By 9.30am I had loaded the boys into the car to nurse their puncture wounds and headed to Vive Le Jardin's extensive dog department at top speed. Because it didn't actually open till 10am, we thought we'd take a tour by L'Eclerc as it has become my new favourite obsession since Monday. And I wanted to see how my yoghurt was coming along. But oh how dull. It was a carpark once more. Apparently the farmers stopped picketing at 17h30 last night after a 30 hour protest and the smell of sour milk had clearly grown too potent. The boys were bitterly disappointed there was no pyre of tyres or free handouts from hi-jacked delivery trucks. But hey, what's that? They'd written 'Voleur' using the medium of cow shit in huge letters underneath the huge letters of L'Eclerc way up high on the side of the building. Thanks to the overnight rain, the letters had run giving it a Hammer House of Horror font. And it absolutely made our detour completely worthwhile. S mulled over the logistics of how they got up that high and wrote it and B just focused on the fact it was written in poo. Excellent.
Came back home, still talking about the farmer's penmanshit, armed with a silky yet furry skinny skunk which had not one squeaker but twin squeakers. Marvellous. Or at least we thought it would be. It's currently resting, pegged to the washing line, high out of her reach as it drives her so wild with joy that her circuits blow a fuse and she has to be put in her crate to find her inner zen again. Thank goodness for the bagful of the hugest pigs ears I've ever flipping seen to fall back on in trying times. Not that we're running low on those at all at the moment; there's one available on all floors, in all rooms. I actually tried to slip one on my foot yesterday, mistaking it for a Fitflop as I cursed about being awake so soon and fumbled about in the dim light of dawn. I can't comment on it's cellulite-busting, arse-toning qualities but as a pacifier for teething, hairy bowling balls, they work a right treat.