For three days a fortnight I destroy the world economy

You know a lot about my weeks with the spawn - the shouting, the omnipresent Poké-pedometer, the supine parental abnegation, the limited meal options, the whiny exhaustion on my part. You know a lot less about my weeks without. There's a reason for this - unless I go away (frequent), they are tremendously boring. Don't get me wrong - I enjoy them. A lot. I get to sit in front of my computer until I go cross-eyed. Sometimes I even get stuff done. Like, words and stuff. Very occasionally, I even manage to accomplish some delicate act of Belgian administration without fucking it up, though it usually requires days of build up, and an even longer recovery period. The dog and I wander around the house falling over each other and sharing snacks that are bad for both of us or we walk the streets luxuriating in the endless possibility of not having anything particular to do. It's great. Occasionally lonely, often a bit boring, but great. It doesn't make for very entertaining blogging though. More importantly, it doesn't pay the bills, as I understand those boring pieces of paper that litter my doormat are called, so the producing words part of the day must be increased to appropriately stakhanovite levels before I end up on the streets. If anyone can think of ways to frighten me into greater productivity, I am all ears.

What, for instance, have I done today, you ask breathlessly? I am SO glad you asked.

I got up at about 8, cursing my own stupidity in owning a small bladdered dog with a fatal attraction to my fridge. The dog was cowering under the kitchen table, suggesting some unfortunate fridge incident. I was unable to find what atrocity he had committed and was forced to let him off.

I ate three supermarket pancakes with half a heart attack of butter with giant salt crystals in and drank a mug of tea in grumpy silence as the dog fluttered balletically around me depositing balls in my lap and staring at me in mute entreaty.

Once all the balls in the house were on my lap and mute entreaty had given way to high pitched whining, I gave in, found something to wear on the bathroom floor and took the dog for a walk. Today I won, by which I mean, I captured the dog before it jumped into the scummy duck pond. I'd say we score more or less equally.

On our return home, I wrote 2000 words painfully slowly, over many hours, an activity I find combines well with:

- eating biscuits

- drinking tea and coffee alternately

- whining on gchat

- flicking desultorily from one open window to another in search of distraction

- editing a post for Facegoop

- emailing on sundry topics including: ponies, Guerlain bees, a peculiar interview I am doing next week, pining, post-Freudian conceptions of melancholia and the predominance of bearded men at Place Flagey.

- eating a sandwich at some inappropriate hour that does not even have a glancing familiarity with lunchtime.

Then I went to the bank and queued for an hour to deposit a cheque, before going to the station and queueing for an hour to buy a ticket.

Then I discovered this blog, and became obsessed with it, thus killing a significant proportion of the rest of the afternoon.

And so my day has passed. Thankfully I am going out shortly and do not have to flail around in the kitchen making the little lord Jesus cry with my cookery. I will now terrify the more protestant-work-ethic types around here by saying that this was a GOOD day. Yesterday I wrote 400 words, had several naps, and fashioned 4 types of headgear from tinfoil. There's a reason the world economy is in freefall and it's me.