Awful freelance lunch goes rogue with an excess of doughy joy:
(There was a 20% off sale in Marks and Spencer and I am powerless in the face of reduced carbohydrates. I haven't eaten it all. Yet. )
E: I just want to lie on a giant Hot Cross Bun.
M: Oui. And then for someone to close the warm, fruity lid over you. Like a nice spicy duvet.
I am so happy for Attila the Bun Binky Master Jazz Paws (discovered by great friend B, fount of all things animal).
I dropped into the lair of my current administrative nemesis on the offchance this afternoon with no great hope of progressing my administrative fuck up and emerged approx 3 minutes later with the missing piece of paper. This constitutes such a profound rip in the Belgian space-time-probability continuum that I fully expect to be sucked into a black hole in the next hour or so, but I am enjoying this wholly unprecedented feeling to the full. THIS NEVER HAPPENS.
Because we are all profoundly institutionalised, like very compliant residents of sheltered accommodation, Wednesday night has sacred status in our house as FISHFINGER AND FRITE NIGHT. Fishfingers from the freezer, courtesy of Capitaine Igloo (the French/Belgian Captain Birds Eye, why he can't be Capitaine Oeil d'Oiseau eludes me) and frites from the friterie round the corner whose frites are ethereally crispy and beef dripping scented, as a frite should be. Hurrah for the frites. This looks like I am trying to fiddle with my SEO through frites which would probably be highly effective in Belgium. Also I have last night's episode of Happy Valley recorded to watch.
Wednesday is violin day (not my idea, we have a perfectly good piano upstairs and it doesn't make a noise like a flock of peacocks being tortured however bad at it you are) The kid who has the lesson before my self-tiger parented son is the size of a chihuahua, barely out of nappies and horribly advanced and I do not like it. I mean, she will probably burn out before she is ten, I suppose, or lead the troubled life of the virtuoso and I am very proud of my son for choosing to play such an initially thankless instrument which will pay such dividends later if he persists, but nevertheless.
Second parental confession:
I said I'd go to some daft meeting about 3rd year options on Thursday evening and I am already planning how to weasel out of it, because, Jesus, I've read the handout surely that is sufficient, child knows what it wants to do and I can see no reason to oppose him. This is however a terrible example to the child in question who is not burdened with over-enthusiasm for collective activities of any kind (other than collective online virtual killing) as it is (hashtag genetics).
Third parental confession:
I am already sick of "supervising" revision and there are still two more sets of exams after this one before the school year staggers to a close. I am sure my parents did not do anything like as much of this coercive revision, though saying that a memory has just returned unbidden of my father forcing me to read The Economist then calling me on Sundays and making me relate and analyse an article to him, god. Doubtless it would be better for all concerned if I left them to it, but apparently I am too much of a controlling harpy, which is a sad and surprising discovery when you think you are all groovy, relaxed parent. Ah well, I am already reaching the limits of my abilities in most subjects, so soon all I will be able to do is stand on the sidelines barking crossly about how this wasn't how you did it in my day and I am sure that will be a significant improvement.
40% Devoid of ideas
30% Hopelessly in love with the little owls
15% Considering chicken agility
15% Gin longing