I know full well I won’t get very far in these boats. They are easy to make, though, and would do equally well in a beach house, summer cottage or on a boat. All triangles, all the same size, all sides the same length. Rather neat even if I say so myself.
And the best part is they are absolutely still and don’t rock, roll, and heave. I get seasick sometimes. Never with these!
Most people will have heard of the male name Viggo. At least when paired with the surname Mortensen. He said in an interview that the name Viggo is considered somewhat dorky in his Dad’s native Denmark. The surname is just plain fairly common as are most surnames ending in -sen.
It seems the name Viggo is on the rise in popularity though. One of “my” cub scouts bears it and I recently found out my sister likes it. The reason for my discoveryis that her daughter, my niece, is pregnant, and my sister suggested the name.
An ultrasound showed that she’s carrying a girl. The name does however have a female counterpart: Vigga.
And that’s what I call this pattern:
I’m not done with it – it’s going to be a baby blanket. Right now it’s VIP. Vigga In Progress.
And the colour scheme? Her due date is the fifth of November, known to any Brit as bonfire day to commemorate the discovery of the gunpowder plot led by Guy Fawkes before they had time to blow up the Parliament and upheave alle order in the UK. Hence the red, orange and yellows.
Or: Some mistakes are just too daft to be photographed.
I recently finished a bed spread for my Mum. The one I wrote about before, yes. The pattern part should cover the top of the bed, and a border along one side and one end should make a nice finish.
The pattern part turned out just as I wanted it. There’s a centre part with so-called fat quarters measuring 20 x 20 cm. which are old denims. Around those are squares of 5 x 5 cm. pieces of calico in blues, and they are arranged in diagonal lines.
The quilting is done with buttons in random pattern on the denim part and in few, diagonal lines on the ends of the small squares part.
The bedspread is for my Mum’s guest bed in her sewing room. Being an old seamstress, she of course has a sewing room. She had one in her old flat, and she has one in her new, smaller flat.
In the old flat – my childhood home – the guest bed was in the far right corner looking in from the door. In the new flat it’s at the far left corner looking in from the door.
And now I don’t know wether I thought of the old flat or just didn’t really think at all. Fact of the matter is that I sewed on the edges to fit the bed as it was in the old flat. Not in the new one.
Mum was kind to me, praised it in high tones and left it with the top border folded in.
Yes, you’re right: I love my Mum to bits.
I write. Not just this blog (and another one in Danish) but also fiction. Sometimes I write non-fiction too when I describe some of the patterns et c. I make for various craft projects.
And when you write you get – at least some people get – the notion that someone might want to publish your writing. So you send off a manuscript to veraous publishers, big and small.
And then you wait. Watch your mail box for at least an auto-reply that tells you that your heart and soul reached their destination. And you wait some more.
From time to time you loose patience, often as not only to wish you didn’t because the long-awaited answer is a refusal.
And then just once in a while you get a chance. This just happened to me even if it was in disguise: I wrote up descriptions with lots of snaps of a select number of patchwork patterns and looked for publishers specialising in the field. Then I wrote to those publishers. Finally I posted in a patchwork group on Facebook if others had good suggestion of “never fail always good books” from a specific publisher.
That was when chance entered the equation. A group member with a shop wrote to me because she could well want to sell my patterns in her shop.
The lesson I learned from this? Just the usual: Timing is what makes chances occur.
Do you know the feeling? You found all your patchwork material, spread it over half the living room and cut piece after piece for a specific project.
Then the minute you sigh and begin to re-fold everything to put it away you think of other patterns. Leave the mess, take up pencil and paper – in my case a standard checkered pad – and begin to draw. Come up with brilliant ideas. Or remember old and equally brilliant ideas not yet put into colours and cloth.
Lean back with sketches on the pad, smile to yourself and fetch the thick paper used for clich´s and begin to cut those. And then finally go on to cut the material for those patterns.
That’s what I did this past week. Well, not all of it, some of it. And now that I finally put all the material away to stop myself getting further ideas I have not only the 468 pieces for my Mum’s bedspread but also 2X5 for two canters, 15 pieces for one experimental pattern, 11 pieces for another experiment and finally 177 pieces for a square pattern. Because I stopped myself before I began to cut a hexagon cliche’e which would have meant countless other pieces.
Oh and did I mention I always hand-sew? Seems I have my work cut out for me very literally.
This post will have you seeing stars. Really.
I was seeing stars when I got the material for the shorts I practically finished. It was in a shop in Amsterdam, our summer hols destination, and it was just packed with fabrics I wanted. And I had to limit myself and therefore pinched close my eyes so hard it made stars shimmer inside the lids.
My daughter saw stars too, but only these.
Then I was seeing stars again when I laid out the pattern. This time they were stars of rage. What was she thinking in that shop?! I specifically asked for enough for a pair of semi-long shorts. And this is how they had to look in the end:
All I could get were the leg parts. Not the waist band, not the pockets, not the belt straps. And I really was very careful, trying several times over to somehow fit more pieces onto the star fabric.
So I was reminded again to be careful about trusting shop clerks. At least my daughter thinks her new shorts are cool.
Now before any possible reader’s hackles are raised, this is neither naming, blaming or shaming. Instead I’m straightly, strictly literal:
The dear girl studies geology and saw on one field trip a fellow student wearing a sweater that inspired her. Could I knit a pattern with stripes that are interrupted in a slanted line?
My answer yes prompted a sketch that’s turning into the above: A clourful rendition of a fault line. The blue, yellow and red layers of sediment, as it were, on the black background cut up and unjoined with the forces of the earth’s tectonic plates.
Or in this case, the force of my knitting needles. Don’t you just love a nerd like that?! I do.