I have to tell you, I have nothing for you today. This is not because I am an empty husk after a day of composing transcendent, luminous prose. I am a full, guilty husk. Today's programme: staring, a couple of biscuits, faffing, light despair, lining up balsawood penguins and some truly atrocious "Religious education" homework:
What? What? I am not French enough for this. I hope never to be French enough for this.
I loved your comforting tales of similarly half-arsed days (except for the ones who have horses because I was blinded by jealousy), thank you. And thank you for commenting generally, it is hugely appreciated as I stagger half-arsedly through this pointless exercise. In fact, it's the only thing keeping me going.
(pause while I console eldest child over collapsed Design Tech bridge and search drafts folder for inspiration. There are no drafts.)
I am sorry, I am going to have to resort to some links.
This is an extraordinarily clear-sighted piece of writing - Meghan Daum on her mother's death. I read it first thing this morning and it made me late because I was sitting on the bathroom floor holding my breath as I read.
B's contribution: a fairly jaw-dropping piece of salacious American legal gossip.
F uncovered this incredible holiday for book perverts.
M: "this is what it's like inside your chickens' heads'.
Want to waste half your day like me? Help is at hand with this fiendishly infuriating quiz.
Loved this about The Knowledge.
Go home, Elle Belgique, you are drunk.