I started writing this on Sunday and got distracted by a speck of dust. Or by watching stupid stupid twattery nonsense Engrenages then hating myself for doing so. Or by Lashes trying to read me "the funny bits" from his book (all of it). Or possibly by a vicious fight about a Beyblade leading us to land up once more in the headmaster's office. Fuck knows, but suddenly it's Tuesday.
Well. It's Sunday evening and what have we achieved this weekend? I am, as you know, relentlessly performance focussed. I am all about the quick wins, the low hanging fruits, the ceaseless pursuit of weekend excellence, every waking minute crammed with saving kittens from trees, tousle-haired children in Bonpoint outfits playing Bach partitas for fun and a house full of people with good teeth laughing over an artlessly perfect brunch. Maybe squeezing in a business-critical conference call here and there, without upsetting my work life balance, of course.
Here are my achievements:
1. Put some petrol in a car
2. Kept children alive for another 48 hours (albeit with some fairly Jacobean tragedy style threats, they have been, hmm. Lively. Vic and I decided yesterday that salt mines were due a rebranding as a costly, but excellent, form of holiday child care, run by us. Vic came up with the name "Summer Sodium Adventure!" I think it's a winner).
3. Wore jeans instead of the physiotherapist trousers one day, but they hurt my waist. Even though I still have no sensation in my stomach, some 4 years after surgery on it. Is this normal? Who knows. Apart from the odd hot water bottle burn, it hasn't proved life-altering. I think I am wandering off topic here.
A successful weekend, then. Oh, hang on. I have just remembered I went to the only remaining manned petrol station in Brussels, so SOMEONE ELSE put petrol in the car. We might have to cross that off the list.
I could tell you about all the ridiculous things that have made me cry this weekend (Jessie J at Glastonbury, an advert - one of those excellent local cinema ones that are comprised of some mid-80s still photography over a shonky voiceover - for the Copenhagen Tavern, a pile of privet), but having spent an unedifying hour trawling through my archives looking for something yesterday, I was struck by the unleavened gloom of most of the last year. Holy crap, it was depressing reading. Maybe it's especially gloomy if you were also living through it? I can only hope so, because otherwise you must all be masochists or really fond of whippets. So .. well. Thanks for hanging around, masochists and weepettephiles, but I think the time has come for a phase of total - fabricated if necessary - levity. I will not dwell on any more inappropriate crying, or skirt uneasily around the complicated and intermittently painful business of, you know, life. Screw the crying, I am playing this weblog for cheap laughs for the foreseeable future.
There was, for instance, another close encounter with The Most Belgian Shopping Ever, recently:
This one beats the last one by 5 cans. Why the five individual cans? What precise calculation leads the mystery shopper to this point? And what is in the small, membrane covered sausage shaped meat derivatives that are his only other purchase? No-one knows.
There was also a cheering discussion of the slug-pocalypse with M.
E: I am too tired for this shit.
M: Humanity should be wiped out. Just, have done with us. We are pointless.
E: Leave the earth to the slugs.
M: Yes. Slugs. Our giant slug overlords.
E: Sllurrrp. Sllllurp. All over the major monuments of world civilisation. A giant one on the Eiffel Tower waving its antennae menacingly. The Slugosseum. The Slugtomium.
M: One on Big Ben. One living IN Notre Dame. It would drink water straight out of the Seine and wear the cathedral as its shell.
E: La Limace de Notre Dame.
M: The survivors would have to make it giant lettuce offerings.
E: Would we survive?
M: Hmm. We are quite sluglike, I think we have a good chance.
I do miss M, I wish we were in the same timezone. Our shared brain is suffering acutely from one lobe not being able to whine constantly at the other. I hope you read her blog, it is excellent.
Also on an invertebrate theme (slug, not M) my dearest friend B who is deserting me, the bastard, sent me this funny-slash-entirely-horrifying-slash-nauseating Youtube gift this morning under the tagline SNAIL DEATHMATCH!
"Snailworm is awesome and terrifying", he added, in the manner of someone giving it an Amazon review "The BEST way to start the day". He also gave me the gift of the phrase "sweet fucking Christ on a tiny crutch". He has a very elegant turn of phrase.
Finally, things I am looking forward to:
- Festival stupidity next Sunday
- Two trips to London and one to Paris this month, lock up your patisserie.
- Rachel Cusk's divorce memoir which sounds like a corker. If it's possible to read something through your fingers whilst wincing in discomfort, I imagine that is what I will be doing.
- Reading my new Fred Vargas, L'Armée Furieuse. Possibly once the children have been despatched to Camp Sudoku (their grandparents) for THREE WEEKS on Thursday. I will miss them, but at least I will do my VAT return and maybe find out how to repair chipped bath enamel. And read my book. I love Fred Vargas, she is my idol and my queen. I sort of want to be her. She studies plague and writes intricate, clever, funny, strange detective stories. I study face creams and competition law and write whiny, solipsistic blog posts. Very similar.
Now I must prepare for gulag prize-giving by scouring the house for horse tranquilisers. It's going to be a long afternoon.