I know it's been a merciful winter (if you aren't (a) up to your midriff in flood water or (b) in America), but the SUN this weekend was like a sparkly, loving benediction. I kept going outside and just staring at the sky, like a particularly confused sheep, then staring at my four straggly daffodils. Sun! Coupled with actual warmth! I feel like a new person, one whose whole world view doesn't necessarily turn around attempting to construct a survivalist compound out of stolen cashmere and biscuits whilst lightly keening and plotting to fight off wolves (pigeons) with a toasting fork.
Evidence item 1: we went out on Saturday night. It was the annual all-night museum opening thingy, which I usually think about with a pang of half-hearted guilt and then ignore. Instead we went to the glorious dim lit cavern that is "Autoworld" and watched amateur parkour enthusiasts jump off a van ("nous sommes les VRAIS superhéros! OUAIS!") whilst L bored us all rigid with selected hits from the oeuvre of Top Gear. You may not think this is a great improvement on wintry home nesting, I could not possibly comment. Heady from this unaccustomed excitement, we continued on to the Natural Sciences Museum, which was full of people getting body painted and doing that weird ass acrobatics where you're all wrapped up in a sheet and had a woman who would draw you ANY DINOSAUR YOU WANTED doing anything (within reason) you wanted, so that was wonderful. L got one of those ones with a massive crest on its head doing baseball, which I think was a case of crossed wires, but was magnificent none the less. The evening ended in a deserted branch of crap fast food outlet Quick, because you wouldn't want us all getting used to too much fun.
Evidence item 2: we went to the flea market at lunchtime on Sunday and it was full of the usual jolly Brussels crowd of toothless crazies and hipsters. L complained bitterly for the first hour, then got totally into the swing of things and bought himself some sunglasses that make him look like a minor dictator:
whilst F searched every alley and corner for a globe and tried on a melancholy brown corduroy train driver's hat:
Evidence item 3: I came to London today and the Eurostar contained a fine selection of mad people, including one carrying, seemingly, nothing but a large head of celery in a plastic bag, and another who sat in the corridor juggling for the whole two hours. I checked with M whether it would be permissible to kill him, and she encouraged me, but in the end the amazing book I am reading kept me from slaughter.
Evidence item 4: Amusing pictures of prime minister greeting pandas.
SPRING FEVER, I tell you. Bring on the ohoes (1 March is OHOE DAY)!
Other news: the shoes I am wearing today are trying to kill me. I have had them for years and vividly remember walking all the way round Madrid in them on a work trip without any discomfort, but now they have decided to destroy me, one toe and one ankle ligament at a time. What has happened? How did it all go so wrong? Have they become evil or have my feet just got old?
It is the start of the mini easter egg season and mini easter eggs are also trying to kill me. A whole bar of chocolate I can easily resist opening, but place me in a house with an open bag of mini eggs, of almost any variety, and I crumble. Consequently, Friday was a pathetic farce of weakness, self-delusion and further weakness:
Take one egg, put bag back in cupboard.
(2 min break)
Take another egg, put bag back in cupboard, under a packet of flour.
(1 min break)
Take TWO more eggs, just to be realistic, put bag far to the back of cupboard, behind the never-used quinoa.
(30 second break)
Take another two eggs, with no illusion that this is the end of it, but nevertheless, attempt to fool self by hiding few remaining eggs in bag in the biscuit tin.
(1 min break)
Pour all remaining mini eggs down throat reasoning I MIGHT AS WELL JUST SAVE TIME, then sit in a pile of disgarded foil feeling slightly sick and stupid.
So now I owe F a whole bag of Galaxy Caramel mini eggs and I must ensure never to have them in the house again, or indeed anything small and oval and wrapped in foil.
I must stop here and tend to my swelling, screaming ankles and blistered feet. All the glamour, he is mine.