There is nothing in my life that I do which isn’t a riot of trial and error, thrown in at the absolute deep end, and this was no different. Here is a step-by-step guide to making a full Tudor gentleman’s outfit, which you too can wear to the National Portrait Gallery to harass the paintings and make the security staff giggle.
Step one: obsess about owning a doublet because you’ve been reading about Tudor history.
Step two: finally commit to buying a pattern.
Step three: buy curtain fabric off ebay, some cheap ribbon, and another set of curtains from TRAID during their £3 sale.
Step four: I don’t have a sewing table, by the way, so I did pretty much all of this standing up at an 18-year-old ironing board that was shedding padding onto the carpet the entire time, and I spectacularly burnt myself. But at least I didn’t take a chunk out of my knuckle with the shears this time! I did burn the next knuckle up on the same finger.
I also didn’t cut enough of some pieces but I didn’t find that out until later so I had to go back and cut more.
Incidentally, standing up for sewing is much less awful for my back than sitting hunched over a machine has ever been, and makes me less impatient, which means I’m more likely to do things properly! Incredible. Yes, this disaster counts as doing things properly
Step five: While still in the early stages of construction, run out of trim and have to order more, thus effectively forcing a pause.
Step six: while waiting to get more trim, make life even harder for yourself by deciding you want “slashy Tudor hotpants” (not their correct name, astonishingly! Apparently they’re called “paned slops”); search for a pattern but find them all astonishingly dear. Instead end up on an SCA/Renfair guide site which uploads written instructions on “quick and dirty pumpkin pants”, which acknowledges that once you put in panes, which requires another layer of fabric, you can’t really call it “quick” any more.
Step seven: arrogantly attempt it anyway. Do the base layer fine. Do the next layer fine:
Step eight: promptly make the exact mistake you were trying to avoid vis-a-vis which side goes over which (it’s wrong side of inner layer to right side of outer layer then invert, genius), and have to unpick about 50% of it. NB: you are also sewing an elasticated waistband into the curtain pole section of the old curtains, which you will not do in any kind of rational or logical manner.
Step nine: having completed your PANED SLOPS WITH POCKETS IN THE SIDE SEAMS, BECAUSE MAKING CLOTHING WITHOUT POCKETS IS FUCKING ILLEGAL, CLOTHING COMPANIES, STOP THAT SHIT, you will now get the remaining quantity of trim: it sill won’t be enough so you’re going to have to make do.
Step ten: Oh shit do I have enough grommets? Yes I have enough grommets, but can’t fuck this up at all. You immediately fuck up the first one and break it, because you cannot remember how to apply grommets and have lost the instructions, and are squatting in the bathroom doorway using a plate weight from your dumbbells as an anvil because the floor in your flat is too soft. Buttonhole that hole with embroidery thread instead, and move on.
Step eleven: sew on buttons, button loops, and attach cord through grommets. Immediately have to shorten the button loops. The aglets still haven’t arrived for your jacket: don’t let that stop you from wearing it to Bageriet for semla and getting compliments from nice Swedish bakers on your sewing.
Step Twelve: the cord will unknot if you try to tie it in a bow. Repeatedly. You will have to perform emergency surgery in a Nero toilet and later remove a grommet that’s come loose and replace it with more scarlet thread buttonholing.
Step Thirteen: the aglets have arrived by the time you get home. They look suspiciously big. You fit one with your bare hands. It is too wide and won’t go through the hole. Unfurl it with jewellery pliers and carefully wrap it properly. Repeat this 23 more times.
Step fourteen: insist on a photoshoot, wearing eBay-purchased ruff made out of yet more curtains (net ones), and a pair of extremely elderly thigh socks from the late American Apparel range. Realise with a heavy heart that, unless someone has a costume party, you have absolutely nowhere to wear this outfit.
Step fifteen: mysteriously receive praise for this disaster from multiple professional costumier friends even after pointing out that it’s a hanging thread mess that you failed to iron effectively and that you also managed to sew the lining wrong twice and that the unpicker is now more familiar to you than your own body, to which they will inevitably reply: that’s how it is, bro.
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