I am not so sick any more. Thoughts of dying alone and unmourned have receded to a more reasonable, once an hour, level. I have eaten half a packet of Carr's Melts, the superiorly salty cracker. I could do with another 48 hours sleep, but apart from that I am pretty perky.
Firstly, I have marked your entries in the Surprise Test, check how you did at comment #31. A fairly poor show all round, but props to Candace for creating an ice cream flavour for Reno I could actually taste (and gag on).
Back to London tomorrow. My niece and nephew will doubtless be delighted with the short films the spawn have made for them, which are heavy on violence and dance routines and short on plot, like some kind of Belgo-Bollywood spectacular. Except with more plastic sharks. After my nephew's opening sally, an elaborate dance routine in a Mexican wrestling outfit, it's turning into a cross-channel video dance off, which is no bad thing. Things I must bring back from London: small plastic aliens in packets for the spawn, Protect & Perfect serum for my colleague, Peanut Butter Chunky KitKats for the bulimic that slumbers within me. Possibly also a birthday present for Fingers who will be six (going on fifty six) on Monday.
With my usual once yearly display of bounteous, perfect motherdom, I brought out my extensive collection of Women's Weekly and Jane Asher birthday cakes books and set them in front of him on Sunday.
"Are you ready to choose your cake darling?" I trilled, filled with confidence and self-satisfaction at the memory of past, er, triumphs. Ahem.
Fingers pushed the books away fastidiously without opening them.
"Je veux un gâteau normal". (I want a normal cake)
"Oh. What, like a rectangular one? With sweets on the top?"
"Your name in Smarties? Sparklers?"
And thus it starts, the process of being an embarassment to your children. He has already tried to stop me going to a party with him. In a matter of months he will be making me walk ten paces behind him and only address him in the privacy of our home. For some reason his elder brother is less appalled by me, though more focussed on extracting Stuff. Perhaps with the regular application of ten euro notes and DS games I might still be allowed the odd cuddle for another year or so. This is why people end up having more children isn't it? Or pets. Or extremely tactile partners.
In other news I went to see Vampire Weekend toute seule comme une grande this week. I don't know quite what I was expecting, but fewer fourteen year olds. Without any particular thought, I ended up right down the front which admittedly attracts the more robust section of the crowd. By the time I looked up and realised there was a more age-appropriate first floor balcony where people in sensible trousers were standing stroking their beards and nodding sedately, it was too late, I was wedged in. It was an interesting sociological experience anyway. Why so many jumpers, teens? This is not the kind of 'no future' nihilism I expect from adolescents, thank you. I was mystified by the profusion of knitwear, though it didn't stop them bouncing along cheerfully enough (so hot! How could they bear it?). Vampire Weekend were very slick, very sweet, very gracious as you might expect, played a nice long set with all the tunes you would want to hear at a Vampire Weekend gig. You would have to have been a native speaker to hear the slightly sardonic tone when Ezra Koenig said 'Brussels'. Maybe I was imagining it anyway?
Coming soon: the long-delayed return of Dr Capybara, physiotherapy with Dr Champagne (a real doctor, not another disgruntled rodent) and Mexican Wrestling, belgo-style.