I don't seem to have very much to say by this time of night. Or at all, perhaps? Thoughts come to me, fleetingly, as I boil the kettle in the silent early afternoon and look at the small brown birds fighting for peanuts, but after hours of post-school repetitive Blue Peter Doctor Who Competition chat and delicious torture instrumental practice and verucca blasting and fight adjudicating and French adjectival agreements they are long gone and all I can do is stare, slack-jawed at "Animal Odd Couples". It seems to me the logical consequence of this is that by the time my children leave home, I will basically have all the wit and intelligence of a turnip and they might as well put me in a home straight away, since I will no longer have any idea how to function. Also, they go to bed quite late now, the children, and I still haven't mentally adjusted to the idea that I need to have some kind of evening before I can shut them away, ideally not one watching You've Been Framed with one eye whilst ranting bitterly about discarded socks. It's half past eleven now and my tea has gone cold. God knows what happened here all evening. How does one have an evening? I suspect it's a mental adjustment rather than an actual logistical thing, but mental capacity is precisely what I lack.
Oh yes, partly what happened was that after an unaccustomed and hunger fuelled burst of energy an hour or so ago, I got 80% of the way through making cookies, then realised I had no eggs, which serves me right for trying to make cookies at all, when I could have been watching Animal Odd Couples or lying semi-submerged in scalding hot water like a flabby white alligator at peace with the world.
Just finished a really wonderful run of books (Goldfinch, Love, Nina, the fifth Cazalet Chronicle) and I'm a bit indifferent to everything I start. Recommendations welcome. Oh someone left one in a comment recently, I'm going back to look at it. What I really want is for Fred Vargas to write a new book. It's been a couple of years, it's time.
It is nearly fecking St Nicolas, the upstart faux-Christmas which my children are trying to turn into 'another excuse to be bought pieces of crap'.
I still hate Pinterest and am required to use it for work. Do you have a board of furious capybaras I can follow? Recommendations also welcome for 'boards that will not fill me with bilious lifestyle envy and fuzzy rage'.
New Facegoop, featuring a lengthy comparative test of cleansing balms - YES, SHUT UP, YOU ARE THRILLED. Now click, please? Because I reckon my Francophone main employer might get rid of me soon and I haven't been looking for other work for months because it takes all my withered brain to write coherent French a couple of times a week and do my other tiny jobs, so when they do, I'll be doomed. The Guardian moderators have deleted the comment which suggest we "use jizz" now.
One of the advent calendars I self-gifted myself in a fugue state arrived today and I LOVE IT. It is 24 tiny envelopes. God knows what is in them. I have forced F to number them randomly for me for extra thrills (he took this task extremely seriously).
I am testing a hotel on Saturday night and they are giving me afternoon tea which includes little square cakes, which I hope will look like this and I will sleep on clean white sheets and not watch a second of Top Gear and no one will be able to make me give my opinion on the most crowd-pleasing shape of sonic screwdriver before daylight.
Excellent discussion with my sister on the subject of celebrities in York, after this deathless Evening Press number ("Woman eats food". I once worked with a very funny man in a very grim job who described all such local newspapers - we were doing something contentious to a local airport and it created a lot of 'angry people in local newspapers' style comment - as "Cornishman hurts knee". Now whenever I see one, Richard comes to mind). My sister (who is no friend of punctuation): "reminds me of when toadfish from neighbours was spotted in the gallery and it was the talk of the town for months people were ringing each other and coming out form all over town especially to try and spot him". I miss York. I will enjoy being back at Christmas. Two weeks! York, Dales, and a tiny bit of Scotland, including high jinks with far flung and much missed B. Booze. Cackling. Plans to make the weepette wear a Tam O' Shanter.
Riding/jumping the naughty Gecko who is hell bent on biting my arse. I am scared to turn my back anywhere near him now and he knows it. I still love him though and his furry unclipped winter coat legs and indeed all of him except his enormous yellowing teeth.
Terrible, stupid, horribly funny discussion with M about at turd on a wall, none of which I will reproduce here, doubtless to your relief.
How was your Thursday?