Fun to make, and used up a whole whack of useless stuff
The Puzzle Top consumed three riveting weeks of spare time and brain-power. Here are all the nerdy construction details.
Since I like the fit of the Garden Gnome Top, I started with a copy of that flat pattern - minus the sleeves - placed on the mannequin to get a good look. Snip, slash, spread, trim - after adjusting the length, width, neckline and armholes, the new pattern was trued, marked with grainline, and traced. Full front and back pieces were taped together at one side seam and placed on a padded table. The scraps were then arranged - held in place while working by loosely pinning into the padding. There were two rules:
No Cutting Allowed Grainline Must be Maintained
What I envisioned as a 20-minute frolic of deftly flinging and rearranging scraps into place, took 3 painstaking days. There were plenty of cuttings to choose from, but most of them were the wrong shape, wrong colour (too much red!), or on the wrong grain.
Once the placement was finalized, I held my breath and removed the pins. A layer of lightweight, water-soluble Solvy was laid over the work, pinned, then diagonally basted with cotton thread to each scrap along each join.
Full back and front pattern pieces, abutted at one side seam, scraps placed, covered with Solvy and diagonal basted. The red plaid, with narrow "bridge", is my favourite: such a useless snippet
The stitching was mindless fun. I chose second-hand, silver, cotton thread from my stash, and had almost enough, with only a little cheating near the end with mismatched bobbin thread.
Next, the pattern was laid on top once again, and the edges were marked all around with a running stitch*. To form the flat puzzle into a 3D garment, the scraps at the remaining side and shoulder areas were overlapped exactly the right amount, and in the correct orientation, by matching these running stitches. The scrap-flaps were diagonally basted in place then checked on the mannequin before zigzagging. *Super-Sewing-Geek note: a couture pattern has no seam allowances. When the pieces are laid on the fabric, the edge of each pattern piece (i.e. the seamline!) is marked on the fabric with a short-short-long running stitch, before it is cut - with seam allowances gauged by eye. In couture sewing the seamlines are matched, rather than the edges of the seam allowances.
Would-be shoulder seamline, marked with pink running stitch
Rick rack holds bust shaping in place aftereasing, and delineates the neckline and armhole
From the inside: raw edges at the underarm: no cutting! The plaid patch hides the button stabilizer behind the pocket
At this point the garment was rigid from all the Solvy, so it was sent through the washer and dryer to remove the stabilizer before the Moment of Truth: the first fitting.
Since the original, unaltered shape of the scraps dictate the curve of the neckline and armhole, I planned to leave the wonky, raw edges unfinished to celebrate this feat. However, once it was washed, I didn't care for the fit of the armhole at the bust. To fix this, a row of basting stitches was run along the baggy areas. With the garment on the mannequin, the thread was pulled up to ease the gaping, creating bust shaping, which was then held in place by some lovely, hand-me-down, cotton rick rack. The rick rack was turned under and topstitched, so only the points are seen. The uneven fabric edges no longer showed, but rule #2 decreed the urge to trim them must be resisted, so they were left to tell the tale.
Lastly: the pocket, made from a buttonhole test, was attached with the triple zigzag. The button was given a sturdy shank using silk buttonhole thread, anchored from the wrong side with a folded square of silk organza, so it can't pull through. This is hidden by another scrap, hand-sewn with herringbone stitch using the rest of the thread left in the needle after applying the button. The hand sewing wasn't entirely necessary; the thread was so smooth and lovely to sew with, I just didn't want to stop.
An ode to the importance of grain, I'm happy with how the Puzzle Top turned out. It reminds me of my grandmother and namesake, whom I remember in her rick rack-trimmed housedress, making heavenly bierock, cinnamon buns, and doughnuts. She grew fragrant sweet peas in her garden, and kept a vaseful on the table. This is my housedress, in memory of her.
Polyester double-knit: all the optimism of the hippy movement, in easy-care wash-and-wear
Background
Twiggy - swinging girl
Here's a puzzle: what to do with a large garbage-bag full of too-small-to-bother scraps of Early Space-Age textiles. None big enough to be a pocket: they should have been chucked when all the pieces of the A-Line Twiggy dresses - and later, the plaid, Mary Tyler Moore pant suits - had been cut. But they weren't, and here they were, 50 years later, in a black plastic bag between my knees, as I sorted donations at Our Social Fabric. An estate donation - I didn't know we had received it, so there hadn't been a chance to thank the donor, or ask my usual questions: who was she? What did she sew, and for whom?
I had only the clues in the one bag, and I wasn't learning much: she sewed. A lot. She liked colour, texture, plaid. She was fashionable, and - despite the unrestrictive fashions of the time - no doubt usually uncomfortable: nearly every scrap was 100%, non-breathing, abrasive-textured, double-knit polyester. She must have been perpetually chafed and sweaty. But she looked good. If not a little pilly.
Mary Tyler Moore - working girl
I wondered: was she on the bus? Did she work? Did she love the Beatles? And why did she save those scraps? What was it about the pieces - too useless, even, for the OSF Free Bin - that caused her to keep them all, and for so long? Too small for garments, not absorbent enough for rags. Not for patches... polyester doesn't wear out. What was she expecting to do with them? I took them home to see if they could tell me their purpose. If not, I would have to throw them out.
It seemed wrong to chuck such hopeful fabric, when it had waited so long: hopeful colours, hopeful patterns, hope for equality, for love, peace and change. Hope for the future. With all that hope, could the pieces really be so hopeless? But there is nothing at all useful about a massive bagful of dinky, ugly, non-absorbent, abrasive, polyester off-cuts... except maybe to piece together like some wash-and-wear, perma-press, crazy quilt. Or something more useful... like a housedress... Or an apron... Or a pop-over! Well! What else could I do?
The back - what a load of scraps!
No scrap was altered in the making of this utilitarian, pull-over pinafore. What you see is exactly what I found in the bag: strange, jagged cuts; long, narrow strips; tapering slivers of psychedelic colours - the negative shapes that remained from making all those fabulous outfits. Three days' sifting produced the right interlocking pieces to accommodate the curved edge of the neckline, armholes and hem. Good thing I like puzzles.
Grain, the Music and Being on the Bus
But wait: there's more! The hang of a garment depends (almost) entirely upon the grain of the fabric, which, in the case of double-knit polyester, should run perpendicular to the floor. This made for tricky scraps placement. Not only did they need to conform to the outline of the pattern, but each piece had to be on grain to prevent wobble and twist. Luckily, there were lots to choose from, and I had Jake Bugg to keep me company!
Jake Bugg
Jake Bugg: the young English singer who caused me to realize we may not be going to Hell in a hand basket, after all. What a relief.
Instead, we are riding the same wave of hope the Beatles rode with everybody else who was on the bus - the Beatles so far in front they seemed to be pulling the wave. They channelled the zeitgeist of the time, providing a sound track to social change that was rooted in hope. That wave crashed, but now is cresting again, and with the aid of information technology it's many times more powerful. Artists like Jake Bugg and movements like Our Social Fabric are riding along with it. These are very hopeful times; we might just yet clean up the mess we're in.
Who is Jake Bugg? He is not his influences: the Beatles, the Everly's, Don McLean, Johnny Cash, Donovan, Neil Young or Hendrix. He is not Dylan, though I see the comparison. But he is special like them. He intrigues me for his honesty, modesty, sharp commentary on his own experiences, and his indifference to public opinion. Like the Beatles, the important thing is the music.
Read the Rolling Stone review of Jake Bugg's first album
Listen to a song: Broken (start at 53sec)
The design was done the usual way, by altering a flat-drafted pattern on a mannequin until it looked just right. However, the sewing is unconventional. There are none of the usual seams. The scraps fit together to form the 3-D shape, sewn edge to edge, without seam allowances. A whole lot of Solvy and diagonal basting* was employed in the construction, as well as some old, abandoned rick rack, which provides the bust shaping and delineates the neckline and armholes. For sewing nerd details, click here. *You might be wondering: what is diagonal basting? It's a revelation, that's what: the best stitch ever for holding pieces exactly where you want them, prior to machining. It is also quick, and uniquely satisfying.
Pocket and Button
"Buttonhole test" pocket
The hip pocket is made of a buttonhole test, found with the scraps. (What did she save that for?!) The cheap-ola, plastic button - original dingy thread intact - came from a garment discarded decades ago. A new shank was created with special thread from a flight attendant - a friend of a friend - who flew in the days when stewardesses were required to be trained nurses and wore high heels and pillbox hats. On layovers she bought sewing goodies: silk buttonhole thread - lustrous and delightful for hand sewing. Some of the tiny spools are now mine.
Sewing the button on this top caused me to ponder two ways to sew on buttons. One results in a tiny, recurrent thrill, and utilises a toothpick. The other is nifty and quick. Which one did I use?
Spot the two fabrics not from the scrap bag. Hint: Cygnet and Authorship
Note to Jake
Thanks for reviving my optimism and for helping me finish this puzzle. More music please! I'll keep checking to see what you come up with next.
It took 8 years to dawn on me that my son was as attached to me as I was to him. I don't know what took me so long: his attachment didn't look the way I expected it to, but it has always been right there in front of me. And how. When he is sick he wants me near. Depending on how much he wants the contents, he will sip from my glass, but from no other's. When he's especially attached he'll let me clean the cheese factory under his chin, and maybe even one ear. Then there's the art: Lego dioramas featuring my favourite green alien, a drawing of my childhood dream bedroom, or - if he's feeling particularly loving - a little something-something garden gnome-ish. I do like a garden gnome.
I love the art both my children make for me: my daughter's Mother's Day portrait that perfectly captures the usual state of my mind*. The many, many Douglas Coupland-esque Lego landscapes, made with small fingers, slowly-but-surely improving fine-motor skills, great devotion and just the occasional fool-proof excuse to continue playing after having been asked to stop. "But I'm making something for you!" "Oh. Well. OK, 10 more minutes then that's absolutely it." No reply. *I worry: what if New-Mommy-Brain has become my default setting? It has been 12 years...
Family Portrait
Everyone stop talking. I need to focus!
The Inspiration
The applique on the front of this comfy, velour pullover is a replica of my son's latest love offering: an origami garden gnome head. I know: cool, right? He spent precious "tablet time" searching for just the right instructions on-line. After a failed, semi-frantic search for the appropriate-coloured and sized construction paper, necessitating an on-the-fly modification of the instructions, he settled for plain old white -- with a touch of red ink to differentiate hat from beard. The inspiration had hit, and the thing had to be made, perfect paper or no.
The replica gnome on the top is made of the left-overs from an anti-strangulation infant vest prototype (pardon?) and painted with truly old, but very usable, dye from Addie's stash. The fabric was custom-made by a manufacturer of disposable diapers for the medical-invention prototype-making-and-testing team at BCIT. (How's that for a cool job?) It's some kind of plastic-y fibre paper, and it's surprisingly durable; it can even go through the wash, though it does pill a little. The purpose of the vest was to protect hospitalized infants from strangling themselves on IV - or other - tubes and wires, by feeding these through the vest and holding them close to the baby's body. Once the prototype had been perfected, the excess fabric was donated to OSF, where most of it still awaits its next purpose in life.
Back to description of the decoration:
The origami folds were pressed with an iron, then unfolded and stitched, securing the "Gnome Instructional" to the velour, akin to a hexagon quilt pattern.
Fabric fun for the whole family!
Yeah, it's made of turquoise velour, c. 1980, cable-knit, soft and super cozy, such as what a garden gnome might wear to watch TV after a hard day standing still, hiding slugs and not blinking. Beer in hand on tubby belly, comfy chair in recline position, socks half-off. Maybe something frying in the next room, and a cat on his lap. Velour: you want to hate it, but you know you love it. What's another word for cozy? And 3 out of 4 garden gnomes can't be wrong.
Neighbour's Grandma's Velour Gardening Outfit
Velour... I have an awesome, hot pink, velour shorts-and-top set given to me by a neighbour. It had belonged to his grandma. It was her gardening outfit. I was curious... I put it on and moseyed out to do a little weeding. Stretchy! Soft! Repels most dirt. Cleans like a breeze, is out of the dryer in a jiffy. Effective against cars careening through our alley, it shouts, "Caution! Odd Neighbourhood Lady at Play!" She was right: it's the perfect gardening outfit. Bonus: when I walk into a room with it on, conversation stops. Children pat me. (And adults want to.)
Neighbour's Grandma's Abandoned Project, De-Sewn
The gnome-coloured velour was part of a donation at OSF. It was a smallish piece, left-over from some other project. Not quite enough, so I patched in a piece of c. 1970 Abandoned-Sewing-Project, set aside by the very grandma who previously owned my velour gardening outfit!
The project was a nearly-completed, lined, empire waist, A-line dress with short sleeves and bound buttonholes on back; an ambitious project for such a slippery pair of fabrics. To make it more manageable, the polyester floral print and white acetate lining were worked as one. The ragged, colourful seam allowances showing against the white lining are jarring and home-made-looking - a far cry from the groovy frock she no-doubt envisioned when she first laid out the pattern. I could see why it had been abandoned.
I could also see why it had been saved all these years: who could throw away such happy, daisy-printed fabric? Orange and pink to boot! I carried it with me for a couple of days and un-sewed it on various buses. I use it sparingly... it's one of my very fave abandoned fabrics.
The daisy print was an obvious pick for the missing portion of fabric on the sleeve of the Gnome top. However, choosing to piece the sleeve meant sewing an oft-dreaded angle seam. Pshaw! No trouble, with a few simple pointers:
Useful Sewing Tip #1: How to Sew a Decent-Looking Angle seam, without Much Cursing and With X-Large Photos
1cm seam allowances marked with soap
Use a 1cm seam allowance. It's much easier to trim the seam allowance off a commercial pattern than deal with that extra 0.5cm. Skipping this step does not pay. Don't be tempted. Trust me. Mark the seam line on both pieces with chalk or a sliver of dried-up hand soap which, unlike the chalk, makes a more accurate, slim mark, and will rinse away brilliantly with the first washing.
Corner reinforced just inside the seamline, and clipped
On the inside corner, run a row of short-ish reinforcement stitches just a hair inside the marked seam allowance, and pivoting at the exact corner. Clip just to the reinforcement stitching.
The mighty Magic Pin, keeping it all under control
From the wrong side of the fabric, stick a pin exactly beside the inside corner stitch, right on the seam line. Poke the same pin in to the "inset" layer, exactly at the outside corner, right sides together. Holding the magic pin snug against the two fabrics, arrange and pin the raw edges at both sides of the corner. The pin is the secret weapon, keeping the pivot points perfectly aligned for accurate results.
You stay right where I put you!
Keeping the magic pin through both layers at the corner, stitch the first leg toward the corner.
Angle pin toward you to keep feed dogs safe. Remove at the very last moment, revealing the Magic Hole.
Be careful not to interfere with the feed dogs. Just before reaching the corner, remove the pin, but keep your eye focused on the exact spot it left the fabric. Don't even blink. Stitch right into the hole the magic pin left in the fabric. Stop with needle down in this hole. Lift presser foot. Turn the work.
Piv-ot, rearrange bulk. Home free!
Rearrange the bulky fold of fabric out of the way, lower the presser foot, and sew the second leg of the seam.
A well-sewn angle seam is a thing of beauty and a badge of sewing honour.
Now's the time to serge the seam allowances, then do any optional edge or top-stitching. Since the stitch at the pivot occurs just a hair's width away from the clip, it's not a seam that works well in battle (as Blossom would say); a decorative stitch will add some strength.
Useful Sewing Tip #2: Testing the tension helps sewing not suck! (or: It ain't the machine, it's the operator)
The hardest thing about the sewing of this garment was all the monkeying around with the serger settings. The seams are serged with 4 threads, but the edges are finished with a narrow, 3-thread stitch. With only one serger, that means removing and replacing a needle, and having to switch settings back and forth several times while sewing. Taking a photo of each of the machine settings (tension, stitch width and length, differential feed), once perfected, can make all that switching (almost) painless.
It's worth the time to test and perfect the tension before sewing a garment. Every time. Incorrect tension looks bad, forms unstable seams, and wastes the time spent sewing, since I guarantee the finished product will be unsatisfying, and won't be worn much. If it even gets finished. The testing can, at times, take longer than the sewing, but should never be skipped. It's something to be endured. Or! with a few simple tips, it can be almost fun. Or at least not painful.
To test serger tension:
Test needle tension with a pin: firm = good!
Loopy: needle tension = too loose
Looper threads meet right at the raw edge = good!
Perfect sewing machine tension - threads all meet between the layers
Use a reasonable piece of the garment fabric. A little snippet won't do the trick. A different fabric won't do, either, since tension can vary wildly, fabric to fabric. You need enough length to sew a 20cm seam, and enough width to do this 4 or 5 times without running out of room. Sometimes 10 or 15 times!
Double the fabric if you are testing a seam. Use single layer if testing an edge finish.
The stitching has to be able to handle the maximum strain the fabric can take, so on stretchy fabric do the test on the stretchiest grain, which is usually the cross grain. Give the sample a good pull after stitching - a little more than the garment will ever be tortured with. If the stitches break, adjust the needle tension and try again. Keep trying until you get it right. Don't give up. You will be the stronger for it, and the garment will be the better.
Balanced 4-thread serging: after stitching the sample seam, take the flat head of a pin and give the two needle threads a little tug, one at a time, from the top side of the serging. If the tension is too loose, the thread will easily pull, forming a loop on top of the seam. Tighten the corresponding tension disk until it cannot be pulled loose easily.
Next, check the cut edge to make sure the looper threads meet right at the raw edges. If not, the tension disk corresponding to the "longer" thread needs to be tightened and that of the "shorter" thread needs to be loosened. Adjust only one of the tensions at a time. Test after each small adjustment, until the threads meet equally at the cut edge.
To test sewing machine tension:
Use a goodly scrap of garment fabric, about 20cm long by 20cm wide. Fold it in half on the straight grain. (Remember: all sewing is about the grain, even testing machine tension.)
Set the machine to a medium width zigzag stitch and sew a line near-ish the folded edge.
Gently separate the layers of cloth and inspect the intersection of the top and bobbin threads. They should meet right at the space between the two layers of fabric.
If the threads meet too near the bottom layer, the bobbin tension is probably too tight. Remove the bobbin and turn the little screw on the bobbin casing 1/4 turn counterclockwise to loosen. A thumbnail works well. Next, without letting the bobbin drop out of the bobbin case, gently dangle it from the tail of thread. Give a gentle, tiny, but sudden, flick (see video, left). The bobbin should drop just a little. If the tail lengthens a whole bunch, the bobbin tension is too loose. If it doesn't budge, it is too tight. Adjust the screw accordingly, insert the bobbin into the machine, and do another zigzag test.
If the threads meet at the top layer, either the bobbin tension is too loose, or the machine tension is too tight, or both. Do the bobbin case flick trick. If the bobbin tension seems OK, loosen the machine tension a titch, and do the zigzag test again.
Bobbin tension is most often the main culprit with really bad machine tension.
Note to the small army of garden gnomes in my house, folded, drawn or otherwise crafted: Thank you. I got your message.
Shortly after our son was born my husband declared, "I love him so much I would suck the snot out of his nose. If I had to." With our daughter it was, "Even her poop is not offensive." Now that's love.
Are those pockets, or are you just happy to see me?
When the elastic of 4 pairs of my husband's underwear finally, simultaneously, bit the dust, I joked he should save them - maybe I could make something out of them! It was a joke. Really. It was. But, before the end of the day, I had draped the front of this t-shirt, telling myself it was an excuse to play around with the neat, variegated thread I had acquired at Our Social Fabric . I mean, seriously! Who would want to wear something made out of my husband's ancient, discarded gonch? Well... I would! Yep. I love him that much.
Wearing my heart as a sleeve?
The back is made from a piece of mesh cut three years ago for a rain pants project begun when our daughter started skating lessons. If she loved the ice half as much as I had done, she'd be spending an awful lot of time with wet legs and bottom. Some times my tights would be so wet that when I fell, my legs would freeze to the ice and would need to be hacked free with mittened karate chops.
I cut the rain pants size 7, plenty of time to grow in to them. She's now 8. For a long time the bundle of lavender Gore-tex and white mesh lining sat on my sewing table, ready to go. Then it was moved to a box of things to be sewn soon, but not quite yet. Later it found a spot in a closet of useful, but not currently needed, sewing gear. No matter where I moved it, I could hear it whispering to me between projects, haranguing, becoming progressively louder as it was ignored over time. It got a little aggressive near the end, which is how it comes to be the back of this top, even though not directly related to my husband's underwear.
And will I wear it? Guess that depends on if we can find a sitter on Valentine's Day.
Co-incidentally - and I hope this may redeem me - shortly after I made this little number, we received at OSF a personal donation that included 4 pairs of someone else's husband's used underwear! (We never know just what we'll find in those boxes and bags! That's part of the fun.) I admit I was tempted ever-so-briefly (get it?), but NO! Ultimately I could not do it! Guess I'm just a one-man woman.
Size S-M. Taken. By me, of course! Who else would want to wear my husband's old, discarded gonch? Gross.
This angel top was inspired by a 1967 Stretch & Sew pattern I've made up for myself in 3 different cheap-ola abandoned knits . There are plans for more to come.
I loved the shape and fit so much I started to wondering how much an existing design would need to be changed before it could be considered one's own. More a musing than anything, I still haven't bothered to find out for sure. This lead me to drape the angel top, based on the way the neck edge of the raglan sleeves and bodice pieces fold back to form the square neck facing. It got my brain doing contortions trying to work it out, which says more about my brain than the complexity of the pattern. Sewed it up from more abandoned, cheap-ola, t-shirt knit and even more cheap-ola rib-knit fabric, both of which came from Addie's stash, and there you have it.
The pinwheel is made from stitch samples found in a number of manila envelopes - along with an instruction disk each - that had accompanied brand-new, but now obsolete, computerised embroidery machines. Not old, and no doubt still use-able, but obsolete - like my cellphone. The volunteers at the OSF sorting bee had a good laugh when I asked if anyone might want the disks. We dumped them, and two of us took some of the stitch samples home to percolate. I especially like the pencilled-in stitch type, width and tension notes. Wonder whose job that was, and how much she was paid to do it: endlessly stitching samples to accompany shiny new machines, after the kids went to bed, no doubt. What a job.
The yellow fabric is a snippet from a very large, cheerful, stained, polyester double-knit book dust-cover. It was donated by a woman who told me it was made by her elderly grandmother, a tailor, and had been used to protect a "holy book" in a Vancouver temple. Not sure the exact type of temple... I didn't ask enough questions when the donation came in.
The Delta Airlines pin, "Good Going", was found in a cookie tin of junk discovered on a rummage through the dregs of the Prophouse restaurant when it closed for business.
Creepy '70s ad
I know the design is mine now, because it makes me think of Charlie's Angels, Farrah Fawcett's feathered hair, Love's Baby Soft perfume. To be worn with your best bra, unless you plan on keeping your hands in your lap all evening.
This is the fabric that started my fascination with ugly-duckling, polyester double-knit. It came as a donation to OSF, probably from Addie's stash. I had what could only be described as a "strong, negative visceral reaction" to it as I rolled the jagged remnant, tied on the pink elastic and dumped it into the "ready" bin. I shuddered. I tsked. I snorted. Ew, grey and beige...what! What the heck is this print supposed to be, exactly? Apples? Playing cards? Exploding cupcake batter? All three? What was the designer thinking? What was the point of this fabric? Surely there was no piece of material less likely to inspire. It was so uninspiring, in fact, that I couldn't stop thinking about it.
I tucked it into my volunteer appreciation bag with a challenge to myself to make its existence meaningful. Or at least try. Until that point I had never worked with polyester double-knit, having a marked prejudice against it that people often teased me about. Static-y, non-breathing, so unnatural-feeling. It reminded me of the imitation jeans I wore in the early 70s. The sweatiness of it all! It would be a real challenge just to enter in to the challenge.
I vaguely intended to make a shortie, Beatles-esque, collarless jacket, but that afternoon I went for tea with two fellow volunteers at OSF, and they challenged me to leave my comfort zone: I was instructed to make a baseball jacket. A baseball jacket? That would never have occurred to me! I couldn't sleep for the excitement. As soon as I found two hours to rub together I began a riff on a jacket I wore c. 1980: it was metallic brownish-gold, hip-length, raglan-sleeved, and stiffened uncomfortably in cold weather. When it was no longer remotely stylish I consigned it to my (then embryonic) fabric stash, where it stayed until it became completely adhered to itself with sticky decay.
There was less than a metre of the fabric, so I pulled out some water-proof "technical fabric" for the rest, and tied it together with some donated, reject, reflective piping. It is lined with a piece of buttery soft Bemberg I had on hand, and closes with an old, metal zipper, also from my stash.
What a pleasure to sew! The polyester didn't fight me at all! And it comes out of the dryer needing no further assistance to look its unwrinkled best. No wonder polyester became so popular in the '70s!
To my delight, the response to the jacket has been very positive; strangers have feelings about it they feel compelled to share with me. I've got plans for another, to be sewn from a particularly offensive piece of fabric that also completely baffles me (see left). The jostled imperialist, holding tight to his top hat shouts over the sound of the traffic, "Peace, rickshaw driver, but could you possibly pick up the pace?"
