Tuesday, 1 November 2016
Nice eye nice wattle nice shape
It is another bastarding public holiday. My children are killing people with strangers on the internet, slumped in the dark, their spines abnormally curved, their pasty faces illuminated by the occasional plume of pixellated blood. My spouse is dozing in front of something which appears to be an American reality TV programme about dude loggers, dubbed into French.
"Brad a une solution pour ce soir. Depuis 2 ans il est boxeur d'MMA amateur"
"Vous êtes que des cons dans cette équipe, c'est vrai?!"
The tortoises are refusing to hibernate because global warming.
The dog has eaten something unspeakable off the street and is gurgling ominously.
I am chasing up an overdue payment from 19th June for the 7th time, wrapped in a blanket like a giant, morose futomaki.
Yorkshire Vet roundup
Email convos during:
(no, B cannot spell Thirsk, but he is American, and thus it is forgivable, though it is also why Julian will be MY second husband and not his, despite his threats to rip my wig off)
My own notes:
Alpacas called Jay-Z and Mr Darcy. The alpaca wrangler had a special technique for distracting alpacas from castration, by manually revolving their tails, something Julian described with characteristic understatement as "a reasonably involved procedure."
Peter the old vet went to visit Mr Bird the pigeon fancier to collect pigeon stool samples. Mr Bird described the ideal pigeon as follows:
"Nice eye, nice wattle, nice shape."
In the teaser for this week's ep, Julian was testing what he described as "the electro-ejaculator" with his tongue. They are toying with us.
Other things that have happened
1. I have obtained a Belgian driving licence! It was - barring the two trips to the town hall and trip to the police - bizarrely simple and I obtained it without shouting at the sky, or resorting to an SVA ('screaming vagina attack', I can't really explain this satisfactorily). I keep staring at it in wonder. I seem to be allowed to drive a bus, plus trailer. I still do not want to drive.
2. Belgian pumpkin update. Belgian commerce appears to have given up on my favourite practice of placing a plain, uncarved pumpkin in the shop doorway or window. Its demise is much lamented, at least in this house. I purchased two Belgian pumpkins yesterday and attempted to carve them, but they appeared to be made out of the hardest Belgian rock and I ended up in a fury covered in pumpkin slime and chunks of adamantine orange flesh. The children came when I had done 90% of the work and desultorily carved some basic faces into them with very little enthusiasm. Truly, the age of childhood wonder is over. We had a few sets of small trick or treaters (poor bastards, slim pickings indeed, one mate of my son's got THREE sweets in his night out), whose slogan seemed to be "un bonbon ou la mort", which I personally felt was a little extreme.
3. Troubling research while listing writing:
Seriously, chicory professor? Mr Demeulemeester, emeritus professor of chicory. Where is my professorship in Flan?
4. I had a terrible yen for classic champagne cocktail this weekend, so we went all around town looking for maraschino cherries and the like, then I drank three in quick succession on Saturday night and now it is Tuesday and I am STILL waiting for easeful death, because, oh god, the hangover. It seems to have gone beyond a hangover to a point where I now expect to feel this shit for the rest of my life. GOD, they were utterly bloody delicious though, so I suppose it was worth it. (it wasn't) (let me curl up and die).
5. It's just conceivable that my state of near perishing may also be related to my new and revolting habit of extreme sell-by date roulette. I don't really know where this has come from, possibly just more apocalypse prep. It's not really working out for me.
6. Life without Twitter remains calm and quite dull. I wish I could say I was achieving more creatively, but clearly that is untrue. I have committed to an hour of "proper" writing, but most of the hour is spent checking on the Freedom timer and staring at the birdshit on my window. I assume this is part of the creative process. If it isn't, don't feel you have to disabuse me of my illusions.
30% Tracking my new parka (Toast) as it meanders in the general direction of Belgium at an excruciatingly slow pace
20% Is it time for cashmere pyjama bottoms yet, please say it is