Monday, 28 April 2008

New improved Dramatis Personae

Lashes - Son, 9. Vague, beautiful, contrary. Likes: Lizards, wall eyed anime characters, arguing.

Fingers - Son, 7. Precise, ritualistic, long fingered. Used to think he was a parrot. Now "a bat". Likes: biscuits, Mario, handwriting practice.

CFO (Chief Financial Officer)- Father of children, French, tortoise lover. Very sound chap.

Weepette - also known as Oscar. Dog (a whippet, pronounced "weepette" by CFO and other francophones). Stupid, elegant, cowardly.

Space Cadette: younger sister. Sweet, generous, funny, bat shit crazy. Tendencies towards freeganism and knitting hemp sanitary towels.

Prog Rock Step Dad: Space Cadette's dad. Enormously erudite, kind, learned. Willing to carry pounds of self-raising flour, Heat magazine and a packet of fondant fancies across the Channel several times a year, only to be forced into the kitchen to cook, and sat on by the spawn. Sends haiku form text messages on matters of York importance.

Sir Waffle/Bearded One: Father. Bearded, important, occasionally forgetful, divides time between the Barn of Doom and Notting Hill. Knight of the realm! For real! Sorry, I still can't get over that.

Violet - best friend in London, and also whole world. Wonderful, kind, funny, amazing taste. Makes good cakes. Hates: needles, hedgehogs.

BMF - Best Male Friend. Source of consolation and great good sense, until he took up Bikram Yoga. Favourite expression: lavish gift. Hates: animals of all kind, especially anything that slobbers.

M - brain twin. Lives in the interwebs. Likes: macaroons as big as your head, her new bike. Co-author of Facegoop .

Wafflechild - Also known as Wafflebébé, or "my gay adoptive son". Awesomely talented montage maker, flatpack constructer, techno-guru and general hilarious companion, Mr Tom Houser.

B - Lawyerfriend. Sanity saving source of baby animal goodness, acerbic commentary on Belgiana, general despair and throatpunching.

The Assassin - Neighbour. Works in covert ops, or possibly IT. Vivid imagination.

Dr Capybara - occasional columnist, dispenser of tough love and sharp kicks.

The Holy Tortoise: Tortoise, cult object, in custody of CFO. Unconfirmed powers of healing. Lives in garden with 5 acolytes, occasionally dispensing penance to sinners. Missing for nearly a YEAR. Now returned, dusty, covered in ants and furious at the moral laxism that has reigned in his absence. Hallelujah!

A bit Pam Ayres, A bit Shane McGowan

Today's inaugural post is brought to you by the power of ibuprofen - thanks, pharmaceutical industry! I have toothache, but am not sure I can face the brutal honesty that presumably characterises Belgian dentistry as it does most other walks of Belgian life. I am thinking along the lines of:
"Your teeth are disgusting! Do you not brush them? This one here is now a rotting stump. Also this one. And this one again! Do you gargle with le coca cola? Why are you so stupid?"
I may be mistaken. But I doubt it. Of course the corollary is that they will doubtless repair my teeth faultlessly and speedily and with ample pharmaceutical assistance for not very many euros. I just can't face the humiliation. My friend Matilda suggested the Scandinavian Dental Centre, but somehow the thought of a wholesome, probably attractive, Nordic person looking into my mouth seems even worse. Also, Matilda said, disappointingly the dentists appear to all be women! Not at all what she had in mind. Will wait until the pain vs shame calculation tips in favour of intervention. And hope that I still have a few teeth to salvage at that point. Apparently, according to today's desperate surfing ("dentiste" "urgence" "phobie" "gentil") they can do marvellous things to your rotten stumps gums, comme ceci . Marvellous, there's still hope. They all look so happy! And blonde! And not like a gang of evil spiked worms is chewing through their gums!
As a result I am living today in a sort of semi-stupor. Like any other Monday, you might think. Yes, indeed, sort of, but with a slightly swimmy surreal quality that is not wholly unwelcome. Thankfully the corridor of ennui is oddly peaceful. I thought I might just shred the entire contents of my desk and construct a giant nest out of them to crawl into, like a gigantic puffy eurohamster. Then I could advertise myself as a happening in the Tribune de Bruxelles and maybe get enough donations to pay for treatment! Yes, it's all falling into place. Fire up that shredder.