1. I go upstairs to fetch pants and socks for Lashes who is going on a pokéstravaganza sleepover. I get to his room and am overcome with the grubby but welcoming sight of his bed, full of dribble stains, Pokémon cards, sellotape and odd socks. I collapse on it and drift off into lurid daydreams to the background sound of the CFO vigorously hoovering. Eventually I fall asleep. When I wake up twenty minutes later I have to pretend I have been cleaning the loo.
2. Lashes despatched to pokéapocalypse and Fingers graciously allowing the Space Cadette to assist him making playdoh spaghetti, the CFO and I hop on the mid-life crisis and roar off for an afternoon of carefree lèche vitrine. Just as we enter the tunnel opposite the Royal Palace, at the bottom of a large slope, the mid-life crisis splutters, hiccups and stops. No petrol. We have to push it out of the tunnel to endless beeping and hand gestures, and abandon it near the Filigranes bookshop (local detail, Brussels residents), walk all the way back to the petrol station, get petrol, go back, restart the mid-life crisis and set off again. We go the Fnac with the rest of Brussels and stare cluelessly at the CDs, eventually giving up. I buy lots of lovely novels. The CFO buys a cable. We are both pleased with our purchases.
3. The Space Cadette, Fingers and I take the weepette to the park, where it demonstrates its cravenly submissive character by allowing anything on four legs to push it over and sniff its genitals, lying back with its pink belly exposed and paws tucked into its chest, an unfathomable expression in its reproachful eyes. "You are an idiot Oscaaar" says Fingers in heavily accented English "you have a cerveau de choux de bruxelles" (Brussel sprout brain). The weepette has no self-respect. It needs therapy. Just as we are supressing hysterics at a dirty white frizzy rat that moves, bouncing hind legs together like a rabbit, a giant slathering hound with a disproportionately large lolling tongue lumbers up to me. It sniffs around my feet, then cocks a leg and pisses straight onto my leg, all down my charcoal grey Falke cotton tights. I am completely confounded by this and cannot think of a clever rejoinder when the owner of the Hound of the Baskervillles tells me 'he's never done that before'. The weepette is driven wild by the scent of strange dog piss and will not leave my leg alone.
4. I am trying to exchange thoughtful emails with Cassandra about the strangeness of romance and infatuation and whether or not it is a prerequisite to a successful relationship and long term happiness. At the same time, I am ineffectually sweeping playdoh spaghetti into an approximate heap with my bare feet, conducting a conversation about investment funds AND playing 'I spy'. I give up on all endeavours and eat a strange bar of chocolate.
5. I am watching Fingers eat his dinner, which he does with little or no enthusiasm, frequently giving up to do small mute dance routines involving elaborate hand gestures - pointing, whirling, fluttering. They are very entertaining. I look down and realise I am stirring my tea with a Bionicle arm.
Scenes from your Saturday?