Drawing a blank here. Selective memory syndrome. Hang on, let me pull up the doubtless extensive gchat with brain twin... No, nothing. God this is like doing timesheets. I can tell you M made a Victoria Sponge and Hainanese chicken and that I discussed brainless corporate slogans with Mrs Trefusis. Sounds like a full and frank day.
Watched 24 with the CFO in the evening in a bizarre simulacrum of our previous life. Jack Bauer is looking good. The CFO is looking thin and I am looking lame. I mean, properly, physically lame, not just mentally lame as usual.
I am a crap, not terribly conscientious babysitter to my own children. Thankfully they are used to substandard parental care from me and we are at least rather delighted to see each other on a Papa week.
I go shopping. This is distinctly not allowed, but my tax rebate makes me reckless. I buy a Nespresso machine, signing myself up to their lunatic cult. I love it, guiltily, deliciously. It is cute, small, red and efficient and makes perfectly reasonable coffee. I no longer have to pass for a cultural simpleton, offering effete tea when workmen come round. I have coffee. Ouf. (I told you it wouldn't be up to much. This is the best I can do, OK?). I also buy new scent I am distinctly unsure about.
In the evening I go Out. This is sufficiently rare to be worthy of comment. We are aiming to go to Chez Maman, Brussels's premier transvestite lipsynching cabaret venue, but are aghast to find it shut. Instead we end up in a horrible, tiny dive enticingly called 'Homo Erectus'. There is some form of drag act, but the clientele are so compellingly horrible, it's more entertaining to watch them. Finally conceding defeat, we wander back through the Grand Place, sliding on the rain greased cobbles. It looks very pretty. I never see these bits of Brussels, on my rat runs from rainy Uccle to rainy office.
I am a little unwell (hem hem) and spend much of the day curled in a ball. However my FIRE arrives causing the weather to instantly warm up by 5°. I boil myself gently to death in my bed by not knowing how to turn the fire off.
After a dull, rainy, drudgery filled day I get to kick back and go into town in a daft dress and heels. I discover that Czechs eat coypus, which are, disturbingly, like baby Dr Capybaras, that Zurich has a burlesque scene, and that something about the combination of steak frites, gin and tonic and poultry themed bars makes me faint. I recover from my dorky fainting fit, gathering dust on the bar floor to rally Chez Maman, where dubious quality "travelottes" alternate with cheap and cheerful disco. There is approximately a square centimetre of space per patron. Cosy. It's a very late night full of gin and enormous but entertaining cloakroom queues.
Feeling delicate. I clear up dog related carnage in my nightie, cursing, and go to the Brasseries Georges with Prog Rock where the mere sight of steak frites makes me have a funny turn. He tells me about new poetry phenomena he has been reading about in Le Monde Diplomatique, one of which he claims is called "The Vroum Vroum" and involves falling downstairs. I am comprehensively puzzled. He is merciful and only starts one sentence with "In Eugene Onegin.." He even takes the weepette for a totter round the block for me. I go back to bed. The Catholics torment me and my lifestyle choices with constant drilling and the Jackson 5 (eh?).
Oh god, I've bored myself into submission. Go on, tell me about your week. Or better still, suggest a recipe. One that I can make from bed, ideally. Remember, I have FIRE.