Mirror, Signal, Shrieking terror
I have developed a morbid fear of parking the car. After driving fairly blithely around through the easter holidays I have now got what the French would term a blocage. Not good at spatial awareness related tasks at the best of times I am now physically incapable of parallel parking. Yesterday I am ashamed to say that I cried and swore and beat my tiny fists on my not at all tiny thighs trying to park for the spawn's ridiculous karate class. Eventually I parked on a zebra crossing on the pavement virtually in a bin (only place I could avoid parallel parking) somewhere where I had to climb across to the passenger side snivelling and ranting to exit the car. Lashes had to give me a hug which was shaming. When I pulled out of the space I nearly crashed into someone, compounding things even further. So now I have an urban driving phobia. It's really convenient.
Does anyone have any suggestions as to how I can overcome it? The fear really kicks in when there is someone behind me and I have to parallel park in a speedy and efficient manner. I am completely incapable of doing so, and have to drive around the block hopelessly twenty five times until I get a grip, or someone moves. As a result we are now constantly late, wherever we are going and the car, which I have long loved as a rather pretty and delightful compromise vehicle in a Belgian Waffle shade of black, is filling me with dread.
I get no work done because I want to live with these people and I am in love with Caplin Rous
I don't know who this lady is but I love her. She is sharing her popcorn with a capybara. I like it when she kisses him, quietly on the side of the neck. He loves her too (or possibly just her cereal). Then she teaches him to beg for a popsicle.
Caplin Rous is spiritually British! "Huffing and clicking are signs of aggression". You are one of us, Caplin. Come, stand in the Post Office queue with me and we shall huff and click and tut. I have popsicles too. Come, touch me with your paw and I shall feed you all the ice lollies your giant hamster heart desires...
Also, what do these people do exactly? Because I want to be part of it. They have essentially turned their pet capybara, not on first sight, the most appealing of animals, with its scornful front teeth, into a cottage industry.
This house has a goddam microclimate
Welcome to the frozen steppes of Uccle. Outside, the mercury is grazing a balmy 20°. Here in the house, and particularly with the back door open (to allow the weepette to sit on the bench and look regal comme ceci:
rather than fidget neurotically around my legs), I am losing all sensation in my limbs. I had looked out a rather lovely parc du caca outfit of wide leg indigo linen trousers, pretty, slightly African patterned short sleeved top and red sandals. Now I am wearing linen trousers, African print top, a hoodie, a jacket, socks and slippers and I am still cold.
It's all my fault vol. 874
Lashes and I went, finally, to see the 'graphomotricienne' today, who I had imagined as a whiskery, pinched handwriting gorgon who would smell of menthol and talcum powder and fear. After a whole load of parking trauma (see above) we got there ten minutes late to find a delightful, jolly, intelligent woman who offered him a load of oozing green playdoh and was sweet and sensible and so kind I felt like laying my head on her large bosom and relating my woes from age 4 onwards. I didn't. I made myself scarce while she kicked a foam cube around with Lashes, ecstatic to have escaped the gulag briefly, and made him draw pictures and build towers and generally gave him a far more fun time than he gets either at school or at home.
She noted that Lashes, whilst brimming with native cunning and fun and imagination, does not have good motor skills, be they catching a ball (ugh!), handwriting (bleugh) or putting things together (brrrr). She showed me his hyper-mobile joints and we compared how far we could each bend our wrists and fingers back (a loooong way, both of us). We noted that, like his mother, he has difficulty distinguishing left and right, and has a tendency to bump into things or misunderstand practical instructions. Poor Lashes, doomed to be picked last for team sports just like me. She also wondered about his eyesight, which is clearly also doomed, when you look at his parents. The child has a grim genetic heritage where coordination is concerned, and it's all my fault.
No matter. I love her and she will spend an hour playing with my son and, I think, actually rather liking him, unlike the gulag hags. (Yes, I am still having first world pangs about the gulag)
Tune in next time when I will tell you how the cleaner shrank my dry clean only cashmere, the travails of finding decent organic vegetables and why it's impossible to find decent staff these days. Joke, JOKE.
In fact, tune in tomorrow for APRIL CONFESSIONAL. Have you been bad? Very bad? You have, haven't you. I can sense it.