Sunday, 1 June 2014
Bad mood: weepy, moping around like bored teenager but even more annoying.
Having one of those twice yearly mid-season wardrobe meltdowns where there is absolutely nothing I can wear. It is still too cold for bare legs and too ... June for black opaques. My Prozac trousers have lost their button, so I am condemned to: the dirty jeans or the marginally too tight jeans with the hole in the crotch or the not very me bright green jeans with the hole in the pocket. None of my tops fit, or if they do, they have holes in. Maybe I'll try the cropped trousers yesterday, but I look like a scout master in them.
On Wednesday, I had to have the rat put down, which was wretched and difficult and also something of a relief. Poor little thing and poor L, who has had terrible luck with his rats. I really felt for him. I also felt for the rat, who, despite having a luxuriously gigantic cage ("Ferret XL" model) and lots of toys and fun and a devoted owner, did not really have a lovely life and who was far more sociable than the previously deceased rat. We are all in agreement that there shall be no more small creatures in cages. Not to mention that the whole rat ownership endeavour probably racked up €250 vet's bills. We could have had gold plated rats for that, like something you could buy in those weird dictators' furnishings shops on Wigmore Street. Or stuffed ones, playing tiny fiddles. Or adopted 4 Hero Rats! We are adopting a Hero Rat in Peanut and Houdini's memory.
Proposal was supposed to be finished by today. It is not. There is not even anything I can do about it right now because all elements are currently out of my hands. I am nevertheless fiddling. Unwisely. And rending my garments.
All my bills are due and I must screw up my courage to check my bank balance, which I know for a fact will not cover half of them.
Bastard Netflix can now pierce my Cunning Digital Veil of Anonymity that I bought for a couple of quid a month and knows I am in Belgium, which means no more Netflix, which means no new series of Orange is the New Black for me, bastardry of bastardries.
Spent two hours looking for lost Blue Peter badge this morning without success and now I feel oppressed by the acres of clutter at which I was forced to look. I usually turn an extremely blind eye.
Disappointing cake yesterday, like a coconut flavoured executive stress toy.
OH GOD THERE IS YET ANOTHER PUBLIC HOLIDAY COMING UP WHEN WILL THIS TORMENT END.
Children have discovered and fallen in love with Father Ted, so now we can just all sit on the sofa bathing in our collective adoration of Father Jack. So far we have done: hairy hands, my lovely horse, small and far away, the very dark caves, the King of Sheep, Over 75s football and, of course, Bishop Brennan and the rabbits. Not so long ago when their English was really ropey this would have been unimaginable, so I appreciate it all the more. It is all down to British television, truly. "TV gave me back my children". Though, with the interminable, agonising semi-finals of Britain's Got Talent which they have required me to watch in full, it has also nearly caused me to sink into a catatonic state.
Excellent falafel wrap of joy yesterday.
And a vast perfect Aperol spritz in the hazy sun. Thank goodness for food and booze and detective novels.
Lovely friends, sadly distant and on email, but nevertheless bolstering sanity and causing me to cackle with rudeness, comparison of facial blemishes and surfing goats.
Yesterday we entirely by chance happened upon the open day at the church up the road, which is at the highest point in Brussels and a peculiar, vaguely Art Deco 1930s thing, made of concrete and 'like the Empire State building', as L describes it. When we were poking around the inside, an elderly lady came up and told us we could climb right up to the top if we liked, and then accompanied us as we did just that. It was quite odd, since she (i) did not know the way and (ii) claimed the church dated from 1913, then (iii) cavalierly rang the church bell at about a million decibels nearly deafening us, so maybe she was just some random mad person, anyway, we got right up to the top and I was only nearly sick twice with vertigo and the view was magnificent.
The top, with some other confused people the woman had escorted up there, then left, with a vague exhortation to "be careful".
The bit with the hideous view down into the church that made my legs go funny.
85% spot on chin
10% cheap wine
5% Antiques Roadshow solace
Avanti! Monday beckons, with cold, imperious fingers!