My nails are a disaster, I have hacked them down to nothing and they are split and deformed from prolonged contact with a range of Monsieur Propre kitchen unguents. Ô tristesse. I want the geisha nails I used to have in my former life as a pampered corporate lawyer. I did not actually have geisha nails when I was a corporate lwyer, they were an eyesore even then, but my hands certainly did not have even a glancing familiarity with Mr Propre Mousse Toutes Surfaces. I do not feel this particular aspect of my new life to be particularly enriching. Where once there were trips to lie in the louche gloom of the Porchester Spa reading magazines, now there is only the realisation that I am standing in my coat in the kitchen eating cake crumbs out of the tin, watched, more in sorrow than in anger, by an as yet unwalked dog, during the "working" day.
Thinking of nails, I have just remembered that I only got halfway through the child claw trimming session yesterday and gave up when the wriggling got too much for me, damn. "We haven't washed since Fingers' birthday", they told me cheerfully yesterday (a fact for which blame can be shared equally between me and their father) on the bus, shortly followed by some loud comment about removable hair. Lashes added gleefully that his toenails "are curling under". OH DEAR LORD. Welcome, social services. I have sluiced them down now, and will renew my efforts with the claw clipping later today, honest.
Apart from thinking about fingernails and achieving nothing, I have decided Oscar needs to start pulling his weight a little. It's not an ultimatum (yet), but all this lying around, helping himself to unguarded muffins, licking his bits and sleeping is starting to grate. I think he should requalify as one of those reading dogs. Alternatively, he would make a great personal diet coach, standing eerily close to you with a sorrowful expression as you eat. What with his being so thin and supercilious looking, it's about as off-putting as having Heidi Klum watch you eat. Or so I imagine. If I was actually in a room with Heidi Klum and food, I expect I would be all "oh, I had a huge breakfast, I'm not really hungry, maybe we could just share this kiwi fruit?" and all that crap.
Alternatively, maybe he could leverage his, um, strong personal brand with some kind of sponsorship deal? The little bastard gets recognised more often than I do*, and it's about time he started generating a revenue stream. There is simply no room for dead wood in this household. Well, except me. That is my job, the useless sitting.
The children have been despatched to (non-residential) half-term gulag. It costs a thrilling €1 a child per day, making it the cheapest thing you can possibly do with a child in Belgium. This gives me some insight into where my 50% tax goes (wow, I sound like the Telegraph. I am massively in favour of being taxed to fuck, let me clarify, for the record). It takes place at some other school which is an epic double bus trip away and where I imagine they will be huddled, 40 to a blunt green wax crayon, making their own entertainment with a tightly rationed supply of small stones and dust. I did ask them if they wanted to bring anything with them, but they declined, more fool them. I look forward to tidal wave of moaning and recrimination when I go and pick them up. On arrival this morning, the terrifying spectre of Josette the gulag's teaching assistant greeted us, so at least it is the devil they know (and rightly fear), I suppose. I can rationalise this act of parental neglect, because we are heading to the Lahndan on Wednesday for high jinks and I must somehow earn money to spend on plush bacteria and Japanese tat.
On which note I suppose I should make some token attempt to do exactly that.
(*Let's not get over-excited. Twice to my once, perhaps)