A couple of weeks ago at the local hippie market, Son #2 became enamoured with some exquisite felted hats. Being a thrifty, crafty Waldorf child he decided he would not dig into his pocket money and purchase one, but would make one himself.
That afternoon we assembled the necessary ingredients.
Old net curtain
Now, I have felted one or two items myself, but they were flat, not shaped. Son #2 was not the least bit daunted. We can shape it over a bowl, or a balloon, Mum. It’ll be easy.
It was not easy.
We photodocumented proceedings.
The assembled fleece, ready to go. Note the coloured fleece all to the edges, as he wanted the crown of the hat to be plain, with colour all round the brim.
But try as we might, we could not manage to shape it into a hat.
Never mind! It can be a wall hanging for my bedroom! says he.
There is something hugely satisfying about felting.
You take a bit of fleece from a sheep, wet it, soap it up, bash it about a bit (#2 loved the bit where you shock the fibres by throwing the felt violently to the ground fifteen times) and voila, you have made a piece of fabric.
It gives me that same feeling of safety that having a pantry full of homemade chutneys and preserves gives me. That knowledge that if the apocalypse comes, I can still feed my family.
Now if the aliens land, I can clothe my family too.