This is more of a necessity post, to stop the dog shame. I am unusually lacking things to say. Possibly because, being in London, I have spent quite a lot of time with actual, live, English speaking human beings, and thus have gibbered out all the stuff that usually festers in my brain, finding an outlet on these pages.
So, this will just be a brief update on, er, stuff.
1. The Children
Are in Dijon. I spoke to them for the first time for a couple of days a few minutes ago and they sound bizarrely older from this distance. Lashes had caught a very small lizard that escaped into a bench. Fingers had banged his head on the mane of a mechanical horse. I was unable to elicit any further details because they ran away at this point.
2. The Holy Tortoise
Is missing in the garden. We haven't seen him for about 2 months and are starting to get worried. I mean, holy as he is, I am not sure he could take on a highly determined tomcat. Say novenas for him please. He has taken two of his acolytes with him, I fear, as the tortoise count currently stands at 3/6. And no, the weepette has not been using them as chew toys. Even with his industrious little jaw, I very much doubt he could dispose of an entire tortoise without leaving some remains.
In what I choose to view as progress, I haven't felt compelled to cram the whole of central London in my suitcase to bring home with me. Ok, admittedly I am coming back next week, but still. London is cold and grey and very, very welcoming. I have wandered lonely as a cloud who floats o'er Marylebone High Street and does not even buy a single book from Daunt. Parsimony high five! Ok, I might, conceivably have bought a dress. But not a dear one. Honest, guvnor.
Is supposed to be tomorrow. Is it worth it? Everyone seems to have been tiresomely good over the holidays. I certainly haven't been up to any noteworthy wickedness. Let me know in the comments whether you feel there is sufficient sin out there to merit Confessional.
Is still switched off for the summer. But soon, they will start dusting down King Albert and Queen Paola, checking Fabiola's stuffing isn't coming out and she hasn't got motheaten, and taking the high level Eurozombies out of cold storage. Zurich rejuvenation clinics will empty as the undead regroup for another year of passionate regulation of tax incentives for regional bus companies and the like. I can hardly wait.
6. Friends off the internet
Have been extraordinarily wonderful to me in recent weeks. The CFO asked, not long ago, who I think will look after me, who will I have to hug, when Things take their course. This is, of course, a bit of an imponderable. The children, the weepette, family; we'll all hold on to each other as much, and as best we can. But I have the amazing privilege to also have people looking out for me on line. People who make me laugh and laugh and tell me their stories and share their wisdom, which is infinitely greater than mine. I am a bit pathetic at asking for help in real life, so the people who have heard my muted, pathetic, virtual cris de coeur recently have been utter life savers. I sound really sappy, don't I? But it's so much appreciated. Ugh. I should perhaps have said, I'm hungover. I might cry at any minute. If a pigeon looked at me funny today I burst into inconsolable tears. It's tragic.
Is a poison. A slow acting, long lasting poison. There's a reason they call it Mothers' Ruin. And why it led eighteenth century addicts to blithely throw their children onto the fire, mistaking them for logs (I learnt about this in my totally reputable history degree so it MUST be true). Just say no, kids.
I do hope slightly enhanced service will resume tomorrow when my brain should be marginally less spongiform.