Shit, I totally failed at this important promotional daily blogging business: a combination of ill-timed wine, poor scheduling, falling upstairs and scalding my hand with boiling herbal tea (rock 'n' roll) and outbreaks of acute anxiety, usually at 5am, which is a shit excuse because I wouldn't have been blogging at 5am, would I. Actually that may come in useful tomorrow morning when I have to get up at 5 to take L to the coach for his school trip to London, god help us all, his bag contains half his bodyweight in sweets, quite possibly no pyjamas and I have no idea what else.
The GOOD thing is that is totally on brand for a book largely about failure, yes? Sigh. I haven't made any cake yet, because I am scared of making Joconde or anything involving macarons and those are the next steps. I will though, I promise.
The book comes out on Thursday and because I like to focus on the essentials, I am mainly concerned about not knowing what to wear for the launch/event thing in Paris. I mean, it's not a cocktail dress job is it, which is a shame because I have a really good dress that would be perfect.
Me to M (who is coming for moral support/possum in bakery style cake consumption): Will it be all intellectual beard stroking types?
M: I don't think anyone there will have a beard. Or indeed a penis.
E: Oh. No. You're probably right.
I think I am going with North Yorkshire discount outlet mall silk shirt, North Yorkshire discount outlet mall Margaret Howell trousers, because what could be more Inès de la Fressange/Emmanuelle Béart than a haul from a discount outlet mall in North Yorkshire. I will wear my new shoes. I am trying to break them in:
... but then I have to take them off to go and shout at the chickens, which constitutes about 40% of my daily activity (they have a new habit of standing on their water container in such a way that they repeatedly shit into it), so that is not wholly lifestyle compatible. I'll bring emergency trainers. I have a tight schedule of cake purchases to manage.
But if I do wear trousers/shirt, how/where can I wear my lucky gold croissant? So many dilemmas, when I should be probably worrying about getting quizzed on Proust. NB: I borrowed "there'll be no butter in hell" from the helpful comment suggestions on favourite lines in books for their little interview thing, so thanks whoever suggested it. If you're in Paris on Thursday (yeah, I know) and you fancy it, here are the details.
Apart from that it's all been discussing whether a yak is a good under the influence purchase (with M), how to dispose of a horse sized spider (with F) and playing spot the sea monster (with B).
If I don't go to bed now there is no chance whatsoever I'll be doing anything other than crying in a foetal ball tomorrow night, which will put paid to any other posting opportunities.
20% stolen choux outrage (long story)
20% eye strain
20% creeping dread
20% Dutch sentence construction
20% Wishing I'd had my teeth cleaned by softly spoken Jérémie the kind dentist in the last 6 months instead of hiding away until I look like Father Jack.