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.”
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.