Task 40: Learn how to use my sewing machine

When Peter and I married over 28 years ago, one of the items I acquired was the sewing machine he'd bought for his first mother-in-law a few years before she died.  Occasionally I would take it out of its hard cover, peer at it and start reading the manual, but it was clear that the technology had moved on a lot since I'd learned to use one at school (zig zag stitching was not heard of then), and it all seemed too difficult. Besides, my marks for sewing had been only marginally better than those for domestic science ("B, satisfactory" was the summit of my achievement) and I had no natural talent for it.

It had always been my intention, however, to get to grips with the machine and at least be able to use it for simple things. Quite what, I had no idea, but I was sure it could be useful for something.  Making it part of the Challenge was just the spur I needed.

Further impetus was provided by my lessons with Rowena, learning to make a nightdress in Cape Town (Task 41), and I came home determined to have a go. I'd forgotten how large and heavy the old machine was, but I lugged it onto the desk in the study, having cleared a space, and spent a few hours reading the instructions and trying to match the diagrams to the various knobs and levers. I decided to start by practising on some old unused pieces of cotton, set aside for painting rags, which was fortunate given the way things turned out. 

The tension seemed rather tight on one side of the stitching, even at its loosest setting, but given how long it had taken me to work out how to load the bobbin and thread the needle, I reckoned it would do for the time being. When I pressed the foot pedal it seemed a bit sluggish, so I decided to give it a rest and consult the manual again - carefully moving right away from the pedal.  As I was reading, the machine suddenly started stitching very fast, accompanied by a distinct smell of burning. How on earth did that happen?  And not just once, but three times - even when I was in another part of the room, nowhere near it.

The choice was either to get it serviced and repaired, or to buy a new one. I was torn, as in principle there was nothing wrong with the old machine (apart from being a health and safety hazard) and if it worked, it could do everything I was likely to need. On the other hand a new one would have more features which could be useful if I got hooked, and it would certainly be lighter to move around. Peter definitely favoured buying new, as he didn't want the study incinerated, and I rather fancied the idea of having my very own machine. I could justify the expense as it could count as my birthday present for 2015, which was still due as I hadn't been able to think of anything I wanted.

After lots of internet research, I narrowed the choice of machine down to two options and then asked Rowena for her advice. She approved both, with a slight preference for the more expensive model, and sent me a link to one on eBay which had never been used but was about 3 years old and out of guarantee.  What to do?  It could be a bargain, with a saving of £50, but I was keen to have the guarantee and I also liked the idea of being able to buy it from John Lewis and pop in there if I had a problem. I decided to go into John Lewis and see it at first hand before making up my mind. Having come from lunch out with a friend, where wine was taken, I was flushed with enthusiasm and perhaps inevitably ended up buying it - with the bonus of being able to get it there and then. Happily when I got home I found that the one on eBay had been withdrawn, so I could revel in my purchase without twinges of guilt.

After a few false starts I was up and running, and decided to make - as a present for a friend - a cover for a pashmina using some organza in a wonderful blue/purple, which I'd bought in Cape Town when in a fabric shop with Rowena. Before tackling the nightdress she had shown me how to make one and I'd found it extremely useful whenever I wanted to tuck a pashmina in my handbag for evenings out. In the process she had taught me how to do a French seam and having brought it back home with me, I had a model to work from. It had been fairly straightforward to make, as it was based on an envelope style cushion cover (ie with no zips or other fastenings), and having watched several videos on YouTube with detailed instructions, I felt fairly confident.

My first mistake was an extremely basic one. Looking at the reams of organza, I decided I could simply cut out a piece that was the right shape, without measuring it. Stupid - but that didn't become obvious until I'd stitched the short seams and was pinning it all in place, ready to do the final long seams. I then realised the sides weren't straight and one section was quite a bit narrower than another.  I tried cutting some more off the wider part - still without measuring it (you'd think I'd have learned, but no) - and that improved it, but even so it clearly wasn't right and I wasn't happy:

The only way I could think of rectifying it, other than starting from scratch again, was to make the long seams wider.  This would enable me to make it all straight at the expense of reducing the overall width of the cover, and I reckoned I'd allowed enough spare fabric for that. Wrong again - I'd forgotten I'd already cut some off.  Anyway it seemed a way forward, so I pressed on:

By now, a project that should have taken only 10-20 minutes, according to the YouTube videos, was well into its second hour. In the end it was finished and by putting an extra fold in the pashmina, it was a snug fit:

One fortuitous mistake, which you can just about see in the upper horizontal seam, is that I made the overlapping fabric section too deep initially, so I folded over a bit more material and stitched a second seam. I rather like the effect of the double line of stitching, and it should help to stop any fraying. Definitely more practice required, but I've certainly learned from the experience and will be wielding my measuring tape in future.