The dream baby, the sewing machine that has been blissfully well behaved for a week, is failing me.
It sorted out sack masks and bloody remnants and trousers with perfect equanimity. Confronted with stiching a bit of ribbon to the inside of a top, it suddenly freaked out and produced massive loops of thread across the bottom rendering it rapidly inoperable.
I've taken it apart and am just sitting quietly for a moment before I start screaming.
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