Saturday, 18 July 2015

The enchanted quarter

I have taken the afternoon off after a really intense week of law and translation. I mean, intense for me, the most chronically lazy being in Uccle, lazier even than the cats in the cardboard boxes outside the corner shop, lazier even than our hen, Tabasco, who spends her entire life collapsed into a puddle of feathers on the floor, listlessly hoping the food will come to her, somehow.

I have not had a very ambitious time. I went to the choux shop, bought some choux, bought a falafel sandwich from the beardy hippies, then came home, took my bra off and watched Fake or Fortune on the sofa with three choux, after instagramming them like an insufferable wanker. You cannot imagine the pure animal delight of it all, or perhaps you can. Fake or Fortune is excellent and I am now obsessed with the faded, terribly British beauty of art expert Philip Mould who is like a Jilly Cooper hero, if Jilly Cooper ever wrote about art (oh, apparently she did) (I bet PM was in it).

What is happening in Uccle, Emma, you do not clamour, not even one or two of you. Well.

1. Our neighbour claims there is a pole cat living in the next street. I wonder what pole cats eat?

(a) Chickens
(b) Frites like everyone else, fool
(c) YOUR FACE

2. She also nearly got arrested for feeding the foxes, but ran away and someone else got in trouble instead. She is an outlaw.

3. My eldest son has been regaling me with texted tales from his summer gulag. For the first day he was mistakenly enrolled in a group of younger children.


I like "taped my solder" especially.

4. There are major, quartier-wide roadworks as a new and pointless roundabout is crafted, which is causing widespread disruption to all road and public transport users and generalised irritation. Someone has decided to deal with public resistance by means of a series of BATSHIT CRAZY rhyming slogans placed all over the area. It is the work of a creative agency, obviously. An agency that needs to go home, because it is drunk.

These are my favourites.

Exhibit One:



"Quartier en chantier, quartier enchanté
The area's a building site, HOW FUCKING ENCHANTING

What you can't see is that this is basically in the middle of a massive heap of rubble. This is a brave statement.



Exhibit Two:



Dans le chantier, on s'arrête pour bronzer!

In the building site, take a break to tan! 

The state of my tan is always prominent in my mind as I cross building sites. I don't know if you can tell but that's a sort of tanning chair behind the window. So you can sit in the highly public tanning chair and look out at the devastation. Naked, presumably. I live to see someone doing this.


Exhibit Three:



"Dans la poussière on fait des affaires"

There are bargains to be had in the dust

Doubtless. Cables. Corrugated iron. Fluorescent tabards. That kind of thing.


Exhibit Four:



Du brouhaha, cela ne nous arrête pas! 

The noise doesn't stop us! 

On a hearing aid centre. Very good.


Exhibit Five:



Dans les travaux, c'est rigolo!

The building works are fun!

No. This is just a lie, isn't it. Obviously they never watched that terrifying public information film about building sites they showed us in primary school in which a child was repeatedly killed in terrible and unlikely ways (crushed by falling masonry, drowned in pothole) and which blighted my tenth year.

There is still a reflex twitch of life in Uccle this week, next week, with the arrival of the fête nationale it will close down completely, leaving the probably fictional pole cat in charge. This is the point at which I usually give in completely to my summer psychosis, so that's something to look forward to.

Percentages:

10% pizza disappointment
10% vicious mosquito bite on knuckle
20% dissatisfaction with my tops (or rather with my own fatness preventing me wearing them)
60% shit I have to walk the dog now because he's whining at an unbearable pitch.

You?

Saturday, 11 July 2015

Hysteria

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.

Percentages:

10% Nurofen Plus
10% insufficient concealer
20% Tea
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).


You?

Tuesday, 7 July 2015

What Is Happening Today




Tuesday, heavy, overcast, close. Uccle has already sunk into its traditional summer torpor, broken only broken by occasional visits from chuggers, red-faced and insistent men from Flanders trying to sell me sacks of potatoes and DHL delivery operatives bearing Rubik's cubes. The children have been out at their mandated improving activities all day and now they are back, furiously internetting to make up for lost time. The dog is lying very flat and very still on the tiled hall floor. I tried to lie down next to him earlier, because it looked cool and restful, but he pushed me quite deliberately in the face with a paw, then, when I didn't move, got up and stalked away.

I should probably think about dinner, because we have no food (apparently gin and Picard gougères isn't a meal, which seems a very myopic attitude to me) and I fear I must go to the depressing shitty Carrefour down the road for some grey slice of animal, but I am stranded on top of my bed in a tepid stew of aimlessness. I have done the easy bits of my editing, only one tiny and two small bits that require thought remain and thought seems to require aimlessness, so that is what I am doing: fuck all. That is fine as long as I don't think about all the other, more productive humans out there. If you've achieved anything this week, just don't tell me, eh?


Current domestic flashpoints

The opening and shutting of windows. Do you live in a house where every resident is in agreement on the optimum temperature and circulation of air? You are fortunate.

The bowls of plastic beads submerged in water dotted around the kitchen and bathroom, like so many clusters of frogspawn. I do not know what the point of these is. I have chosen not to enquire.

The dismantled Rubik's cubes, left in pieces on every flat surface, then placed in freezer bags by a disgruntled, well, me, then abandoned on the stairs.

The chickens, who are raucous, from early in the morning. The plastic bag in the chicken coop which no one has removed despite my requests.

Children's apparently lack of familiarity with basics of plumbing, esp. flushing lavatories.

Socks, discarded everywhere, in crumpled balls of squalor.


Current notes on my phone

Wikipedia link to the entry on the Gold Standard.

"Murderous single-minded shotgun"

A text for translation that contains the phrase: "ignite a relative radiance in the cosmic funkitude".

"I have such a strong muscle memory of this house"

"Bat1180?"

"Arab stallion -> jokes"

"Moustaches bristling syphilis fermenting"

"Monkey riding deer"

"Enright tea hot cross bun"

"VSM frites"

"Aspirateur et sac - Home and Away"


Current anxieties

Why do I have no money (I know the many and varied reasons, but somehow this does not help)?

Saw a picture of myself from the weekend and I look very fat even though I thought I was looking good (reverse body dysmorphia strikes again).

Book.

Everyone is getting older and I do not like it.

I have ordered new glasses and they are more of a Statement than the current pair and I do not know whether I will still like them when they arrive.


Current delights

A new series of Ru Paul's Drag Race has reached Netflix.

The children are gainfully (or possibly not gainfully, I am indifferent) occupied for the next 2.5 weeks and after that it is only a few days until we go and hide in Yorkshire for a fortnight.

Many promising books hoarded and ready to read (you know that even when I don't update my blog I update my reading list, don't you? I do.).

Chameau/Chat mort hilarity.

It is now time for gin and Picard gougères.




You? Any contribution to any of these categories?

Thursday, 2 July 2015

Top Ten Summer Emotions




I definitely said this last year, or possibly the year before, or maybe regularly every year since I started writing this blog, but the thing about summer is that it has such great PR, with its cloudless blue skies, honeysuckle and frozen lemonade with candy-striped paper straws that it fools me into believing I must like it, but actually I HATE IT. Every year I forget how weird it makes me and every year I think I am going mad, falling down a rabbit hole of anxiety and paranoia.

I am not going mad, I just hate summer. I should put a sodding diary reminder in my phone in mid-June or something. "YOU ARE NOT GOING MAD YOU JUST HATE SUMMER".

(I have definitely said that before)

(Sorry)

(Who knows, maybe I am going mad)

My top ten summer emotions, all listicle like and irritatingly capitalised:

1. Everyone Needs To Go Away So I Can Sit In the Dark.

2. Something Terrible Is Going To Happen.

3. I Have Been Away From My Email For Too Long And Now I Have To Look At It And I Am Overcome With Sick Dread (Even Though When I Do Look It Is Just 137 Generic Mailshots From Travel PRs). (I call this one the Holiday Special.)

4. We Are All Going To Die.

5. Nighttime Frustrations: Includes Stop Breathing So Loudly, Bedmate And Take Your Unbearably Hot Arm Far Away From Me. The Duvet Is Too Hot But The Sheet Is Too Light. Fuck You, Mosquito, A Million Times Over. No Hang On Bedmate Come Back With Your Unbearably Hot Arm For The Existential Terror Is Upon Me. Shit, Not You, Mosquito.

6. The Fact I Am A Terrible Person Will Be Sickeningly Revealed In Some Mysterious and Inexorable Way Now.

7. Aesthetic Frustrations: Includes Fucking Fake Tan Fail, Suncream-Induced Chin And Nose Spots and Why Have My Ankles Swollen Up To Ressemble Suet Puddings.

8. Alcohol Will Definitely Help With All These Feelings.

9. Oh, It Didn't.

10. Everyone Needs To Go Away Again.


What are your dominant or recurrent summer emotions?