Manifesto

So, I got nominated for the Bloggies by some freakish accident (thank you so much whoever nominated me), and now I am looking around here with a fresh eye in case of new visitors, lost and bewildered on their way to other, better blogs.

(New people, here is a nano blog synopsis: I am an English, female, 35 and living in Brussels, for reasons lost in the mists of antiquity, with my two children and idiotic dog. The cast of characters is here. I am recently separated from the CFO, who is a very nice man who likes tortoises. I have unhealthy relationships with the internet, money, Bonne Maman crème caramels and a craven need to please everyone. Very little of note ever happens, but sadly that does not stop me from blogging. I like shoes and whining and words. There are many many things I do not like , but if pressed, I would particularly single out the hoover for opproprium) .

God, so dusty! I had already taken off some of the more ancient photos that were going yellow down the bottom of the page after someone told me there were too many plastic toys on here. I note, for instance, that the Belgian pic of the week has not changed since November and that Prog Rock's reading list is even older than that. Given that the man averages 12 books a week, this is so out of date it's positively antediluvian. I will work on that. And let me have any ideas you have for making things prettier. Just, not today. (I am very lazy, new readers, promising much and delivering virtually nothing).

No. Today I will make outlandish promises for what I will do if you vote for me.

If I win, I hereby promise to make the weepette a Mexican Wrestling outfit.

You know I can do it:

Red children's tights come to mind as a good starting point. See? I have thought about this. I am going Mexican Wrestling next month. This is why the idea is once more foremost in my mind. There is Mexican Wrestling! In Brussels! I am making Monk come with me. She knows about Mexico. She got sent there after the Mexican ambassador took a shine to her, or something.

Other manifesto promises:

I promise to feature a regular post from the Brussels Metro 'Kiss and Ride' column of Belgian tragi-comic hilarity.

I promise to have a more balls in selecting what I write about (except things that might lose me my job).

I promise to become Prime Minister of Belgium.

Free speculoos for all.

And I will call my next pet Witloof. (FYI if I ever show signs of wishing to get another pet you may kill me, kill me stone dead).

And my next children will be called Jacques Brel and Johnny Halliday. Even if they are girls. (FYI if I ever show signs of wishing to have another child you must kill me even deader. I do not imagine this will be necessary. I have been disturbed 80000000 times at a conservative estimate since I started trying to write this, among other things, to provide Hula Hoops for a killer whale)

Noone has to eat their brussels sprouts and you can all stay up past your bedtimes.

Ok, I'm exhausted and slightly nauseated with all this self-promotion. Go and vote for me, please? Or not. That's fine too. Right, time for gin.