As I kitty-napped on the train home, I became aware that my lips were gently smacking together and woke hoping nobody had noticed. I'd been dreaming about soup. What it means to be dreaming about the soup you are going to make when you get home is anybody's guess. Maybe because I am actually living the bloody dream, my dreams have become dull and soupy.
Again, this weekend I resembled somebody with a life. If this keeps up I might actually have a life. And I find less and less that I want to talk about the people I meet. They are not local colour, or archetypes, or things with which to prop up the page; they are friends. I have a handful of good friends in Brussels and a handful of going-to-be good friends in Gent. What more can you ask for, except perhaps a decent soup. It would be unfair to talk about things they tell me, or how I feel about them, or what they do. They are not entertainment, they are my lovely people and I am not Liz Jones. This may cause the blog to die a lonely and hungry death, but what can one do?
This morning I went early to the Gemeentehuis to get my address changed on my ID card. The police came round before Christmas but these things take time, you know. When I got there it was in and out in less than ten minutes. Which would have been fantastic but this afternoon, I realised that the charming guy on the desk had been so chatty that he didn't give me back my ID card. So, tomorrow again to the Gemeentehuis...
And on the way to the station this morning I saw chickens. Just wandering about in a small park. Just waiting to be soup.