Uccle looks so beautiful tonight, like a fairytale kingdom. On evenings like this I feel privileged to live in such a gorgeous place.
As I type, the weepette, who has agonised for much of the last few hours over whether it can bear to get wet, dithering by the back door whining gently, is wedging itself under the bench outside to eat a rain softened snout. It is alternating this with flopping like an abandoned crêpe on the chair, its whole body collapsed in resignation. Look!
I wish my limbs did that. So expressive.
The scene in the waffledome is similarly edifying, strewn with the confetti of newspaper the weepette has spent the day shredding, abandoned shoes, fragments of Kinder toy. The kitchen in particular is a thing of beauty and a joy forever in the sepulchral June light:
No matter. The small waffles have foraged for their own dinner of Hula Hoops, tar, toothpaste and Haribo. I have chased them to bed with threats, bribes and promises of Calpol. I am self-medicating with the British answer to everything: toasted stuff and cups of tea. Who needs a kitchen anyway?
Fleetingly, as I shove doughy muffins with very very salty butter mechanically down my gullet half staring bewildered at 'Peter and Katie go Stateside' and half fidgeting on the internet, I am reminded that we have not booked a holiday yet this year.
But then, what could be finer than Uccle in the summer? Trips to the scorched earth of the parc du caca, alternating with tottering to the ice cream shop named after male genitalia? I mean, could it get any better? I defy you to tell me how.