Sunday, 14 December 2014

UNCLEAN

Oh god. Thank goodness I'm a self-employed introvert who isn't invited to any Christmas parties because I literally don't think I can leave the house in this state. I have one of these (ew, ew and EW) and a massive cold sore and I look .. ugh. I look like a comedy peasant in an episode of Horrible Histories, covered in buboes. My self-esteem is at rock bottom, I cannot wear any make up to cover up the horror, the internet seems to suggest I may have this eye deformity for anything up to TWO YEARS and I am rather weepy.

After much superstitious peasant prevarication and rubbing the affliction with toad mucus, I finally resorted to the emergency doctor yesterday. This was not an unqualified success. He arrived, bustled in and said "c'est pour ta maman?" (is it for your mum). Er, non? Then he told me he had a magical remedy I couldn't tell anyone about that would save me from surgery. On further enquiry this remedy proved to be 4 homeopathic powders

"Is there any alternative?" I asked delicately. "ONLY SURGERY." He said he had cured 23 people with this remedy. Then he started talking about scientology and his hobby of writing 20 page letters rectifying errors in scientific journalism. He also tutoied me in a disturbingly intimate fashion throughout as if I was his teenage niece. €38 well spent, then ("you should have paid him with a tiny coin in a glass of water," said my friend Tara, which made me laugh). I can't quite believe he was actually a doctor. Perhaps I'm on some kind of Belgian Noel Edmonds style prank show.

Last night, the children finally noticed my facial deformity (I have not been being specially stoic about it, but they filter out my complaints highly effectively). After staring in fascinated horror for a while, L said "you're like.. what's his name? The super hero? The red one?" A lengthy Google marathon enabled him to establish that he meant Hellboy:


This is broadly accurate.

The youngest said cheerily, as he headed off to bed "perhaps you will perish!" Perhaps I will, you thankless wretch, then who will subsidise your Rubik's cube nerd-habit?

It hasn't been a great week - I have barely left the house, the weather is shite, eldest son is in permanent residence on the sofa and will remain there next week because the teachers are "marking" and Thursday brought my most disastrous riding lesson since my 2010 accident. It was not because anything happened really, but because the horse - totally untypically - was really spooky and I was on my own at the start and took massive fright and believed death or catastrophic accident was imminent, so I got off and stood there feeling like a dick (one of those Terrifying Horse Women arrived in the meantime and whirled around using her whip extensively, which made my horse freak out even more). When the teacher arrived, I spent half an hour making it 10000% worse with my tears and terror and generally winding the horse up and both of us ended up in a spasm of stupidity and freaked-out ness. I'm so determined not to give up but oh god, it's an expensive half hour of rigid fright at the moment.  I am conscious any complaint relating to horse riding comes firmly under the bourgeois tragedy heading but it is my only extra-curricular activity and if I can't do that any more, I dunno. I'll just go full hermit.  

Sorry, this is just an existential wail, things are fine really (certainly more fine than my neighbour who has endured, in the last year: lupus, breast cancer, a burglary the insurance company won't pay for and the death of her much loved cat). Let me redress the balance:

- We have put up The Tree today, it is as garish and overladen as usual but it is mighty.

- I also managed to untangle the terminally tangled lights which have been out of commission for about three years due to their huge knot and it was the most satisfying sensation imaginable. I felt  briefly superhuman.

-  I went to the pharmacy in despair after the emergency doctor yesterday and they were lovely and gave me free soap and the nice girl said "I barely noticed! It's hidden behind your glasses and your fringe!"

- When I finish this, I am going to get into the bath with a cup of tea and some Epsom salts and Cold Comfort Farm, which is my Christmas re-read for this year.

- M introduced me to the Facebook feed of the Elephant Valley Project and it is extremely conducive to happiness.

- I'm enjoying the birds in the garden at the moment (jesus, I sound 800 years old), particularly the two crows who are working, possibly in tandem, possibly in competition, unclear, to try to untie the bag of peanuts and carry it away. They managed to get it onto the ground earlier this week but failed at the last hurdle. The chickens, who are puffed up with outrage at most birds in the garden and tend to chase them, stay very still and quiet around the crows who are giant and bad-ass.

- L has just sent me an email headed "IT'S CRISTHMAAAAAAAAASSSS" (sic) containing 22 jpegs of animals and the message "this is my cristhmas list". There is a lot of this kind of thing at the moment.

- I have not actually perished.


Percentages:

60% Facial affliction

20% weeping (of which 5% self-pity, 10% seasonal emotions/nostalgia/etc)

10% Christmassy

6% Irate someone ate my concealed half cookie

4% Very ready for wine (that's a lie, I'm 100% ready for wine).


How was your weekend?




Wednesday, 10 December 2014

You aftoo clean your theets

I am waiting for something in order to get on with some work, so I will use the time (semi) productively here. I don't have much to say, I'm in deep hibernation and brain activity is limited to the odd flicker around good telly, chocolate biscuits and working out where I could house a Dartmoor pony (can you house an at-risk Dartmoor pony?).

1. I have just finished reading Proust's Letters to his Neighbour (a "Madame Williams"), which were discovered fairly recently and have been published as a slim volume I thought might be tangentially relevant to my Paris book. Oh my god. Proust is the crown prince of the pass-agg letter, they are full of flowery, circuitous whining about the noise (Mme Williams played the harp and had builders in) and complaints about his health. I mean, god knows why this is surprising to me. Occasionally he will sugar the pill with a brace of pheasants or a bunch of flowers of a copy of one of his books (mmm, thanks), but the overwhelming tone is of thinly veiled rage and smouldering martyrdom.

2. My eye (lid) infection is SO BAD. I should probably go to the doctor, but instead I sent a picture of it to B, who replied:

"To be fair, that's not a bad colour.  a lovely shade of salmon eyeshadow, swollen lids are VERY winter 2015.  Gwyneth Paltrow has hired a Tibetan monk raised on a diet composed exclusively of organic yaks' milk and flaxseed to head-butt her in the face each morning. You're simply ahead of the curve."

This made me laugh, which was painful as the lumpy bit of the swollen eye bashes against my brow bone. I am broken. "DON'T YOU WINK THAT THING AT ME YOUNG (ISH) LADY" admonished B.

I had to go to a law meeting last night and spent the whole time self-consciously trying to cover the Eye of Suppuration with my fringe, I believe entirely unsuccessfully.

3. My eldest child is never at school at the moment, due to study leave (WTF, he's 12), exams and marking. Thank god he is the child who is largely able to amuse himself, but it has meant an awful lot of emoji-heavy email (I rue the day he discovered emoji), excessive Top Gear, biscuit-heavy snack plates and a dreary quantity of revision. Jesus, they've only been at school five minutes, they've barely learnt anything, is this really necessary? Things I have learned as a result of my brief episodes of helicopter revision (a process I can only sustain for ten minutes before boredom sets in): a big section of the population of the Marolles (the popular heart of Brussels, now mainly home to antique/junk shops and limitless hipster tourists) was moved to Uccle when they built the Palais de Justice. A selection of Dutch nouns of limited usefulness, like "dental brace". Absolutely no Latin (too hard, I did a year of Latin at his age, but literally nothing remains) or maths. He is lovely company thankfully, and continues to amuse me with his Molesworth spelled text messages.

This from my Monday visit to the dentist:


(The dentist could not find anything wrong despite my tooth pain. This cost me €45, but was pleasing overall) 

And this during recent cold spell:




4. Loads of people I know have recently had or are having babies and even though the babies are delightful and the adults more than equal to the task, it is giving me the most chronic anxiety dreams during which I have another baby. These dreams fill me with absolute horror. Often during them I mislay or drop or forget the babies, which seems totally plausible. More enduringly, I am filled with utter dread (in the dream) at the prospect of sustained sleep deprivation and total responsibility and my complete inability to cope with either. Waking up from last night's dream of twins (TWINS, holy lord) was the sweetest relief imaginable. People with real non-dream babies, I salute you, but my sub-conscious has NO regrets. Oh, I am also reading Sarah Moss's Night Waking which is incredibly vivid and funny and awful on those bone-achingly grim parts of early motherhood, which compounds this.

5. I'm just reaching the traditional Christmas tipping point where childlike excitement shades into utter dread at outstanding shit to be done/absence of time/absence of ideas/absence of money. I am medicating this condition with regular applications of mulled wine, Nurofen and a basilisk style approach to my invoicing, something which only happens at 'quarterly social security bill' crunch time and Christmas, which OH YAY, come together in December.

What of you? How do you deal with the queasy panic and what are your very worst anxiety dreams about?

Oh yes, percentages:

68% disgusting eye (considerably lower than yesterday);
10% weary of child chivvying, curricular and extra-curricular;
10% gratitude for healing works of gin;
10% pastry;
2% large-car-parking related fear for tomorrow.

Saturday, 6 December 2014

Back

A long overdue update. It was this or editing some copy written by German people. Or, you know, all the other work I should be doing or that awful pile of unopened envelopes, but I have chosen you.

Things that have happened:

1. Venice




Was - of course - wonderful, grey and damp and empty and enchanting. Also, a pandoro costs FOUR EUROS there! If I had known I would have brought an extra pandoro/pannetone suitcase. We did not manage to see any shrivelled fingers, but it did not matter because there was wine and cicchetti and spritz and hours of getting lost down weird picturesque dead end streets and taking pictures of furious, child-eating seagulls.

2. London
I went to London on Tuesday for a really lovely lunch (Moro, pheasant, trifle and delicious booze), plus various admin type things but made the mistake of straying into and around Oxford Street looking for Christmas child-tat. THE HORROR, the heat, the noise, the piles of undesirable gew-gaws, the naked consumer ghastliness. I was feeling intensely Christmassy (a day of jollity will do that) and it nearly sucked all my joy out. Also, and heartbreakingly, Muffinski's in Covent Garden, where I have been getting muffins for years even when they were the Canadian Muffin Company and occupied a corner site on Brewer Street opposite Raymond's Revue Bar has GONE. I know you can't get excited about muffins, but these were amazing, I do not have the vocabulary to explain them, they were sort of healthy wholegrain but not too wholegrain and just ludicrously delicious. I have tried to reproduce them and totally failed. I am muffin bereft.

I tried to do some Christmas shopping, despite the heat and horror, but reviewing my purchases, I seem to have acquired only a selection of jelly sea creatures from Cybercandy, two pairs of tights (for myself) and a packet of David Shrigley playing cards (damn you, Magma, you pit of temptation). I have since acquired some caps (the kind you throw on the street when you are a delinquent pre-teen) and some juggling balls that look like poo. Can I just give up now?

3. Smashing
One of my London errands was to collect a gingerbread house kit to be photographed, which was slightly eccentric. On my return we had to build the house (stupid) and decorate it (even stupider) then smash it with a hammer for the photographer. This last bit was bloody brilliant though the dog made a repeated nuisance of himself barking and trying to eat shards of gingerbread. Last night we found him furtively trying to eat the decorative Christmas tree that came with the house which he had recovered from the kitchen radiator and it took two of us to prise his reluctant jaws open to remove it. Since then I have put the rest out for the birds, who are ignoring it. A magpie had a go yesterday but he has not been back. I imagine it will survive all the depredations of winter an emerge unscathed and just as unappetising in the spring.

4. Infirmity
I already have to go back to the dentist on Monday because the tooth he filled when I went very recently is now an ouchy, sensitive no-go zone. I don't imagine he has a satisfait ou remboursé guarantee, sadly. My back and neck are also in permanent crockedness and I would sell a kidney for a really good deep tissue massage. Presumably this is just my age. Are there any crackpot remedies I can try for my shitty joint aches? Fish oil? Virgin's blood? Anyone? I have also woken up with some kind of painful eye infection. All the middle-aged fun. 

5. Owls
F came home yesterday and mentioned in passing "the cook brought his barn owl into class today". Which, hang on, stop right there child and provide me with MUCH MORE DETAIL. This is the gulag, not Hogwarts, but apparently the school cook (I am already sort of surprised he's not a Sodhexo mechanised drone that hovers above the canteen dispensing food pellets) has raised a barn owl ('chouette effraie' in French which is lovely) from a hatchling until now, when it is 8. It flies free range around his house and sometimes he opens the window and lets it have a little go around the park. The owl came to their class twice, tried to bite several people and pooed on someone's desk. Honestly, if this had happened when I was at primary school it would have been the biggest event of my educational career. F seemed rather blasé about it. Where is his sense of wonder?

6. Mourning
Queen Fabiola, she of the magnificent coiffure, has died. The country is in a paroxysm of mourning and I watched several hours of obsequious coverage (plainly prepared years in advance) last night and have purchased the souvenir edition of Le Soir today. One of the main points of debate last night after the announcement seemed to be whether they should postpone Monday's planned national strike as a gesture of respect. The consensus was no: it was, perhaps, what she would have wanted. I expect moving scenes of slow, solemn tyre burning.

How have you been? It is St Nicolas today, so be careful no one puts you in a sack and kicks you to Spain.

Thursday, 27 November 2014

Forty days: Pt 40 (Out of Office)



I am off. Wheeeeee! Back soon and I promise not to just vanish. Terrifying metal box of death permitting. Does anyone know of any good relics in Venice? Because it's not a holiday for me without a shrivelled finger in a jewelled box. Restaurant or other recommendations most welcome too, but fingers are the priority.

Wednesday, 26 November 2014

Forty days: Pt 39 (which should be forty but isn't)

It's my birthday! And you have all been so lovely I cried a little and not just because I woke up at 5am over-excited and couldn't get back to sleep. Though that was probably part of it. Then I cried again and not just because I had had two and a half glasses of wine but because you were still being utterly, touchingly kind and lovely and LARA EVEN WROTE ME A POEM.

It has all been delightful and I am too full of sugar to contemplate my own shortcomings - slash - mortality. My hilarious eldest son made me one of his special breakfast plates:



And a book on how to make my own special breakfast plates. It is quite strict. It's like living with Nicky Haslam sometimes. I reproduce some of it here, in case you also wish to make your own breakfast plate.



"The little book of beautiful plates"


This says "written by me, drawned by me, special thanks to my mum who wanted a book of cool plates. But she got this..."


"You should always favour round/curved shapes"


"A semi-circular shape is sometimes acceptable"


"Biscuits should be partially, not entirely, superposed"


"Add fruit, so the plate seems more 'healfy'" 


"Include a hot and a cold drink for contrast"


"Serve in a large plate, so it does not seem crowded"


Impressive blurbs

Apart from this I did not get a single thing on my fantasy list and it did not matter in the slightest. 

(This gift from Prog Rock was profoundly strange, admittedly:  


it contained an old, empty perfume atomiser that is impossible to refill. Might be good as a pot for keeping pencils in?)

I had a lovely day, ate too much, got mildly tipsy and my lovely family made me an actual homemade lemon drizzle cake and it was TOTALLY EDIBLE. I think I look a bit like the chicks on the top right now: 


Slightly wonky but unbowed. 

I am going to lie down now because all my blood flow must be directed to my stomach and thought is impossible. THANK YOU for sticking with this stupid odyssey and thank for your all your kindness. May your capybara overlords be ever merciful. 

Tuesday, 25 November 2014

Forty Days: Pt 38 (Birthday Penumbra)

Last day of my thirties! My Birthday Penumbra (B's invention, meaning people have to be lovely to you in the days before and after your birthday as well as on the day and any attempt to make you do anything sub-optimal can be halted by holding up an imperious hand and shrieking "BIRTHDAY PENUMBRA") is well underway. I feel quite relaxed about the whole business. Whatever. Some baking definitely went on here this evening (well, secrecy, a smell of cooking and a lot of icing sugar), so I'm already excited about that. Let's see how I feel tomorrow. 

I don't have a big conclusion tonight and I doubt I'll have one tomorrow or indeed on day 40 which is the day after my birthday since I am a fucking idiot. I have enjoyed doing this a great deal, though, even though I did not actually have any big or particularly interesting thoughts about anything. My main conclusion is that I am delighted to hear about people's ponies and twin babies, bad accountants, fictional capybara theme parks and the intolerable domestic habits of their loved ones. This is what I always loved - and still love - about blogging. I will not just vanish for months on end again if I can possibly help it, because I miss you, and it. But the reason I blog less is because I am not bored out of my skull doing law all day every day and desperate for distraction and that in and of itself is surely a huge improvement over the last six years? Progress! Slow, halting progress, frequently obstructed by my own stupidity, but progress nonetheless. 

Kath asked what was on my wish list. As you all know I am an ascetic and a holy hermit and have no material desires and my gaze is turned solely towards spiritual fulfilment and self-sacrifice BUT, if I were obliged to conjure up a few trifles: 


Supersoak, obviously

Some really amazing brogues - Church's or Grenson or similar

Replacement for broken Rob Ryan mug (not the American football player)

Pretty much anything my friend Nathalie makes. 

A box of Sadaharu Aoki petits fours.

A piece of alarming taxidermy. 

I am not even asking for a horse this year. I think that's maturity, right there. Even though this woman has her own SLOTH and she is only 29 and she also has a kangaroo and several sugar gliders. I am so reasonable. 

If your Tuesday is trying and several of my friends have had a very trying Tuesday indeed, this, about Phnom Penh's last working elephant retiring, is really lovely. I presume, because you are all internet types, you have all already seen Arthur the Endurance Race dog, and tears have leaked from your eyes as they leaked from mine.  

I am going to stop now so I have time to wash my "hair" before I turn 40, because standards. Maybe I will even remember to cut this one enormous gnarled Father Jack style fingerclaw that escaped my recent pruning attempts too. Tell me about your birthdays. Do you like or hate them? Get over-excited and then slump, or pre-emptively dread and quite enjoy? Can you remember your worst (thirty was pretty much a fucker for me)?