Come Into My Parlour

I feel like a very still spider in the middle of lots of possible flies at the moment.  Just poised there with all eight legs waiting for a tug of the web.  Which means, of course, that I end up doing nothing because I can't decide which fly looks tastiest.

There are so many things you can do here in Brussels that it would be possible to be out every night of the week, and that's before you even start on the bars, restaurants and men.  These are some of the things currently under consideration:

•     Samba class (the drums, the drums!)
•     Salsa class
•     Bachata class
•     Zumba class
•     Joining a choir that does all sacred music and stuff
•     Auditioning for Calendar Girls (and yes, the play does involve middle-aged nakedness)
•     Signing up for the next level of French
•     Joining the Brussels Brontë Group

Having some sort of social programme going on would help to balance life, I think.  I might stop getting the WORK HORROR dreams.  My job is going just fine, but in my sleep IT'S ALL GOING HORRIBLY WRONG.  I get these looped nightmares that convince me of their reality.

Of course, appearing on stage naked would not only uphold an old family tradition (my mother was a Windmill girl) but it would hopefully give me calm, bucolic Dubonnet-ad dreams.