Frickin’ hot wash

That scarf I was so pleased with? That brightly-coloured, fluffy, soft wool and mohair job? It went in the washing machine for a warm wash, but the thermostat is clearly broken like my spirit and will to achieve, and it SHRUNK and partially FELTED. Which means it’s not fluffy, it’s not so bright, and has great big holes where there used to be acceptable medium holes.

Plus I have deadlines and it’s rainy and kind of cold and we’ve been back in Xiamen for less than three weeks and I already wish I was on vacation. I’ve only had one freelancer submit a story this issue and it turns out she lives in the building across from mine (how weird) and so I’ve had to write like crazy, despite dealing with a whole lot of (grammatically correct and coherent) writer’s block.

And my mind is tired. I’m so tired. Curling up in bed and subsisting off pot noodles and cup a soup looks bloody irresistable right about now. And I can crochet more scarf-y things because I bought more fancy yarn, which is the only bright spot in my creative life. And that’s only because one of the rolls is bright red. The other one Neil describes as “muted”.

I’m not cute and happy and I have nothing funny to write about except maybe that the Sofitel in Xiamen has rooms with dirty old man written all over them because the wall separating the bedroom and bathroom is clear glass so if some bloke hires a working girl he can watch her in the bath. But it could also be so that when you’re in the bath, you can turn the telly around and watch National Geographic. Which had a programme on about the marsupial lion and this giant scary pelican-looking bird the Aussie paleontologist called THUNDER BIRD, which makes me expect it to put on a helmet and fly through space to save the world. Giant demon duck of doom is much better — I see a crochet toy bearing that name.

Rambling helps me relax.