1. My MacBook charger - or my MacBook - has died. I will find out which in an hour or so. Please let it be the charger*. I cannot contemplate the alternative. Putting aside the financial and work implications, 5 days to the Breaking Bad finale is no time to bail on me, technology. I feel bereft without my dirty, cracked screened friend-stroke-security-blanket and have achieved nothing today (oh hang on, I say that every day).
2. The dog rolled in something so unspeakable this morning I had to hose him off in the back yard, retching.
3. Then I went online to track a parcel and found out that some fucker had signed for and stolen it. The parcel was some cheap boots that yes, I cannot actually afford, as explicitly stated on these pages earlier in the week and I am a feckless trollop, but just imagine how much less I can afford to buy them for my bastard neighbours.
4. I have buggered up my arm - I think possibly whilst reacting to 3 (punching things and stamping around crying, a measured and appropriate reaction. I am not proud, but it felt like punishment for buying the damn boots in the first place from a particularly presbyterian god. I AM SORRY. I WILL NEVER SEEK TO HAVE NICE THINGS AGAIN).
1. 22°C and sunny. I lay in the sun on a blanket in the back yard for twenty minutes listening to bird song, which was very pleasant if you ignored the view of dog scrotum (the dog considers it incumbent upon him to either stand over, or lick, my face if I lie down for a moment. This does not exactly fill me with comfort and reassurance when I imagine what would happen if I had a domestic accident some day).
2. This 45 minutes in the Nice Café waiting for F's insane Chinese lesson to finish was hung hao (= very good, get me. This week, I could also almost direct you to the zoo (dong wu yuan) in Chinese, but only if the zoo was on the left (zuo) and you didn't ask me any follow-up questions, and I could get away with skirting around verbs, xie xie (thanks)).
3. My children latest activity is to borrow my wig and glasses and imitate me, which they find endlessly hilarious. Presumably this is how people amused themselves before they had television and I feel very sorry for them indeed. I should include a picture of me taken tonight for comparison, I suppose, but I look like wan, blotchy, potato faced death, so here is one I took at the weekend whilst wearing make up and having a semblance of actual features in preparation for an imminent Facegoop hangover post. Shut up, I am allowed a shred of vanity. The pictures the children took of me tonight included neck wattle and eyes the size of currants:
F has an uncanny look of Philippa Perry rather than me in these, I think.
I definitely can't muster those eyebrows, but I reckon this is closest (probably due to not smiling. I don't have the teeth for smiling):
"You have the same lips" said F appraisingly looking from L to me. "But yours are all dry and peeling and horrible, maman". Yeah.
5. *It seems to be the charger, praise the baby Nathan, a mere ninety euros down the drain. Rejoice! I'm going to inject Aromatherapy Associates bath oils into my eyeballs now, then stalk around the neighbourhood staring accusingly at my neighbours' feet. What are you up to?