Do you wanna build a snowman? I do.
I sang this line to child A and B this afternoon, whilst playing Rounders in the snow globe. It was met with scornful faces. I think there is clearly a child 'C' in the mix.
The snow we have at the moment is called 'graupel'--this I learnt from the trustee RTE radio 1. It is pellet snow which, to me, looks like ash, lending a post-apocalyptic vibe to the already, admittedly, rather apocalyptic situation. It's all good though, I have a flatmate now, ah you heard? and we keep each others spirits up by speaking to each other in clipped South African accents. I think we're excellent. Until we go off into the Rrrrussian and then we're in trouble. There's no getting out alive, until someone opens the vodka or, preferably, switches on Killing Eve. I must tell you about Killing Eve, I must tell everyone about Killing Eve. A murderous, murderess psycho-path who waltzes around in flouncy pink tulle dresses, flitting effortlessly between accents and roles with the agility of a trout--for she is, as slippery as an eel-- and the pout and sass of a precocious child. She is irreverent and delightful and the perfect role model. Albeit evil and psychotic but nobody's perfect. I'll tell you where to watch it if you can tell me where to find the perfect villanelle dress...deal? If you remind me that this series came out in 2018 and that I am three years late to the party, I will have to kill you.
This past week has been one of good eating and nourishment. As I write, I am smacking my lips, retrieving the last dregs of zingyness from a particularly exciting Asian style noodle salad, featuring caramelized brussel sprouts fried off in ginger, garlic, chilli and soy sauce, garnished with crunchy peanuts and grated carrot. A working woman's lunch to rewire neurons tired of dreaming up theatre workshops and methods of entertaining over-intelligent children. We are eating better than we ever did, and when I say 'we', what I really mean is 'I'. But, of course, I need to play the charade: in co-habitation as in solo isolation, "yes yes, I always eat like this--goats cheese and pesto on toast you say? Yeah, completely. Good idea, I was thinking the same thing"...
One of my favourite conditions about this new living arrangement is being able to come in the door from work and shout "honey, I'm home". I then, of course, proceed to crack open a few cold ones and lean back to watch the 'footie' on TV. I cannot, sadly, post about any 'brilliant goals' to Facebook however as it has been hacked--one dampener to this current situation of matrimonial bliss. I feel I must take this time to reassure anyone that received a message from me, that no, I am not looking for your credit card details, nor your phone number, I have quite a lot of them already. Sorry.
Control has still not been regained and, being a true millennial, I am quite distressed about this. I see my Facebook as a piece of history, and even, dare I say it, a part of my identity which is now, cruelly, being robbed. The awkward, gangly, ugly, wholesome, embarrassing teenage pictures I would lose! Please--I leave you now my will-- post this blog to my Facebook page for me? One other thing, seeing as we're on the social media train; follow @CTYI on Twitter and check out the piece of 'Twitterature' being written by my secondary school students of 'Flash Fiction' and drip fed, tantalizingly, one chapter tweet at a time. Week by week. With that, I must go forth now and rest in peace, thank you ever so much for fulfilling my heart felt wishes.
xoxo hack the hacker
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