Having a strange day with a "sick" Fingers who has insisted on playing with the dullest thing in the house, a small plastic microwave, all day, with an absolutely disproportionate degree of pleasure (particularly as he has sole custody of our real one). The whole thing is absolutely mind-numbing, especially since my suggestions of things we could microwave (snails, tortoises, soil, sweets, washing up liquid) were all rejected in favour of the single plastic hotdog. I don't think I can watch him painstakingly set the timer to 30 seconds and coat it with plastic ketchup again without some kind of a psychic meltdown. The corridor of ennui has rarely seemed so tempting. I should be enjoying this, shouldn't I? And yet.
I think I am sufficiently recovered to relate a little of the school fair, though I have contracted tetanus from a rusty fishing hook, and there's a demented woman somewhere around here that has taken out a contract on me because she thinks I cheated her children out of a Duracell Euro '96 promotional keyring (yes, this was the prize at the duck fishing. I felt quite ashamed to be involved). I tried to hide behind Dom, but it was hopeless. I found myself having an out of body experience, hovering above the scene thinking 'here am I, having a vicious fight about plastic ducks. When did this become part of my ten year plan'.
Anyway. Personal highlights of this celebration of genocide:
The headmaster - on whom I have a sick, ever-increasing, wrong crush - came as General Lee. His confederate uniform was a little overwhelming, the CFO queried why our video footage of nos chères têtes blondes contained so many wobbly close ups of him. Um, for atmosphere?
Lashes brought great shame on the family (well, he would have, had we still been capable of it) in his role as Grand-père John the Indian elder by pretending his pipe of peace was variously a giant bong and a penis. On stage. Herbal type material kept falling out and he kept stuffing it back in with great and disturbing professionalism.
Also the musical choices for the infant dance routines were all sorts of awesome. Johnny Halliday 'Allumez le Feu', some kind of mournful complaint rock as the Indians (approximate age 2 and three quarters) were chased off their land, and Finger's super super kitsch cowboy routine to the Rednex 'Cotton-eye Joe' (oh yes, you do remember, don't give me that). One small child stood on stage for the whole sorry spectacle with his hands clamped over his ears refusing to move and mouthing "trop fort, trop fort". Yes, indeed, my sympathies are with you.
I am already wondering what next year's theme might be. The Black Death? The Vietnam war? The Belgian conquest of the Congo?
Must go, there's a hotdog with my name on it, rapidly cooling.