Crisis it's been a busy week.
Between conferences with our colleagues from other countries, it just feels like my work has suddenly ramped up to robust levels, and that I have to account for and squeeze everything I can into any spare half hour or ten minutes I have.
I get now why people say that being a working mum is one helluva juggle, they're not fucking lying lemmetellya.
I'm spinning about a thousand plates right now, and in between the noise of china crashing against the floor and walls, I also managed to injure myself while bowling.
I know. When giant balls mix with glasses of prosecco and a sleep-deprived person who has only ever bowled twice in her life, shit goes down.
Two very heavy balls clunked together at some point in the evening, and my finger happened to be, at that exact moment in time, sandwiched between the two balls. I even have a bruise.
It was mummy's wild night out with a large group of wily foreigners, and I came back with an obliterated finger.
Anyway, whatever. What I am really most excited about is tomorrow. Yes, yes it's the weekend and it's the first weekend we are having at home in what feels like months having spent the last two in Hampshire with the Brit's family, but that's not why I am excited.
You may recall - pretty much this time last year - the ongoing and highly volatile feud we had with our upstairs neighbour.
Well, they're not moving out. (Yet.) But wait. After this weekend, they might just.
Since their, frankly, terrible behaviour last year while we were trying to fix up our house before the arrival of our twins, we've had a frosty relationship. She hates us with every moving cell in her body, and we harbour a resentment of her
If you want the running commentary, grab a cup of tea/jug of wine, and read all about these such delights.
For those interested in the short version only: She's French, screams a lot, loves causing a scene, and is about as rational as a dingbat. She's been nothing but rude and petulant to us, and seems like what rules are in place for us don't apply to her (noise, neighbourliness, the list goes on.)
Now that you have that firmly in your mind, I'll draw you to what is going down this weekend. Our garden is currently a mostly-unused concrete courtyard as it stands.
Having a garden in London, even if it is 5mx5m, is a highly sought-after commodity, and it's abysmal - criminal - that we've only used ours a handful of times last summer [to braai.]
In winter, gardens go mostly unused in this country and are about as inviting as a being enclothed in a cold, wet rag. But come summer - you ache for the poignant and delicious smells of meat being tanned on a Weber, of fresh green grass, music blaring out of the double doors, the baby crawling happily outside in the sunshine, the herb garden waving in the soft breeze and the detergent commercial thus springs to life. Sure, we'll only use it two months a year, but that really isn't the point.
All while our neighbour above looks down on us from their bedroom and says something like, "Putain et merde..." under her breath as I turn and wave.
So that's the long-term, two month goal. We want to lay down some lawn (unfurl it, slowly, from left to right) so that we can put down a blanket whenever we like and so Sebastian can crawl around happily. Redo the flower beds and herb garden and make the place COMPLETELY FUCKING TIT.
So in order to exchange our Eastern Bloc concrete slab out there with fresh grass, we have to dig it up.
Cue tomorrow morning at around 8:00am when the Brit and his friend bring in our little friend Mr Jack Hammer in from B&Q that they've hired.
Tomorrow they'll be jackhammering their way into the Earth's crust. Below her window. Before lunch time.*
*Not that I know anything about this of course, and because I'm actually fucking terrified of her reaction, I'll probably have left the house to push Sebastian around the common. Or need to go and buy lunch. Or something.