Every Tuesday at Sewing Club, we say the same thing:
“We really shouldn’t. We’ll just have one.”
And every Tuesday, we lie.
You see, there’s something about a plate of biscuits in the middle of the sewing table that unravels even the strongest willpower. A neat pile of custard creams or chocolate digestives is no match for a group of sewists faced with three hours of cross-stitch, chatter, and the occasional scandalous story.
We’ve tried rationing. One biscuit per person, strictly enforced. It lasted seven minutes. We’ve tried fruit plates — grapes, apple slices, even a satsuma or two. The grapes disappeared (mysteriously into one handbag), and the apples went brown. Once, someone brought celery sticks. They’re no longer invited.
The thing is, sewing and biscuits go hand in hand. You can’t piece together a quilt without a bourbon or two. You can’t hem a skirt without a hobnob to keep you going. And don’t even get me started on jammy dodgers — they’re practically the official currency of Thimblewick Sewing Club.
There was one week, a few years ago, when someone forgot to bring biscuits. We don’t talk about it. Let’s just say the tension in the room could have cut through denim.
So if you ever hear rumours that the Sewing Club is all about discipline and hard work, don’t believe a word of it. We are powered by thread, tea, and a steady supply of sugar.
And perhaps — just perhaps — the greatest mysteries solved in Thimblewick haven’t been who switched the bobbins at the fair or who hid the vicar’s best scissors, but rather… who ate the last custard cream when no one was looking.
🧵
Poppy x
