A Ripping Yarn

I had bought myself a lovely, light, cotton dress for my holiday from a stall in Hexham market. I was fond of this dress and received a few compliments on it from my fellow writers, whilst on a writing retreat at The Watermill in Tuscany. It hadn’t been an expensive purchase, but I loved its coolness and ease of wear. It had two layers with a cool white sleeveless dress sitting underneath a khaki capped-sleeve outer layer. I’d worn it with my Audrey Hepburn hat when visiting the beautiful hilltop town of Verrucola earlier that week.

Our final day at The Watermill was hot, really hot, and I thought this would be the ideal dress to wear for our gourmet lunch at the hilltop restaurant at Monte dei Bianchi. I had changed out of a sundress, as I felt some form of sleeves were called for, this being a posh restaurant.

On arrival the views were stunning, and I set about taking photos. However, I was soon stopped in my tracks when Maggie, a fellow writer, came up to say that my backside was hanging out of my dress. It would seem that on getting in the minibus it had ripped, not just through one layer, but through both, and my flesh coloured big pants (you know, the sort with legs you wear to stop your legs chaffing) were now showing at the back.

Horrified, I grabbed the back of the dress, holding it together and waddled towards the cover of the terrace. It would seem the proprietor had also noticed, as in Italian she offered for me to come inside and she’d sew it up. I told her in English that there was no need, I could sew, and I hurried off to the bathroom, needle and thread in hand. I grabbed a glass of wine on my way – I needed fortification!

I took the offending garment off and stood in my bra and pants – not matching, and not a pretty sight, to sew up the dress. A quick couple of lines of tacking later and I was fit to be seen in public again.

We enjoyed a wonderful meal in great company, and after coffee got ready to go. I nipped quickly to the bathroom before we set off, and to my horror I realised that I’d stripped and sewn my dress in the ‘Signori’ not the ‘Signora’ bathroom. It could only happen to me!

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