1. None of the following announcements is important.
2. The hedgehog is alive! On my third night's vigil (for which you may read 'having stayed up to watch the appalling, traumatic, savage spectacle of bears being bears narrated by Billy Connolly'), I went to put the dog out and there it was, sitting in a saucer eating food, very fast. Welcome back, ferocious small flea-ridden creature who is basically a spiky rat! I have missed you. Sort of.
3. I finally have new glasses and I am very ambivalent about them. Talk among yourselves a while as I attribute far too much significance to my new spectacles. My old pair of glasses - which, as I recently complained, I have had for about 6 years and which were becoming embarrassingly broken and smeared - were on the 'badass' end of the spectacle spectrum. The spectacrum. They may not have been the most obviously flattering, but they said "yes, punk. We are glasses. What the fuck do you want to do about it?" They were Qu'est-ce qu'elle a ma gueule glasses, for the Johnny lovers (= no one, ever).
These new ones, whilst not unattractive in themselves, are at the other end of the spectacrum. They are apologetic glasses. Owlish glasses. Dweeb glasses. Obviously, that set of adjectives describes me infinitely better than "badass". They are my glasses, they really are, but they make me feel a bit.. feeble, which is not really the vibe I need to be giving off more of (hello, incredibly ugly end of sentence construction). Then again, the badass glasses never really made me act like a badass, so I suppose I could always hope for a sort of reverse effect? I guess my real fear is people thinking I am even more pathetic than I actually am which would be really, really unfortunate, because HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE.
No, I am not showing you a picture. I am ashamed.
4. The worst lunches of the past week in reverse order:
In third place: "Four large, dry, slightly reheated pieces of fresh pasta, unsauced and unsalted, with no accompaniment".
In second place: "Half a Snickers from the bottom of the bag my riding boots were in, coated in sand and hay, and some orange juice 'for vitamins'"
In first place: "A fistful of burnt, reheated oven chips that were left in the oven overnight, with a few dessicated baby spinach leaves, vintage unclear". I think the awfulness was enhanced by the simultaneous work disappointment and €10 000 social security bill ("we miscalculated your income"), but the whole thing conspired to make last week - and especially last Friday - very, very very grim. Do NOT eat reheated oven chips for lunch, kids, no good can come of it.
5. I have been shortlisted, very kindly, for these blog awards, as you may be able to see in the sidebar. If you are so minded, you can click on one of those sidebar badges and go and vote for me, in categories 7 and/or 18 and I will be very grateful. There is no pressure. The last time I asked you to go and vote for me in something was just about this time last year in those Belgian awards, and I ended up sitting drinking gin and crying and smoking on a bench and saying how shit I was at everything, so that went well. I would like to think I have matured sufficiently that I will take defeat a little more graciously, but I think we all know that is very unlikely. Anyway, I am not going to go on and on about it. Once is plenty. I will try and locate my long-lost dignity. Maybe it's in the bathroom drawer under those teeth and wigs.
6. An alluring offer from my neighbours:
What, the WHOLE breezeblock? Really? Are you sure?
And a horse emergency on the Avenue du Toison d'Or, right in the middle of town:
I'll admit, I was curious. What kind of equine emergency could there be between Paris XL and the FNAC? Might they need any assistance? I could see myself volunteering to help with Horse Secours. I would not be good at any of the parts involving hot iron, or indeed driving, but I could definitely do 'soothing noises' and 'carrots' and especially 'covert sniffing of delicious equine neck'. CALL ME.