This is the warped tale of weft-handed Ruth, a seamstress. Her Brother (what a machine!) and scissors were accessories in this ripping sequins of events…

When spotted by the police, she made a bolt for it and zipped out the back in a zigzag run, darting here and there to avoid being collared. There came a shout: “Stop bobbin’ about! We’ve evidence you treadle illicit goods. By hook, you’re a pick-pocket crook.”

Needled, she yelled, “You can’t pin that on me. I’ve been stitched up and I’m knot to blame! You’re being crewel. I’m nobody’s spool. Are you for reel? Your bias is binding and this is sheer nonsense, a viscose circle. Why can’t you just sleeve me alone?”

There came the reply, “Calm down, cut out this rowdy placket! S’truth, Ruth, you’ve embroidered the truth. Your tissue of lies is a patchwork fabrication. We’re taping this  – we’ve got your measure. We’ll iron out the facts like creased lightning and then press charges. It’s curtains for you!”

The cops had cottoned on to her chequered past, her colourful pattern of repeat behaviour. They ran her ragged then, hemmed in, she was nabbed in an unseamly overlock. (Without embellishing her trim, she wasn’t as thimble as she used to be.)

She became ruffled and grew tired of their ribbon. Eventually, her story unravelled when she lost the thread. Sew with frayed nerves (shaken and shirred), changing tack, she buttoned her lips and knitted her brows. 

“Darn it”, thinks she, “I’m stuffed – well and truly puckered.”

Facing defeat, she studded thinking how best she could selvedge the situation. She knew the drill and tried pleat-bargaining to avoid her outright quilt. She got a ticking off and was ruched away to a padded cell (mad as hell), in cuffs. 

What a twisted yarn!