1. I went to a shop opening party last night on my own, because it seemed like a good idea and glamorous and I was sort of hoping I'd run into people I know, but I couldn't find anyone at all in the giant, boiling hot crush of youthful, glowing, exuberant, bearded Belgian hipsters. I shuffled around for four minutes (I was wearing heels for the first time since my pre-holiday running for a tram accident, and it was agony, my ankle is obviously still buggered) pretending to be absorbed in examining things, then gave up and went home, feeling like an idiot. Feeble. I did not even manage to shove my way to the bar. On the tram home, a very elderly gentleman with no teeth was doing acrobatics in slippers and shouting. I'm not sure if that's really a 'down', but there was the constant and very real fear he might take his clothes off.
2. I have taken to calling the children "my friend" in the manner of Hercule Poirot, and cannot stop even though it is very peculiar.
3. The rats woke me up in the middle of the night tipping their house over in a very "your house is invaded by armed burglars" fashion. This, coming after a night where I had to share my bed with F who was "too hot" and thrashed repetitively all night in the manner of some giant barracuda Robson Green might catch on that Extreme Fishing programme that I have obviously never watched, because who watches fishing programmes, means that I am somewhat fatigued. Well, very fatigued. I want to crawl away and sleep in a bush. I might actually do that, but F will track me down with his new bushcraft skills. He is still renouncing all forms of electronic entertainment whilst refusing to read a book, so I have played 850 games of Uno in the last twenty four hours.
1. On arrival home after the party débâcle, I ate a Cornetto in front of Educating Yorkshire, which was a very satisfactory alternative evening. Also, on the way home I crossed the path of my very favourite Brussels character, Didier Vervaeren. DV is something big in fashion (he used to work for Delvaux, but he's now a sort of eminence noire for the Belgian creative industries) and I quite often see him at these kinds of dos (I go as often as I can, even though I usually end up creeping around the walls for five minutes then leaving. Give me another few years and I might actually talk to someone). He was wearing his habitual floor length black leather trench coat (it was 30°C) and giant stack heeled boots and looking extremely haughty, like a Belgian Karl Lagerfeld. I once went to some event where he had "curated" the buffet, which featured a sort of Day of the Dead watermelon skull lucky dip that you put your hand in to get a bracelet and since then I have had a mad platonic crush on him and his look of withering disdain (that, incidentally, was another event I turned up at, walked stiffly around for four minutes and left. Maybe I shouldn't go to these things on my own. I think I mainly hope for free stuff, or to miraculously develop a whole other personality that allows me to thrive in these circumstances).
2. I have a new relatively regular job which is in French. It is a good brain stretching thing, having to write in French and distracts me from the fact that I have no other work and no money. Here, go and look, and give us some traffic even though, unless you live in Belgium it will not be of the slightest interest.
3. I have just made lemon curd and I am going to put it into the giant three layered lemon cake I have made for absolutely no reason.
I asked L if he wanted to make his own pizza last night. He did. Yikes.
What of you, my friends? Mes amis? Tell me, while I swirl my waxed moustache.