Outside, the annual street party in the Rue du Désespoir Quotidien is raging, if by raging, you mean there are half a dozen tiddly pensioners discussing controversial parish business and a handful of small children shrieking and bouncing footballs, seemingly, off the spongy surface of my temporal lobe. The - tiny - epicentre of the street party is JUST outside my house, which apparently marks the midpoint of the street. We went along for half an hour - Fingers, who does not seem to have inherited the social awkwardness gene - insisted, seduced by the prospect of unlimited Oasis squash and maize snacks. I ended up talking to Commander Von Trapp from next door. This is the first time he has spoken to me in six months. I became instantly spellbound by his gigantic eyebrows and leather elbow patches and was unable to look anywhere else. It was better when we didn't speak. In fairness, I must say he was quite kind about my unfortunate 'keys left in the front door' incident, and told me that one of their SIX children once left the front door open all night and he was woken at 2am by a stranger shining a torch two inches from his face, as the local constabulary had come in to investigate, fearing a burglary. Noone in the street seems to have less than 3 children. Is it a rule? I was not informed. I am expecting a visit shortly from some Ucclois Maréchal Pétain figure trying to persuade me to do my bit for Belgium and have some more. If they saw what mine had for dinner they might not bother. I spent a fun five minutes sweeping crisp residue and biscuit crumbs under the sofa before collapsing entirely.
Last weekend, full of dressing up and bad behaviour and high jinks, seems a lifetime away. It sort of is.
Can you beat my Friday night for lameness?