Went to the park twice with the dog. Oh, the mind-numbing tedium of walking the dog, who stays verrrry verrrry close to my side at all times, thinking with all the might of its tiny, pea-sized brain 'if I just stare up at her for long enough she will get sick of my pitiful staring and take a ball out of her handbag'. He is correct, but he forgets how appallingly I throw. I have put something, several things, out today trying. Things to do in the park:
- look for nice men to impress with my special, souped-up TurboDog (rare)
- be approached by elderly ladies and told about their sad lives (frequent)
- Outsource the dog to gangs of local youth keen to relieve the monotony of living in Uccle by throwing a tennis ball around. They are always welcome. (hot weather only)
- Look for rats (sighted about twice a week).
Tried on a very old dress. I don't know what masochistic streak makes me do this, it's the second in two days. Partly it's because 80% of my wardrobe is in the dirty laundry. This one, like the last, confirmed for me that while I haven't exactly got fat, my chest is massively larger than it use to be and everything is just that crucial few percent too tight for comfort. I'll never be able to trust myself to try and lose a little weight without becoming a lunatic. Lunacy is too deeply engrained. The best I can probably do is not buy any more crème caramels or large bars of Côte d'Or aux Amandes Caramelisées Avec Une Pointe de Sel. I am struggling with this. Boooring. Partly, it's that old non-coping strategy when times are hard creeping in, of getting irrationally dissatisfied with my fairly serviceable, though no longer bony, body. I will not give in to it. I have unilaterally declared myself too old for that kind of shit.
Bled out of my eyeballs trying to write 800 words that should have been as easy as breathing.
Cried repeatedly watching Glee. I seem to have a big reserve of tears to get rid of this week, and Glee is the perfect vessel for them. I was a little concerned at the indiscriminate crying but my friend B assured me that he not only weeps buckets at Glee, but also hyperventilates slightly. Reassuring.
Bought a dustpan and brush and a doormat in the local pound (euro) shop. I think this probably qualifies as the high point, well, that or the crying. Are you holding up? Is the excitement becoming too much for you?
Painted my fingernails with many, many coats of Chanel Dragon. I note, examining them now, that the right thumb is particularly rubbish. Lots of people don't really rate Chanel polishes, but I like this, it's a proper pillar box .. oh sorry, wrong blog.
Got creakily overdressed like an old lady and went up to town to poke at the sales, in an appraising, non-purchasing sort of way. Bought a new lipstick. Rouge Coco in Mademoiselle. Great colour and very, oh hang on, wrong blog again.
Read a lot of this Lorrie Moore which has a hell of a kick in the middle of a fairly meandering and uneventful seeming plot. It made me viscerally uncomfortable reading that section (I won't say, it would be a massive, ruinous spoiler). Clever Lorrrie Moore.
I am going to stop now because I am worried you might not be able to sleep after this amount of late night stimulation. Tomorrow, at this rate, I could probably deliver you a treatise on double entry book-keeping, or possibly just a photo post composed entirely of pictures of my beige floor tiles.