Around this time last year, I fell prey to an epic fit of slipper knitting. Such was my mania that almost everybody I love got slippers from me. Big ones, little ones, and there at the last, a pair with chicken beaks. They were loved by all, and even though it took a while, I ultimately got the slipper knitting germs out of my system. Or so I thought.
See, my feet are cold. And when I say "cold" I really mean "medieval instruments of torture", or at least that is what my husband reports. It usually sounds more like "Aaarrrgggggg-get-get-gettemoffame!", but the translation is accurate. My feet can be used to chill beer. My feet, when placed in hot bath water, actually make a sizzling sound and emit steam.
And until yesterday, I did not own slippers. No idea why. Just never thought about it (yeah, I know: Mensa called back, they said "No, thanks.").
For some reason, yesterday I finally managed to get the idea that I should whip up a pair of those swell slippers for myself. And whip them up, I did:
The vintage buttons have been hanging around in my collection for as long as I can remember. I'm so pleased that they have finally found their rightful home.
I never had put leather soles on before, but it just seemed the thing to do. I traced around my foot to make a pattern and cut out two opposing shapes. Then I put a leather needle in my sewing machine (unthreaded) and stitched around the edges to make sewing holes. I stitched them on by hand with waxed cotton thread, and Bob's Your Uncle: Slippers for the coldest feet in the land.
I had planned to embroider monograms on the toes (still might do), but my excitement to try them out overcame me, and I had to stop sewing and start wearing.
My feet are warm. I can't believe it. I might have slept in them.