Some time ago, I acquired a patchwork quilt courtesy of the aged parent. Said quilt was made by my mother, with help from the aged, before I was born, and was in need of refurbishment – about thirty patches had worn away, while others had come loose at the seams, and the fabric used to back it had disintegrated in various places. Now, I am a patchwork numpty. I like very much the look of quilts like this, and I have a collection of Kaffe Fassett books which I regard as patchwork porn, but beyond that, I know nothing (except, obviously, a keen desire to fiddle about and produce something gorgeous which involves no time, no experience, and no expenditure; modest in my ambitions, aren’t I?).

See, I had wanted to make a patchwork to go in the witchling’s room. (Nothing like having a small person about the place to bring out the crafty impulse, is there?) To start with, I wanted one for her bed. Then I quite fancied one for the chair we sit in when I feed her. That was what I decided on, in the end, as her cot is quite diddy, really, and I was imagining making something using large patches, as I thought that would be the easiest in terms of instant gratification. Patience? A virtue, I am sure, but one with which I am unfamiliar. But then there I was, in possession of this quilt – an already-made, acceptable-as-made-by-one’s-own-mama-and-thus-not-constituting-buck-passing quilt – which needed only a little TLC to restore it to its former, ahem, glory. Or so I thought…

Anyway, I found, to my slight chagrin, that up-close and personal, repairing a patchwork quilt is a little bit daunting. Not least when you find that it’s a cleverly shaped one which consists of those little … is it hexagons which have six sides? Maths has never been my strong point. I attempted to make a dooberry. You know, one of those little shape whatsits which you cut round to get the desired patch. I failed miserably, as I was basing it on the quilt itself, and somehow, the fabric didn’t want to stay in position long enough to ensure an even-sided template. (Template – that’s the word I was fumbling for, isn’t it? Although I’m still thinking there’s something beginning with M. Or is it an F? I give up.)

Eventually I settled on sticking the fabric in the gap created by taking out a buggered patch, and sort of making it up as I went along. It seemed, on balance, to work out fine. I replaced all the dodgy-looking ones, and I sorted out bits where my aged parent had haplessly stitched a patch into the backing fabric, and then I realised that what had been troubling me the most was that, despite my love for this quilt, and my appreciation of all the hard work my mother had put into it (and, yes, the work my aged had done too), I didn’t really like the overall result. For a start, there were some (to my eyes, at least) lavishly ugly fabrics involved. I’m talking orange, brown and white asymetric blocks. And bright green, pink and orange flowers. It was… well, quite hideous, if I’m honest. I mean, there were corners which I loved – lots of little be-sprigged patches, small patterns of flowers, tight stripes and plain blocks – but the overall effect was a bit like an accident in a dolly-mixture factory.

So, I resolved to dye the entire thing. Bold, I know. (God, I need to get out more, don’t I?)

And, as might already be obvious, I’m pretty chuffed with it.