BUT NO. I have lost my wallet AGAIN, which adds an exciting refinement to the Belgian Bank Holiday weekend of doom - Bank Holiday Weekend of Doom with €5! Amuse your venal children by making them pay for their own Happy Meals! Self-flagellate at your own stupidity! Amaze your friends with convoluted phone calls to the world's most depressing call centres while Mario and Luigi sing their sweet songs in your other eardrum!
So that was nice. I have borrowed €50 from the CFO and I feel ashamed and pathetic and a total dick. Excellent. This set of sensations is meshing nicely with my headachy, whiny hangover. There was a particularly brilliant moment this morning in the park cafe where we had taken the weepette to meet his adoptive mother (also then required to pay for drinks and lend me a tram ticket, sorry Beatrice), when simultaneously:
- Lashes flicked a straw of juice at his brother causing me to bellow so loud at him that the whole park went eerily silent and stared at us;
- Fingers knocked his menthe à l'eau over everywhere and then tripped over the chair, going flying across the gravel;
- the weepette, maddened by all the excitement, pissed all over a temporary sculpture and terrified a toddler, then got confused and ran INTO the (relatively smart, serving a brunch buffet) cafe, causing havoc.
During this, both children were hysterically cackling and I was thinking about wrapping them in duct tape until Monday morning. It is some indication of the state of things that this afternoon, I spent several hours hoovering obsessively, despite my fear and loathing of the hoover. This was because whilst hoovering, I could not hear the shrieks of outrage, highly repetitive arguments, the clash of sturdy child skulls or the gentle skittering of a full jar of Hundreds and Thousands all over the kitchen floor that punctuated the day.
I have no faith that we have hit rock bottom. I have another cake to make and two to ice by Monday morning to fête the arrival of my first born 8 years ago. I have managed to make one misshapen dinosaur already. Things were going fine, until Lashes wandered past where it was sitting on the cooling rack and and thrust his hand into it, grabbing a fistful of cake and stuffing it into his mouth, spreading crumbs everywhere for me to hoover, dementedly. Now the cake looks like a dinosaur that has suffered a vicious velociraptor attack to its internal organs, which will make an interesting decorative challenge. Without most of the necessary ingredients (food colouring on a Sunday? In Belgium? Going to be interesting).
On top of this, I have promised a trip to the Dinosaur Museum which will involve 3 modes of Sunday public transport and at least €25 of my borrowed €50. Who knows what else I may have promised in a moment of weakness, I will doubtless be reminded at 6am by long fingers poking my eyelids open. The house still smells horribly and aribtrarily of drains about 40% of the time. Like now! Bonsoir, drain smell. Drains and Diptyque, it's delightful. I am now imagining a candle with that special Diptyque wonky letters label but the label reads "DRAINS". or "EGOUTS" because that's French, and thus more desirable. It must be time for bed.