There has been much frustration. There has been some colourful language. There have been many cleansing breaths taken in the garden. For this week was the week that I tackled my first bound buttonholes.
Attempt Number One. There’s not even enough fabric to draw through the hole. Pretty big fail, but you know, it’s early days.
Attempt Number Two. Now, I don’t know if it’s the vaguely flesh-coloured fabric or the fact that there is much mention of lips when you research the binding of holes for buttons. This one makes me want to call in a proctologist.
Attempt Number Three. No, I think that I need to pop along the hospital corridor to see a gynaecologist. I GIVE UP.
Attempts Four and Five. I’m going to machine a button-blooming-hole. Oh, that looks so ordinary, you could have done that hours ago, what a waste of time. You light-weight. You give up so easily. Have One. Last. Try.
Oh. Now, that doesn’t look too bad. More furry letterbox than human orifice which has to be better.
And when we came to make the things for real… Well, there were moments. Carefully marking, attaching and turning through some iron-on interfacing only to realise it was now sticky side up and not sticky side down. The kind of thing that only happens when you have already spent 3 hours making and painstakingly lining something. That was a moment. And there was a too-hot iron moment, good job no bugger will be able to see the insides of my pockets as there was no way I was re-doing them this far along:
I could have wept, except. Except. They looked alright from the outside:
I’m not sure that I’m desperate to try them again. I mean they’re pretty much invisible on this fabric and for all that work.
On the other hand, they do make me feel quite smug/clever/heartily relieved.
What do you think? To bind or not to bind, I feel that might be my question.