Friday, 28 May 2010

Friday night

It's half past nine on a Friday night and I have had to go to bed, since I reached a point a short time ago where I had to rest my head on the keyboard and cry a little from pure defeat. I have a plain Activia yoghurt, a green tea and a pre-toothpasted brush next to my bed, since I am quite sure I will not be able to muster the werewithal to walk ten yards to the bathroom later in the evening. There are FOUR STEPS after all. I am wearing 2 jumpers and some ill-advised shorts. I have just noticed I have forgotten to bring facial wipes. Fuck it, I will sleep in my make up (FOUR STEPS, after all).

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?


Anonymous said...

Well, we have our very own Street Party up and running - I assume you are also suffering from the Fete des Voisins. It is very loud. I explained to them that I am too embarassed by my bad French to attend. And now I am on the computer. Which is sadder - the computer or 1980s music at a Street Party? (me probably but then I have been in Belgium 11 years, and still can only muster passable French...)

Bryony said...

lame is the word - in bed contemplating another week in plaster (5 so far) with my second snapped achilles in 2 months. That and our new "government"....not good.... take care Bx

Bryony said...

... I meant to say 12 months ...can't even type straight...

ganching said...

By myself watching rubbish on television and wishing that I hadn't heard what I heard today.

Lisa-Marie said...

Went to in-laws house and had pizza and non-alcoholic wine as is pregnant sister-in-laws birthday. At the late time of 10pm, returned home, got into jogging bottoms and vest, and husband and I are side by side in bed looking at things on our computers.

I am telling myself it's ok as we are going out tomorrow night!

katyboo1 said...

I am watching dr. Christian Jesson and his scary shirts look at scary body parts on Embarrassing Illnesses because I cannot be bothered to get up, change channel, or read my book. Why do these people hide these illnesses for eleventy years and then whack their penises out on national t.v.? I do not understand.

Does that help you feel less hopeless?

Northern Snippet said...

watching Jonathon Ross....I rest my case.

Fat Controller said...

Lame isn't the word. The good burghers (did I spell that right?) of this town decided that we should do something quite original and revolutionary and hold an 'Open By Night' i.e. I have been on my feet, working from 9,30 this morning to 10 this evening, snatching hurried slices of pizza during lulls in the fighting. It's now 2 am and I'm still too pumped to go to bed. Even if I wanted to go out I couldn't because Daughter has taken the car and is doubtless having a jolly time out on the town with her friends...


We are at home having had a dinner that tasted like it was made out of old maize clippings and listening to Nik Kershaw, who is on the radio. After this, we may watch a DVD with burrowing owls in. Surely I win. Surely.

the polish chick said...

came home, washed blood off my arms and hair, ate scrambled eggs and a small bowl of prunes, and am now at the computer, in an uncomfortably stony silence because the mister and i had a smallish tiff. third load of laundry is in the washer and the mister is weaving a seat for the recumbent tricycle he is building. jazz on the radio, not even 9pm yet and i want to go to sleep. perhaps i shall have the last of the wine to cheer myself up.

WV:undallyv - the adjective that best describes the sadness of our collective friday night failures

Jessica said...

My terribly exciting evening included being confused in a Primark and being confused in a Saturn, followed by a good couple of hours at Belle-Mere's while b/f installed antivirus software on her computer and explained to her how the internet workzzzzzzzzzzzz.

I eventually decided that sleeping in my chair until it was over.

Jessica said...

-that sleeping in my chair was best-

And Lisa-Marie... non-alcoholic wine? This is a crime, no?

GingerB said...

I am reading blogs despite the fact that I could watch TV or a movie now that the kids are in bed. And keeping one eye closed because it seems a bit blurry and I don't want to get glasses. And I didn't bathe after exercising quite strenuously, and I don't cae what my husband thinks.

I think I am a lameness conteder.

frau antje said...

It was quiet and peaceful, as I was already more than spent from working on what to say 'in fairness' all week. It's, um, something how they seem to need attention, and yet are oblivious to anything but themselves at the same time. There is a field theory for this, there is. Facial wipes are also great for getting paint off your hands.

That's Not My Age said...

Oh yes. Slipped disc means I can't sit down for any length of time so I watch telly lying on the floor like an eight year old. Two glasses of wine to relieve the back pain (and aching wrists) and I cant stay awake, so yet another early night. I'm so effing bored with this.

Jessica said...

ps - you are down but not out. You are too tough to be out. But keyboard crying is certainly allowed.

Xtreme English said...

gracious! belgium sounds scintillating. last night i carried my wonderful drink upstairs: strawberries blended in blood orange juice and enhanced with half a cup or so of vodka, set it down on my nightstand, brushed my teeth, lay down fully clothed on the bed just to recover a bit from the trip upstairs, and fell sound asleep. woke up in media nocte, took my pills, changed into my pjs, and conked out again till morning.
this morning i carried the drink back downstairs, poured it in the sink, took my drops, and continued working on the project i was working on last night until i made the drink and headed up to bed.

that's so dull i can hardly stand to type it.

WrathofDawn said...

A trip to Wal-Mart was the highlight of my evening yesterday. then home to stare dully at the computer screen until I could stand it no more and went to bed.

What is my prize?

Waffle said...

The kinship of your fellow interweb saddoes, WoD. Which is of course priceless.

Betty M said...

I believe tortilla chips and humous icounts as a nourishing meal - well in this house anyway. Friday night was as usual spent dozingin front of the tv.

puncturedbicycle said...

My Friday night:
The man and I had to make an emergency visit to his parents, who were struggling to prepare for Dorset Art Weeks with father's progressive array of injuries. In his efforts to soldier on through his knee injury, he fell over in the street and injured his hand and his ankle and needed to move a huge pile of manure to the top of the garden before strangers started pitching up the next morning to view paintings.
Just before we left, the man and I had a huge fight which culminated in me poking his chest ineffectually and throwing his jumper on the ground. Then I wept halfway to Dorset.
We arrived at midnight, which at least meant we could go straight to bed and draw a line under Friday.
Saturday was better, and I didn't expect much from a rainy day spent shifting shit, so the moral of the story is that low expectations are our friends.

ghada said...

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ghada said...

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ghada said...

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ghada said...

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