Ducking and Diving

Yesterday I saw a cormorant in the Parc du Woluwe.  This marvellous black and gold bird was standing on top of a tree with its wings at full span.  I think I am becoming obsessed with things avian because it made me smile and smile back over my shoulder as I walked, pushing the sleeping Boy. 

It is a quite glorious park, full of dressing-table size bunnies and trees that look like dust clouds risen to their full puff.  But I'm sick of it.  Sick of the toytown eleven o'clock chime from the Maison Communale.  I want a desk and some humans.  The birds are the only things that never pall.  I love the way the crows welcome us and then bounce alongside us like beggars hoping for a handout.  Then they brawl over bits of bread.

Walking, I repeat loudly to the empty park what my goals are, trying not to sound passive aggressive about it.  "That's not too much to ask, is it.  Is it?"

Tomorrow, I have the second interview for the job I went for last week.  There are now just two candidates, of whom I am one.  Immediately after that I have another interview for a different job.

I am not sleeping well.  Last night I did the proper gasping-sit-up-waking from nightmare thing that they do in films.  To quote Eminem, 'Everything looks like it's 8 Mile now.'  Although to be fair, Woluwe-St-Pierre isn't exactly a trailer park.  But so much depends on tomorrow.  Fuck a fucking duck.