So today, mindful of the need to leave paid work to the last minute in order to generate a proper, invigorating panic, I have mainly been indulging my obsession with Eric C Sax. This is Eric C Sax:
He is in charge of "population" at the local town hall. I have been following the activities of Eric C Sax (such a good name) for a couple of years in the Wolvendael magazine, our catchily titled local free publication which can boast a full page spread on the opening of a new branch of an interim agency. You think I'm joking, but I'm not.
And actually, flicking through for more pictures of Mr Sax, I found a full page on Chez Francky's body shop.
It doesn't have the sensationalism of the York Evening Press and its many variants on Unpleasantness in Acomb (the East Riding's Creepiest Suburb TM), but I am growing to love it, with its pithy think pieces about whether le lissage brésilien is really a revolution in hair care and street golf.
Anyway. I am getting distracted. About half the Wolvendael magazine, when it isn't extolling the virtues of a shop selling replacement electrical appliance spare parts (also an ACTUAL TRUE FACT), and information on when vehicular access to the Verrewinkel cemetery is permitted, is devoted to pictures of Eric C Sax standing behind people.
Warning: exceptionally dreadful phone pictures follow. I am tired and there are no functioning lights in the house.
This one's my favourite. Where are they? Has he gone round to her house to stand behind her chair? Also, there is no way in the world that woman is 100, she looks a sprightly early 70s. She just wanted a chance to get close to Eric.
There are many more in a similar vein, and I am fast becoming obsessed. He's a tumblr blog in the making. What do you have to DO to get an audience with Eric and his yellow sash? Oh god, you have to live to be 100 or be married more than 50 years, this isn't looking promising. I'm also interested that wedding anniversaries get the full brocade 'n' medal combo, whereas centenarians get the rakish suit and yellow sash. I prefer the suit and sash, so I had better start following that stupid Okinawa island diet, because once in my life I want to be ushered into the presence of Eric and his radiant tan and luxurious, highlighted fringe. It's something to aspire to, isn't it? I bet he smells of Eau Sauvage and cigars and the heady promise of a ride to the cimetière de Verrewinkel in his Renault Safrane de fonction.
I am sorry. I seem to be slightly delirious. I promise I haven't just been staring at a free magazine all day. Sometimes I also stared at:
- my 1000 page spreadsheet (affectionately known as "that fucking spreadsheet").
- the rain, crushing my six daffodils.
- Occasionally, guiltily, owlcam (nearly a month to go of staring at a virtually motionless owl before anything happens).
- Lashes's Dutch vocabulary. He's reached the page in Robald with the picture of the man smoking on the beach, do you remember that? We had an ill-tempered fight about the pronunciation of seagull. "Meeuw" (ace word).
E: How do you say 'seagull'?
L: (long pause, furrowed brow) Worm?
E: No! Not worm, er, meow. Miaow. Mew. Oh god. SOMETHING THAT IS NOT WORM. (points)
L: That's what I said!
E: No it isn't!
L: Yes it is!
E: I promise you, you said worm.
L: No I didn't.
E: Nggngngngnngngngnngn. It is 8am. You only told me about this vocabulary test ten minutes ago and we have to leave, well, ten minutes ago. Now is not the time to go all absurdist on my ass.
L: C'est un gros mot, 'ass'?
E: Don't push your luck.
Etc etc etc etc until my brain seeped out of my ear and there was no time left to have the equally essential fight about the pronunciation of fototoestel. We eventually made up after the totally brilliant discovery that squirrel is Eekhoorn. Acorn! A squirrel is called an acorn! Best language ever.
I must go and do more stuff. It is difficult living on your own when you are doing 4 bitty, time-consuming jobs whilst in the grip of a peculiar obsession with a fuzzy owl webcam and a municipal officer called Eric. There is no-one to pry your twisted fingers off the computer keys and send you away to have a shower because you look and smell like a tramp. You have to learn to do it yourself. I am still learning. It might be time for the cheap nursing home before I actually get the hang of it.