Aka Kim Fozzard. Former Sewing Bee Applicant - Now Dressmaker Seamstress

 

Clever Doris has finally decided what she wants to do when she grows up. It's only taken 20+ years or so - no danger of rushing into things then.

 

I have spent all my working life in catalogue artwork production, so I know things about colour, proof reading and page layout etc. I was rather ok at it all and it provided a stable income, so on I plodded...

However the spectre of stifled creativity always loomed in the background, occasionally tapping me on the shoulder with its long gnarly finger, saying menacingly: "oi, you should be making stuff". However a combination of fear, lack of self belief and the little annoying matter of Children Needing Things kept me going, like most of us, as a slave to the salary. This daily corporate schlep had an inevitable knock-on effect on all 4 of us Clevers, so after much adding up and conversations about sacrifices we decided last year that I would resign my then role in order to spend some time at home. This change was to be a means for us to catch our collective breaths and claw back a bit more quality of life.

I have since spent the last few months doing a bit of Del & Rodney/Steptoe & Son type wheeling & dealing, whilst trying to come up with ideas on how to do something life changing/family friendly/financially viable. Oh to reach the Holy Grail of work/life balance eh?

Which is why I decided to embark upon Dressmaking/seamstress-ing for a living. When undertaking extensive and highly scientific market research (local mums, over wine) I was amazed to find how many people actually had all sorts of mending/alteration/curtain projects they wanted doing. And actually it's only an official way of doing what I've always done, ie mending ripped trouser crotches and enlarging jeans by inserting v shaped mismatching denim panels into the back.

Ta Dah! The light went on...

 

 

 

1st paid project, in the form of 5 metres of seaside loveliness. Not actually intended to match the landscape (featured landscape being Cornwall only 2 weeks ago).

 

 

To summarise:

• I would never have had the confidence to embark upon said new venture had I not applied for the next series of The Great British Sewing Bee.
• I would never have applied for GBSB had I not started this here blog.
• I would have never started this here blog had I not left my old job.

So you see therein lies a logic and natural order...

 

 

Anyway -  back to The Great British Sewing Bee: there's a tale (naturally). 

I initially applied after boring myself stupid with weeks of shouting at the telly during each episode of the first series. ("whaaat, you mean you don't know how to insert a fly front?!" and "Wheres the stay stitching?" yada, yada, yada...). So as per a previous post (Sewing Doris: Getting A Bit Brave In Her Dotage...) I applied.

Imagine my surprise when, at the beginning of June, I received a call from the production company saying I'd been shortlisted and after a 1 hour phone interview I was informed they'd let me know within 2 weeks if I'd got through to audition. Only 2 days passed before I received another call inviting me to audition in that there London. Flipping Heck - I couldn't believe it. 

 

 

 

 

I was asked to take 3 items I'd made; 2 of which had to be garments displaying a range of techniques. I decided to take the dragonfly blouse, the lined linen shift dress and the old lady tablecloth quilt (all shown in previous posts).

 

 

Feeling rather pleased with myself I lovingly wrapped the items in tissue, stuffed them into a case and hauled my Northern bottom down to London.

Dragging wheely case behind me, like a bewildered Paddington Bear going for a lap dancing audition, I eventually arrived at the allotted Londony place at the allotted time, signed in and made my way to the holding room where I had to transfer my items from case to hanger. My self satisfaction soon dissipated however when my fellow applicants produced such items as wedding dresses, military uniforms and hand worked quilts. I suddenly felt like a very small and embarrassed fish...

Stage 1 was The Critique whereby I was asked to 'talk about' my items. Fat Tongue Syndrome well and truly set in and, feeling I'd blown it, skulked back to the holding room all ready to pack up and leave. Imagine my surprise however when I was invited to do a screen test. Now that's a weird old process, sitting on a chair talking about yourself, trying not to look like a wobble headed loon, whilst trying to disguise any trace of cringing. After 15 minutes of terror it was over and time to leave. I was informed that I would find out within 1 week if I'd reached 2nd audition. It was a long week.

In fact it was actually 2 long and very painful weeks before I heard that I had not made it through. I have to say I was rather gutted but relieved to know all the same.

 

I like to think that perhaps I was on a pin board somewhere with a big permanent marker question mark over my head, being heavily deliberated over. Or stuck to a perspex screen like what they have on detective programmes. CSI Sewing Bee.

But we'll never know for sure will we?

 

So Clever Doris soon bounced back and decided to learn from the experience, hence the decision to embark upon the path of Dressmaker/Seamstress-to-the-locals.

'Reasonable rates/no job too small' (and other rubbish taglines).

 

 

A friends no-more-than-a pelmet/should-know-better-at-her-age skirt bought from Next for £11. Lengthened by inserting wide velvet ribbon. The original lining was made from what could only be compared to a black binliner, so I remade it. The currency in this case was an evening of childcare and a bottle of red (these trading terms have now expired!).

 

 

So there you have it: Clever Doris's career path. If it all goes horribly wrong I could always pursue my other ambitions to be a Sagar Makers Bottom Knocker or a Stump Grinder...

 

Wish me luck!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Something To Do While Watching Glastonbury...

 

A narcissistic word score of 17.

 

...at home on the tv. Again.
And I'd vowed the previous Glastonbury would be the last one I watched via the medium of the telly box. Whilst ironing. On a Friday night: Rock and, indeed, Roll.
I recall Bono swaggering around sporting unfeasibly unsuitable, slightly obscene-and-should-know-better-for-a-man-of-his-age leather trouserage. This year of course we had the vision of Mick Jagger strutting up and downstage in a pair of lady-jeggings  (jaggings) and orthopaedic trainers.
Us Clevers did try (boy did we try) to purchase tickets at the very moment the lines opened last year. 3 of us, like 3 Rick Wakemans with multiple keyboards, all eager and poised with 2 laptops, 3 mobile phones and 2 landlines on speed dial. You should have heard the cries of "Nooooooo!*#*#!!" (and other expletives besides) when the lines shut down after all tickets sold out. I think I was ironing then as well with my phone wedged between ear and neck.
Although I bet Rick Wakeman couldn't iron and (not) order tickets at the same time.

Anyway this year, ticketless and at home, I resigned myself to watching the festival on tv again. So instead of ironing I opted for a spot of light nonsense and, some may say, pointless crafting.

 

Clever Doris has been wombling again - only 1 of your English pounds. And it was a complete set.

 

 

 

Quick wash and dry.

 

 

 

Little magnets (purchased from Ebay), a blob of glue, and an overnight set...

 

 

 

...and tah dah! - you can make rude words on the fridge: very important for the education of a young Clever.

 

 

Clever Doris: Embarasser Of Her Children

 

Isn't it the divine right of all parents to be able to embarrass their kids?

After all I was embarrassed by mine, namely a mother who used to sport stripy tights, lace ups, a 1940s fur coat and drive a beaten up old VW camper van in which to collect me from boarding school at the end of term which predictably broke down and had to be pushed out of the school grounds by my friends who, incidently, had dogs and ponies and parents with Volvos. My friends thought she was really cool. I, on the other hand, what with it being the 80s and me being 13, was mortified by this example of a 'four-foot-eleven-with-her-hands-up' unconventional stripy tights clad hippy.

Embarrassing father took the form of a nomadic despiser of cars who never possessed a phone or a bank account and used to go on 3 day 'fishing trips' only to return with a packet of frozen cod and another telly which he'd traded with a 'bloke down the pub' in return for a painting he'd done. We did at one point have 3 tellys, one on top of the other, one with only sound, one with only picture and one for aesthetic purposes only (well he didn't want it to look completely stupid). At least he made the effort to make the whole display look pleasing in the form of a broken fibre optic lamp perched atop the pile of monstrous brown tvs. I seem to recall a plastic Pink Panther somewhere in the mix.
Less embarrassing but nonetheless disappointing; for years I expected him to return home with a dog after stating he was just going to "see a man about a dog". I now know that to be dad-speak for "I'm off for a pint". And the fact there never was an ice cream van at the top of that mountain he'd dragged me up.

My act of rebellion was to lead a very conventional life with 1 husband, 2 kids, 2 jobs and a semi in the burbs. The white sheep of the family.

Now its my turn to do the embarrassing, although I think kids now are a little more desensitised to the unconventional parent. Until...

...one morning whilst taking clever Maurice to school I happened upon a battered Lloyd Loom ottoman on the side of the road next to a row of wheely bins. Now even this old womble struggled to overcome the public humiliation of relieving it from its resting place so we continued on our way. After all this is Leafy & Affluent North Leeds, and we know people. However on quick reflection I couldn't bear the thought of a less fazed wombling-type coming along to retrieve it or, worse still, the fate of landfill so I did an about turn and rescued it. Although the lid had disintegrated, the frame and main body of the piece was intact, so after wrestling it into the back of the car we continued on our way with CM mortified and slumped in the front, lest any of his Leafy & Affluent friends clock us. 

A new mdf top, found in Mr Doris's manly garage, a lick of paint and a spot of Clever Doris reupholstery has rendered this a mighty useful item which takes pride of place in the living room, where it provides useful extra seating and storage for toys and things which can't possibly be thrown away such a space stations made from cereal boxes and loo rolls.

 

Woe betide anyone who should discard this architectural masterpiece

Anyway what do kids of today know? - real embarrassment is playing pass the parcel to radio 4 at your own birthday party.

A Little Bag For A Lady's Unmentionables

 

Another birthday gift for a friend: the perfect place to store said friend's 'unmentionables'. As modelled by my helpful companion Clever Dolly.

 

 

Clever Doris has been wombling again...another £1 embroidered linen tablecloth, found amongst a pile of festering net curtains, crispy handkerchiefs and odd baby socks. After the previous heavyweight chair reupholstering project (Clever Doris's Fine Upholstered Seat) I needed to create something which was quick, non-toxic and not too taxing on the old brain or indeed hands. After all I do have a beauty regime to maintain you know (yeah right).

 

 

 

Ingredients: linen embroidered tablecloth, cotton sheet remnant (for the lining), 1" wide purple bias binding, piping cord, pink cotton ribbon for drawstring.

I followed the washbag project instructions from Cath Kidstons 'Sew' book. The overall shape is basically a rectangle with radial corners.

 

 

 

Purple piping to pick out the purple in the embroidery.

And I don't mind quietly reiterating that I Am The Queen Of The Bias (even if I say so myself...)

 

 

 

And in case there isn't enough colour already - drawstring made from pink cotton tape (hulking great reel of the stuff previously found for 50p; a prime example of using things you find to drive your creativity, hence the basic human right for every crafter to possess a Craft Cupboard).

 

 

Clever Doris And Her Fine Upholstered Seat

Now whatever I said in previous posts about any found item being the most spectacularly smelliest thing of all time in the history of wombling, please disregard because this piece gets the award for being the smelliest even I've ever encountered.
It's a 1950s cocktail chair. And we all need a cocktail chair in our lives don't we? - for those times we spend partaking of a small cocktail libation of an evening...
This one was purchased for only £15, a fine example and a rare find due to the current popularity of mid century furniture - and especially at such a bargainous price.
I think the odour of wee devalued it somewhat...

 

Really Really Stained and Well Rank...

 
Deconstruction: deep breath in and armed with face mask, gloves and pliers I set about stripping the fabric off the piece. It was imperative that I kept the main pieces intact so that I could transfer the pattern shapes onto the new fabric.

 

Although enormously rancid, once I got into the main body of the piece I discovered, as thought, that the structure was solid and sound. At this stage I thought: "yikes, that's torn it".  I did however have a cunning plan in ensuring that I photographed each stage of the deconstruction process.

 

 

Even did a drawing/order of works whilst referring to a book in order to work out how to reconstruct it. All very technical and thought through you know...

 

 

 

Reconstruction: after removing the old fabric, tacks and flesh from my hands I decided to cover the exposed wood areas with wadding (actually the innards of a duvet), using a staplegun. This was in order to give the chair a softness so the frame won't eventually poke through the new fabric covering. I kept the original wool/horsehair padding intact. The staplegun I used was the 3rd version of 3 purchases, the first 2 being returned to the shop due to their ineffectiveness/being crap. Tip: "you buy cheap/you buy twice".

 

 

 

I roughly covered the chair in cotton calico, mainly so I could bring it indoors and continue working on it. I couldnt bear being exposed to the original padding any longer.

 

 

The chair is comprised of 4 fabric pieces so I cut a new pattern taken from the old fabric.The inner back panel was the first piece to be stretched and stapled onto the outer edges of the frame.

 

 

I machine stitched the contrast piping onto the top seat section.

 

 

 

The seat welt/skirt section is simply one long strip of fabric the circumference of the seat  which I machine stitched around the edges of the seat top (the piping is sandwiched between the two pieces).

 

  

 

The seam bulk was trimmed and clipped at a 45 degree angle.

 

 

 

The piped covering was stretched over the chair seat section and stapled to the underside frame. A second piece of piping was then stapled around the outer edges of the back section, trimming any remaining bulk in the seams.

 

 

 

At this point I flipped the chair over and repainted the legs in charcoal grey eggshell.

 

 

 

Mr Doris with his oversized needle...

 

After marking out the button positioning on the back and the seat it was at this point I called upon the services of Mr Doris who, not wanting to be left out of a good manly project, came up with a solution of how to affix them (16 of the blighters) using a ridiculously long needle and cord.

 

Buttons attached, I could then add the outer back section. I stapled the fabric along the top closely to the piping (right side to right side), flipped it over, and stapled it to the bottom underside frame. I handstitched down the sides, again close to the piping.

The old fingertips by this point were well and truly mashed...

 

 

 

Stapling a piece of hessian over the base; disguising all its aged innards.

 

 

 

Still life with another jolly teatowel footstool (lovingly made by Clever Doris for a friends birthday).

 

Cocktail perchance?

 

 

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Big Blousey Doris - Sewing...Again

 

Found this fabric lurking in the back of the Craft Cupboard - always loved it but never quite knew what to make from it, until now - another blouse, the pattern of which I shamelessly copied off my Biba blouse (I'm actually in the process of making version#3: I think I need to stop now). 

Is wearing a dragonfly print blouse one crazy step away from wearing a fleece jacket with wolves on it?

 

 

The Queen of Bias Binding?

 

 

 

And because making one garment in a week isn't enough, I ran up this lined linen shift dress.

 

Excuse the screen clash

 

 

My legacy: around 48,000 yards of this lining (+5billion zips in crazy random colours which I can never find use for and therefore annoyingly still have to buy a new one prior to each sewing project) handed down to me by my mother who used to sell such things on the markets decades ago. A good boil wash removed the smell of 1971.

 

 

Team Doris Turtle Power

Todays quality posting isn't strictly a crafty/makey/doey subject and therefore not particularly relevant to the general guff Clever Doris likes to harp on about, but one nonetheless I think may be of interest in the spirit of adventure, wonderment and getting stuff for free.
Whilst on a recent Team Doris Seaside Expedition to Runswick Bay on the Yorkshire Coast the Young Clevers, being at one with nature and all, happened upon the amazing sight of a fossilised turtle 1/2 mile down the beach. It was just sat there - all undiscovered and turtley-looking. Epic dialogue ensued:

Clever Norris: Mum look what I found
Clever Maurice: No I found it
CN: No I found it
CD: What is it?
CN: It's a tortoise
CD: 'Tisnt
CN: 'Tis too
CD: No way
CM: ...Way

We couldn't possibly leave it there for another grillion years. It needed to come back with us to its spiritual home of Leeds.
Moving it should be an easy enough task: we had a blue Ikea bag*. We were sorted.
All we needed now was a piece of rope, and I challenge anyone not to be able to find any rope on a beach. You can ALWAYS find rope on a beach. And find it we did, wedged between 2 giant rocks.
Now Mr Doris is a bit of a whizz with knots (well he has been on a Ray Mears Bushcraft course you know; a birthday present from CD, to which he responded more emotionally than the birth of his own children: what a Guy). Anyway armed with rope and Ikea bag we set about the task of transporting it from its zillion year old resting place. Bear in mind that it must've weighed about 75 kilos which is, according to Mr D, 3 times the manual handling limit recommended by H&S legislation (how we while away the evenings).
Basically it was bloody impossible to lift, even by the most hale and hearty of fillies or indeed the most manly of men (and that includes Manly Mick Mcmanly from Manchester).
However, beaten we would not be. This geological phenomenon was coming to Leeds on a tartan picnic blanket in the back of a mazda estate.

So with a bit of nifty wrapping and Ray Mears type knotting we embarked upon the task of transporting it along the beach and back to base. Easy in theory. Not in practice I hasten to add. The tide had just gone out, rendering the shore line very claggy/clay-ey and exceedingly pebbly. Over rocks and clay we proceeded in an Enormous Turnip story kind of way. CD pulling in a tug of war manner, Mr D  pushing, CN kicking rocks out of the way and CM texting his mates. Rugged stalwarts that we are, even us Clevers nearly threw the towel in. However ultimately we were not going to be beaten by this mere pebble so we continued on towards the slipway (we hadn't even thought through how the blazes we'd actually get Myrtle the turtle into the boot). 3 hours later we made it and with a bit of the old core strength and heave ho-ness we managed to hump it onto the blanket and swing it into the car.

Only in England would you find on a soggy beach on a soggy february 2 saxon peasants walking in 1 direction and a mad family dragging a stone in an Ikea bag the other way. And without either party batting an eyelid at each other. Although when asked by one other bloke what we had in the bag, Mr D replied "oh this, its only the mother in law" (other crap northern jokes are available) before continuing on our way...

2 days later we returned home to Leeds where Myrtle now happily resides on a tarmaced driveway. Research ensued whereby we disappointingly discovered, via the medium of the tinterweb, that Myrtle is not actually a fossilised turtle but a geological phenomonen known  as a Septarian Nodule and is formed from lumps of mudstone and limestone that have dried out, forming shrinkage cracks. Had we known that from the outset we may not have gone to all the effort. So I'm kind of glad we didn't know because we've convinced many a visitor passing through that it's actually a real fossilised turtle.

Sadly the Ikea bag was harmed during the completion of this mission...

Young Clever Norris, thinking Myrtle looked a bit incomplete, made it his personal mission on a subsequent seaside trip to find a stone shaped like a head...

 

Anyway we're sticking with the story of it being a fossilised turtle, which we intend to dine out on for years, adding to our list of 'remember whens'.
As evident in CD's previous posts: 'never let the truth get in the way of a good story'.



*Hey all you Ikea Marketers: how about an ad campaign themed on the subject of innovative uses for a blue Ikea bag? (other than carrying beach paraphernalia, laundry or the daily transporting of  wine bottles to the recycling plant). 
You can have that one on me - Clever Doris.
Just pay me in hot dogs.