I think I can wring approximately three thoughts out of my head. Let's see how it goes. I might collapse in a drooling heap in my horrible tuna salad before then. Yes, I am once more in McDonalds, my premier lunching venue, and we all know who's to blame. I'm sitting right next to the loo, where the fearsome dame pipi is creating some sort of toxic Harpic storm. It's delightful.
First. Look what Gina made for me to celebrate my birthday. It's a finger puppet scene of carnage. Not any finger puppet scene of carnage though - a BESPOKE scene of carnage made to my exacting, birthday diva, Mariah Carey, specifications. I actually think there's a successful business model for bespoke finger puppet scenes lurking in here somewhere, maybe somewhere along with the arse biscuits and the top secret internet dating project that Mrs Trefusis and I fantasise about in our idle minutes. Who's in? Shall we go on Dragon's Den with an ill-thought out project to make evil stuff to order for people?
Second. I have an article in Elle UK this month about abortion, which came out today. It was odd to write, reliving such a difficult part of the last few years (and I don't specifically mean the abortion, more the whole, hideous Paris experience), even odder to reread. Seeing"I felt ashamed and inadequate" in large letters next to my name felt appropriate though. I reckon you could take a cross-section of me at any given time and it would be 20% shame, 40% inadequacy (though let us not forget the rest, composed of 20% sloth, 20% absurdity). The edits are sensible and well done, but of course there are bits I feel peculiar about. I'm not sure, for instance, that having an abortion was "the biggest decision in our relationship". I suppose if we had decided to go ahead and have a third child it would have been, but as it was, it just seemed to form part of a general mêlée of intractable, tangled problems. The decisions to move to, and then back from, Paris were exceptionally hard, too. It was a sort of blur of horribleness. But now? It still feels entirely the right thing to have done. Stupid to end up in that situation, but I would never, but never, have had the emotional wherewithal to deal with another child.
I'm quite amused that the CFO should be called "Tom" in the article. Tom is the name of his parents' now-defunct dog, though admittedly the belle-mère does frequently shout "Tom!" when trying to remember the name of one of her sons. He came to a Sticky End though. I cannot divulge more, save to say that the dreadful fate of the pontypines, flushed to oblivion, pales in comparison. My fault for not finding him a pseudonym myself, though. And a huge thank you to Alice at Elle for getting me the gig.
Third. I have had to engage a dog walker for the four days a month I really REALLY can't deal with the weepette, due to whining, pissed off children having no desire to trail around a cold muddy park. Yes, I know, they should have been more soundly beaten from an earlier age, and sent up more chimneys. I have been remiss in this, as in so many things. Anyway. Dog walker, further proof of my Krug lifestyle aspirations on Special Brew income. The dog walker, whose name is Isabelle, came round last night to interview the weepette (it cowered and whined insistently though becomingly). She plans to take the weepette to the luxurious country residence of a COUGAR. Ok, it is not actually a cougar, it is a cougar weepette, and there is no such thing as a cougar weepette to my knowledge. But! "Moon" is apparently a very elderly but sprightly lady weepette who lives in a gigantic mansion with its own extensive grounds. She has recently lost her longtime gentleman companion. Oscar will be engaged to raise her spirits.
Now. Does it not seem to you that if the weepette is to be enlisted as a gigolo for the pleasure and edification of a geriatric lady weepette, surely he should get PAID? And where does the dogwalker lady get off pimping my weepette out? Dogpimp more like. Of course I am actually delighted that Oscar will get to gambol in the lap of luxury and might come back with diamond studded collars and mink coats. I nourish a secret hope that Moon's owner will fall in love with him and propose a dog share. For large numbers of euros. That would be perfect. So, Oscar, you know what you have to do. Operation weepette seduction.
Meh. Onwards through the rain and the sleet. There is a rumour that Belgabastards are coming tomorrow, and if they do, rest assured you will be the first to hear about it.