Let us start this long overdue post with Belgian news: Lady Gaga day on the Brussels metro seemed to pass off without incident, to my sadness. I was hoping for a flashmob at the very least, possibly some kind of mass civil disobedience. This video about it is fucking hilarious in every possible way. I love the voiceover man's incredibly soft, deadpan delivery, the fact they have featured metro Kunst-Wet, which is not at all open to misinterpretation by English speakers, oh no, AND the lady from the STIB using the expression: "Highlight the modern and trendy image of the Brussels metro". At this point I had to restart the video and watch it again, gleefully, in full screen as she apparently says that in front of what appears to be a scene of grimy, early '80s soviet cinema verité, but is in fact Brussels's busiest metro station. I love this city.
I was, however, slightly disappointed not to see a single person wearing a dress out of américain or hatching out of a giant witloof. I feel I missed a trick by not dressing up myself, really. I wish someone had sent me to wander the platforms in prosthetic horns and giant hoof shoes. I would happily wee through my fishnets for money.
Instead, I did enjoy this new platform signage, which made me think of B's perpetual fury at Brussels' commuters and their total inability to grasp the basics of getting on and off trains in a reasonably logical fashion. This is now proved by the introduction of amateurly painted ARROWS to assist them. Wonderful.
If they really think this is enough to convey the message "LET PASSENGERS OFF THE TRAIN FIRST, YOU UTTER MORONS", I think they are woefully mistaken. I will be looking forward to seeing how this is interpreted by commuters. What would Lady Gaga think? I bet she could do a better job of it.
Apart from that, nothing is working today. The "book" is full of holes - mysteriously sliding tenses, characters I am bored to fuck with, plot screw ups, a creeping sense of dread at the pervasive crapness of it all. I am trying to keep a JK Rowling style redemptive narrative of triumph over adversity in my head to spur me on, through the financial apocalypse and the self-doubt and the embarrassment and the hiding the electricity bill under the book case, but there is a nagging voice in my head that says 'somehow, I don't think that yet another novel about middle class adultery is going to spawn a multi-million pound industry and six film extravaganza, you dumbass'.
On top of impending literary and fiscal doom, my face is full of gigantic insect bites, my lips are dessicated like Ramses II's scalp and I threw my pants in the bin in a fit of rage earlier because they were too tight. I am behind on everything except my invoicing, which I am compulsively, obsessively, up to date with. Instead of actual trying to generate some revenue, I am now watching the French news (which I usually wouldn't touch with a shitty stick, but I have a terrible compulsive need to know exactly what they are saying about DSK. They are making me pay for my prurience with lengthy reports about the level of compliance with the French MOT) drinking a large gin and eating a bowl of spinach. There is pasta too, but I realised too late there are only 5 tortellini left in the packet. It's an almost Hurley-esque portion (apart from the fact that pasta is carbohydrate, obviously, and that I am the size of six Hurleys. Or a Hurley from Lost. I am reduced to my Gap occupational therapise trousers that are made of some kind of suspiciously wipe clean material. My top has both blood and tomato on it. I am 36).
I bet you're glad I've updated you on public transport, my dinner and other whining, finally. You were holding out for that weren't you? I hope your day is going better. Perhaps a monkey brought you banana pancakes in your hammock? Perhaps tiny ponies brought you mini choux à la crème and gave you a gentle massage with their tiny hooves? No? Ah well. Maybe tomorrow.