Dress Like a Peasant - Parte Ye Seconde
Okay, yesterday I told you I was going to do the Coif and possibly the Hood for the next installment. Plans change, and this post is no different. Today, kids, we get to see Bob's knickers! 
RH004 includes Braies, and since those are linen - and I'm starting with the linens and working toward the wool - it seemed appropriate to do those next. It started like what you see in the image at right.
It's really, really simple: Two rectangles and a square. Then you basically stitch them together, add a waistband casing for a drawstring, thread in the drawstring, and you're done.
What could be simpler? Right?
Apparently some things aren't as easy as they sound.
Things got confused right around the time I was nearly finished flat-felling all the seams (for my opinion of flat-felling, see yesterday's post; I am coming to loathe flat-felling with an enduring 
passion). The corners were different! Lookee at the image at left. See? After I got all the seams done, and **** near flat-felled everything, I come to discover a considerable flaw in my workmanship.
"-!" I raved. "- -itty - -ing -!"
"Kindly avoid that sort of language, dear," soothed Kass. "It'll frighten the hounds. What seems to be the trouble?"
"Look at the -ing corner," I grumped. "It's all -ed up!"
"Of course it is, dear. You have the unfortunate circumstance of being, as you so blithely put it, a -ing chump."
There followed a long description of how, when sewing two bits of fabric together, one side gets more tension applied than the other, which can cause the crossbeam to come out o'skew on treadle (I confess I might have heard that last bit wrong). In other words, if you don't work a bit on one side, a bit on the other, switching back and forth, and instead go round the ring, you can end up with one corner all cattywumpus.
Like happened to me. 'Cos I didn't know. Turns out that's why your 8th grade Home Economics teacher made you put a pin every six inches - to prevent one side pulling weirdly. Kass used a jargon name for the phenomenon, but I misremember it.
Anyway, all's well that ends well - I can haz sizors. All I had to do was nip off the extra bits and put 'em in the "one day I'll get round to laying rag paper from all these scraps" bag.
After that, it was nothing but hem the cuffs, add a drawstring casing and drawstring, et voila! I's done!
Unfortunately, dear readers, you don't get to see my fat arse in my underbritches. A man has some pride, after all, even if he does swing glowsticks from his codpiece.
Not that that was me. Nope. Uh-uh. That was some other -ing idiot at a Pennsic party.
Anyway finished product pictured at left. This one is completely done, flat-felled and everything.
Tomorrow, hopefully, there will be wool for the first time. Wish me luck!
RH004 includes Braies, and since those are linen - and I'm starting with the linens and working toward the wool - it seemed appropriate to do those next. It started like what you see in the image at right.
It's really, really simple: Two rectangles and a square. Then you basically stitch them together, add a waistband casing for a drawstring, thread in the drawstring, and you're done.
What could be simpler? Right?
Apparently some things aren't as easy as they sound.
Things got confused right around the time I was nearly finished flat-felling all the seams (for my opinion of flat-felling, see yesterday's post; I am coming to loathe flat-felling with an enduring passion). The corners were different! Lookee at the image at left. See? After I got all the seams done, and **** near flat-felled everything, I come to discover a considerable flaw in my workmanship.
"-!" I raved. "- -itty - -ing -!"
"Kindly avoid that sort of language, dear," soothed Kass. "It'll frighten the hounds. What seems to be the trouble?"
"Look at the -ing corner," I grumped. "It's all -ed up!"
"Of course it is, dear. You have the unfortunate circumstance of being, as you so blithely put it, a -ing chump."
There followed a long description of how, when sewing two bits of fabric together, one side gets more tension applied than the other, which can cause the crossbeam to come out o'skew on treadle (I confess I might have heard that last bit wrong). In other words, if you don't work a bit on one side, a bit on the other, switching back and forth, and instead go round the ring, you can end up with one corner all cattywumpus.
Like happened to me. 'Cos I didn't know. Turns out that's why your 8th grade Home Economics teacher made you put a pin every six inches - to prevent one side pulling weirdly. Kass used a jargon name for the phenomenon, but I misremember it.
Anyway, all's well that ends well - I can haz sizors. All I had to do was nip off the extra bits and put 'em in the "one day I'll get round to laying rag paper from all these scraps" bag.
After that, it was nothing but hem the cuffs, add a drawstring casing and drawstring, et voila! I's done!
Unfortunately, dear readers, you don't get to see my fat arse in my underbritches. A man has some pride, after all, even if he does swing glowsticks from his codpiece.
Not that that was me. Nope. Uh-uh. That was some other -ing idiot at a Pennsic party.
Anyway finished product pictured at left. This one is completely done, flat-felled and everything.
Tomorrow, hopefully, there will be wool for the first time. Wish me luck!