A sensible woman would write her self-imposed daily blog post in the several hours she had to kill before collecting her younger son from his weekly owl pellet dissection workshop (well, that's what they did last week anyway, god knows what this week involved, I got a rather vague "magnets") rather than waiting until 11pm when she has taken one of the Giant Orange Back Pills (my shoulder is furious at the moment. My shoulder hates the forty days) and oblivion beckons. Hang on, did I take it? Perhaps not knowing is a sign it is taking effect.
However, I think we have amply established that I am not a sensible woman, so instead, I spent that time buying a GIANT BOX OF CAKES (flan, religieuse, giant St Honoré) from the lovely, flirtatious French men in La Fleur du Pain, who should be available on prescription for cast-down middle aged women, both them and their very superior flan pâtissier. Then I went and had tea and another cake in utterly lovely tearoom La Mercerie (that is La Mercerie's ceiling, above). Everyone in La Mercerie is beautiful and cultured and has a vast disposable income and speaks seven languages.
Sort of un-sticky toffee, with caramel sauce. Dennis the Menace and friends in the background sat for an hour without speaking to each other, just frantically Instagramming. I make no comment on this, I am no better.
Walking to collect F, this won my what the fuck window of the day:
Then I came home and had to unblock the lavatory (thinking dark thoughts about the domestic crimes post all the while), won once (by accident) and lost once (by stupidity) at chess to T, allowed F to take several photographs of me using an app which turned me into, variously, a golden retriever, the Sphinx and a tennis ball, then finally we had a bag of chips in front of a programme called 'World's Craziest Fools'. It was nothing if not varied, I suppose.
I have reached What Katy Did in How To Be A Heroine. I remember adoring What Katy Did and have several times thought of going back to it, but this quite neatly and devastatingly shows me how ghastly it was in many many ways. I read on, disturbed.
I think my knuckle is infected where I burnt it on the roof of the oven and it makes me look like a raging bulimic.
We had a taxi driver earlier who was plainly furious with the whole business of driving (possibly existing) and drove straight at a 38 bus on the wrong side of the road in the driving rain, so I should probably be quite grateful simply to still be alive.
Things I had cause to say today:
"Why is there kitchen roll on the dog"
"Stop playing space invaders with my head"
"DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THESE SHIT BAGS COST?"
Etc. All the glamour, all the time.
How was your Saturday? More lavatory unblocking or exquisite cake or somewhere inbetween?