The CFO jumps ship for London. The Beast pours a litre of milk on the kitchen floor at around 7am and requires carrying up four flights of stairs in full ironing board/rigor mortis position.
I am called upon (while sitting on the loo, because children don't care) to explain Tampax to the Beast. I do not do a good job of it, though noone could accuse me of being inaccurate or insufficiently graphic. However, I do wish I could have found a better word for the female sex organs than 'hole'. "I understand now" he says, running away in terror, after a couple of seconds. He will never have a normal sex life now. I feel my job is done here.
Dinner: oven chips and cucumber.
Our heroine is forced home early from the Corridor of Ennui with the plague, distinguishable from her usual crushing workplace despair only by throat symptoms making her act like cat with furball.
Dinner: Thierry Tapeworm.
The CFO bring me Vogue Homme back from London, mysteriously. When questioned, he says that he "missed an M", and thought it was Vogue Home. Glad but puzzled he thinks that such a publication would interest me, given state of house.
Nouvelle Star! André Manoukian sends me subliminal messages through the television. Soon we will be together. For a brief few hours I love everyone.
I buy a dress forgetting we no longer have any money. I am then forced to consider alternative money making schemes with the assistance of demented women on Twitter, including the commercialisation of Thierry Tapeworm as a pet or slimming aid, forging the image of Jesus on the shell of one of the tortoises and calling the Catholic Herald claiming it has healing and slimming powers, selling various confessional memoirs (bagel addiction, dog ear sniffing, Nurofen abuse, compulsive bowl buying). I am forced, reluctantly to give up on last idea as William Leith has already written them all. Bastard.
I go to see the GP for plague cures and More Drugs. She asks me how much pain relief I am taking, I tell her 2 Nurofen Plus every couple of hours. "That's nowhere near enough!" she says, shocked. I love my GP.
Dinner: god knows. Something horrible. I have a vague memory of chicken. NOT VIANDE.
Singularly without incident. Words written on Great Belgian Novel: 0 Words written on stupid 140 character messages: 800000.
Check bank balance: €59.
Discuss whether 'juicy bastard' sounds better than 'connard juteux' with my new dinosaur penfriend.
Dinner: Nurofen. Bonne Maman petits pots de crème, which are very tasty indeed. Please send me some free ones Bonne Maman (ha! the delicious irony!). Veuillez m'envoyez des échantillons gratuits.
The CFO takes me for a ride on his shiny red mid life crisis. I squeal like a small primate whenever he goes above 30 mph. Somehow I am conned into paying for more Pokemon cards, which still do not buy me peace. Nothing buys me peace this week. Peace is entirely elusive unless I surrender the laptop to the spawn, a shame since all I wish to do is play peacefully on it. Horns of dilemma very pointy and uncomfortable.
Red Shoes sends me a film of a tortoise having sex with a boot which is impressively disgusting (NO, I am not linking to it, and you should thank me for that. Ask her.). The existence of Holy Tortoise sex tapes makes the idea of a tortoise shrine sadly untenable. We explore the commercial potential of holy mothbastards, but I cannot bear to make them the object of religious devotion, even though suggestion they are 'tiny angels, fallen from Heaven, with dusty wings' is one of evil genius. Regretfully give up on idea of shrine.
The vet syphons all €59 out of my bank account for worming the weepette while the spawn destroy the surgery with great systematic precision.
Dinner: wine, Pringles, Nurofen.
A terrifying yellow orb appears in the sky over Brussels. We assume it is related to the blue brain and try to ignore it. Just as I am about to lose the plot definitively (around lunchtime), I go out in backyard and lie face down on the pebbles with dog and tortoises for an hour. The yellow orb seems to have mysterious healing properties. I no longer feel the need to kill everyone, a pleasing sensation that lasts several hours.
By evening the murderous tendencies are back as the Beast summons me back to its lair five times because the nightlight is not perfectly aligned, I have not said the nightime words in the correct ritual order, the water glass is not in its assigned place and because one of its socks is twisty.
CFO makes dinner. Impressively horrible. Oncle Ben's Microwave rice mixed with AN EGG. Hurl.
Executive summary: No progress, no money, no self-respect, no vitamins.
Please provide an executive summary of your week in a sentence in the comments.