I was quite prone yesterday. I had to hand in my edits - very minor indeed but nevertheless causing me to question every single part of every sentence in the manner of a crazy person - and total hysterical collapse stalked me all day. The exhibits:
1. Got a letter addressed to our tortoise. "Big Mama" then our address. She's not going to pay her own vet's bill, mate! She's notoriously mean! (also: dead)
2. This exchange with my son.
I want to respond to everything with "it's life" now.
3. This story and more particularly the man's face, at which I could happily stare for hours.
4. Subsequent conversation with M about the possibility of my father punching a cheetah in the face.
5. Extensively quoted in an article about tortoise sex. My father would be so proud if he knew. No, hang on, he wouldn't. Maybe he'd punch a cheetah in the face.
6. My friend F is reviewing Purity and her descriptions of it have left me slack-jawed. Oh man, it sounds so awful. Loads of bad sex.
7. My friend B invented personalised Ru Paul's Drag Race lyrics for me ("may the best whippet win" featured) in the middle of a long email conversation about getting your face impaled on railings.
8. Tried to take a picture of my new glasses but I look like I've had a stroke in all of them. This is the best of a horrible lot:
God, I look as old and tired as the mummified remains of Ramses II (we went to a barbecue last night and my main food groups of the evening were gin and Kettle Chips - I don't even like Kettle Chips). I need an infusion of virgin's blood and a mouse placenta shot and five pints of botox, straight into the eyeballs.
9. Got trapped watching a circus display by six year olds (much face planting and dangerous low flying diabolo action) after my son's "parkour" (= jumping over benches) class display and also discovered the man in charge looked exactly like Karl Ove Knausgaard, then spent ten minutes trying and failing to take a covert picture of him, then several further fruitless hours imagining a parkour class narrated by KOK at interminable, self-loathing, masculinity-questioning length. If I had a tenth of a brain, I would attempt to actually write it, but this morning we have already got lost in Ikea and been to Decathlon (ugh, Decathlon, the place where performance fabrics go to die in rustling melancholy) so I am pretty much a spent force, creatively.
As is evident from the foregoing.
10% Nurofen Plus
10% insufficient concealer
10% Ikea straw hat regret (should have gone for the black ribbon not the white)
10% compensatory Daim pieces
10% Pâté ("summer pâté" from the cheese shop which sounded dodgy but turned out to be delicious. Incidentally the cheese shop are looking for summer staff. The only criteria on the sign is "Doit aimer le fromage", which is pleasing).
30% supine parental abnegation (I am the top three hits on the internet for this phrase, which was stolen from some sociology book of Prog Rock's, I believe).