Lost a child at a packed, boiling hot Mexican fiesta in a museum. Child, as is often the case, had no idea it was lost. 5 men with walkie-talkies and a hyperventilating mother begged to differ.
Cried like a snivelly baby for no good reason as the CFO failed to drill (non-essential) holes in a cement wall for me.
Cried again at this.
Obsessively researched snake massage.
Struggled with 177 photos of Charleroi.
Revised the spellings of "oeuf" and "oeil" with a profoundly uninterested child until my eyes were rolling 360° in my head.
Broke up 177 quarrels. Badly. Impatiently. Occasionally roaring like Uncle Matthew in the Nancy Mitford books.
Changed sick child's sheets twice.
Cleaned out the bath following sick child incident.
Recoiled in horror at the sight of my hideous skin in the bathroom mirror (blame water). Smeared it obsessively with unguents. Recoiled even more violently on returning to the bathroom mirror some hours later to see the gel-type unguent I had smeared on it was peeling off, giving me the allure of a hideously sunburnt, or possibly leprous, mole rat. I am assuming this is punishment from the gods for having the hubris to start a beauty blog. Even a stupid one.
Drank wine and ground my teeth for several hours, stopping to answer a series of profoundly puzzling questions on ageing from child who kept appearing on the staircase, shiftily. ("What is it like, getting older? Do you get more aggressive? Are you still the same?"). Tried not to answer TOO honestly ("You will always feel puzzled and confused and not quite a grown up inside, however old you are, whilst becoming ever more crushingly conscious of your own mortality, darling") whilst not tipping over into Mary Poppins/Enid Blyton "It's a jolly adventure!". Probably failed on both counts.
Wrote about Charleroi until 2am.
Slept fitfully and dreamt horrible dreams of meeting up with old lovers (at cabinet meetings, on delayed trains) with NO MAKE UP. NONE. Nothing to cover the peeling, leprous mole rat skin. No eyeliner. Woke up sweaty with the horror of it all.
Today has been much calmer, thankfully, but now I have to go back down into the biscuit salt mines and make mean biscuits until I dream I am becoming a doughy, tasteless biscuit myself.
What do you think my gingerbread men should say this time? I was thinking just "Fuck Off", but I'm not sure I can muster 3 Fs....