Actually, it was nothing like that really, I am being fanciful. I was experiencing severe anxiety, most of it unrelated to the internet and mild paranoia (which was), not an extended hallucination featuring internet gremlins. Oh dear, I'm not making this sound any, better am I? I'M FINE. The above is all exaggeration. Actually, you can see in the very existence of this disclaimer that the paranoia has not quite worn off, I am still worried about the impact anything I say on the internet may have on some unspecified future scenario that I cannot even begin to imagine.
The thing is, I am not actually sure what proportion of the internet is videos of frisky bear cubs and lovely chat about people's favourite kinds of cheap chocolate, and what proportion is dead eyed trolling and chilling lunacy, but at some point in the last week the entirely fictitious proportions I keep in my head as reassurance got dislodged. I think it was because I was writing a piece on this kind of online profile stuff, and whenever I do that I begin to see terrible pitfalls in the most innocuous statements. I have confessed to using Dr Oetker's pancake mix (shite, don't do it kids)! I will lose custody of my children! That kind of thing.
Both Paranoid Me and 'Preserving The Fiction The Internet is 50% owls in boxes and 50% nice chat with like minded people' Me award that last few paragraphs a special prize as "Paragraphs Least Likely to Reassure Anyone of my Metal Stability and Employability".
The internet is all meerkats dozing in boxes, correct? Thank you. Normal service can now resume.
Oh, you want me to say some stuff now? Ah, right. Well, there is little to report, you might regret that.
1. Alopecia is very in at the moment, honestly it's all over the couture shows in Paris, so let's have some alopecia chat. In fact, better than that, let's have a photo. Alanis Morissette must never be allowed to see this picture, her head would explode with the irony.
Yes, my friends, once more (yes, it's happened before) my WIG is going bald. I showed F a picture.
F: But wait.. that's like a Zen Koan. "The bald wig".
E: I am supposed to derive some comfort from this?
My new one will be here soon, which means a trip to see John who I love and revere above all men and who has always cut my "hair", so it's not all bad, I suppose. And I am surfing that alopecia zeitgeist good and proper, yeah baby.
Other things that need attention: my glasses (scratched, buggered), 80% of my shoes, anything that was supposed to have buttons. Stay 200m away and I look fine. Stay on the internet, in fact, please, and imagine me less stained and unravelling than I am in reality. Actually, you could come into my kitchen where all the lights have blown yet again. I probably look quite hot there.
2. Belgium is getting a little riled by the lack of government (8 months and counting). Look, it says at the top of this page here that even Pravda have noticed. There are protests and stuff. You have doubtless all heard about the beard growing? I am obviously going to have to put aside my scruples about public life and sort the constitutional crisis out AGAIN. No-one has listened to my idea of making a coalition of female tennis players, cartoon characters and Stromae. We could have Alors On Danse as a new national anthem, everyone already knows the words. Fine. I will sort it out. Give me a week or so, honestly, must I do everything round here?
3. Forthcoming entertainments: Tall Tales on Thursday which will feature the full unexpurgated tale of the Assassin as a distinct low point in what will otherwise be a programme of great hilarity. I like War Horses particularly ( these are letters from Napoleon's horse to Wellington's horse, who have the kind of relationship that would give Melanie Philips a stroke). You can still come if you like, you just email the address on that link. I'll let you admire my balding wig and everything.
That means I am going to London, hooray, it has been aaages (erm, about 6 weeks). M has instructed me about some special Hungarian black facial mud I have to go and poke in Liberty, Fingers has been promised a box of Lucky Charms, his favourite diabetes in a box style treat and I am all out of Bobbi Brown Caviar gel eyeliner. What with that and John to pay, I had better start saving up, or better still robbing.
4. The dog hates me tonight because I washed his stinking blanket. He's like a child with a comfort blanket that must preserve its specially fetid scent (I have one of those, children, not fetid comfort blankets). I did not Febreze him, as I threatened, although he fully deserves it.
Looking at this picture, I note that I would have been well advised to wash my net curtains instead. It's a good thing that shutter is broken plunging me into perpetual twilight, if the neighbours saw the state of my nets.. Well. It doesn't bear thinking about. Except to note that the nets aren't, perhaps, strictly necessary when the shutter doesn't even open. Maintenance. It's exhausting.