Month: June 2010

Purse it!

Somewhere in between folding clothes I decided that I don’t want anymore and digging through the stacks of stuff on the floor I stopped and realized that yesterday night I played around wet felting, and tried to make a piece of felted wool.
Leaving the things unsorted and laying around, I sat in the middle and decided to shape it a bit, and from a flat piece of tangled wool it became to be a purse for Dori, since I promised her a bag before we’ll move away. The cloth wasn’t even remotely close to the size of a backpack, but ’twas enough to sew a pocket from it.
kabelka
I additionally wet felted the strap for it during the process, cheating a bit later on with ironing and flapping it around instead of hot-cold-hot-cold water, and using few parts of unwanted pants and old underscarf I managed to stitch it up to the shape reminding a purse.
Dori is happy, it actually seems to hang on and survive few days of handling around the world, and my fingers scream “no more needles, please”, but I’m overally satisfied with the result – for the first attempt, I mean. And it felted some of the I’m-so-freaking-out-like-seriously-freaking-out away.

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Crabby Worries

Abu is in London now and I’m sitting in a living room, watching Dumbo with my daughter and avoiding the look at the side of the room, where a huge stack of empty cartoon boxes is waiting for me to take some action and fill them up with my books, clothes, hijabs, Dori’s toys and pyjamas and smug my felting needles somehow among the stuff so they won’t break – who has illusions about the gentle care of moving companies anyways. And, if it happens and they actually are gentle, the shipping through the air almost makes it certain that there will happen some accidental (or not) drop here and there, as what happened to my baby trolley. And yes, I still didn’t forgive Easy Jet the drop of my coach from plane on the ground instead of putting in on the moving trail. But hey, who am I to judge the probably miserably paid workers there, right?
Anyways, just simply trying to think of what to pack, what to throw and what to drag to PDSA charity shop (the things still in considerable condition) where I dropped in today to ask them if they would fancy some of our stuff which would be thrown on the street in the other case.
I’ve got lotsa stuff. I mean, loootsa. The difference between my dear husband and me packing is significant now and I strongly suspect that he doesn’t understand it. The thing is, he’s going back home. He can afford, up to certain point, to leave most of the things behind without much harm. I, on the other hand, am moving to new country. Somewhere else. Where I’ve never been before. So I have that urge to hang on even pretty silly things like mussels gathered at the sea or flower pots (with the flowers if possible) or the skimmer I’ve got from my mum when moving from Czech to Newcastle. Because these normally insignificant things are what creates my “home” at this time and taking as much known and homey with me makes me feel more cosy with all that circus.
Yes, I know I’m probably just oversensitive, but I can’t help it.

beach

I even tried to make my worries fade away by going to the sea today and looking around the beach for (yet another insignifficantly) random things which would catch my eye or lens of my camera. I found lotsa deep shells which I – of course – brought home with me because they would make such great hats and caps for felted dolls; I also found a glass marble washed out of the high tide among those big rocks at King Edward’s beach, and I was daring (read: stupid) enough to reach for it. Unfortunatelly for my poor finger there was also a guardian coming with the green piece of glass and snapped my finger pretty hard when trying to usurp it for himself. Small crabby crab, pincers sharp as razors though. My right hand ring finger is now decorated with a clean and deep paper cut, which was incredibly painy with the salty water of the sea, and even more when I added a bit to my blondiness and washed my hands with a hygienic gel, which badly enough contains alcohol for the sake of desinfection. Tiny open wounds for the win, this will annoy me for a bit.
After I came back half dead from my walk to pick up Dori, I offered her to go buy some girly pinky shoes, since her current ones are outta size already (or finally, she eventually wore them nearly 10 months, which is in the case of four years old kid indeed quite long – she seems to grow just time to time, though, and keep same size for really long in between her growth spurts). We went, we wandered through Eldon Square incapable to locate John Lewis’ children’s shoe department, we found it, we did buy shoes for me and her (mainly for the upcoming flight, soft and comfy for me, proper size and with opened tip for Dori), and at that point already really slowly clambered back to Mowbray Street.
I was up and running – literally – for nearly seven hours, but hey, it was fun.
Now just to win the stare down with these empty boxes here…

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Getting it Prepared

Hubby leaves to London tomorrow to pick up our accidentally-allowed tourist visas with a fine hope of legalising our stay in Kuwait later on, during the three months of their duration, and was half packing (for moving) and half picking clothes (to wear for the trip), when he stumbled upon his only dishdasha he brought to England just for my sake, when I was intending to shoot some pics with it. He forgot to bring his kufi the first time so it wasn’t possible and when he brought it a year later, I already forgot about my desire (obviously it wasn’t so strong).

Aboody

Now, when going through the hills of our clothes we managed to gather in three years of living in Britain, he found the whole set and put it on, just for me. I have that weird thing for traditional Gulf attire, I find it more sexy than jeans and a T-shirt. It just looks so clean and nice. And Abood definitely looks really shmexy in it – for me, that is!

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In 5 Years?

Maybe… hehe. When I showed this creation from wool roving to my dearest husband, he, very mysteriously, didn’t seem to share my sense of humour – be it the grey strikes in his caricature hair or the fact I woke him up from an afternoon nap, he really didn’t like it so much as I did.
Well, maybe when he will wake up from his pink dreams, he might change his mind?
I don’t get so quickly along with the felting as I hoped to do, but in the end, the purpose was to keep busy while being – at least seemingly – productive, and since I majorly suck in cooking and cleaning and all the housewifing, why not to craft and pretend to be important, right?

Kuwaiti

The days (of our lives) in this place are counting down pretty quickly, hubby – who doesn’t appriciate my great sense of humour, I have to rub it again – is going to leave to London on Monday, to pick up our visas for Kuwait and than in just few days *pheeew*, we are somewhere else again.
The fact it got so close makes my sleep a bit rocky and I have nervous dreams about it, I mean, would you blame me? Moving when I was 22 was great adventure, moving three years later (and obviously 10 mental years since that point… wrinkles, wrinkles, where art thou?) is just a great deal of stress.
Maybe because we got a lot of stuff and we can’t really make it with one suitcase of 20 kg, maybe because I’m transforming into an old cat and hate changing places and paces and all that stuff around, maybe simply because moving to Britain was “eventually close” from Czech, but moving to Kuwait is “eventually far” geographically as ideologically.
I know, I should not have such a problem there being a Muslimah, but still. Weird place. Way too many unknowns.
Abood doesn’t really make it easier for me (or my thoughts), because he already assembled many boxes and started to pack his part of chaos in here, which really, really, reaaaally makes me tick like a timed bomb (or makes me wanna run around screaming and waving my limbs in the air as the flags… K’Naan, I blame you for this sentence). I am pretty known for packing earliest in about 24 hours before the plane leaves. makes me way more relaxed, and in the end more focused on what I should pack and what not.
Well, let’s hope this “move” will go well.

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Reading and Felting Through the Time

As the date for moving from country to country comes closer and closer, I get more and more anxious – together with my slow recovery from yet another tiny human being passing away, not really a pleasant combination for me neither for the peeps around me.
I re-found one of my hobbies from some time ago and that is reading till I drop. Abood was so good to supply me with enough crimi and suspense stories (because right now I’m mysteriously allergic on anything even remotely close to romance and Harlequines), and put up with my random outbursts of crying whenever the book finished and I found out that I have no other to read (that’s the pregnancy hormones fading and sorrow talking – quite unpredictable and dangerous, I might add). He eventually gave up and bought me a whole bunch, so I won’t run out of them for a moment. My reading speed in English is much, much slower than in Czech, where I was capable to crunch through one or two novels (of 400 pages each) in one day. Now it’s more like one book in two days, talking intensive reading. Casual reading speed and I’m up to four, five days per novel. Good. That means I won’t run outta books till we move to Kuwait, inshallah.
I also gave up on running around Newcastle in a vain try to stumble upon a carfts shop which will have any felting supplies, or at least know there’s a craft called felting. It took me several hours, many miles in my feet and a mild headache to realize it’s a pure waste of time (although also slightly therapeutic as I had a purpose and no need to think around) and I ordered them online. Some Merino wool tops, true fleece and few extremely sharp needles specially shaped for felting. I still lack finer needle which wasn’t in stock, but obviously it doesn’t really stop me in attempts to commit a suicide through stabbing my poor fingers uncountable times, eventually creating some furry ball or furry human-resembling statue. Lacking the needle for finishing moves, I can easily say: “It’s not my fault it looks so coarse, it’s the needle.” What will I do when the needles actually arrive, that is the question. Probably find another excuse. “I’m too sad to do it better,” or “I’m too stressed from moving to a desert country.”
serdce
postava
bebi
obrazek
Felting, especially for beginner, is rather time consuming and I find myself easily lost in repetitive stabbing, when I realize I should actually cook dinner and stop revenging myself on the poor shaved sheep. Reading is, as widely known, a time-killing hobby as well, so with these two on programme most of the day I am managing not to go loony, not to sadden way too much or make my hubby hate my whiny presence.

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