling over her patterns. So when I got sent her Coco pattern for my first instalment of the Fabric Godmother dream wardrobe I was delighted. Plus Josie's choice of a lovely, thick, camely coloured jersey was spot on my taste.

Maybe a bit too spot on my taste - the fabric looked and felt beautiful and I immediately got nervous about messing up the end result. So even though the Coco pattern is pretty clear that fitting the pattern is straight forward, and there's no need to need to make a toile, I decided to make a trial version. Based on my measurements I sat in between a size 3 and a 4. I did a bit of googling to check out other people's versions and decided I didn't want my Coco to pull tight at the bust, but I knew I probably wouldn't love the end result if the a-line shape felt too 'tentish' over my waist and hips. So I decided to cut a 4 at the top and grade it down to a 3 for the waist and hips (that's what the lovely pic below shows, I was dead proud of using my french curve, so proud I forgot to worry about the picture showing much of anything, you're welcome).

I made the trial version out of a lightweight, grey, spotty jersey from my stash and was pretty happy with how it turned out. You can make Coco with or without a collar and as a top or a dress. For speed, because I really just wanted to check the fit across the chest, I opted to make my trial version a top with no collar. The pattern instructions are easy to follow and overall the fit of Coco does seem pretty easy. Plus there's scope for some lovely touches - I got such a kick out of finally getting to use some of the pretty ribbon I've been squirrelling away to stabilise the shoulders in both my versions. 

Using what I learnt from sewing my Walkley and some patience, I managed not to stretch out the neckline on my Coco and I'm pleased with the way it sits. This top has already asserted it's place in my work wardrobe and been washed and worn a few times in the couple of weeks since I made it. It's super comfy and I don't feel like it looks overly 'homemade'. 

My confidence for starting on the 'real one' was pretty high. I wanted it to be perfect. I was pretty sure it was going to be just that. I made a couple of alterations to the original. The lovely, snuggly fabric was crying out to be a cosy cowl and I added 3 inches to length. I'm a big fan of leggings or skinny jeans with a tunic length top, so that bit of extra length ought to make the end result more wearable.

It all started off pretty smoothly. Until I came to sew up the sides and arms. Remember what I said about wanting it perfect? Well the first underarm turned out beautiful (on the left) and the second was slightly out. 

Nothing you'd notice. Nothing that wasn't perfectly common in my shop bought clothes. But dammit I wanted this thing perfect. So I unpicked it and tried again. And again. And again. And I tried tacking it. And I tried pinning. And I swore and I cried and I tore holes in that lovely fabric. And eventually I learnt 2 important lessons.

1: Thank goodness for the husband and his illuminated magnifier, because I'd ignored the pattern instructions to just use a zig-zag. Instead I used my machines stretch stitch, which made for great seams, but with it's two stitches forward and one back, is hell to unpick. (Also his patience when I'm being an arse because my sewing is going badly).

2: Perfectionism has no place in learning a new skill. Sometimes good enough is just that, good enough and you should just accept it and move on. Given this is a hobby and a way for me to relax, it really wasn't worth the stress of trying to make it perfect. I sewed up the holes (which thankfully are hidden inside the seam allowance) and moved on.

The rest of the process was mostly plain sailing. I nearly fell at the final hurdle because I used a vintage thread in my double needle for the hem and it kept breaking halfway along (more unpicking and more resewing), but in the end it got done. There are some bits of this top I'm super proud of. The top stitching hidden by the cowl is really neat (even though it'll never get seen), and the double needle line on the cuffs feels like a nice professional looking finish.  

That fit though. I'm a bit 'meh' about it. I guess because the thicker fabric is less drapey than the first version, but it feels to big across my upper chest. I'm happy with the fit across the bust, and the shoulders too I think. But maybe I should have just cut a 3? Or maybe the shoulders need lifting? Maybe using the straight stretch stitch, rather than a zig-zag meant it turned out a bit bigger than it should have done? Or maybe it's fine, if you think of it as a jumper? Thoughts? 

Either way it's working it's way into my everyday wardrobe and that cosy jersey is a pleasure to wear on an autumn day (and no, I didn't tell my face that...)

MIY Walkley - Hours 1 to 5

I should start by saying I have a bit of an Insta-crush on Wendy Ward, the designer of the Walkley and @thatwendyward on Instagram. She was one of the first people I came across when I joined Instagram and decided to make it the social media home of my stitching. She's an author, sewing teacher, effortlessly stylish, never looks like she's trying too hard and seems unshakeably friendly and welcoming.

So when I spotted her Walkey pattern free with a magazine I was pretty excited. Not only because I think she's great, but because the pattern is exactly the kind of thing I'm happiest wearing. It's a loose but slim fitting t-shirt, which can be hip length or a knee length dress. Since I had some jersey fabric (bought when I was pregnant, with the very good intention of sewing some maternity wear) languishing at home, this pattern and my stash looked to be a match made in heaven.

Another confession: the reason that fabric had stayed uncut for years is that I've never sewn with knits and it's always seemed way too daunting. Especially at a point where I'm still struggling with wovens and basic skills. Bouyed up by the Internet (Wendy and Tilly from Tilly and the Buttons both have some great advice)  and grounded by the knowledge that, if I'm serious about sewing a wearable wardrobe, knits are bound to feature pretty heavily, I decided to take a deep breath and crack on. 

I began by tracing the pattern and started to lay out my fabric. And here I hit my first issue. I don't know if it was the fabric I was using (cheap off eBay, lightweight and prone to cling to itself) or my handling but I really struggled to find the grain and get it laying straight. I literally spent hours at the kitchen table tweaking it. Eventually the evening wore on and since the table needed to be clear for breakfast (damn you lack of dedicated sewing space) I needed to stop tweaking and cut - no time for the couple of hours 'rest' Tilly prescribes for knits. I'm fairly sure I unsettled it more by pinning on the pattern and lifting the fabric to cut it with my scissors.

All the same I ended up with two, roughly similar pattern pieces. The good news was that I'd managed to get the stripes positioned in the same place on both pattern pieces, so pattern matching them along the sides was a go. The bad news was that the pieces were only vaguely symmetrical. Those issues I'd had getting the fabric to lay straight had come back to haunt me, leaving me with a wonky neckline and one mishapen armscye (isn't that a great word?!). I broke my rotary cutter out and did my best to trim up the mess.

The next night I tacked the pieces together and tried it on, for the husband to declare the dress 'a good cut' on me (he knows nothing about sewing, but is a tireless cheerleader!). I'd geared up my sewing machine with a brand new walking foot and jersey needle and I was ready to sew. Until I was stopped in my tracks by my slapdash approach one more time. I've never bothered tightening in my needles with a screwdriver, I've always just done it by hand. But with the extra vibrations from the walking foot, the screw was just working loose and my needle kept dropping out! Lesson learnt - I broke out the screwdriver and gave everything a good twist. After that using the walking foot and my machine's stretch stitch the basic seams went pretty smoothly.

Feeling confident I decided to try one more new skill out on this project and have a go with a double needle round the neckline. Trying the keep the top stitching straight must have been a step too far. Even though I'd done well letting the walking foot set the pace for the seams, on the neck I started pulling it through from behind like I was making curtains. The neck, which had previously been a nice boat line, flattering but not too wide, now practically qualified as off the shoulder!

The Walkley is a pretty forgiving pattern though, and even with all my mishandling it doesn't look a fright once it's on. Plus for a beginner I'm pretty happy with how those stripes match up. Up close they're a smidge off, but you can't see it from any distance. It's flattering and super comfy and I'll definitely be making more - the t-shirt version has wardrobe staple written all over it. 

10,000 hours of dreaming

So they say it takes 10,000 hours of practice to become an expert. If that's true, I have to be an expert dressmaking dreamer. I've always loved looking at patterns, fingering fabrics and picking up sale bargains because I can see the potential for an elaborate refashion. Trouble is I'm terrible at making these dreams a reality. I tend to find that a few confusing hours into any project, I'm frustrated and disheartened.

I completed a project like this recently. A few years ago I brought a 70s kimono back from Japan, to wear as a summer dressing gown. But since it's meant to be wrapped and obi belted by practiced hands it was too long and too large to simply throw on in the morning. 

Then my mother in law gave me a 1950s dressing gown pattern and an idea started to form. Put the 2 together and I'd have a beautiful, bespoke and, crucially, wearable item. Simple, right?

Wrong! First I made a couple of choices which made it harder. Instead of just unpicking the kimono to flat fabric, I wanted to preserve the collar and the sleeves. Then it turned out the straight cut kimono didn't have enough width for my full skirted 50s pattern (who could've guessed, right?). It took hours of placing and replacing pattern pieces, head-scratching, pinning and repinning sleeves, more head scratching, cursing and making such a mess of 'neatening' the seams I resorted to covering them with bias binding. All of which made it really clear to me that I don't really understand patterns or fabric at all. The pattern is so beautifully drafted it's obvious the front and back bodice darts are meant to run seamlessly into the pleat below them, but I just couldn't make them line up perfectly. The fraction they're out makes me sad every time I look at them. 

The end result is actually pretty wearable, bearing in mind all the issues. The sleeves don't hang perfectly, but it's comfortable enough and will do the job for hanging round the house. But it's not the thing of beauty I had in mind. 

Which led to another idea and this blog. Why not try to clock up 10,000 hours of sewing practice? And document it all? And start at the beginning, with basic patterns? So eventually I'll be able to realise my dreams perfectly...