I am in the FNAC, temple of all things audiovisual. They do not, contrary to Belgacom's lies, have a Wifi network. I have no idea whose wifi I am stealing, but it works occasionally. I am rapidly losing my sense of humour about this whole connectivity thing. Dull. How are you internet? I miss you. It's lonely here in 1983 without you. Wafflechild keeps getting his iphone out and staring at it folornly, telling me all the magical things it could do if we weren't, well, in Belgium.
Apart from that, sweet baby Nathan but the last 24 hours have been EFFICIENT. My gay adoptive son is like a home furnishing whirlwind, braving not only Belgian public transport, but also my driving and Belgian Ikea (where we both incurred paper cuts deep enough to require several stitches and bled all over the collection area before staunching the flow with a 65 cent hot dog, famous for their antiseptic properties) and THEN building flat pack after flat pack in a whirl of ratchet screwdrivers and Allen keys. He is AMAZING. A techno/practico/brico genius. Clearly his days of slavery in the cruel art factory he used to occupy were not wasted. My rôle has been to stand back, open mouthed and admire. It has been bloody brilliant, I can't imagine how I could ever repay him, having no skills in any domestic departments whatsoever. Maybe some mean biscuits? And of course a trip to Chez Maman's transvestite cabaret tonight. If I ever let him out of flat pack hell. Hmmm. I am tempted to just keep him. He is unbelievably useful, a bit like a home help for the elderly and permanently confused, he has got my heating working, showed me how to work my Mac, set the time on my stereo and remembered several times where I put my keys.
The Salmon Palace is starting to look like a real home, albeit one situated deep in a Marks and Spencer smoked salmon mousse. The move was extraordinarily, even brutally, fast. I only flinched a couple of thousand times as the three village idiots tossed stuff around cavalierly. We were finished before the Wafflechild had even found his way out of the Gare du Midi (much harder than it sounds, actually) leaving more time for hardcore flat pack action (if that phrase doesn't occur in my keywords, I will be extremely disappointed). The table has been a total revelation, allowing us to sit and drink tea whilst we mock the crack three man fence building team, particularly the taciturn Boris and his chainsaw happy, dog baiting, one handed press up performing awesomeness. I have a Romanian orphan tv table thing liberated from Ikea's Bargain Corner, a kitchen bench type thing, curtains... None of it would have been even remotely imaginable without Mr Houser. I would just be sitting in a nest of cardboard boxes eating biscuits and whining. He is truly a boy wonder. He should be canonised Saint Thomas of Uccle. Truly.
In other news - and truly, I promise, normal service will eventually be resumed on these pages, rather than feeble despatches from the outer limits of the 1980s - Brussels is entirely filled with drunken students at the moment. I should probably know what it's all about but the whole of the lower town is sticky with spilled beer, piss and vomit, and lorries full of peculiar people in decorated labcoats with beer mugs tied round their necks are staggering around showing me their genitals. Peculiar, but entertaining. Anyone know what it is?
I have to go. But before I do, let me edify you with the news that a BELGIAN, our Prime Minister "Herman Von Rompuy" (an assumed name if ever I heard one) has now been elected King and Lord High Emperor of Europe. He gets to have a throne on the top of the Atomium and robes made from the national flags of the 27 Member States. Or something. I dread to imagine what this will mean for Belgian government, so if you don't hear from me for a while it probably means I have been called upon to run Belgium temporarily. Don't worry, I have an Allen key and I know how to use it. Well, I don't but I know a man who does.