1. Fingers came home from school with a torturous story of schoolyard high jinks that ended, unconvincingly, with the deathless line "So I didn't bite him, I just fell on his arm with my mouth open". Since then every time I go into the gulag, children stare and point and huddle, making that finger across the throat gesture in our direction. Oh dear. It was all going so well this term. I await his imminent report with some trepidation.
2. I have been wrestling with a bag of Daim pieces given to me - along with a whole box of amazing goodies - by a very, very kind reader. I will take a picture tomorrow because it is BEAUTEOUS and includes dainty liquorice owls of great loveliness.
The seven phases of Daim:
- I'll just have one. They're only tiny and that won't fuck up my stupid-asshole-diet-which-is-basically-just-no-puddings-and-no-wine.
- One is so tiny, though. Three is a sensible number.
- Did I say three? I meant five. Five is, like, the size of a normal snack. Sort of.
- My finger are no longer under my control.
- DAIMDAIMDAIMDAIMDAIM I'm not even enjoying this anymore DAIMDAIMDAIMDAIM
- Bleeeurgh. Sick sick sick regretful and sick. Gum ache.
- This one, offered by someone on Twitter and adopted wholesale by me: "Aching void of withdrawal, disconsolate excavation of molars for remnants".
I tried taking the box downstairs, but then it became a battle royal between sloth and greed in which there could be no winner and many losers, including my productivity, concentration, and chins. Or perhaps, by multiplying, the chins are winning. Who knows.
Yup, it's all go around here.
3. We tried to make sort of custom rabbit seed balls for Satan, in ice lolly holders, after buying such a thing in the supermarket for a rapacious €3,50 for 3. It has been an unmitigated disaster. There are now six malevolent rock solid lumps of ... THING, still in the lolly holders, abandoned outside. Not even weepette will eat them. Not even the birds. Nothing. I am imagining Terry Nutkins shaking his head at us, more in sorrow than in anger. Also, we won't be having ice lollies any time soon, but that's ok, because it's freezing.
I become fonder of Satan by the day, incidentally. Things I like about Satan:
- lives outdoors
- small, manageable excrement ('manageable' = can ignore entirely/allow dog to eat)
- "lawn" maintenance
- Comes to the back door every morning looking for food, but without the high pitched whining noise that characterises same demand from Oscar.
- Looks pleasing, if slightly ominous, especially when he is chasing weepette around the garden in the manner of Benny Hill.
In short, I am coming round to the Way of the Rabbit.
(However: I have still not learned my lesson about looking up pet stuff on the internet. If you believe the internet, the hedgehog will get some kind of horrendous parasitic infection if it eats too many slugs and die of internal bleeding, the rabbit needs a hutch the size of Blenheim, and let's not even mention the numerous indignities I am apparently heaping on the dog)
4. Learned the provincial capitals of the Belgian provinces in Dutch with Lashes. Forgot most of them. Namen. Luik. Antwerpen. Hasselt. Some others. If this continues I will soon understand both Belgian politics and Belgian geography, and then what can I be "amusingly" obtuse about, hmmm? Stop this influx of actual knowledge. Other gulag tasks this week:
- poem about the "Flipper Centre" (no, me neither)
- Capital (Kapital?) Ks. Bizarrely complex, as all French capitals seem to be.
- two days of the unending evil that is packed lunch - I have told them they have to make their own now. I am all about the delegation. It's empowering. Or something.
5. Did whole days of work on jobs that will earn me about 30 pence. I'm quite sanguine about this kind of thing, now that I have basically decided that the financial apocalypse of all Europe is imminent. "Rat kebabs", I say cheerfully to M. "Grass. Slug pesto. Bartering". Then I add "You will help me with the bartering, won't you, because you remember how shit I was at it when we did Craftacular?" Then there is a pause as she thinks about what a dreadful burden I will be to her, come the apocalypse, always being too shy to demand a squirrel carcass in return for my pile of dandelions. Also, I believe working hard for no money is my payback for all those years spent sitting on my arse in a luxury office miscalculating exchange rates, looking a stuff on Net à Porter and sending waspish emails to my friend, the BMF.
Anyway, I have worked quite hard this week. My eyes sting and my spine looks like a Bionicle. I need to get out. I don't have much planned, so any suggestions for thrilling, yet cheap activities in the greater Brussels area gratefully received in the comments.