My sinuses are angry and I have approximately 8000 mosquito bites and there is a huge ladder in my Wolfords and I keep having to take my wig off and scratch like a rabid dog. Also, I spent a portion of today looking at jobs and concluding I could not do any of them.
My street seems to have become the place where mad people come to stand and shout angrily today.
I have eaten too much due to Great British Bake Off Sympathy Snacking and now I cannot breathe due to a giant mass of cake in my abdomen.
One child has spent part of the afternoon trying to make cornflour slime vibrate with sound waves resulting in kitchen carnage and the other is enlisting my help to break into a briefcase he found in a bin for reasons that remain wholly opaque. Come back, Mario and Luigi, all is forgiven.
Daily blogging is just revealing that I am a boring, relentlessly negative hermit, isn't it. I may have to start inventing amusing incidents.
Ack, my computer is being temperamental about charging. Grave news.
Barbara has indulged me with this set of pictures of Icelandic horses in the snow. Mmmmm, look at those hairy muzzles (yes, I realise this is a minority interest, but it's my minority interest, and perhaps if I keep talking about Icelandic horses for long enough, someone will send me one unsolicited).
A stupid tiny work thing I was fretting about last night has resolved itself without me having to do anything.
An absolutely lovely escape from the house this lunchtime to go and talk about an upcoming exhibition by this lady, who is a delight. She makes beautiful intricate paper art, and her new exhibition is going to be beautiful and there was beautiful sunshine in her beautiful workshop and I have used the word "beautiful" seven hundred times now, because I am excellent at description. But there were intricate fern patterned wrought iron fire guards in front of roaring fires, papier mâché monkeys, giant koi carp flicking around a deep shaded pond, and a light filled workshop full of quietly industrious people making gorgeous things with their hands. There was also wine and a nice lunch and chocolate cake. I'd have been utterly charmed even without the Tuesday lunchtime wine (I've written about her before, I'm a groupie), but that made it even better. Also, she is married to a COUNT who she met at a masked ball and he is incredibly charming and called Werner and told me a story about ending up in a bar drinking whisky with Thom Yorke and not having a clue who he was. Sigh. I wish I was a brilliant Belgian aristocrat. It looks lovely.
L is now doing school cookery club and has come home with a cake aux olives. It strikes me that all school baking classes specialise in making you cook things you wouldn't dream of making for yourself, cf. rock buns and all those baked savoury things with tomato slices on the top. Not that we had cookery classes at Quaker school, because making a wooden pull along rabbit and a pottery egg cup and knowing how to recreate Cézanne's Card Players as a tableau vivant were deemed more important life skills. This savoury cake business is a rum thing, but I like: (i) cake (ii) olives and (iii) cheese which seems to be the other principle ingredient, so I am giving it the college try.
F has been watching a stupid TV programme called 'Who let the dogs out' in which children train their dogs to do underwhelming tricks and is now trying what he has learned out on weepette. Weepette is stunningly terrible at it. Mainly he stares blankly at F with a strained look of confusion in his big black eyes. Sometimes he sits down hopefully with one paw half raised in supplication, since that is the only "trick" he knows. He is not doing too badly out of it, incidentally, because he gets a lot of treats to try and bribe him into the simplest manoeuvre. Often, as F chirrups "In! In!" insistently, trying to get weepette to go through his legs, weepette just pads away gently and sits in the kitchen waiting for it all to be over.
Incidentally, a drunk on the street yesterday described weepette as "ce lévrier croisé hamster" or 'that greyhound-hamster cross', which is harsh but may have an element of truth.
Here is a man eating a Cornetto on the 38 bus at 11am, which is the kind of thing for which an old lady would knife you in Paris. In Brussels it excites nothing stronger than mild envy.
What of your Tuesday?