At 6am I am out in the rain, with spawn, dog and CFO, tracking the local fox. The local fox quite sensibly keeps a million miles away from us. Something about the combination of neurotic yowling weepette, lumpen complaining youths, limping mother, jolly 'morning person' father does not strike the local fox as the greatest of ideas. I can't imagine why.
At 1pm I am consumed by a wave of weird dread but chase it away by looking at houses to rent on the internet. Huh. I am 34 and have never lived on my own. Ideally I am looking for a house that comes with some kind of a childminder. For me. To remind me to pay the bills and go to bed occasionally. Sheltered housing, in fact, is what I really need. There is none available on Immoweb. I compound the weird dread by having a Crème Caramel and two miniature Twixes for lunch, and staying rooted to my desk like the fruit of a Derren Brown experiment, sweaty claws clutching my mouse.
At 3pm I am dragged from my anxiety fugue state for a conference call where we discuss my failure to harvest 'Low Hanging Fruit'. I compound my non-harvesting sins by not even remembering what Low Hanging Fruit I was supposed to be picking. Or gathering. Or feeding finely sliced to the German interns. To compensate for my fruit failure, I dash off a quick powerpoint presentation, like a sacrifice to the gods of eurotedium.
At 5pm I run away and wait for a very long time on the steps of the Beaux-Arts for the 92 tram.
At 8pm - having collected, homeworked, then hustled the spawn into their pyjamas, walked the dog, made some semblance of dinner and shoved all the dirty stuff into a cupboard so Aurélie the babysitter doesn't see it - I am clutching onto a small table for support on my 5in heels (beautifully complimenting my Fat Trousers which I was too lazy and bloated to change out of) on my third glass of free champagne at a late night shop opening thing. I have committed to buy a dress I can't afford and am wondering if I can run away without getting caught (answer: no) . Le tout Bruxelles is there and LTB is very very shiny and amusing indeed, between bat featured facelifts, giant bouffant hair, unfortunate fur items and pink cords on men. All the posh shops are open, plying you with wine and tiny snacks, but you can only go to the one that invited you. In my case this is a WIN on the drink (Moët) but a FAIL on the food, which is ironico-Belge; they have invited a Frikadelkot type thing, the Belgian equivalent of a roadside burger van. I wish I had a photo. It has giant pump action pots of mayonnaise and a variety of grey deep fried meats. I am very much regretting my crème caramel lunch. We brazen our way into a couple of other shops and meet French Celebrity (not really) Julien Leper!
I find this stupidly hilarious and have to hide behind a row of coats.
We get thrown out of our fourth shop and call it a night. Not before I have liberated 5 miniature coffee eclairs though.
At 10pm we are eating pizza out of the box on a street corner debating who is better qualified to drive the car (answer: noone).
At 1am I am still slumped in the dog's chair, dog draped heavily over my keyboard. My fingers aren't working. Nor are my eyes. I blame Derren Brown.