Six pm. We've just come back from a lengthy unsuccessful walk to try and find springs for Lashes to build the prototype of his new invention: a car that bounces over other cars (harnessing the magical properties of ".. bubble wrap. And a cardboard box". I have the designs). He asked us what the most expensive thing in the world was, and we settled on a Matisse (Eh? I am not sure why, it has been a long day) at £20 million. So then he asked if he would have that much money when he was twenty and we said only if he invented something amazing. This is the result. I don't think he wants a Matisse really. But £20 million IS a lot of lizards.
No matter. He hated the walk and wept and said we were torturing him ("all this for NOTHING. I only have the SHORT legs!". It reminded me of my own childhood torture at the hands of the Bearded One, except that truly, Lashes does not know he is born. We were forced to walk for hours through vertical bogs in the driving rain with only a damp oatcake to sustain us. Every day of every holiday. The nearest "civilisation" was the village pub - 14 silent farmers and a depressive landlord prone to deciding not to stock crisps just for sadistic kicks. On New Year's Eve we had to dance round the pond (generating a lifelong fear of ponds, New Years' Eve and of course, all things rural for me). In contrast, Lashes walked for three quarters of an hour around the brightly lit streets with many stops in shops, and got a packet of biscuits from the Italian deli AND a discounted miniature torch from the DIY superstore to make a spider body from. Luxury, I tell you!
Now, the dead eyed, drama school drop outs on the CBeebies channel are doing a horrid Christmas rap (Prog Rock Step Dad is sitting with his back to the tv reading a Russian library book, Space Cadette is asleep with her arse welded to the fire, CFO is checking his spreadsheets, plus ça change) whilst Lashes and Fingers whine in harmony for biscuits. I have spent much of the day in the company of a giant dutch speaking animatronic tap filled with snot. (I like this understated French explanation: " Des personnages comme Boris Burp et Piet Snot vous guident respectivement dans l’estomac et dans le nez". It makes it sound like a legitimate and respectable way to spend time). Lunch was a Nutella sandwich, on my knees looking for a lost Pokémon figurine in a sort of watery ball pool.
Then, when we got home, I got to clean out the fish tank (the CFO calls our smallest fish, the Pontypines - see here - "les Ponkypine" which amuses me almost enough to make it worthwhile), removing globules of slime with my hands and constantly in fear of finding a corpse or five. Soon, I get to act as Triops undertaker. There should be some kind of heavenly reward for this, right? Shame I am an atheist.
Instead, and almost as good, I got Lashes' ideas for the Space Cadette's New Year party costume. The party theme is 'historical or futuristic'.
"A giant pumpkin! A tree with roots AND legs! A T rex! A robot kangaroo!"
(Fingers: "a car with five wheels!")
Yes. This is as good as it got today. But just think, in 2 days I can give you the full, blow by blow account of the "fun" party from hell. To think, I even forgot to tell you yesterday that the Fun Enforcers have asked us for €140 "participation". One hundred and forty euros! I could get a nice pair of Sergio Rossi heels in the sale for that. Pah! This sorry event had better generate good material or I am stealing their spoons. FACT.