I'm trying to type but my son is reading me out a list of "nine snacks that get Brits salivating". Cyril Connolly never even imagined this kind of shit. You can forget about pictures too, he's got my phone.
I think I need to stop going to our local supermarket because every time I have been there in the last couple of weeks I have found myself standing in the twelve person deep queue at the tills muttering audibly I HATE THIS PLACE. THIS IS THE WORST SUPERMARKET ON EARTH and similar. I mean, it is amazingly awful, there is never anyone on the tills, the staff are without exception horrible and the stock is atrocious (they did not even have the obligatory seasonal fondant Jesii to assuage my irritation this time), but my reaction to it is getting out of hand and I fear I am becoming an Angry Middle Aged Woman (an AMAW?). I have also taken to scolding the - so very numerous - people who insist on standing bovinely in front of the opening doors of tram and metro carriages. Why must they do this? Why are they astonished each time afresh by the requirement of egress before ingress? Godammit.
I don't generally consider myself to be angry person, I tend to get sad not angry about big things, but I sometimes surprise myself by accidentally accessing an unimagined well of boiling rage. I can trip into it at the tiniest things, eg. the crapness of our television box, shoddy H&M seams, blockheaded letters from Belgian administrative entities, accidentally boil washed jumpers, EVERY DAMN THING ABOUT OUR DISHWASHER and someone using my best mug to drink water (tsk). Usually (always) when this happens I am in fact angry at myself for twenty years of chronic underachievement, so I try and have a word with myself, but I seem increasingly prone to apoplectic outbursts (whispered, naturally, or semaphored through body language and tutting) as the years go by. What is the solution? Don't say yoga. Or "living my dreams" or similar. I will accept "buying more Aromatherapy Associates Deep Relax bath oil" or "moving to Yorkshire to raise goats. Alone."
In not angry news, however, I am struggling to access an iota of indignation at the revelation that the Roi des Belges Philippe and lovely wife Mathilde were at a thalassotherapy spa in Quiberon during the recent lockdown, which has caused some ructions. Firstly, whom among us would NOT prefer to be at a thalassotherapy spa in Brittany rather than walking the rain lashed, deserted streets of Brussels in late November with only some very nervous, febrile youths in fatigues clutching My First Machine Gun for company?
Secondly, thalassotherapy spas are wonderful. Back when I had money, I went to them as often as I possibly could. They are marvellous places, where you pad around in a dressing gown and plastic sandals being summoned every half hour or so for some peculiar treatment - guano wrap, woman with a Karcher power hose attacking your cellulite, then asking "shall we finish with a little cooler water?" not waiting for your answer and dousing you in any icy torrent of bracing punishment, or being led in groups around a small pool of waist high water in the manner of recuperating racehorses by a perky man in a white tracksuit.
After a couple of hours of such ministrations, you have a nice supposedly "light" lunch (three courses with a glass of wine, this is France after all) and go off to rest, swathed in blankets like a 19th century consumptive. You are in fact regularly instructed you must rest, because the treatment is so "fatiguant" a fact which makes you feel very virtuous and brave to have withstood all that fatigue. It is a full delight and you go home feeling like you have purified and reinvigorated yourself on some higher level, whilst in fact mainly eating crème caramel and napping. I wish I were in St Malo now, about to get enveloped rather than listening to a monologue about crisps.
Also, what exactly was the king supposed to be doing? He doesn't have the look of one of Europe's most incisive anti-terrorist strategists. He's probably ok at hunting, I don't know, hare or something. Oh, I have looked him up and apparently he can also pilot a helicopter. but I feel like we were probably ok for helicopter pilots? As for morale, well, I reckon Pierre Marcolini is better for our national spirits. Or even better Stromae! I would have been genuinely cheered if Stromae had made us a little lockdown film. Let the poor king have his seaweed wrap.
40% injections (but for Thailand, so taken in good humour, except when F was playing with my phone and found my dental selfie and held it up for everyone in the waiting room to see)
10% mince pie anticipation (yes, it is time)
10% child revision dread-slash-procrastination (I already know 1000% more than I needed to about the anatomy of the mushroom, thanks)
10% advent calendar dissatisfaction (the ones I ordered haven't arrived, I cut my thumb open trying to do our matchbox one and my sort of adoptive mother Les has sent us a CHOCOLATE DARTH VADER ONE, of which I disapprove violently)
10% A bit giddy that my book actually exists as a physical entity now, YIKES.