Ten days have gone by and I have failed to commit my numerous complaints to html. Only shreds remain.
On Monday everyone forgot all their stuff and woke up late and the pre-school morning horror slot plunged to new depths of crapness, with farcical up and down the stairs nonsense (everyone), backchat (them) and shrieking (me). At one point I opened the door whilst still shouting about something and came face to face with the next door neighbour who was also red faced and shouting at her two boys. We shared a brief glance of fellowship, which was nice.
On Tuesday, I went on a simultaneously hilarious and terrible expedition to a mainly empty Brussels nightclub for work, where a strange woman followed me round for 40 minutes, then a man tried to teach me how to lindy hop with predictably catastrophic results.
Man (holding out hand): Vous dansez?
Me (panicky waving gesture): Ah, non non non I have the two feet left. Have pity.
Man: Si si si it is easy.
Several awkward minutes 'dancing' elapse.
Man: Ah yes. This is the wrong foot. Not like that. Not there. Ah. Non. Non. Non.
On Wednesday I went to London and my father got me drunk in a hotel that brought you trays of cheese on toast soldiers with your martini and showed me pictures of pygmy goats. Imagine! Giant gin martinis, deep sofas and spicy cheese on toast. Why would anyone ever leave (lactose intolerance?)?
On Thursday I spent the morning in a legal focus group faintly and deservedly hungover and bought The Paying Guests as a treat in the afternoon, then read it, eating a salad in a disgusting fashion on the train. There is no good way to publicly eat salad with a plastic fork, is there, you (I) invariably look like something David Attenborough might examine on screen in fascinated revulsion. The Paying Guests is great.
On Friday... um, work? Lots of work. And pizza. Always pizza on Friday. Oh, and the neighbour resurfaced after his most welcome African trip. I have not missed his combination of saxophone and shouting.
I loved Saturday. On Saturday L and I lay on the sofa for about 4 hours reading our respective books then in the evening we all went off to the special late night opening at The Scary Bat Caves. This was an excellent, highly eccentric event with Pikachu paper lanterns:
elephant bathing and AT LAST FINALLY A VIEWING OF THE BELGIAN PANDAS, Nice Nice and Shining Star. L took me some pictures so terrible - it was very dark - that you really can't work out if it's a panda or a trick of the light. I sent the one half presentable one to M who wrote back "that's not a panda, it's a drunk in a panda suit" which was harsh but understandable.
It was this picture:
Frankly, this sheep in a manger makes about as good a panda as the real panda:
Nevertheless it was highly satisfactory. The bats were INSANE, dive-bombing tourists and getting tangled in hair.
On Sunday nothing, for 'tis the will of the Lord. Or rather, we were all quite tired and cross. There was a fight about the dishwasher and when we all made up, grudgingly, we went to check out the new Brussels Ladurée (gilded tart boudoir) and sat on the sofa watching recorded crap telly and eating macarons, then went out for prosecco, altogether like the kind of coves who would be first in the tumbrils come the revolution.
On Monday again: no, I have nothing to say about that, it was just another fecking heap of work. Same today.
20% desperate for a pudding or possibly a drink
20% forced to settle for chocolate buttons
15% too tight bra
10% potato face
10% Congolese slang (work)
10% Unspecific guilt at things undone and forgotten
10% Unspecific dread at upcoming things that must be done.
5% Don't Tell The Bride