Bunting

All the bunting I made to decorate our wedding last year has finally found a purpose, having failed remarkably in its first calling. I spent a very happy time last summer cutting out triangles with pinking scissors in varying shades of pink. A very satisfying experience all round but of course, being my thrifty Scottish Father's daughter, I saved all the scraps just in case they came in handy. And being my dotty Mother's daughter I packed all the wedding things to come up to Edinburgh from London and only found that I'd brought the bag of scraps (rather than the neatly folded bunting) the night before the wedding.

That mild trauma aside, the triangles have now all had their pointy noses cut off to become a lovely patchwork picnic blanket. It's unashamedly pink so I'm sure Tottie will love it when she's old enough to visit us all the way over here for picnics. I had maintained a healthy fear of patchwork ever since trying to help Granny Mardi with her epic creations. They all involved templates and angles and great precision so it took a leap of faith for me to start cutting up unmeasured and uneven shapes in the back of the car and trusting to my seamstress skills (and patience) to sew them all together by hand. Some how the thing manages to lie flat regardless of my negligence.

None of this of course mitigates the fact that my mother-in-law is quite convinced that I am making some sort of monster baby clothes, presumably for the hypothetical monster babies. These trials of language still plague me.