On the side of the angels (white chocolate fish and chips) there is this:
Shh! Don't cheer too loud! The CFO will hear you!
This is the notorious 3.1 Philip Lim top that has become something of a legend on these pages. Thank you BMF (no, it is not an inappropriately lavish gift, I am paying him back, OK? Straight away) for doing the business. True friendship is enabling your friend's inappropriate and irresponsible shopping obsessions. What do you think? Mental? Or mental but in a good way? Or, beautiful top, but not on your scraggy ruin of a body, Jaywalker?
There is also this:
Ridiculous but sweet charm bracelet I bought for myself. As you will note, it has a teeny tiny cup featuring a caterpillar on it. No idea why, I just liked it and it wasn't dear. I am kryptonite to jewellery, so this is unwise. That is why my long and elegant, though filthy, hand model's hands are bare of all adornment. The emerald fell out of my mum's engagement ring. I killed my birthday Baume & Mercier watch just with the death rays that emanate from my wrist, and then killed its cheap Swatch successor. The diamond fell out of my non-engagement ring in Violet's flat. We spent all day on all fours looking for it, only to locate it in Lashes' sock the next day. I lost the Tiffany diamond bracelet the CFO gave me (Yes. Godalmighty. One of the only afuckingmazing presents he has got me in our lengthy joint history and I lost it) on one of my manic 'run around London buying M&S food and cheap high street clothes' trips. I have the worst track record ever. I am hoping the fact that it is totally non-precious will help. Doubtful.
Apart from mindless ill-advised retail, I wrenched myself off the hamster wheel of chocolate-fuelled legal doom today by forcing myself out (Outside! Into the world of mortals! Where the undead of the corridor of ennui fear to venture!) for soup and salad at lunchtime. Go me! A meal involving vegetables. Extraordinary.
My breasts are no longer quite as freakishly enormous or hurting. This is a source of tremendous relief and some considerable mystification. However, I will not be looking a shrunken breast in the mouth. As it were.
There are only seven (seven!) working days before my part time 2 day a week thing kicks off. Oh god! That is both magnificent and slightly frightening. I could easily fill all that extra time with eating Maltesers and blogging but that must not be allowed to happen.
The triops! Hatched. They do indeed have three eyes! And they are quite large and unnerving and horribly energetic, and look like they have come from one of those episodes of Doctor Who that leaves you hiding behind a sofa. They have about four hundred trillion teeny tiny legs, giant antennae and a sort if hideous semi-transparent red/orange abdomen on which they balance their foul smelling orange food, in the manner of a troupe of small repugnant otters. Soon, they will be climbing out of their nice heated plastic Triops Center Parc thing and taking over the house, shortly followed by the world. I have now ensured that BMF never visits me again. Damn.
The CFO and I are having a night away on Saturday. The thought of staying in bed past 7am is making me feel a little dizzy. It will not be glamorous at ALL, in a chain hotel in a wintry seaside resort in northern France , but it will have clean sheets and a tv and room service, so at least we can lie in bed and watch crappy tv and sleeeeep. Beautiful, beautiful sleeeep.
Meanwhile, on the side of badness (liquorice allsorts, marshmallows, those pink shrimp things) - and let's gratuitously remind ourself how that looks:
- we have the following:
It's still only 4pm and I have Malteser burn on my tongue.
I have had to cancel my appointment tonight with the knee guru due to childcare fuck ups. This is doubly bad - the knee guru is much in demand and I will probably now have to hobble until well after Christmas (UPDATE: 6 January. Nice) AND I was very much looking forward to a peaceful hour with a book waiting for him instead of the usual WWF (or is it WW something else now?) style bedtime routine with the spawn ("get off my shoulders Lashes, you weigh 25 kilos, also, did you just fart in my face? Fingers use your words, I cannot interpret that wordless shriek and finger in my eye without some additional clues. Both of you DO NOT make that noise about this perfectly pleasant dinner or you are going STRAIGHT TO BED" uttered on a rising note of desperation and impotent rage).
I discovered Alexa's blog (how had I not found it before? Hmm?) which in itself is a good thing as she is a most magnificent writer, but now I feel unworthy to put fingers to keyboard as she is the queen of all that is amazing and awe-inspiring.
Fear of scritching and scrabbling in the fridge is unabated.
Christmas shopping? Not so much. Or, indeed, at all.
Cooking for small boys. Sooooo farking boring. Shackass! Any suggestions to broaden our repertoire (pasta, sausage or chicken plus green vegetable, pizza without cheese, baked potato, rice, chicken fajitas)? Taking into account the fact that all new foodstuffs are viewed as an act of unprovoked aggression. And if you can't clearly identify and separate all constituent elements, you might as well just cut out the middleman and chuck it straight in the bin yourself. Some vegetables are permitted (not tomato or cooked peppers or courgettes or aubergines, or the satanic onion), cheese is the food of the devil, ditto eggs, baked beans, mash. One eats tuna, the other doesn't. Sorry to go all mummy blog on you there for a minute, but we are slowly boring each other to death over here and I don't see why I should spare you.
And in a sort of limbo between good and bad, yesterday I found my Christmas present. It was a total accident I swear! I was looking for a hammer. Anyway, it's exactly the camera I asked for (thanks Peevish) so yay, but also must act surprised. Gosh! Such a surprise! And, OMFG, the CFO has done more Christmas shopping than me.
I think, on balance, the forces of good win today. But hey, it's only half past eight; there's still time..