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.