The Thread That Tried to Break Me (And Nearly Succeeded)

There are days in the studio when everything hums along beautifully—the machine sings, the fabric glides, and the threads behave like obedient little angels. And then there are days like yesterday.

With the autumn Creative Craft Shows looming (as they do with the subtlety of a freight train), I’ve been steadily working away on needlecases. Lovely, useful, giftable things. But, in a moment of inspired madness—or sleep deprivation—I decided one particular needlecase absolutely had to have a dragon on it. Not just any dragon. A glorious, shimmering, metallic one. Because what’s life without a little drama, right?

So out came the variegated metallic thread. Yes, that thread. The one that glistens like treasure in the spool but turns into a snarling, snapping gremlin the moment it touches a sewing machine. I knew what I was in for. I changed the needle. I muttered a prayer to the Thread Gods. I even offered them a biscuit. Then I sat down for what I thought would be “a few hours of determined stitching.”

Spoiler alert: it was a few hours of mild rage and deep regret.

The first few stitches lulled me into a false sense of security. “Oh, maybe this batch of metallic thread is different,” I thought. “Maybe it’s matured, mellowed, seen the light.” SNAP. Reality reared its shiny, tangled head.

So I switched tactics. I popped the thread onto a cone holder, giving it a little more runway before it entered the machine. Like a diva who demands a longer dressing room, the thread seemed appeased—for all of ten minutes. Then came the dragon’s tail: detailed, fierce, fussy. SNAP. SNAP. SNAP.

Right. Plan C. (Or was it D by this point?) I stood up and let the thread run through my hand while still on the cone holder, smoothing and untwisting it with the precision of a concert violinist. For a brief, shining moment, it worked. I dared to hope. Then came the wing. The intricate, layered wing with all the swirls. I might as well have tried stitching it with a candy floss whip.

Then—a miracle. Help arrived in the form of my son’s partner, who stepped into the studio, saw the chaos, and without a word joined the battle. I supported the thread like a proud stage mum, and she rethreaded the machine every single time it snapped. Honestly, it was like a well-choreographed ballet, except with more swearing and a lot more sparkly thread dust.

Eventually—finally—a glorious, shiny dragon emerged, stitched onto rich velvet like a mythical guardian of handmade needles. I gazed upon it with the pride of a woman who has wrestled a metallic serpent and lived to tell the tale.

Would I do it again? Not today. Maybe not even tomorrow. But yes—absolutely, because now that I’ve seen what that thread can do when it’s not actively trying to destroy me, I know there are more dragons to be born.

Moral of the story? When metallic threads snarl, tangle, and snap—take a deep breath, grab an extra pair of hands, and remember: the dragon may be shiny, but you are mightier.