I am a happy go lucky working girl. My colleagues love me and I love them right back - at least some of them. While I was ill my boss sent me a mail to say that I shouldn't worry about work and get lots of rest. Maelle, Corinne and Bladine called me and I got several supporting textos from Annabelle, Stéphane and Aymeric. If I were an easteregg, I'd have melted by now.
Actually, I àm a bit of an easteregg, I was born on Easter Sunday. Which brings me back to my mum. All I wrote is true, but only so every other day. She can be really nice, like on Easter Sunday 31 years ago when she agreed to give birth to her firstborn.

This week would have been deleted from my records if it were not for those two hours I spent awake. I turned on the TV and there they were: Dick, Sally, Harry and Tommy Solomon. Yes! 3rd Rock from the sun!!! By far my favourite tv-show in the last half of the nineties. Four aliens go live in Ohio to get to know a social and intelligent species called man.

Not that I need 3rd rock to find out that humans at times can be shamefully ignorant or selfish. I live with a female and male, whom I convienently call mum and dad. When you're tied to your bed for a full week, that's quite a lot of living together. It is not without joy that I return to work on Monday. It's probably the reason why the male works his ass off as well. My mother is a third generation dissatisfied impulsive semi-housewife, parttime obsessed with money and constantly telling me what I do not do. Help! Time to get that appartment fixed. ... It is a natural law that the human male is much more easy going than the female - I am an exception - I've got high levels of testosteron.

And to end this week of sleep and harmless diseases : sinusitis.

As soon as the pain in my middle abdomen and back got intolerable, I knew it wasn't just the flu.
It's the flu and a kidney infection. I wonder whether that would be because of the beer after the gym. Man I am in pain. No beer is worth another hour like this. The good news is that after a visit from the doctor you have a list of drugs that ressort about the same effect as one glass of Rochefort.

It's not a hangover, it's the flu. I took the train to Paris this morning, got off in Lille and came straight back home. 40° fever, red head with watery eyes.

The flu it is and so I got a chance to reread my post on Deva. Alcohol works as a truthserum I see. May the object of my affection not be shocked. Deva you are addictive company.

Time to get some sleep again.
Happy Easter. Betty C : I am so sad that I had to cancel my visit. I owe you a drink or two or three or four.

I got up this morning and all parts of my body ached. Except for the head. I do not know why I never have a regular hangover headache. When I was made someone must have thought "let this girl never have hangovers until she's 31 and then - evil laugh - we're not gonna go for the head but for the legs - evil laugh". How sad to discover this right before spending a weekend in Paris and some 2 weeks before you plan to jog 15km in public. Bummer. I will need to refrain from alcohol for some weeks.

The picture is an old map of the Citadelle de Lille. Just to let my occasional readers know that the city is worth a visit.

Deva or the third category

So I’ve met the male version of myself. It was Julie who introduced me to this guy whom I like a lot – no surprises there since he reminds me of me.

Until now I’ve distinguished between two types of men on this blog. Yesterday however, Deva reminded me that there’s another category: the ones you don’t want to sleep with for fear of getting involved in something unresolvable. It’s not that you don’t want it badly - a still face as a cloak around wild thoughts - and it’s not that you think you will change your mind in the morning, it’s just that you don’t know where your feelings will take you. Serge Gainsbourgs said that l’amour physique est sans issue – a dead end street – and that’s exactly the attraction of that kind of love. But I live by the rule that I have to feel that I don’t want more. And I am not sure that’s the case.

So my eyes are wandering off. There’s no better remedy for confusion than looking for clearcut answers in other men. Shallow is my middle name. I have a reputation to maintain.

Notok - I don't know why I think you're a man - do you encounter that often, a freudian lapsus when you enter a site-address? Night of the proms would then be night of the porn? Hotmail nomail? Tell me more. I am listening.

Since we're talking about Freud, I have a question. What does it mean when you are watching a detective and all of a sudden you identify more with the chiefs than with the protagonist detective? I find Witse a particulary irritating cop. The cavalier seul who solves all cases despite a chief who works according to the book. And while writing these words I've found out who the killer is. It's so in your face it is unbearable. The father is the killer (which brings us back to freud I guess). Predicatability is the herald of a boring evening.

What am I thinking about? A clue: it consists of molecules of dried bier on pavements and bratwurst ...

It's the notorious summer smell of open air parties on Belgian streets.
Don't you long for summer nights like I do?
And wished they'd bring drunken laughter and the inevitable good company?