Snow and summer sun

Ten days of contrasts - sub-zero temperatures in Lyon four days before Christmas, pleasant upper twenties sunshine on boxing day in Melbourne, and today the thermometer is 38C and still rising...

A flying visit to the home of football the weekend before Christmas avoided the sundry travel problems in snow-bound Blighty. The toothless Tigers were duly tamed by the mighty Gunners Saturday evening, quick beer and curry and overnight stay with McBhoy and the Peace Bird, and I was home by Sunday afternoon. La belle-mère flew out to France Monday, escaping the snow and ice with a mere 2 hour delay to her flight. Earlier the previous week, the BA cabin crew strike was declared illegal, so three days later we had only the British weather to worry about as we set off on the 31 hour journey down under. In the event, the only problem encountered was by one suitcase, which somehow missed the connection in Heathrow (T5, so perhaps no surprise). We even managed a reasonable amount of sleep between London and Singapore, and the prodigal baggage turned up 36 hours later.

Christmas day passed virtually unnoticed in the air, and we finally arrived in Melbourne at 6.30 boxing day morning. Found our way to chez frère numèro 2 et famille by nine am to find brother up but las chicas still in bed after a late night Christmas day party. Las sobrinas finally appeared sleepy-eyed but 3 years older, taller and lovelier. Lunch, a bad session of Band hero - out of time, out of tune - and dinner with the Swiss family Robinson followed in a jet-lagged blur, and we finally fell into bed and blessed sleep at 9pm.

The following day we had the pleasure of accompanying les nièces shopping at Chaddies, while la cuñada went out to work and le frère enjoyed a couple of hours peace and quiet. Sunday we set off to Melbourne zoo. Nice idea, wrong day. Full car parks and an entry queue stretching several hundred yards quickly persuaded us that a stroll round Albert Park would be a quieter option. Home for lunch, then an afternoon defeat to la petite nièce at one-on-one basketball.

Lazy Monday morning, followed by a cool afternoon at the cinema, Lovely Bones and the Chipmunks part of the varied viewing program. Today it was hot. Too hot to do much, so we contented ourselves with a short stroll along the Port Philip Bay waterfront and a paddle in the sea. This evening a swim is on the agenda. As long as it cools down enough...

Cold comfort

It was l'anniversaire de ma bien-aimée yesterday, and I treated her in romantic fashion with a trip to Gerland to watch OL's latest struggle. Followed by dinner at the Ninkasi. What more could a girl want?

Actually, the dinner was rather nice. Steak, foie gras and Côte du Rhône. It was a freezing night, with a sparse scattering of snowflakes drifting down the whole evening. In the half-empty stadium the atmosphere was even more frosty. Fed up, the Lyon fans decided to demonstrate their discontent by either not turning up, or not singing or chanting. It was a somewhat bizarre experience, a bit like a pantomime, as la bienheureuse commented. The baddies were roundly booed. Normal, except the three principal bad guys were two particular home players (for no real reason other than that they aren't very good), and the coach.

On the pitch, the players eventually responded by eking out a victory against the team 2nd from bottom, with two late goals. Relief of sorts, first league win in 6, first home league win since September, up to 4th from 9th. Elsewhere Bordeaux stretched their lead at the top to six points...

We got home to find yet another rejection from a literary agent in the post box. However, for once there was some encouraging personal feedback, scribbled on my introductory letter. Started off well - "This is entertaining..." - but then came the criticism - "takes too long to get going though... strange glitches in the writing...", etc, etc. And finally a suggestion to "let me know if you work this up". Whatever that means. The barely legible writing conjures up an image of an old-school agent, sitting in an office piled high with manuscripts and books, fag in mouth, whisky bottle in filing cabinet, clinging stubbornly to pen & paper or a battered old typewriter for communication, rather than one of those new-fangled computer things which everybody else uses to churn out form rejection letters. If only they were all like that... 

Frosty reception

Winter has arrived with a vengeance, temperatures in Lyon are reaching the heady heights of zero degrees Celsius at the moment. Rather chilly in Hungary too I imagine, where la salariée is currently on her latest work jaunt. It involved getting up at 5.15am on Monday morning (for me too, as I gallantly offered to walk her to the station) in order to catch a TGV just after six to CDG airport, thence a connection to Budapest, followed by a four or five hour car journey to Lake Balaton. The early start meant she forewent a trip to Gerland on Sunday evening. Instead I was accompanied by un voisin for the latest échec of a poor season for the former 7 time French champions. It was the team who usurped OL's throne, Bordeaux, who delivered the latest defeat, 1-0, which means les gones haven't won a home league match since late Septembre. The fans are not amused, and not happy with the coach. Loud chants of "Puel, démission!" could be heard at the end of the match. Otherwise it was a good weekend, football and otherwise. A happier trip to the pub earlier in the evening was preceded by a visit to the Christmas market on Saturday, even if the Christmas shopping was less than successful. 

Elsewhere on Sunday, an event that has shocked Lyon was taking place. An innocent 12 year bystander was shot dead during a drive-by shooting in what is thought to be the escalation of a fight between gangs of youths from different 'quartiers sensibles' on the eastern outskirts of Lyon. After an earlier pitched battle involving mere base-ball bats, hammers and stones, apparently some of the antagonists returned in a car, armed with a rifle and semi-automatic pistol. At least 14 bullets were recovered by police. Sounds like a minor miracle only one other person, a 17 year old youth, apparently also uninvolved, was hit.

Meanwhile, France as a whole anxiously hangs on every bit of news relating to the health of Johnny. Every news bulletin since last week has led with a report on the latest news from the hospital in Los Angeles where France's living Elvis is being treated. Sigh of relief that he is now out of the artificially induced coma. Maybe we'll get some other news on the telly at last...

Striking times

The lights went down on Tuesday, and Wednesday evening it was back to the weekly routine with a trip to Gerland to watch the final Champions League group game. OL duly did a routine job, 4-0 winners without ever having to play well against one of only two teams to finish the competition with nul points.

Two less than routine things happened on the way home. We bumped into two of our neighbours in the metro queue, the fact that there was a long queue being the second unaccustomed event. Normally we leave on the final whistle and our seats at the metro end of the ground allow us to beat the queues. Not on this occasion. There were plenty of early leavers with the fans more interested in what was going on at Anfield, where the Scousers duly failed to live up to expectations and allowed Fiorentina to finish as group winners. That means OL will draw either an English or Spanish team in the first knockout round. Few in France expect them to go further...

The metro also seemed to be running slower than usual, symptomatic of the last week or so. There was a strike over the weekend, timed to coincide with the Fête des Lumières, though it didn't have a huge effect. Then yesterday, the automatic metro line that la bienheureuse often takes into work was out of action all morning, leaving the buses overcrowded. Ma bien-aimée was forced to walk...

Strikes elsewhere in France are in the headlines at the moment. A train strike is upsetting Parisian commuters, and lorry drivers are threatening to strike in the run-up to Christmas. A measure of how serious this would be is that the employers appear to have quickly made concessions...

However, what's really preoccupying greater France at the moment is the news of Johnny Hallyday's emergency operation in California, after complications following an operation on a herniated vertebral disc in Paris a couple of weeks ago. Johnny's agent announced today that the American surgeons had told him they'd had to repair the damage done by the original operation, which they called a 'massacre'. There is talk of suing the well-known French 'surgeon to the stars' who carried out the operation in Paris. Apparently won't be the first time he has had to pay damages to a patient...

Lights, laughter and lack of sleep

In a blur of lights, food, wine and lots of fun, the week flew by. Our guests for the 2009 Fête des Lumières were up at 5am on Saturday morning to catch an early flight to Lyon. They were duly met at the airport (nice drive out, Mont Blanc clearly visible), transported home, fed a gourmet picnic lunch with Gewürztraminer, and then it was time for their afternoon nap. Prof Margarita and I huddled round a dodgy internet feed of the Potters getting snookered on the green baize of North London, and then finally it was time to hit the streets and the lights of Lyon.

The Lights this year were designed to be more eco-friendly and intimate, so after our first taste of the impressive projections on the Prefecture du Rhône, we opted for a stroll along the river towards Parc de la Tête d'Or. There were various small installations along the way, the most popular being a video projection with manipulated images of spectators. In the park itself, the trees were bathed in light snow (or snow light) and there was a fairly effective display of neothlithic caves and paintings. 

Afterwards we wandered back to the Poivre d'Âne for a late dinner, créme de St Jacques and duck burger among the delights on the menu, washed down with a rather nice St Joseph. Regrettably, I no longer feel able to claim that the famous moelleux au chocolat is the best in the world. And thence back home, for digestives and bedtime around 1.30am. Long day for the travellers...

Lie in on Sunday morning, followed by a trip to Les Halles de Lyon to effect purchases for Sunday dinner and chocolates for Christmas back home. For lunch we had une petite degustation of a Lyonnais specialty, quenelles. Afterwards the Caipirinha Kid and the Margarita man tried to walk it off with a stomp round the zoo and park while I dozed at home with Ms H and la bienheureuse prepared dinner. Early in the evening, we ventured out into the crowded streets. First objective was the display in Place des Terreaux, but with more people than ever, access was restricted so we abandoned the idea of queueing and headed instead for the Saône quayside to watch the fireworks, held over from the abandoned 14 juillet display. The Crack Fox was more of a delight for certain among our number...

Thence back into the throng, via the lights on the façade of the Église St Nizier to the queue for the show in Place Terreaux. The wait was worth it for a display on the Musée des Beaux Arts and the Hôtel de Ville, featuring time and weather, a play on the fact that the French use the same word, temps, for both. From there we dodged our way towards home, via the Christmas market and strike-reduced metro for the boys, where delicious lamb tajine was cooking slowly in the over. A rather fine Coteaux du Tracastin complemented it perfectly, followed by a la bienheureuse special, mmm... Tarte Tatin.

We were all in bed by 12.30 this time, la bienheureuse was up as usual to go to work, while the rest of us arose somewhat more tardily. Then we headed back to Les Halles for a sumptuous fish food platter in one of the restaurants. Oysters, prawns, urchins and king crab. Delicious, and we made it home in time for our guests to share a taxi to the airport with ma bien-aimée. Work trip for her, homeward bound for them.

It seemed quiet, at home on my own afterwards, but I put on a brave face and a waterproof and headed out in the evening to take in some more lights and take on some more water. The streets were much quieter, thanks in no small part to the fact that it poured with rain the whole evening. It was still worth the effort, because the light and sound tribute to the builders of St Jean cathedral was quite stunning, and there was a diverting, if tiring path up Fourvière hill to the basilica, where there was a display on the front façade for the first time.

La bienheureuse was home exhausted in the evening on Tuesday the 8th, the key day in the Fête des Lumières. We put our bougies on the window ledges but didn't make it out for more fireworks on the footbridge just down the road, opting instead for ham and brazed red cabbage, and Marseille losing out to the showboating Madrid galacticos on TV. I did go out later for one last look and photos of the cathedral show.

Rain and pain

A weekend to forget. Saturday was pleasant enough, out for a stroll with la bienheureuse, bought Corsican maps for the upcoming big five zero trip. Then cooked a rather excellent, improvised roast duckling while ma bien-aimée wandered the Christmas market looking for gift inspiration. Nice bottle of wine in the evening.

Gloomy Sunday. Grey day, la bienheureuse was forced to do some work dumped on her at short notice by the ever thoughtful EU authorities, then we ventured out for an afternoon and evening of football. Painful couple of hours in the pub watching blue robots on steroids grind luckless football flair into the mud under the pouring London skies. When we escaped from hell, just to rub our noses in it, it was pouring with rain outside as well. We trekked to Gerland, found shelter for a while in the Ninkasi for pre-match food, then splashed into the ground to watch OL be outplayed by a lively Stade Rennais but escape with a draw. A wag in the crowd summed the Lyon team up perfectly - "good keeper, one good striker, rubbish in between."

Today I attempt to lose myself in work and forget football. Fat chance...

Another match nul

Round 2 of France versus Italy in the Champions League. While I was at the holy ground on Tuesday evening (flying overnight visit) watching les cannoniers more or less serenely complete their progress to the knockout stages, OL duly lost in Florence, sending the Scousers crashing out. On Wednesday, les Girondins de Bordeaux beat the Old Lady to top the group and Marseille outplayed Milan again but only came away with a draw. France lead 2-1 in teams qualified so far for the last 16 though, with one more group game to go...

Away from the sporting front, the grippe A epidemic continues to sweep the country. 22 deaths in the last week have somewhat reduced the general reluctance to get vaccinated, and there are now long queues for the jab. In Lyon the headlines are being made by an armed jewel robbery in the town centre yesterday. Cartier was relieved of an estimated 100,000 euros worth...

Domestically, we entertained one of la bienheureuse's colleagues last night. Curry was on the menu and allowed a fairly stiff test of the new odour evacuation system this morning. Forty five minutes after making the deposit, the smell was detectable but supportable. Not exactly highly efficient, but a definite improvement I believe...

Gloom and fug

Autumn has returned, and with it the gloom. It's damp and grey outside, and la bienheureuse is in Germany for 2 days teaching colleagues how to use the new product registration templates. Saturday was the last day of the brief Indian summer, but spoiled by a trip to the pub to watch football. Our usual haunt being taken over by egg-chasers, we were forced to patronise the Smoking Dog. Bad omen - last time I was in there was for the infamous match featuring a mercenary striker taunting his former fans. Ah well, onward the Russian mafia funded blues next week...

Saturday had, however, started off quite well with the more or less successful completion of my latest DIY project. Our apartment is lovely, but it has one major detraction - the cupboard-like WC. Its position bang next to the front door is bad enough, but the real problem is the lack of ventilation. Not to put too finer point on it, bad odours have a tendency to linger. The problem of retch inducing stenches in the toilet can occasionally rear its ugly head, particularly when we have visitors and the resultant successive bowel movements. Without wishing to linger too long on bodily functions, of course it goes without saying that the main malodorous culprit is the author. Everybody knows women and guests don't make bad smells. 

Ahem. To cut a long story short, I recently carried out some investigations to see whether the aeration could be improved. There is a vent in one corner of the toilet ceiling, but its ability to evacuate unpleasant odours seemed virtually non-existent. Examination of other vents in the bathroom and kitchen suggested that all were connected to pipes, which in turn connect to the central ventilation shaft. So, why was the one in the toilet so inefficient? Turns out the vent wasn't connected to anything, and what's more, it was covered by a board. By poking fingers through the hole I managed to move the board, but as far as I could tell there was just a dark space beyond. 

I needed some way to see what was above the ceiling. Not easy when the ventilation hole was too small for me to get a hand through, let alone much else. Fortunately, a certain amount of ingenuity and a bit of lateral thinking led me to the construction of a Heath-Robinson apparatus involving a small compact camera taped to a foot ruler. All it then took was a method of taking photos remotely, achieved by assiduous use of the delayed shutter release. Anyway, after a lot of hit and miss, I eventually managed to build up a complete picture of the space above the ceiling. And much to my satisfaction I discovered that there was indeed a ventilation pipe leading down to the toilet ceiling. The problem was that for some reason it ended in the corner diagonally opposite the ventilation hole, and the end appeared to be sealed to the ceiling.  

So, I bit the bullet and decided to drill a hole in the correct corner. Of course, the problem was that I was relying on a series of poorly focussed, badly exposed photos, which failed to give a precise estimate of the ventilation duct's position. And you've guessed it, my first hole was in the wrong place. Eventually however, I hit the pipe. My problem now was that I had a hole in the ceiling which was twice as big as it needed to be. That was solved with an appropriately oversized rectangular ventilation grille. Purchasing said grille involved a trip to an out of town shopping centre, for which I decided to take the tram rather than the car. The journey was enlivened by a local loony bearing a startling resemblance to Ahmadinejad, who insisted on chatting to me in a low voice and an accent I didn't understand. I must have nodded in the right places and murmured the right things because he eventually left me alone and went off to pester others on the tram or build his own nuclear weapon, allowing me to escape and make my purchase. 

Back at home on Saturday, I completed the job by shaping the hole in the plasterboard to fit the grille. So we now have a toilet ceiling with two neat ventilation grilles instead of one. And has it made any difference? The jury is still out. In fact, a sensible jury would stay out, but anyway, a suitable bowel movement this morning did allow me to test the new system. While initial evidence (a sniff test) suggests the ventilation has improved, I'm not sure the test product was sufficiently smelly. The acid test awaits a period of more active digestion. It may not be long. Ma bien-aimée is proposing to invite some friends round for a curry on Thursday...

Hands, hypocrisy and minor heatwaves

A difficult week for French football, starting with the infamous match last Wednesday. Les Bleus struggled, outplayed and outfought by the Irish, who missed a string of chances, the conversion of any of which would have avoided all the controversy. The match commentators, including St Arsène, were embarrassed, and the overall feeling was one of sheepish relief. Then came the media storm across the Channel and the Irish Sea. It seems the devil incarnate wears blue and answers to the name of Thierry. The clamour for a public hanging is such that a few politicians and ex-footballers have been moved to proclaim their shame about France going to South Africa. Perhaps it's cynical to suggest they are bowing to public opinion rather than any true sentiment.

Fair enough. What Henry did was wrong, the goal should have been disallowed, Ireland were more worthy of the win, but what amazes me is the level of self-righteous, hypocritical indignation in England - I seem to remember barely a mention of Michael Owen diving to win penalties against Argentina in successive world cups, or Rooney diving to win the penalty that ended the 49ers unbeaten run. Cheating is evidently a foreign invention. The English merely play clever...

Football rant over. Nearly. We were contemplating venturing out on Wednesday evening to take in the midnight arrival of this year's Beaujolais Nouveau in Place Bellecour, but tiredness and apathy got the better of us. Just as well, because celebrating Algerians mixed with the Beaujolais celebration and police ended up using tear gas to disperse the over-enthusiastic crowd. Elsewhere in the Lyon conurbation, jeunes Algeriens demonstrated their joy by burning a few cars and ransacking a couple of shops. Maybe it will be a quieter night next year.

If it's not bad taste to gloat about the weather to a British audience, then I will just mention the mini Indian summer we are having at the moment. It's been unseasonably mild for over a week, and today we basked in sunshine and temperatures of over 20 degrees. Winter has temporarily receded.

On the home front it's been a quiet week, apart from a big win on the lottery (winnings of 11 euros already partially reinvested), I've amused myself by making a hole in the toilet ceiling. But that's a story the telling of which can wait until it's fully over...

Blue and green with envy

A famous lyonnais is in the news today - Tony Musulin, the security truck driver who absconded with more than 11 million euros, gave himself up in Monaco yesterday, much to the amazement of all. Since he vanished nearly two weeks ago there had been no sign of him other than the discovery of 9 million euros of the loot in a lock-up garage not far from where he drove off with the van. And therein perhaps lies the key to his sudden reappearance - of the missing 2.5 million, there is still no news, and Monsieur Musulin himself is apparently mute on the subject. Judicial experts reckon he risks a maximum of three years in prison, perhaps as little as 18 months with time off for good behaviour. With roots in the Balkans, the rumour is that the loot is hidden in Serbia, to be enjoyed when he comes out of prison. If not then he can always fall back on his new-found celebrity. The perfect, non-violent 'crime of the century' has turned him into something of a star on the internet...

Back in the escapist world of sport, the big match tomorrow preoccupies. The 1-0 win in Dublin on Saturday (the 2nd half at least) was regarded as a job reasonably well done but only half-done. A nation awaits and expects.

And back at home, in the real world, I soldier on with the recent discovery that literary agent rejections are like London buses. None at all for two or three weeks, then 2 or 3 all arrive at once. Two weeks ago it was three, one after the other. And just recently, two more on consecutive days. Current rejection count: one letter with a personal touch, six form letters, four slips/cards, one application disappeared into the ether (3 months and still waiting), and six still out there. Running total of costs: £61.74 in return postage, 72 euros outward postage, and approximately 20 euros of stationary costs. Not cheap being a failed writer...

Not gripped at all

Yesterday marked the start of the grand vaccination program against le grippe A (otherwise known as swine flu) in France. And met by an overwhelming lack of enthusiasm. Granted, for the first couple of weeks only priority cases (young children, pregnant women, the infirm) are eligible, but in the Rhône department, a grand total of 93 people turned up for the jab. Government spokesmen tried hard yesterday to counteract the negative publicity about the safety of the vaccine (particularly the sort with adjuvant added), but weren't helped by the news that a doctor who had the jab a few weeks ago has contracted a syndrome affecting the nervous system, which is possibly linked.

Elsewhere this weekend, the French are preoccupied by the upcoming World Cup playoff against Ireland. The first match, at Croke Park, is being approached with a certain amount of trepidation - the atmosphere in the ground, state of the pitch, anticipated bad weather, never-say-die ('British') attitude and unbeaten qualifying campaign of the men in green are all quoted factors in why Les Bleus might not do so well in the Emerald Isle. On verra...
Meanwhile, there was one small regret over our trip to the UK last weekend: we missed the game of the season at Gerland. The match between OL and OM finished 5-5! Lyon led 1-0, then 2-1, only to find themselves 4-2 down with less than ten minutes left. Then, just as they were celebrating one of the comebacks of all time, leading 5-4 as the 90 minutes were up, Marseille scrambled an equaliser (an own goal, to top it all) in time added on. Un match vraiment fou...

Birthdays in Blighty

Back to the daily grindstone after a highly enjoyable trip across the Channel. Two birthdays celebrated, three towns visited, four days of eating and drinking. It all began Friday: mid-afternoon flight to Stansted, followed by a drive to Gloucester. M25 at rush hour on Friday, a faulty decision to go across country via the M40 and Oxford commuter crawl, and a three hour drive took four and a half. Welcome back to English roads. 

However, we made it to the Judges Lodgings in time for chili con carne and wine in the perfect place for party - lots of interconnecting apartments with sundry kitchens, and dining area and living room large enough for twenty odd forty somethings and a sprinkling of kids. The UKC connection was gathered to celebrate Dr C's 40th, and spent the evening catching up and drinking late into the night. Drinking too much in one or two cases, including mine. Saturday was thus recovery day. Wandered into the not so fair city of Gloucester to see the sights and do some shopping. Sights consisted of the docks and the cathedral. The latter was impressive.

Come the evening, come the party. The headache receded enough to start with G&T and champagne cocktails. Dress-up, sit-down dinner followed, cooked by birthday girl C's able mate & chef Dr N. Delicious lamb tagine washed down with wine, plenty of it, followed by birthday cake. Forty candles a decent bonfire makes, enough to set off the fire alarm anyway. Stuffed to the gills, all that remained was to eat more (cheese), drink more, and then attempt to dance some of it off. Scottish reels followed by eighties disco. One by one, people drifted off to bed, leaving the hard core to dance till six am, fueled by tequila slammers and Pringles. 

Remarkably, less of a hangover the next morning and some of the late night party people were even up by noon. All that remained was to lounge around, wait for a less than cruel Madame de Vil to cook a slap-up full English for brunch and then it was time to leave. We survived another drive around the M25 and arrived chez le petit frère in the early evening, to help la Colombianita finish her 29th birthday celebrations. More good food, good  wine and good company, then a night on the tiles. Or was it a futon?

And in the morning, another drive to the final stage of the weekend. A night in Cambridge chez Prof Margarita, preceded by more food and drink with the Caipirinha Kid, this time a delicious curry and beer in Shelford.

Tuesday, flight home, evening in a chilly apartment, then Wednesday lazing around recovering, la bienheureuse too. Remembrance day is sensibly a bank holiday in France, though the main shops in town were open so we didn't starve last night. In fact I somehow ended up with lunches for the next two working days pre-cooked by ma bien-aimée. Some guys get all the luck...

Balls and balls-ups

A week dominated by football of the Champions League variety. Tuesday, a trip to the pub to watch the evil red Merchandise United struggle but eventually mount a comeback in time added on to appease a red-faced Scot. Not that I would normally deign to watch the enemy, but a couple of la bienheureuse's colleagues made it a social event. 

Then last night the real thing: OL against the red Scouse empire. A battle of two wounded beasts. Two forced substitutions in the first half ensured that Lyon comfortably won the contest of most players on the treatment table, but on the pitch it was a rather more cagey affair. OL inhibited by the knowledge that a draw that would send them through, Liverpool forced to attack but not wanting to risk too much. The visitors thus had the better chances, mostly in the first half, but Lyon keeper Lloris kept them at bay. The action in the 2nd half was even less enthralling apart from one more astonishing save, but then the match exploded into life in the last few minutes. Liverpool's tactics seemed to have paid off when they nicked a thunderbolt goal 7 minutes from time, but Lyon somehow conjured up an injury time equaliser. Heart break for the scally legions. I almost felt sorry for them...
Meanwhile, in a far away stadium, football was being played on a higher plane. To think I gave up my chance to be there in favour of being at Gerland...

Elsewhere in the real world, a minor earthquake in French politics this morning. Sarkozy admitted making a mistake. Shock-horror! Or rather admitted badly handling the affair of putting his 23-year old son in charge of a billion euro budget. Today happens to be half-way through his presidential term, and the general tone of media coverage is that he is going through a rough patch. A recent poll puts his popularity rating at its lowest ever. 

Wine, women, walking and watching balls

A highly enjoyable four day visit from a soggy shark diver, summarised as follows:

Mercredi: pick up small package of Sands from airport in the afternoon, transport home, put leftover pot roast back in the oven and await the return of la bienheureuse, who has been in Milan for three days. A pleasant evening in the company of two lovely ladies, drinking wine, listening to the chatter.

Jeudi: ma bien-aimée goes off to work, leaving me to entertain the shark lady. Fortunately she hits upon a way of entertaining herself for the day and persuades me to purchase tickets for the tennis. We thus spend a pleasant and interesting day at the Palais de Sports at Gerland, watching men hitting balls over a net on a pink and lilac court. Two and a half matches, a stroll in the sunny park in between, all for a bargain 20 euros. Come half past five though, it was high time to walk 200 yards down the road to the Halle Tony Garnier for pink, white and purple items of a somewhat more alluring nature - the salons des vins.
La bienheureuse arrived shortly after we did, and the next two hours passed in a tastebud tingling blur. Champagnes, whites and rosés, with a few reds thrown in. We came away with 3 bottles of champagne, and a couple of boxes of Vacqueyras and Côtes du Rhône from a favourite vineyard ordered and awaiting collection the following day. The evening was spent recovering, with a spag bol dinner. Needs be as needs must.

Vendredi: early return visit to the wine fair. Aim: to purchase a further couple of boxes to restock a dwindling white wine cellar. More tasting, more choosing, looking for easy drinking whites. Eventually we chose a Petit Chablis and a Provençal vin de pays. Oh, and a Banyol rosé from the same vineyard. Impulse buy, which meant dragging home a couple of cases more than intended. Fortunately, notre petite invitée gamely coped with three on a trolley, while I managed four. 
In the afternoon I dragged her out on a walking tour of the Croix Rousse and Vieux Lyon. Traboules, painted walls and steps aplenty. At the end of the afternoon we refueled with coffee and crêpes before wending our way home. In the evening we were back out again, for a tasty dinner at Le Summertime close to the opera house. 

Samedi: more walking, and more watching sports. In the morning, a walk to view the coloured leaves of autumn in the park, and galloping giraffes and sunbathing lemurs in the zoo. Then we adjourned to the pub and wolfed down lunch while watching the red heroes of north London put their lily white neighbours to flight. A perfect day was rounded off with pink champagne, chicken roast in milk and tarte tatin.

Dimanche: caught the tram to the university campus to visit the foire aux chocolats. The largest tiramisu in the world, and chocolate to suit any woman's taste, even one so demanding as that of our lovely guest. Then another long walk home, via lunch in the garden centre, tea and chocolate cake at home, before it was time to take the great white shark lover back to the airport. Soup, mini-quiches and toast for dinner. All wined out.

Autumn colours

The mild sunny weather has returned and we took advantage yesterday, with a stroll around the park, broken up by a pleasant outdoor lunch in the Musée d'Art Contemporain café. Lovely colours, lovely food.

Minor downside of the weekend was provided by football. Lyon crashed to defeat in Nice, and a late Sunday afternoon in the pub watching the English version of the game was spoilt by the final fifteen minutes at Upton Park. Ah well, still three quarters of the season to go.

The big game of the weekend in France between sworn enemies Marseille and PSG was postponed because of an outbreak of swine flu amongst the Parisian players. Much polemic today, invoked by the late decision which meant several hundred PSG fans arrived in Marseille with no match to watch. Result: running battles with rival hooligans and police.

No action

The end of a rather quiet week, at home and abroad in the wider world. One benefit of la bienheureuse being away is guilt-free TV football in the evenings. Tuesday I watched mon équipe de cœur amble complacently in second gear through 92 minutes of the match against Dutch opponents, only to concede an equaliser in the 93rd. No real damage done. OL played the same night, on a subscription channel, and drove another nail into the Scouse coffin. Let's hope there's a resurrection on Sunday...

Elsewhere, Les Bleus drew Ireland in the World Cup playoffs. Les hommes en vert are seen as tough opponents, typically British.

In the more trivial, non-sporting world, Jean Sarkozy has renounced his candidature for the presidency of Epad, bowing to the general opinion that a 23 year-old law student lacks the experience and know-how to direct the billion euro budget of the public body in charge of developing France's largest business district. Shame nobody dared tell his father what a bad idea it was. Sarko fils can console himself with a mere seat on the board...

And finally, the Clearstream trial nears an end, with three days of summing up by prosecution and defence expected to end today. The prosecution has asked for an 18 month suspended sentence for de Villepin, with heavier sentences for his co-defendants. They seem to have accepted they can't prove that he took an active role in the conspiracy, but claim he's guilty of doing nothing to stop it. A decision in the case is expected to be deliberated at the start of 2010. The wheels of French justice grind slowly...

Brief encounters

Ma bien-aimée et moi aren't seeing much of each other at the moment. She was in Germany Tuesday to Thursday last week, I gallivanted off early on Saturday for an overnight trip to the holy ground, she was up early this morning to jet off to Prague for a four day meeting with marketing colleagues from around Europe.


It was a routine flying trip to London - morning flight to Gatwick, train to London, meet JW in the pub for a pre-match beer or two, comfortable if slightly laboured victory over the blue Brummies, lift back to Cambridge, usual overnight board and lodging chez generous hosts J&C, then morning train to Stansted for flight home. My fellow passengers stayed dry this time, but the trip wouldn't have been complete without a by now habitual gaffe. I managed to collect passport, credit cards, AFC season ticket and OL season ticket off the bedside table before I left. Spot the error - the latter item should have stayed behind so that la bienheureuse could go to Gerland on Saturday evening with a colleague. Oops. As it turned out OL lost, so they didn't miss too much...

A chill wind...

Autumn was brief. A week last Wednesday the maximum temperature in Lyon was 26C. Yesterday there was a morning frost and the thermometer failed to make it into double figures. And there's a biting north wind howling down the river. Brr, even if the sun has shone continuously. The heating finally went on yesterday.

As you can tell from the chat about the weather, it's been a quiet week. La bienheureuse spent three days in Germany, where it was even colder, leaving me to fiddle and faddle as usual at home. My days were an exciting mixture of grocery shopping, completing the latest rewrite, and spending time up a ladder doing a bit of ceiling cleaning.

In the wider world, the Sarkozy fils affair rumbles on with little sign of letting up. Sarkozy père gave an interview to Le Figaro saying that it was him, not his son, who was the main target of the snipers. Monsieur Le Président is seen as being under some pressure at the moment. A left-wing politician rather aptly paraphrased his Le Figaro interview as "I, Nicolas Sarkozy, singlehandedly beat the credit crisis, moralized capitalsm, and the whole world is obviously following my example. All these other trifles like mass unemployment, personal debt, huge public deficits, they're the fault of others and the crisis. It's not me who needs to change, it's others."

Meanwhile, this morning farmers blocked the Champs-Elysées and dumped a thousand cubic metres of soil in the centre of Poitiers in protest about their plight; the fugitive accused of a high profile murder is still on the run and thumbing his nose at the police six weeks after escaping from prison; and the Clearstream trial rumbles on...

Gourmet dining

Autumn has arrived in Lyon. Mild, rainy weather at the end of last week has been followed by cooler, sunnier times. On Saturday the clouds clung on, the upside of which was that la bienheureuse spent most of the day dans la cuisine. Magret de canard stuffed with fruit stewed in wine & port, salmon cakes, sweet potato soup and chicken in milk was ample recompense for a weekend without proper football.

Internationull football never grips in quite the same way, but I forced myself to watch France coast to a 5-0 win against the group minnows, the Faroe Islands. The game was rendered truly null and void by Serbia's 5-0 thrashing of Romania, which condemns France to the playoffs. Sunday was the cusp between summer and autumn, sunny but with temperatures still approaching 20C. We took advantage in the morning with our habitual 20km cycle ride, along the river to Parc Gerland, back down to Parc Feyssine, and then home again.

In Lyon the public transport strike petered out a week ago without agreement between unions and management. The former threaten to time future action to coincide with popular events, such as the Fêtes des Lumières or the Christmas period...

In the wider France, Frédéric Mitterrand seems to have weathered the storm (a poll says 2/3 of people want him to keep his job), though the National Front are still trying to stir up trouble by claiming he intervened in a court case of two brothers accused of rape in Italy while he was principal of the prestigious French Academy in Rome a year ago. Meanwhile Sarkozy's 23 year old son looks likely to become head of the government agency in charge of developing La Défense, the main business district of Paris. Accusations of nepotism are inevitable...

Crime and non-punishment

Plenty of news and noise in France over the last few days. Making the headlines at the moment is Frédéric Mitterrand, the Minister of Culture who made waves a few weeks ago over his denunciation of the arrest of Roman Polanski, and is now struggling to fend off a storm of criticism over a book he wrote ('neither novel nor memoire') four years ago describing his experiences with 'garçons' in Thailand. Last night he was interviewed live on the main French TV news and defended himself in lively, if somewhat rambling and confused fashion. He condemned sexual tourism and paedophilia, which he had never indulged in, but admitted sexual relations in Thailand with 'men of his own age'. He didn't help his own case by continuing to refer to 'boys' though, and the polemic continues this morning.

Earlier in the week Le Monde made waves in the cycling world by publishing extracts from a report by the French agency against drugs in sport (AFLD), which apparently criticised the international cycling union (UCI) for giving Astana (the team of Contador and Armstrong) 'privileged treatment' during the Tour de France, allowing them extra time between the end of a stage and the drugs test, among other things. The implication of the report is that the UCI did what they could to ensure a Tour without positive tests, which the organisers of this year's Tour congratulated themselves for achieving. The AFLD however say they are working on new tests to detect the latest generation of EPO and the whisper is that 20 odd cyclists in this year's Tour are under suspicion...

Meanwhile in Lyon a couple of tragic but slightly curious cases made the national news. The first involved an unsolved murder from 34 years ago, which was apparently cleared up when a suspect confessed. The bizarre thing is that he can't be tried for the crime because the statute of limitations in France is a mere 10 years. The second case was an abandoned new born baby who was subsequently discovered to have a rare genetic disease, so doctors have appealed for the mother to come forward...

It's been a quiet week on the home front, apart from having a commuting English colleague of la bienheureuse (the witness to my earlier in-flight misdemeanors) round to dinner on Wednesday. Ma bien-aimée has a rare week without travel and I've been slogging away at re-write 4 of book 3. Not much incentive to get out of the apartment anyway - the weather has finally broken. It started raining on Weds night and has barely stopped since...

Goals galore

Another Saturday, another flight across the Channel to follow an obsession. This time, an evening flight got me to Cambridge in time to interrupt a well-watered Killers head-banging session and down a swift G&T before falling into bed after midnight. Late breakfast the following morning, and then once more we beat a well-worn track towards the holy turf in anticipation of entertainment by the red and white heroes. And what entertainment. Eight goals that could have been eighteen in a stunning display of attacking football by the best attacking team in the world. Defence? Defence is for boring teams.

So a contented trio headed home, in my case via another excellent dinner and stopover chez J&C, hospitality in its usual generous abundance. Even got a lift to the railway station in the morning. More interesting flight home than usual, due in part to the company of one of la bienheureuse's colleagues, but mostly due to my inadvertent attempt at installing a new aircraft sprinkler system.

Nice to arrive back in Lyon to find the weather still warm and sunny. Today, it's even warmer - mid 20s C - but cloudy and blustery due a strong reverse Mistral blowing up the Rhône valley. As I write, there are even a few drops of rain spattering against the window - the first in about three weeks.

Conflicts, conflagrations and conflabs

La grève continues. And hardens. Tuesday night there was a fire in a depot at one of the main bus stations. 34 vehicles were damaged by what later proved to be arson. Meanwhile, the mayor of Lyon was moved to pronounce that the strike had gone on too long. Yesterday, 70% of services were reportedly running, but the strike retains enough support to seriously inconvenience most commuters. There are union meetings today to decide on the next move. On verra...

Given that my own commuting consists of twenty paces from bedroom to 'study' (a cause for minor regret on a day like today - the spell of warm, sunny weather continues), it's only going to the football where the strike causes problems. La bienheureuse is still walking to work, though yesterday she took the car, but that was because of a meeting in a hotel on the outskirts of town followed by a social evening learning about wine in the Beaujolais. Left at home alone, I contented myself with watching overpaid galacticos fluke a 3-0 win over les marseillais. The previous evening we hadn't needed to budge from the sofa as for once I got the chance to watch the glorious Gunners at home, in both senses. Domination brought eventual reward. Meanwhile, on the subscription channel we don't get OL were strolling in a Hungarian park.

Earlier on Tuesday evening we had a co-owners meeting in the apartment of one of our neighbours, which not uncharacteristically went on long enough to leave me sweating about dinner burning in the oven and missing the start of the big match. Typical meeting - lots of talking at high speed, most of it by two stereotypical French madames: nineteen words to the dozen, two dozen words used where half a dozen would have sufficed; atypical outcome - decisions were reached. Perhaps because we have a new neighbour who is unusually calm and decisive. And she doesn't talk too fast to understand.

The first concerned the syndic - the company charged with administering the building. Our own syndic is singularly inefficient, not to say inactive. For five years we've talking about changing, and finally we all agreed to do so. At least those present at the meeting did. And we still have to decide who to replace them with...

The main reason for the meeting however, was to discuss the rubbish bins. Yes, a subject of much concern, believe it or not. A lot of protocol is involved in the use of poubelles in French apartment blocks. Our particular bone of contention is with the restaurant that occupies the ground floor. According to building and city council rules, restaurants are required to make use of specialized outside companies to dispose of waste generated by the kitchen, rather than using the daily rubbish bin collections. Of course this costs money, and not surprisingly le resto downstairs prefers not to cough up and just uses the bins.

Our bins.

They do apparently have one normal rubbish bin, and one recycling bin allocated to them, but of course a busy kitchen generates much more detritus than two small wheelie bins can hold, and so they stuff all of our bins every day, leaving us poor inhabitants nowhere to dump our rubbish. Quelle horreur! Not only that, but their bin has a large crack in the bottom through which kitchen waste often leaks, leaving a smelly, slimey mess all over the floor, which then gets trailed out through the lobby when the bins are emptied.

Another thing about the restaurant that gets our neighbours' backs up is the noise at night. The restaurant often hosts parties of one sort and another, sometimes involving loud music, which keep our first floor neighbours in particular awake. Music they don't have a license for. All these issues (there's another, involving deliveries, which I won't go into), have at one time or another been taken up with the restaurant management by one of our neighbours or another, with varying degrees of politeness. Much is always promised, nothing is ever done. So, it was decided to send them a polite but firm letter, pointing listing all these points, pointing out all the rules, and informing them that if it's not taken, the next time we will be forced to have recourse to the law. On verra...

Travails and travel trouble

Pleasant weekend, all the more so with the current spell of lovely weather continuing. Saturday, in the best tradition, was football day. Two games, two laboured victories, but never complain about a win. First, to the pub to watch les hommes d'Arsène Wenger uncharacteristically dig out a satisfying 1-0 result thanks to a man of the match display by the 3rd choice keeper. As soon as the final whistle went, we headed off to Gerland, a journey which would normally have taken less than half an hour and got us there just before kickoff. However we neglected to take account of the ongoing public transport strike, which I'd erroneously thought wasn't continuous. The automatic metro line was running, but it only got us half way there. Fortunately there were replacement shuttle buses running. Though only to one stop short of the ground, so after a brisk 400m walk, we ended up missing about 10 minutes of the game. And the opening goal, for the opposition.

Toulouse were playing well and OL continued to struggle for the rest of the first half, but a half time change of tactics and an 18 year-old substitute livened things up. The young striker scored a lovely equaliser and Lyon eventually scored a scrappy winner a few minutes from time. Another quick exit as soon as the final whistle went, another brisk walk back to where the shuttle buses departed, and who should we bump into on the bus but a former colleague of la bienheureuse who left Lyon 3 years ago. Funnily enough we bumped into him in the pub a year or two ago, again without being aware he was visiting Lyon. Quelle coincidence. Or maybe not, when you consider he's as much of a football fanatic as me (even if he supports the dark side).

A more gentle day Sunday. Stroll along the river and through the park, amble round the garden centre looking for more indoor greenery, then a tough trudge back home bearing large plant and self-watering pot. Rather warm work for a late September sunday. Today, the good weather continues and so does the strike...

Strike and counterstrike

More drama in the Clearstream affair. Questioned (in New York) about the trial during one of his marathon 'broadcast to the nation' interviews, Sarkozy offered a tasty soundbite to the several million viewers back home: "... two independent judges were of the opinion that the guilty parties should be tried in court..." Key word - guilty. Back in Paris, where court proceedings that day were still ongoing, de Villepin's lawyers seized on it. "Damaging my client's fundamental right to be presumed innocent...", "Is this respect for the court? ... learning from the president of France that my client is guilty. Is this type of justice acceptable?"

Understandably. The former PM's lawyers were already questioning Monsieur le Président's right to be a plaintiff, when it is he who is the ultimate judicial authority, and in that bizarre quirk of French politics, is immune from prosecution while still in office. The TV interview is generally being seen as something of a gaffe, even by a significant number of members of his own party...

In Lyon, we're in the second day of a public transport strike, called to protest about plans to reform working practices. Most buses, trams and metros are not running at all, which has meant la bienheureuse walking to and from work. And the strike notice allows for strike action until the beginning of next year...

A stream as clear as mud

The 'trial of the decade' opened yesterday in Paris amid much media fanfare. Le procès Clearstream puts former PM Dominic de Villepin in the dock. Clearstream (named after the Luxembourg bank used in the laundering of slush money from arms deals) seems something of a misnomer for an affair about as murky as sewage water.

De Villepin has several other co-accuseds, but it is the former PM who dominates the headlines, and he started with a bang yesterday, making a statement outside the court claiming that he was only there because of the will and obsession of one man - Nicolas Sarkozy, denouncing the trial as a political show trial. Indeed, the whole affair is being characterized as a battle to the death between two sworn enemies.

It all goes back to 2004 when a list of names of Clearstream account holders alleged to have received bribes relating to an arms deal was leaked. It eventually turned out that the list was part genuine, part fabrication. Among the false names was Sarkozy (albeit indirectly, using his Hungarian patronymic names). De Villepin stands accused of deliberately adding Sarkozy's name to the list with the aim of torpedoing his bid for the Presidency. The murky world of politics...

Elsewhere, le Corbeau has been arrested. The suspect has apparently confessed to being the author of dozens of threatening letters, ominously accompanied by a bullet, sent to a number of politicians (including, inevitably, Monsieur le Président) over the past couple of years. And there's a post office strike in France today. Good excuse for delaying sending out more agent queries then - another rejection in the post today...

Otherwise, had a pleasant 36 hour trip to Blighty over the weekend. Flight to Gatwick Saturday morning, beer in the London sunshine at lunch, bright game and lovely result at the home of football in the afternoon, tasty curry with JeB in the evening, successfully evaded the security system and got into the Margarita Man's empty house for a bed for the night, then flight home from Stansted on Sunday morning. Yesterday la bienheureuse got her own back by flying off to Brussels for three days.

France 3 Italy 3

A mild peculiarity of this season's Champion's League group stages is that all three French teams were drawn against Italians, and this week, as luck would have it, there were three France-Italy contests. Result of round 1 - stalemate: one loss, one draw, one win, 3 goals scored, 3 goals conceded.

On Tuesday Marseille were mugged in the Velodrome by the streetwise AC Milan, while Bordeaux grabbed a creditable draw in Turin. Last night it was OL's turn to take on our transalpine neighbours, Fiorentina the visitors to Gerland. We duly took our seats for a 'fiercely contested' match. In the first half the lyonnais fans were much enraged by the rough house tactics of the visiting Viola, and an evenly balanced game swung OL's way at the end of the half when the opposition striker was sent off for an illegal strike - that of his elbow meeting with his marker's face.

The second half was predictably attack and defence, and the pressure finally told fifteen minutes from time when the Italians' French goalkeeper was at last beaten after beating out yet another shot, for once to the feet of an OL player. Les lyonnais could then have had two or three more, but failed to put the chances away and were forced to endure a nerve-wracking final few minutes as Fiorentina won a series of corners and free kicks close to goal.

But all was right on the night, particularly when I heard news of a famous comeback in Belgium in a match somewhat closer to my heart. Today, as if to celebrate, the sun is shining again after a couple of cool, damp and gloomy days. Cold enough to dig out long trousers and put the duvet back on the bed. Autumn is on the way...

The good, the bad and the ugly

A mixed weekend. The good: weather remained mostly warn sunny, and there were plenty of outdoor events in Lyon - the annual mass participation mountain bike ride through the streets, up and down steps and along the river; displays by local associations; and an art and pottery fair in Vieux Lyon. The bad: neither of us really got out to enjoy any of it.

Reasons for not getting out much? The good: la bienheureuse, who was being extremely conscientious and worked most of the weekend to get the new documents (which will become part of European law) finished. The bad: the fact that she was forced to work induced sheer laziness on my part, though I did fiddle hard trying to learn how to do things on the new waterproof computer.

We did in fact go out once, on Saturday evening, to watch some football. Two matches in my case, one in that of ma bien aimée. The good: OL won the game we both saw, albeit in rather uninspiring fashion, to remain joint top. The bad: watching in the pub as my true équipe de cœur lost for the second time in a row in that dismal, rainy northern city. The ugly: the concession of three goals in a crazy ten minute spell that lost them the match. The really ugly: two attempts to maim former teammates and one attempt to incite a riot amongst the away fans by a certain unloved, money-grabbing, egocentric striker.

Agents of news

Its been a busy week for the headline writers in France. Almost too many attention grabbing stories for them to cope with. La rentrée of schools last week was mainly characterised by information about how to cope with le grippe A as they more accurately refer to swine flu here. Then this week it has now officially reached epidemic proportions in France - more than 50,000 new cases per week. Still only 3 deaths so far though.

Elsewhere we've had another escape from prison - this time of the accused in the highly publicised murder of a well known actor's daughter and her friend 5 years ago, plenty of polemic about the proposed carbon tax, a political storm about the interior minister's alleged racist comments during the summer party conference, and more media frenzy about Les Bleus' struggle to qualify for the World Cup and Thierry Henry allegedly (since denied) telling coach Domemech that training was boring and the team had no idea what it was doing. Two draws were a poor return for what were actually two half-decent performances, particularly in the match in Belgrade where France outplayed Serbia for eighty minutes with only ten men.

On the home front, after a lazy weekend (a cycle ride and lunch in the sunshine on the banks of the river the limit of energetic activity) it's also been a relatively busy week. La bienheureuse is in Blighty working too hard trying to finish a Europe-wide blueprint for product registration documents, while I've been fiddling about at home getting the hang of the new toy to get more pitches to agents sent out.

Score so far: five sent three weeks ago, two rejection slips, one form rejection letter, and one rejection letter which at least looks as though it was composed personally:

"while the storyline offers much to entertain, I didn't feel sufficiently in tune with the narrative style to represent your interests...", "...didn't strike the right chord... doesn't mean another agent won't feel differently...", blah, blah, etc, etc.

On second thoughts, it probably is another form letter, just one that's been more carefully and tactfully composed. Undaunted I press on. Another four sent out this week...

And the skies cried...

A week in the Lake District - plenty of water, couldn't really expect anything else. Rainy day followed by two dry days, followed by rainy day, followed by two showery days.

Tiring Thursday - accompanied by closest cousin S and family, and youngest cousin A and girlfriend we ventured out for a morning of activity - mountain biking in Grizedale forest. Up and down hills on forest tracks - enjoyable but knackering, especially for the young newcomer to the Sandford clan. And we only encountered a brief, drizzly shower. In the evening, the forty-something generation escaped into Ambleside for the traditional dinner out. Tapas this time, with the traditional inquisition of cousin A centering on his matrimonial intentions.

Fiddling Friday - dodged the heavy showers to amble into Ambleside where la belle-mère purchased birthday and christmas presents, belated and advance for la bienheureuse et moi. Bolting the stable door after the horse had bolted, we both chose light waterproof jackets. Takeaway fish and chips for 21 in the evening, but the weather forced a generation. Three age-groups, three aparments.

Stopover Saturday - up early to pack and clear the apartment by 9am, dropped off la grand-mère in east Cheshire, then headed across to north Wales to visit le beau-frère, la belle-sœur et les belles chiennes. Tour of the landowner's personal wood before chicken dinner. Finally back to west Cheshire to view the evil red empire spawn a flukey win against for forces of footballing good.

Southbound Sunday - headed back to east Cheshire to meet up with 2 frères, 1 soœur, 1 belle-sœur, 2 nièces, 2 neveux, a dog and a cat for lunch at the pub, and a few games of Mario Kart before heading further east and south to Cambridge. Arrived chez J&C in time for delicious porc au lait and a glass of wine or two.

Moody Monday - sunny skies outdoors were clouded by emotional trauma deep inside. We suffered with friends afar, but the weather did its best to cheer us up, as did the evening house-warming skiing reunion BBQ chez H le rouge and la sereine. Before the meal, a tour of the local sights - the unconsecrated graves of three 17th C religious non-conformists - and an energetic game of football between two young Austrians and three old crocks.

Traveling Tuesday - up even earlier to catch a ferry at 11am, caught in plenty of time despite going nowhere for half an hour on the M11/M25 slip road. Then a gloomy 750km drive through rain, rain and more rain to finally arrive at home, sweet home just before nine in the evening. Ritual sigh of relief to find a dry apartment once more.

Lakes of water

Satisfactory Saturday - watched Aussies burning to Ashes on TV in morning, caught train to watch Pompey get fried to a Gooner crisp in the afternoon, then caught another train to Cumbria in the evening.

Sodden Sunday - watched the rain come down. All day. Shopping at Lakeland and Booths was the inevitable activity for the day for the childless adults. Aliens in the Attic for the cousins with children.


Muckabout Monday - accompanied the senior generation down to the Lake to watch kids mucking about in the water in the morning, mass game of rounders in the park in the afternoon. Then the big event in the evening - celebration of the soixante-dizaine of le vieux oncle R. Forty guests for dinner at Glenridding, age range 12 months to 89 years. Highly enjoyable evening for one and all.

Trekking Tuesday - the sun deigned to put in an appearance. La bienheureuse, la belle-mère et moi took advantage of the good weather to venture out on a minor hike. Skelwith Force to Colwith Force and back to watch the water cascading over two sets of falls. Spectacular. Then a walk into Ambleside to purchase emergency dinner provisions and watch cousins and progeny hacking round the pitch and putt and on the tennis court.


Wet Wednesday - it's raining again...

Blabbering in Blighty

Another weekend, another visit from the good Doctors from Bexleyheath and their energetic offspring came and went. Halving their southbound journey time, they arrived in Lyon before lunchtime, and we all caught an air-conditioned bus to the park. Key detail, the climatisation - it was hot, too hot to traipse around the park and zoo in any comfort. But fun was had nonetheless, and then we went home to sweat in the kitchen cooking roast chicken. 

Our guests left early the next morning, and we followed them to Calais two days later. Uneventful journey, arrival in Cambridge in plenty of time for dinner chez J&C and a gratifying evening's football watching. Wednesday la bienheureuse went off to work, I fiddled and twiddled, and then we enjoyed an evening BBQ chez le grand dude to meet the strapping new arrival for the first time.  And to collect another delivery, my spanking new, spanking fast raincoat computer. 

Thursday the week deteriorated. La bienheureuse worked again, I fiddled and twiddled again, this time with my shiny new toy, and in the evening, Professor Margarita and the Caipirinha Kid came round for dinner for six, lovely lamb by the maître cuisinier himself, and a bouncing bean starter by his faithful sous-chef. Five bottles of wine, several shots of spirits and much drunken rambling later, even the dedicated JeB hit the sack. Or sofa in his case.

And so this morning, ma bien-aimée set off for parts north, leaving me to nurse a guele de bois, fiddle and twiddle some more, and wait for my first real football fix of the season tomorrow...

Squirting and screaming

Suckers for punishment, not having seen enough of the Doctors C and the mini-JeZoids the previous weekend, we set off towards the sun, sand and deep blue sea of the Côte d'Azur on Friday afternoon. Of sun, we saw plenty, but not a grain of sand nor a drop of sea. Two days spent sampling the delights of the French holiday tradition that is the Village de Vacances, venturing out of the security compound only once to visit nearby Fréjus and its Saturday market. Why bother with scratchy sand and salty sea when you've got two swimming pool complexes, complete with slides and safe swimming within three minutes walk?

And so, the weekend was enjoyably spent being regularly subjected to soakings by water pistol and drownings by water nymphs and urchins. As if two mini-JZs wasn't enough to cope with, the caravanning three goldilocks and parents added to the fun. The trip to the market equipped J-junior and Z-minor with weapons, and ensured that we stayed wet even when out of the water. In the piscine, I just about kept my head above water, even with three under-10s clinging to my back. Even an underwater forward roll couldn't dislodge the friendly middle-goldilock, a true water baby.

Mini-J Primus finally allowed us to escape Camp Delta early yesterday evening, once he was assured we were leaving a birthday present behind. We had an uneventful trip home until we neared Lyon, where we were witness to a mid-autoroute road rage incident. No serious consequences, but never cut up a Frenchman on the road...

This morning, we have a little bit of England in Lyon. It's cool, cloudy and damp.

The president and the crow

A mysterious writer of poison-pen letters is making the news in France at the moment. A series of letters has been sent to a number of senior politicians in France, including the most senior of all, Monsieur Le Président. Le corbeau (crow), as anonymous letter writers are known as in France, always signs the letters "Combattants du cellule 34", which always include a bullet.

The latest targets are Sarko and the mayor of Beziers, both for the second time. The letters are littered with choice phrases such as: "You have believed in fools, and now the time for liberation approaches. The king and his clan will disappear from the surface of the earth...", "Our first target will be the son of the king, with 3 senators, 4 deputies (MPs), a minister and a judge in the top ten, and frequent bomb scares in various shops. You will have fear..."

The police have no leads as yet...

The thunder of little feet...

Another quiet week and weekend, with a brief, somewhat noisier interlude on Friday evening and Saturday morning. The much anticipated visit of the Doctors C and the mini-JeZs took place overnight Friday. Stopping off in Lyon on their way from Calais to the sun and smoke further south, they arrived at about 8pm via an unscheduled detour through Paris. Satnavs are useful things, if you pay attention to them instead of getting wrapped up in a Dr Who adventure. Eight and a half hours cooped up in a car, albeit a rather large one, stores up plenty of energy in small five and seven year old boys. Cue much charging around, and a visit to the playground by the river, with only a brief pause to wolf down some food. Now I know why one ten year old sometimes sounds like a whole herd of elephants upstairs.

Exhaustion eventually took its toll and J-minor and Z dropped off to sleep after the minor problem of cuddly dinosaurs left in the car was solved by a fish and dolphin substitute respectively. They even let us lie in till after eight the next morning, and we waved our visitors goodbye just before midday, wishing them luck on the four hour journey that took more than six on the busiest traffic day of the year, on the busiest autoroute in the country. First day in August: half of France, and a quarter of Belgium, Holland and Germany climb into their vehicles and head towards the Med.

As for us we, erm, spent the rest of the day relaxing and recovering. Sunday, we took advantage of the blessedly cool weather to cycle down the river to Parc Gerland to watch steam rising from the ground where a new metro tunnel is being dug, then all the way back up to Parc de la Tete d'Or, then on to Parc Feyssine, then finally home to allow me to park my behind on the sofa and watch my second football fix of the weekend, a gratifying display by the much derided young Guns. Yes, the new season is nearly upon us, and optimism surges from somewhere once more...