I’m not even watching Wimbledon this year
I wish I had a solution to allowing my creation to fall on the floor while I’m sewing another line to it. Draping it over a chair doesn’t work, but if it’s on the floor, the weight of it pulls it down and drags my sewing line (at least that’s my excuse if it turns out that any of my lines are not dead straight).
The quilt is growing so quickly now; just two more lines and I’ll be on to the border. I have really put the hours in this week. I’ve watched no Swedish crime drama; read none of my Saul Bellow book; watched absolutely no tennis and have even, in writing this list of what I’ve forsaken for quilting, forgotten what I used to do to wind down in the evenings.
I made a galling mistake a couple of nights ago. I was so annoyed about it that I couldn’t post it on here. I have now relaxed about it, realising that the overall quilt design will swallow it up, and can even bring myself to display the horror:
Stupidly, I put together one of the lines of eleven blocks in two halves. I left half for the next day, believing that my elaborate system of pinning would work to remind me which way round to sew the blocks. But, no. What actually happened was that they were all wrong, and this is the result: One large diamond with two of the same pieces of fabric; one large diamond of medium colour value with a triangle of a dark value; and (I know the poor quality of the photo makes it difficult to see, but) too many areas for my liking where small squares of the same fabric are next to each other.
Now, I know all of that makes my desire for order and my necessity to control the minutiae of my world sound just a little unhealthy, but… No, there is no but.
Anyway, I decided not to unpick eighty-eight inches of stitching and to move on. That’s got to be healthy.
Quilting really is therapy.