I have been to London, mainly because the builders have forced us to leave so they can get on with covering every inch of the house in thick, possibly toxic, dust. It was steamy there, I think more so even than Uccle (Me to my dad's cleaning lady, who I have known for twenty years and who is amazing: "How are you finding the weather Grace, awful isn't it?" Grace: "DISGUSTING").
The oligarchs had all deserted their Notting Hill mansions for, I suppose, their yachts. The tourists walked slowly and stickily up Regent Street in unmanageable herds. Sitting on a Central Line train was like being swallowed by a giant, sun-warmed anaconda and then marinating helplessly in its unsavoury digestive juices. On the plus side there was night scented jasmine and gin on pub terraces and green tea frozen yoghurt.
Now I am back and whilst the number 4 tram is glacially air conditioned, the house looks much as it did when I left, ie. full of toxic dust and equipment. I am writing this sitting on the bathroom floor. In my eyeline, a very orange pine chest of drawers which has no business being there, a ladder, a plush tortoise, a basket containing a novelty ghost, a pillow slip, an infant's toy and a length of cable, a plush shark and one of those super bright decorating lights. To my right seven lever arch files, more pillow slips, some books and a copy of the European Cartel Digest, as co-authored by me in a far distant lifetime.
Nevertheless, this is better than the rest of the house.
Hall floor: collapsed.
Garden: comprehensively fucked over by chickens.
Builders rubbish: also filling garden.
Walls: grey (this is correct, but not I think, a great success. Yet again I have succeeded in making aesthetic choices so poor the house looks like a mid-level provincial accountancy firm in the mid-1990s).
All rooms: filled with crap and dust.
Look, this used to be a sitting room:
Expressing misery through the medium of hindquarters
On a brighter note, my post:
200 pairs of Laser Lite earplugs (£21.99 for 200!) bought in a fit of extravagance. There is something wildly indulgent about a vast box of new pairs of ear plugs into which you can just plunge a careless hand at will, no, you'll just have to trust me on this.
A bag of Epsom salts.
The blagged copy of the new Tana French, which took forever to arrive and which I feared lost, OH MY GOD HAPPINESS. I am saving this for Yorkshire.
There is no point whatsoever to this post, but I suppose you are used to that. Oh, no, hang on there IS a point. In the autumn I am teaching teenagers Humorous Blogging for a week (YES I AM TERRIFIED) and I have a couple of requests.
First: are there any funny blogs (or posts) you particularly like that I might not have encountered?
Second: what are the 'rules' of good blogging? And are there any that are actually not total bollocks? Whenever I try and research this I get assailed by dismal SEO fanatics' posts about, I dunno, core brand values or 'engagement' or similar and fall into a coma before the end of the first paragraph, which, SEO experts, seems to rather undermine your points.
I realise I am basically asking you to do my work for me here. Sorry.
25% as overfed as a foie gras goose
20% acting as a mysteriously powerful lint magnet
20% tight sausagey warm weather skin
5% alarming fish scented facial moisturiser
5% desire to rip off wig on public transport
0% Va va voom