What does the weekend hold for you, Emma? I hear you chorus in your threes, and sometimes even fours.
I am so glad you asked. I will be attending the wedding of the CFO's younger brother which is taking place in a windowless concrete bunker in rural Normandy. The whole operation will last approximately 30 sleepless hours. All available foodstuffs will be culled from the internal organs of large ruminants. Over a hundred pissed peasants will gather to recriminate with one another about who cut down the oak tree in Oncle Claude's yard. Synthetic fibres will brush against one in erotically charged choreography. My children will be forced to dress up like pageboys at Kerry Katona's forty third wedding. My dress will be too small and my heels too high, and my giant Spanx pants will cut off my circulation. One of the CFO's aunts will vomit and throw food as she always does. The CFO will tell me off for looking narky. I will fall alseep in a corner after failing to understand a word Oncle Claude says. What larks, internet, what larks.
Can I ask you to do something for me in my brief, reluctant absence? Could you screw your creative energies to the sticking place and see if you can assemble me a few more village fête entries? The Guardian (yes! really! That Guardian. Not the 'Charleroi Gardien') may be featuring the village fête in a tiny corner of its website on Monday, if I can believe the quixotic emailed promises of a lovely journo called Sarah. I would so love to have some really special stuff to show them. Please? Craft?
Here's the deal. If I get 5 new entries - however feeble - by Monday I promise to do whichever of the following tickles your fancy:
- Make a Mexican wrestling costume for one of the tortoises and photograph them wearing it;
- Make another Belgian politician cake (please no);
- Do a photographic demonstration of the Belgian political landscape using potatoes
Can't say fairer than that....