i know that i am bound
for a journey down the sound
in the midst of a refuse mound
but wotthehell wotthehell
oh i should worry and fret
death and i will coquette
there s a dance in the old dame yet
toujours gai toujours gai
Admittedly, yesterday wasn't the most intelligent day to go and collect my cardboard box of grubby coffee cups, pulp novels and plastic forks from the office, but inspired misscheduling is becoming a theme this autumn, so it was to be expected. Anyway, most of the crying was over by what, 3pm, and I didn't actually cry IN the office, which is actually quite impressive given how much I cried before and after, so I am giving myself a godalmighty pat on the back. I emailed B so that we could agree that the remainder of this week should go fuck itself, preemptively, and told him about the crying.
I ended up bent double in the park this morning, like someone had punched me in the stomach I said. Things are going brilliantly, I am at least 110% win. Right?
You are made of win he replied, comfortingly. I mean, I bet you're well dressed when park-weeping aren't you? And thus more 'despairing ingenue' than 'crazy homeless lady'. And next week when the infants are away you can buy fizzy wine from Lidl (it's actually great and €3 a bottle).
Although 'ingenue' is pushing it at 35, I did take some comfort from the fact that I was indeed wearing my beautiful MaxMara cashmere coat, bought almost exactly a year ago in a fit of wotthehell fiscal insanity and not regretted for a single, solitary second. My local Lidl is a bare five minute stumble away too. B always knows the right thing to say.
Things finally started looking up when I took Fingers to the hairdresser.
There is something irresistible about children in hairdressers, especially hairdressers that make no concessions to child friendliness, and my child is hilariously grave. I was smiling idiotically within seconds of him sitting down. He mainly tried to ignore me, conceded a small smile eventually. He's great, this one. He's funny and clever and daring, a strange mix of orderly and anarchic. He fills me with optimism. They both do. I persuaded the two of them onto a manège a bit later on, even though Lashes had to fold his knees into complex origami shapes to get into the aeroplane. I sat on a bench, wrapped in my fiscally suicidal MaxMara coat and watched them revolve in a blur of neon as the light drained from the wintry sky.