Flocon the cat
The first is that L's external French exam has become the subject of great controversy in the Kingdom of Belgiana. A reminder that he is 14. One of the questions involved reading a short text about a cat, Flocon, which was described as "black with a white mark on its neck", then the students had to study 4 photographs of cats and say which one was the cat described. This was not a trick question. You genuinely just had to find the picture of the black cat.
(this is the only photo of it I can find, the candidates had a fuller view of the cats but you get the idea)
Ain't no party like a Belgian school party
The second concerns my other child, who has also been taking public exams and who also finished yesterday. "So what did you do today?" I asked him when I got back from London. "In the morning we had a puberty information session," he said, gloomily "And in the afternoon we watched a film about the holocaust." Belgian school knows where the party's at. YEAH!
I decided we had to have cake at the post TBTBM belated book drinks last night, because of course we had to have cakes, so I located a place that sold choux in - of course, where else - South Kensington, the 21st arrondissement (until tomorrow, at least). They were very charming and the choux were both delicious and GIGANTIC and I met a beautiful Italian greyhound in there and one of their eclairs looks exactly like a Ferrero Rocher still in its wrapper:
So there you go. Maître Choux is the place to be if you are (i) in London and (ii) looking for a choux pastry based French pâtisserie treat (I am not sure about the pink one which is horribly reminiscent of calamine lotion).
M and I ended up speculating on what would happen to South Kensington if the unthinkable happens tomorrow.
M: This time next year South Ken will be a wasteland. The Lycée will close down and some sort of religious academy will take its place. Petit Bateau will be replaced by branches of Barbour.
E: It'll be a smouldering post-apocalyptic nightmare. Maje will be replaced by British Home Stores.
M: BRITISH HOME STORES IS DEAD, EMMA
E: THEY WILL BRING IT BACK TO LIFE. ZOMBIE BHS. No more bars à vin or little bistrots. Just pubs. Shit ones with red swirly carpets.
M: Small plates will be banned and replaced with PIES. All pies, all the time. Those weird ones with creamy sauces.
E: "Chicken". It will be mechanically recovered poultry substitute but now they will be allowed to call it chicken because NO MORE EU REGULATION.
M: NO RULES. Pillows will be made of chicken cartilage.
E: Everything will be flammable. Everything. People will just spontaneously combust as they go about their business with no fire retardant anything. No more maternity leave either.
M: No more roads for Scotland. Fuck the skirt-wearers, they don't need roads.
E: All the pregnant women who would have been on maternity leave can just scatter stones across the moors instead.
M: What will happen to the Eurostar?
E: Oh god. It will be operated by Virgin Trains and only go ... to Folkestone.
Rhodri's riff on the whole sorry business was funnier, did you see it?
90% hungover (30% headache, 20% sweating, 35% fatty salty foods, 5% regret)
10% THE HUMIDITY