E: But Thursday's supposed to be one of the good ones! He's my guy!
M: That's just what he wants you to think.
E: I see. So Thursday is the moustachioed evil OCD boyfriend in that Julia Roberts film. What was that called?
E and M simultaneously, not for nothing are they brain twins: Sleeping with the Enemy?
E: Exactly. Jeudi wants you to know that whatever befalls you is all your own fault for angering him in this way by failing to align the labels on the condiment jars precisely.
M: Don't fall asleep when jeudi's around. You'll wake up to see him advancing on your neck wearing surgical gloves.
Thursday audit: I do not believe in my book anymore. I think it's probably a heap of old shit and worse still, it is not as BIG a heap of old shit as I had fondly deluded myself. I have been overstating my word count to myself, it transpires. Excellent. I am also itchy all over and have been on the verge of tears all day. I am call screening two people one of whom is a sixty five year old taxi driving lothario (if you are reading this, you are NOT the other person, I can assure you). I made Lashes cry over the thorny issue of 8 x 7. Fingers has developed a morbid fascination with Queen. I have an additional small child staying tomorrow night, one whose father used to take his elder children on a tour of our old house pointing out the mess and laughing in delight at my eccentricity. "Regardez, boys! There's a crisp packet on the floor!". He'll have a field day here. I am in my usual state of administrative denial, domestic inertia and meltdown with a generous sprinkling of guilt.
I have decided (not consicously I should emphasise) to deal with my problems by EATING and am on my fifth fairy cake of the evening. This is of course ultra sensible in view of my totally happy and healthy history with food. I don't even know if I need to worry about this. I thought I was done with this particular strand of neurosis. I still think I am. Whatever. My body feels that life would be easier with another three chins and who am I to argue?
If any of you were my mother - tricky, what with her being dead - you would now be asking me the following question. If you're feeling clever, you can guess now.
My mother would be asking "is it your hormones?"
I would be rolling my eyes and flouncing and saying "UUUUUGH NO. IT IS NOT MY HORMONES. GOD. WHY IS IT ALWAYS MY HORMONES WITH YOU???.
(It is not my hormones)
I do not see many solutions. I outline them below.
1. Nervous breakdown.
3. Join some form of witness protection scheme.
4. Get some guts and sort myself out with the application of sharp and frequent kicks to my own shins.
5. Trudge on without getting vastly more sensible or competent or grown up, hoping that things will gradually start to improve in tiny increments.
6. Nervous breakdown. I keep coming back to this one. I like the total abdication of responsibility it implies. I am allowing myself to take the possibility out of the dark recess of my mind where it lives and stroke it, but only because I know I can't really do it.
We all know the only thing that could possibly happen is 5. I am going ahead with 5, hopefully with the highly intelligent but thus far elusive addition of sleep.
Avanti! Slow, tedious, repetitive avanti!