1. . Einstein. I am mainly preoccupied with the size of Einstein's head. Remember the pygmy jerboa (this bears watching again, even if you do. The masterful moment when it falls off the scale still works for me)? And how we established it was approximately 83% head by volume? Einstein is not quite that masterfully HEAD, but I reckon he's about 68% head. He troubles the laws of physics almost as much as a bumble bee. He would look lovely in my large green handbag. I want those tiny hooves to pet.
2. Fingers has had a deliciously short haircut. Since he is very very brown from his week at the gulag calisthenics camp in Ostende, the haircut gives him a centimetre of very pale white contrast skin around the hairline which looks particularly lovely. I could quite happily hold him in my gnarled claws forever right now, if he would let me. This is a pre-haircut picture but I love how absorbed he is. He is always absorbed.
3. His elder brother has been sticking notes on my back all evening, then hilariously executing what they say. They say things like "tape moi" and "donne moi un coup de pied", but with ornate, 8 year old spelling. I love primary school humour. Then he drew Oscar's brain, entirely unprompted.
You probably can't read it but it says "balle, crier, chocolat, courir, mordre, lit, caca et pipi, sniffer les fesses" (ball, shouting, running, biting, bed, poo and wee, sniffing bottoms). Very accurate. Maths is less of a strong point. We both ran into difficulties tonight on the 7 times table in ways that would cause my father, the statistician, to doubt my parentage. Sssh. 42 is totally 7 x 7. Sort of. Not.
Later, I tried to put up curtains in his room, using Iris, the deadly, gigantic, rickety stepladder while he read in bed.
"Lashes, do you know what number to call if I fall off this ladder?"
"Do you know who to call on the phone if I fall off the ladder and hurt myself?"
Long pause. Page turning. Ominous creaks from Iris.
"118. CENT DIX HUIT. Ok?" swaying, precariously, 8 feet up, on Iris's loose rungs, wishing for one of those red buttons on a piece of string from the back of the Sunday supplements circa 1983 ("Mrs Hope knows help is coming").
"Ouais, Ok". Not looking up, even momentarily.
I related this to M, who said "he would just leave you until the weepette ate your face". She is correct. I am really REALLY happy to have them back right now. I feel a lot saner already after an evening of just picking up their strewn clothes and mini egg foil and listening to them bicker and stick post-its to the dog.
4. I am listening to this a great deal. It's quite a sparse, insubstantial thing, so I'm not sure why it appeals so much. It does though. It might just be the contrast with the Von Trapps who spent yesterday tormenting me with STING.
5. There is no 5. I have been trying to think of one for an hour. Erm. There is a beautiful crop of dandelions in the back garden. The dog has not peed on the fridge for over 2 weeks. I found three temazepam hidden in a box of teabags whilst tidying. Zooborns (check out the baby capybaras, the ones entirely underwater are particularly fine). King Albert has appointed a temporary crisis potato to sort everything out, though personally I think there were many suggestions in the comments that far outstripped this in ingenuity and cunning. (UPDATE: King Albert really should have listened to us, because the crisis potato has turned out to be no use whatsoever and now we really don't have the slightest excuse for a government. Ah, well). Other than that, it's all pretty much ratshit. It might be time to head back to Kiss & Ride tomorrow, we could all do with some light relief.