Less writing and more making recently. I have to say, since I’ve been majorly cutting back on buying clothes, I’ve done a lot more playing within my existing wardrobe.

I’ve got four storage boxes of mending and alterations waiting for my attention, so I could ‘shop’ every day for months just by adding a couple of darts here, taking up a hem there and generally GETTING ON WITH IT.

Every year, I marvel at my increased skill level when I pick up a project I put down last summer because it was too hard. Magically, I can now do the work! It’s a lovely thing to see in yourself. I am still a very messy maker, but it’s good enough for me and I’m the only person who matters here.

1970s pillowcase skirt

I always pick up vintage bedding when I find a pattern I like because it’s so much fabric for so little money. Fabric is EXPENSIVE, so high-quality cotton for a few quid is a great deal.

This pattern is one my grandma had, so it jumped out at me immediately. I love these 70s designs because my grandma’s taste was very influential on me, which I’m sure would amuse her.

Pillowcases lend themselves very nicely to becoming miniskirts. One pillowcase cut in two = one miniskirt with built-in lining and hem. I did use a strip of the second pillowcase to make a waistband, but I’ve still got the whole duvet cover left as well.

I used a vintage lilac zip from my stash (I buy those everywhere I go, too), some vintage lilac lace I got in another charity shop quite recently and a popper with a vintage button on top, to avoid doing a bloody buttonhole.

No hemming, no lining, no fuss. My favourite kind of project.

Edwardian dress repair

I’ve wanted a white Edwardian dress for a long time. They’re so delicate, so floaty, so romantic. And so expensive. Like the 1930s dresses I’ve always coveted, not enough survive for them to be affordable.

This one actually was pretty affordable compared with the usual prices (£200, £300 and upwards) because it’s got many holes in it. As if that would put me off.

It arrived and I prayed it would be all that I dreamed, as this was my first vintage purchase of the year – a lean year, my God. Well, it was all I dreamed. Holes and all.

I washed her (filthy water for a white-looking dress!) quite confidently as she’s just cotton, albeit delicate. I was worried about drying because I didn’t want to hang her up wet, but she’s very longggggg. Ended up drying her flat, but folded in half. All fine.

I then darned the worst of the holes in the actual cotton, as that’s foundational and could turn into tears. I’m less concerned about the lace, which I’ll just keep working on as and when.

The next day – yup, that’s why I was darning on a school night – I wore her very happily on four buses, up and down stairs, through shops, past humans and generally out in the world. She’s now dirty along the broad band of thicker cotton at the hem, but that’s the point of it. It’s a sturdier panel that prevents a heel catching and can be replaced when it gets tatty or stained. I can also give it a scrub because it’s not delicate, without having to launder the whole dress again. Ingenious.

Hot pants

I have a pair of shorts that I absolutely TREASURE from an American designer called Fashion Brand Company (it’s a joke). I dread the day that they develop a hole.

To help me feel prepared, I need to work up a pattern that will let me make perfect hot pants whenever I want. It’s a very specialised thing I want here, and totally unique in specifications because they’re to be skin-tight.

I found this wonderful vintage stretch fabric made of some godawful substance for £1.50. In the same shop, I got vintage pink fringe trim and pink lace, perfect for some fluffy ruffles.

I started drafting a pattern based on a pair of vintage girdle shorts I have, but they came out too much like, well, pants. I want cheek-covering shorts, so I pivoted to my most perfect 1950s handmade short shorts. These are hot pants at the front but with a much more curved hem at the back, for full coverage. Not a cut you ever find in modern clothes, which is why I buy dead people’s castoffs.

Tracing an existing garment should be easy, but it’s still a bit too much like maths for me. I’m trying to add seam allowance and check measurements and do inverted imaginings but I really hate it. I usually just would not even bother and learn while I did it, but I need to make a pattern I can use again. It’ll be worth it!

70s sun suit

This was something I started in February but I’ve done like one stitch a week since then. I found a 70s tunic-y top for a fiver and knew I wanted it to make into at least a slutty little skirt and hopefully a slutty little crop top too.

It’s AMAZING.

See?!

The whole process was bloody awful and everything is untidy and needs more fixing blah blah blah – but what a set. What an aesthetic.

I had to take out the zip to let out the ‘skirt’ AND magic up more length just at the back to cover my butt, but that’s the wonder of vintage clothes: I had an extra inch of fabric on every seam.

Edwardian duster

I can’t remember what inspired this obsession but recently, I realised that I simply must have an Edwardian duster for summer. For drifting about under hot sun, but covered head-to-toe. Parasol, naturally.

I’d been hoarding a cobweb-patterned crochet tablecloth for years and pulled it out to use. Then discovered it wasn’t nearly as big as I’d remembered and it was only the border that was actually interesting.

I had a white dress I was considering sending to the charity shop but I realised I could cut down its front to make a duster, with next-to-no effort! I then draped on my mannequin with the tablecloth border to see what we were working with.

I ended up having enough of the fancy bit to make a cool pointy collar at the back, waterfall lapels the whole way down the front and a pointed train. Definitely made the most of the corners available to me!

I also removed elastic on the sleeves so the wrists would drape and added lace edging. Drama.

It was another really fuss-free project and perfect for Edwardian Beach Realness this summer.