Things threatened to degenerate badly this evening when Lashes pulled down the curtain pole and its orange towelling curtain (inherited from previous tenant and much discussed this time last year) into the bath whilst trying to squirt a water pistol out of the bathroom window, because obviously there was not enough water in our lives at that point. They didn't degenerate, in the end, well, not much, though I did find my lip trembling a little when Prog Rock chose that particular moment to tell me about Rilke's juvenile travels. We played Piranha Panic instead. I might have to call on The Assassin to fix the curtain rail. When I saw him earlier this week for a further installment of The Terrible Things I Have To Do But Can't Talk About (Except To You), he offered to teach me how to shoot. On balance, I'd rather he taught me basic plastering.
Three tipping points into the floodwaters of lunacy:
1. The shitty pointless Ikea rug "non-slip" underlay that manages both to stick out in an unsightly fashion AND be totally without function. It's in the process of taking on some kind of meta-significance in my life.
2. The eyeball gougingly slow woman on the desk at the hippy museum, whose inability to count past about 8 means that 50 people have to stand outside, in the astonishingly consistent rain, for 20 minutes past opening time. Also, the new exhibition - and each one lasts FOUR YEARS (that is literally correct, I am not exaggerating) - is a bit dreary.
3. The kitchen table, currently only about 14% wood visible, the rest craft supplies, a seemingly infinite number of mainly lidless felt tip pens (but none of them black or red), abandoned amaretti biscuits half chewed and rejected, cunningly concealed essentials such as knives, scissors, keys and cables, and a pile of creepy Ensor themed colouring.
Three tiny life rafts:
1. Prog Rock walked the dog. Twice. And brought me two Cadbury's caramels and an advent calendar. He has gone now, sadly.
2. The children are mainly extremely sweet and charming and good company. Filthy and feckless and loud and in my face, but charming.
3. Reading this. I was actually riveted to my bed when I started this, and unable to move until I had finished it, even though I could tell from the noises off that the children were helping themselves to Kinder Buenos and strawberry bootlaces for breakfast, then unwrapping amaretti and wondering whether they could reach matches, and the dog was systematically emptying, then messily chewing up, the contents of the recycling bin.
Do let me have yours. I am going to watch baby pandas in the dark, in bed, fully clothed.