Fucking January. You have no point. You are just here to torture me. Do not come telling me all about your amazing sales. I do not wish to know about YSL Tribute shoes reduced from €900 to €100, thank you Paris Colleague. I do not have €100 and the CFO has hidden all the money in a new set of paranoid arrangements. This "snow" business is quite aesthetically pleasing, yes, but it dampens my thought processes even more than the usual grey Brussels drizzle. Other than these poor offerings, what is in it for me, January? Nothing. The opportunity to lay down an extra layer of cellulite and disappear under a mass of dirty laundry, most of which I am wearing simultaneously.
In short, I am becoming the most fucking boring person in the world. I have spent today sitting dead eyed in front of my screen, trying to fathom the tiny Skinny McStupid dog and its tiny brain, failing and wiping up its shit, staring into space and thinking about my many imminent deadlines without doing anything about them. Sometimes, for kicks, I go and have a slice of Christmas cake with Skinny McStupid attached to my ankles by the teeth. Thus has the day passed, like a week of Belgian Sundays.
And now, it is 6pm and the CFO will be back shortly, expecting to be back in the 1950s with, you know, a warm, clean house, hot food and clean stuff; children with homework done and new plasters on their stitched up chins, and quietly engaged in improving pursuits instead of rolling Skinny McStupid in a urine stained coat in the wreckage of the house and allowing it to nibble their stitches. And more importantly when he gets here, the keyboard turns into a pumpkin and blogging is outlawed.
Is this the shape of things to come? How on earth am I going to entertain you with my new part-time existence if it leaves me flaccid and brainless? I resolve to do better tomorrow, but have had to hand my duties over to Tortank for tonight.
He has more to say than I do, and he's spent the last 6 weeks in the crisper drawer of the fridge. It's that bad.