"You need to get rid of that cemetery" says M. "Too depressing".
"I KNOW, but I have had literally no time. None. No time. I have had to correct about 500000000 lines of dense Wronglish*. And write about nightclubs. And look at some seven figure reference numbers on some documents until I thought my eyeballs would start bleeding. And that's before we even mention my disastrous double trip to the bank".
"It's true! Anyway, when did YOU last update your blog anyway, hmmm?"
"The day before yesterday".
So here I am, taking that cemetery off the top of my blog, because I am nothing if not scared of my brain twin.
We have been to London! It was fraught! And then less fraught, and then more fraught again when Lashes started vomiting in the middle of the night and so on until we were all so exhausted we fell into a fugue state in front of the magazine racks at St Pancras WH Smith and nearly didn't make it home at all. However, once the vomiting started we recalibrated our ambitious programme down to "try and stay alive and not get covered in sick" and applying those metrics, our weekend was highly successful.
High points according to children (not necessarily in order):
1. The crystal skull in the British Museum that features in their Enormous Book of Freaky Shit And Lies.
2. Throwing water bombs in Green Park with some very very very posh boys.
3. The bit - also in Green Park - when we saw an alabatross sized seagull creep up to a group of pigeons on tiptoes, and try and seize one and carry it away. The pigeon escaped, just, and the bloody-beaked alba-gull had to fall back on some pre-dismembered pigeon bits.
"I see the seagull" said Fingers walking back towards where I had more or less passed out on a bench "Wiz the pigeon 'ead".
High points according to me:
1. Staying in the same hotel as Kim Kardashian, although we did not see her. I have decided this is because she is in fact invisible to the naked eye and can only be detected using a large lens. So, basically, I DID see Kim Kardashian. Probably. The entrance was constantly surrounded by misguided teenagers autograph hunters and grumpy men with long lenses and black anoraks. I had some difficulty explaining Kim Kardashian to the children, though "She's this really tiny lady who married an incredibly tall man" seemed to satisfy them.
2. Acquisition of Hilary Mantel, Dan Rhodes and two Peanut Butter Chunky KitKats. THE PBCKKs are still absurdly rare. I cannot decide if this Soviet style scarcity is imposed on Nestlé by some kind of anti-obesity Quango, or if they are managing supply in the manner of war profiteers. Either way, it is deplorable. Set the PBCKKs free!
3. Extended Nostalgia Tour, taking in Spitalfields (our old neighbour told me breezily I was looking a lot fatter than when I lived there, which whilst indisputable, was not massively welcome), Soho and Bloomsbury, saying things like 'this is where you learned to walk' and 'we used to come here every time it rained' and 'that is the sheep you used to be terrified of' (I am sure it was the same sheep, it was the same colour and had the same world weary look in its slotty eye). Avoided saying other things like 'I remember standing on this traffic island and crying so much an old lady had to help me cross the road when you were six weeks old'.
I think I have finally accepted we will probably never live in London again. My children are plainly not Londoners, they cling to me, fearful and awed in crowds, they stand on the wrong side of the escalator and dawdle into the path of buses. Frankly neither am I any more: I kept saying 'merci' when anyone held open a door for me (this was not helped by the truly vast numbers of French people in the city over the weekend, which confused my ailing brain still further) and even though I find my way around without conscious thought, know which buses go where, it's been too long for me really to claim it as mine any more. I'm not sure I can imagine living there again - which is not to say that I wouldn't want to, I would, absolutely, just.. how? When? With the largesse of which kindly billionaire benefactor? Hmm. I don't really know what to do with that thought, I just observe it to be the case. We are anglo-franco-belgo-confused. How modern.
Now we are back and Fingers has gone off for the week on a special Green Gulag somewhere in a field in the Ardennes. I am not sure what he is doing but it requires a ludicrous number of towels. Answers on a postcard. Lashes and I are trying to entice the rats to engage with us. The friendlier one deigns to accept the odd Cheerio. The unfriendly one sits in the middle of its tube where it is completely inaccessible and sulks. I think it ought to work with me a little more. I will take any rat training tips you have.
This is all I have, but at least I have displaced the cemetery. That might be my new expression for being shamed into updating your weblog after an unconscionably long time.
*More on my daily battle with Wronglish anon, when I, and my plugging force are stronger.