Festive excess

Christmas morning dawned cold, dark and white: about 2cm of snow on the ground. Excuse to stay in the warm and devote the day to cooking and overeating. La petite oie was stuffed at both ends (forcemeat, apple & prunes), and by mid afternoon so were we: prawn & salmon, roast goose & stuffing, braised red cabbage, roast potato & parsnip, plum pudding. And a bit of wine & bubbly: zero to fourteen percent. A magnetic game attracted amusement and repelled logic.

Boxing Sunday, a gesture towards working off some of the excess was shortened by the biting Mistral, blowing down the Rhône valley. Wind chill turned -2 into -10 and encouraged an about turn a couple of bridges downstream. Back in the warm we feasted on leftovers. Monday, la bienheureuse passed on her cold, and took la belle-mère to get some more exercise by shopping in the warm of an indoor arcade, leaving me to welcome a plumber grumpy about doing a job for a third of his initial quote. Took him three hours too. Ho ho ho.

Meanwhile I nursed le rhume to full fury and fretted over the evening angst to come. The closure of the Wallace for the holidays prompted a late attempt to gain permission to watch the match chez the absent voisins whose key we possess. Permission only arrived after the event, but all was right on the night: sufficient internet streams found to witness most of the triumph against the blue enemy.

This morning, the alarm rudely interrupted a succession of lie-ins. Monthly checkup number eight beckoned. Sixty minutes after the appointed hour, the wise woman finally checked la bienheureuse and bump, pronounced all well apart from slightly elevated blood pressure, and frowned sternly when a skiing holiday a month before term was mentioned. She didn't say no, though…

Preparations

Most of the week seems to have been about getting ready for one thing and another. Tidying the house to welcome la belle-mère; finally getting a faulty cable TV box replaced; provisions shopping for the feast day; accepting more hand-me-downs, and attending more medical rendezvous in preparation for the big B-day. With a bit of football thrown in at the side.

Sunday evening we were invited to the neighbours again to watch le grand choque, l'Olympico as they've taken to calling it: Olympique de Marseille contre Olympique Lyonnais. La bienheureuse pleaded tiredness, leaving me to enjoy a couple of beers with the boys. And Babe the Unblog & babes. First half goal for the away team, things were looking good for les gones, but OM equalised and the resulting drawn left neither team happy. Another 1-1 draw on Wednesday night, witnessed in person at a Gerland basking in double figure temperatures. This time the away team, Auxerre, was rather happier with the result.

Third trimester echographie on Tuesday, all looking good apart from too much swimming water; Wednesday, a lesson in relaxation chez la sage-femme. Thursday la belle-mère arrived and we immediately dragged her out in the pouring rain to les Halles. Result of the shopping expedition: a 3kg goose, salmon and prawns. Mouth already watering in anticipation of an over-indulgent Christmas meal.

Today the weather is trying to get into the mood, by swirling a few snow flurries our way. Not sticking though, due to ground super-heated by 16 degree temperatures on Wednesday. See-saw winter.

Cancelled out

The big freeze duly put paid to my Friday evening flight to Stansted, though it wasn't entirely clear why. There was a heavy snow shower while I travelled to the airport, and an inch or two on the ground there, but most other flights seemed to get away fine. I suspect the budget airlines would rather cough up refunds and subject their staff to irate passengers than risk getting their aircraft stuck in the wrong places. After vainly spending 3 uninformed hours at the airport I was as irate as the next passenger (though not as angry as some Marrakech holidaymakers whose flight was eventually cancelled nearly 5 hours after it was due to depart), but 12 hours later curses turned to thanks when the match at the holy ground was postponed less than 3 hours before kickoff. Merci, le grand froid britannique.

I've thus been able to spend a relaxing and lazy weekend chez moi watching ma bien-aimée put up Christmas decorations. The apartment has also suddenly filled up with enough tiny items of clothing to dress triplets, thanks to some exceedingly generous neighbours. Also taking up space is a cot, which they suddenly wanted us to take off their hands because newly acquired bunk beds took up far more space in their kids' room than expected. This after attending our first prenatal session on Friday morning. The coming event has abruptly become more tangible…

Fire and ice

The long cold winter continues, but the Fêtes des Lumières is over for another year. Slightly muted event this year but still some impressive displays - the projections on a water spray in Place de la Rèpublique and the beautifully lit Bartholdi fountain in Place des Terreaux among the highlights. The fiery display in Parc de la Tête d'Or was also good, but it was the one place where the policy of avoiding crowd bottlenecks failed. We turned up at the same time as several thousand other people early on Saturday evening, and joined the crush trying to get in through one small gate. Getting out was even worse, despite the main gate being open by then. The complete lack of crowd control meant there was a logjam between the entrance and exit flows. Fortunately we extricated ourselves and extra bump without too much alarm…

Click here for more Lumières

After a morning visit to a new 'British èpicerie' (pretty well, and relatively inexpensively stocked with normally unobtainable staple items such as Marmite & philadelphia cheese), la bienheureuse spent last Sunday baking cakes - flapjack, lemon tart, figgy cake. Alas, not all for me, but for work colleagues to eat in celebration of her birthday (joyeux anniversaries, ma bien-aimée). Strange custom, but  she left enough at home to keep me happy for a week. When not eating, I've spent most of the last few days on traditional pursuits for the time of year - sorting out the heating, and improving our TV viewing experience. Finally decided to upgrade our cable TV subscription to take advantage of HD and a hard disk recorder. All installed fine, lovely picture, but impossible to record anything. Thus I was back in the shop yesterday attempting to exchange the decoder when I received a phone call from Monsieur le Chauffagiste, who had arrived chez moi 45 minutes early.

Not at all what one expects from a plumber, but in other respects he lived up to the stereotype perfectly. He was there to fix a pressure leak in the boiler, but I'd earlier asked him for a quote to put in a heating thermostat/programmer: 450 Euros. Beaucoup trop cher, I thought, and promptly found a suitable device on ebay, brand new for 60 euros. Phoned him again for another quote: 300 euros. Still too expensive by my book, so I figured out how to attach the thing to the boiler myself and told him as much when he was here yesterday. "You can't do that," he says. "Yes I can," I says I, "unless you want to do it for 100 euros."
He wouldn't bite but negotiations eventually concluded with a deal for 150 euros. Cash of course. Still seems steep to me, but it means I don't have to do the scrabbling around, drilling holes, running wires up and down and through walls, etc, etc…

The rest of the week has been unremarkable, save another disappointing trip to the pub on Monday night. 11 without a win in games that really matter, and still counting. Boys must become men eventually, surely…
Perhaps I'll get a clue on Saturday when I return to the sacred stadium to witness the battle against the high ball bombs of the Potters. Weather permitting, that is. Up to 10 centimetres of snow forecast here overnight. Brr…

Up and down

Life's a yo-yo, driven by the weather. Daytime maximum temperatures over the last week: -2 on Friday, 12 on Monday, 18 on Wednesday, 2 on Thursday. I missed the warmest 8th December on record in Lyon with a bit of up and down of my own. After watching a yo-yo match at Gerland on a balmy Tuesday evening (1-0 up, 2-1 down, one man down, 2-2 the final score, second place in the group), up in a plane from St Exupéry the next morning, down at Gatwick where it was about 15 degrees colder. London was suitably chilly for a stroll through the 'Winter Wonderland' in Hyde Park, followed by a wander through Kensington Gardens looking at strange reflective stainless steel sculptures.

Thence up to Finsbury Park to deliver shock news to the McBhoy and meet le grand chef in the Marquess. Three pints and a burger later we were in the holy ground watching a lacklustre passage to the knockout phases of the champions league. A Spanish or German giant awaits. We can only get better... Can't we?

After a morning chez J&C locked in financial negotiations, I headed home to more freezing temperatures. The football trip had been rather poorly conceived in that I missed the 8th décembre Fêtes des Lumières celebrations for the first time in 9 years, leaving la bienheureuse to view the bougies and fireworks on her own. So I got home, wolfed down soup and Christmas cake and then I left her in bed while I went out for a quick late night viewing of my own. First impressions this year are that the lights are somewhat lower key than usual. Perhaps partly a concession to la crise, perhaps partly an attempt to avoid the crowd crushes and bottlenecks that have been a feature of the big set piece displays in recent years. Photos to follow…

Mild returns

Negative daytime temperatures and a further couple of centimetres of snow on Friday gave way to seasonal norms two days later - this morning, rain is falling and the thermometer is due to reach double figures. It stayed dry enough for a pair of promenades over the weekend. Saturday we caught the tram up to the Christmas market and walked home through town via a teeming department store, while yesterday we slipped and slid across melting snow in the park to the garden centre in search of a Christmas tree stand. The failure to find anything suitable gave a sum shopping total for the weekend - two picnic lunches, a calendar and a bulb of garlic. Only 19 days left…

Outside the cosy confines of home, the nation mourns the failure of its tennismen to lift the Davis Cup, while general indifference greeted the Wikileaks cables portrayal of Sarkozy as the most thin-skinned, erratic, hyperactive, authoritarian and pro-American French emperor with no clothes since the second world war. No point in getting excited about something we knew already.

All white, all right

The snow finally arrived in Lyon yesterday lunchtime. By evening there was a covering of ten centimetres on the ground, and by this morning it was twenty. Predictably the city has more or less ground to a halt. Hardly any traffic on the roads, all buses and a third of flights cancelled. Even la bienheureuse didn't risk the icy pavements and worked from home. Fortunately it was yesterday she had her first appointment with the sage femme up on the Croix Rousse plateau. Both patients checked out fine, tiny heart beating strongly. Twelve weeks to go...

Lost and found

Dull and cold. The weather that is. Elsewhere the weekend had a brighter outlook. Another trip to the pub on Saturday produced a happier walk home, even if horrible déjà-vu twice flashed darkly across my vision when the Villains pulled a goal back.

Sunday afternoon we were questioned by the police. Something we submitted to voluntarily I hasten to add. During our habitual weekend stroll along the river, we stumbled across a bag, apparently abandoned close to the water. Tentative investigation (with gloved hands - been watching too many policiers on TV) revealed a diary and a cheque book and other sundry items. Figuring it had probably been stolen then discarded, we decided we ought to hand it in. Which we did at the closest poste de police we could think of, the one in the park. The chap on duty duly donned rubber gloves (see!), checked the contents and took our details. Probably the last we would hear of it, so we thought, but this afternoon I received a phone call from the suitably grateful owner. Good deeds sometimes have their rewards.

Back home, la bienheureuse tired herself out making flapjack and christmas cake (spoilt, moi?) and left me to venture out solo into the freezing evening to watch some live football at Gerland. After a non-event of a first half, the second eventually burst into life when OL's left back Cissokho gave them the lead. However, PSG soon equalised and seemed to have stolen victory when Cissokho's match of extremes ended with him giving away a penalty and getting sent off at the same time. Fortunately his ten teammates survived a couple of scares one end and equalised at the other three minutes from time when the Parisian keeper fluffed a clearance straight at OL's much maligned striker. Even he couldn't miss.

Dark nights

Nightmare November continues. The cold weather on Tuesday evening almost dissuaded me from a trip to the pub, but a lack of decent internet feeds tipped the balance. Wish I'd stayed at home in the warm. Another capitulation abroad. Wednesday, the OL match was on TV so this time I did stay in the warm. Another capitulation abroad. The European seasons of les gones and les gooners have matched each other this year. First three games, three wins, all hunky dory. Next two games, both away, two dire defeats apiece. The difference is that OL are through to the next round, thanks to Tel Aviv, the whipping boys in the group, beating Benfica. No such help from Partizan Belgrade for AFC.

Meanwhile, just to deepen the gloom, winter has arrived early. After 20C less than two weeks ago, today the maximum forecast is 2C. November can't end soon enough...

Recurrent nightmares

Sometimes ideal worlds implode. It happens often enough to a football fan that you might have thought it would become banal. Not so. Recurrent bad dream, part n, occurred on Saturday. And it had all started so well; at half time the 2 goal lead was scant reward for forty-five minutes of total dominance. Unfortunately, with it came complacency, and with complacency came barely believable reversal. And afterwards we had to endure a journey home sardined into a train along with thousands of fellow gloomy gooners. Barely enough room to blink away the tears.

The rest of the weekend kept to the ideal plan. Flights both ways landed early, the outbound one early enough for me to catch a train that was due to depart simultaneously with the plane's arrival. I thus made it to Cambridge by 10pm, enabling me to surprise Professor Margarita and H in a cosy dinner for two. A bumper breakfast the next morning preceded the nightmare, then dinner afterwards started the recovery period. Delicious fare at Cocum, in the convivial company of J&J.

Sunday morning I awoke with a faint glimmer of hope that it had all been a bad dream. Alas no, but the weekend continued to get better. Canonier conferères J&C had recovered sufficiently from the previous day to come out for a yomp through the fields and along the river, and then the builder-chef treated us to home-made bean soup and bread for lunch before kindly chauffeuring me to the airport.

I returned to Lyon to find la bienheureuse introducing the bump to 'Arry Pottère part 5, and to find that les gones had had a better weekend than les gooners. A 3-1 win at Lens puts them in 8th, a mere two points off the top. Ligue 1 is even tighter than the Premier League.

French lessons

Red letter day in the lyonnais calendrier today - le beaujolais nouveau est arrivé.  Similar party mood amongst the French at Wembley last night, where les bleus gave England the blues. Much satisfaction this side of La Manche, and no little consternation about the lack of aggression displayed by the Premier League cloggers. Four fouls in 90 minutes, surely that's not the English way? Coach Blanc's decision to give in and play two creative midfielders paid off handsomely. Now let's see if he's brave enough to stick with the same tactics in a competitive match…

On Tuesday, Monsieur le Président gave one of his marathon interviews on the three main national TV channels. Ninety minutes of lecturing to the public, most of whom seem to have remained unconvinced that he's learnt any lessons from the recent discontent. The TV appearance was ostensibly to explain the government reshuffle over the weekend, which finally put an end to any pretence of a broad centre-right consensus. Out went representatives of the more moderate, minor parties (Borloo, Morin), and those from further left (Kouchner, Amara), in came a clutch of Sarkozy loyalists. Also shown the door was Eric Woerth, victim of the discontent over the pension reforms he guided through parliament, but more particularly of the Bettencourt affair. And further corruption suspicions over the sale of a hippodrome.

There is more trouble looming for Sarko too. A former defence minister, in office at the time of a controversial deal to sell submarines to Pakistan, has admitted that backhanders and bribes were paid to ease the deal through. It seems to be widely believed that a small proportion of the money ended up in the campaign fund of Eduoard Balladour during the presidential campaign in 1995. Said campaign fund was managed by one Nicolas Sarkozy. Relatives of people killed in the 2002 Karachi bus attack are demanding that Sarkozy answer questions, in the belief that the attack was a reprisal for the ending of the kickbacks by Jacques Chirac, elected in the '95 election.

Warming pictures

What a difference a week makes. La belle-mère comes to visit bearing gifts, and suddenly things are looking up. Unseasonably warm weather and plenty of sunshine for the long bank holiday weekend, and a warmer glow to the football season too.

mardi 9: l'AG continued. After some confusion over venue and indeed whether the meeting was taking place at all, we troop upstairs, listen to the man from the syndic report on progress made on various issues and eventually decide to give him a second chance. Contract extended for 18 months.

mercredi 10: collect la belle-mère from the airport after a fruitless drive through town in search of a petrol station. Usual one closed down, next one closed temporarily by road works. Which are currently all over Lyon. Sufficient fumes in the tank to make it to the garage at the airport.

jeudi 11: jour ferié, the sun is shining, the day mild and we take advantage with a stroll round the park to test the newly presented toy. The leaves are falling, the colours fading, but plenty of pretty pictures to be had before the clouds roll in.

vendredi 12: bridging day, so la bienheureuse is off work again. The exception to the good weather theme. Overcast but dry, so the ladies go shopping, taking a break to meet meet me for a nice pique nique en ville. Roast lamb and a rather palatable Côtes du Rhône for dinner.

samedi 13: stunning day. 20 degree sunshine in the middle of November can't be bad. We jump in the car and eventually find our way to the domaine de Lacroix-Laval, a large area of parkland just outside Lyon. Another opportunity for more autumn snaps with the new appareil photo reflex. Lovely stroll through the park and grounds of the publicly-owned château, then home for a late lunch and a lazy afternoon. Defrosted fish dinner, tasty fare even so.

dimanche 14: still very mild, but very windy too. The sun is less in evidence but we venture out up to the Croix Rousse for the view and a stroll through the market. Home to wolf down lunch in time for a rather more satisfactory visit to the pub, leaving la bienheureuse et sa mère in the kitchen. Second battling away win of the week. The boys are toughening up. Roast chicken awaits my return, then I fly the coop again in the evening, this time for live football. OL grind out a 1-0 win in the wind.

lundi 15: end of the fine weather interlude. Rain all morning.

Baked consolation

Never was my favourite month, nasty November. It was dry on Saturday, allowing us a stroll in the park, but the dull light didn't allow full appreciation of the colours of autumn. Sunday it rained all day, I splashed through the streets of Lyon to the pub to watch a typical November performance from my favourite team. At least the rain hid my tears.

Consolation as ever was found at home. La bienheureuse spent a large part of the weekend baking. Chocolate & beetroot cake, red cabbage & bacon soup, home made bread, onion & goat cheese quiche. And baked beans on toast for lunch. Comfort food for a moody month.

Dull autumn routine

A mundane week of mild, drab autumnal weather. Tuesday, chez le medecin to get jabs updated in anticipation of forthcoming period of non-travel. Evening in front of the TV, watching les gones unravel in Lisbon: the players on the pitch, the fans the habitual "Demission!" banner in the stands, despite minor redemption in the form of three goals in the last fifteen minutes. Wednesday similar story in the pub, watching complacent gooners in Donetsk present an old boy with another goal, less well-received this time. Friday morning, sixth month checkup, tout les deux vont bien, apart from lack of sleep for the carrier due to energetic little load.

On the home front, minor bit of bricolage (shelf for home entertainment electronics); on the political front, seasonal affective disorder seems to have put a brake on public & political disorder. The unions are calling off any strikes from Monday and have scheduled a final day of demonstrations in two weeks. Sarko appears to have won the battle, albeit with the help of underhand methods. Allegedly. According to Le Canard Enchaîné, he has ordered the state intelligence services to tap phones of journalists known to be working on stories injurious to the government's health, at least four of whom also happen to have suffered break-ins and computer theft in the last few weeks…

Liquid fall

A bit of research suggests that the closest French approximation to Sod's law, is la loi de l'emmerdement maximum. A good example occurred last week: beautiful sunny weather, albeit rather cold, up until Friday evening. The weekend comes around, and it rains solidly for two days. More rain was forecast for the Toussaints bank holiday today, but it seems they were erring on the pessimistic side, because we had lovely sunshine for our morning constitutional along the banks of the Rhône.

Of course, rainy weekend weather has its benefits: la bienheureuse consoles herself in the kitchen. Delicious walnut carrot cake (thanks DenEboy), tartiflette, parsnip soup and the promise of lamb tajine this evening. And yesterday morning, I had the annual vignerons independants wine fair to console me. Tasked as usual with purchasing provisions for the annual skiing holiday in January, we set off early and arrived before the doors had opened. And spent the next ten minutes queueing in the rain with a couple of hundred other early drinkers. In less than two hours we were in and out, twice, which also meant two soakings while ferrying numerous boxes of wine back to the car. 

With la bienheureuse unable this year to partake in the degustation, I adopted targeted tasting tactics, having more or less decided beforehand what we were going to get. Result, nine cases of wine, four of which are reserved for the skiing holiday. That was after going in with the idea of only acquiring two or three cases for personal consumption. I blame the non-drinker for encouraging me. She drove home even though a breath taste before leaving put me under the limit. Not that I felt it…

Saturday followed a familiar course. Pub in the afternoon for me, watching the righteous men of the true faith eventually find a winner against the one-time academy of football. Then straight home and straight back out with la bienheureuse to Gerland, where OL eventually ground out a 2-1 win against Sochaux, which did nothing to appease the fans. Following the failure to beat the bottom team the previous weekend, the "Puel: demission!" demands have got louder again, and on Saturday (after chairman Aulas confirmed coach Puel in his post) they gave up asking politely and demanded that he be sacked instead: "Puel: licenciement!"

The protests of more import, those against the retirement reforms, seem to be petering out, squashed by the coincidence of school holidays and the law being officially passed by parliament. The petrol refineries are back at work, as are the ports, and 80% of trains are running. The day of protest last Thursday saw half the number of protesters than the previous one. There is one final resort due this week, when the constitutional council rules on a challenge by the opposition to the law, and then the final protest is scheduled for next Saturday, a week or so before Sarkozy is due to definitively write the law into the statue books.

Priceless echoes

A weekend of indulgent gratification. Thursday: la bienheureuse arrives home, pile à l'heure, despite the ongoing transport strikes. Friday: visit chez madame le medecin for second trimester scan; all elements seemingly present and at correct stage of development; estimated weight, a kickingly healthy 530g. Saturday: lazy day spent doing not very much, apart from figuring out, with limited success, how to connect the computer to our new all-singing, all-dancing goggle box, an expensive whim indulged earlier in the week. Sunday: we make a gesture at getting some exercise with a walk through the park, then I leave la bienheureuse in the kitchen (brussel sprouts soup, flapjack and roast pork - spoilt, moi?) while venturing out to the Wallace to suffer the latest instalment of nurtured football team vs purchased assembly of superstars. Fortunately the suffering is eased by an early bath, and the good guys coast to a gratifying triumph over oil-stained money.

Outside the nest, the social unrest continues on a slightly calmer course. Les vacances de la Toussaint began on Friday, meaning school students are somewhat more dispersed; le Senat has approved the new laws on pensions and retirement, meaning only one more stage before the reforms are pencilled into the statute books (expected on Wednesday when both houses of parliament vote on the new laws together). The unions have softened their stance slightly - rubbish collectors in Marseille voted to suspend their two week strike on public health grounds, three of the twelve refineries have gone back to work, and more than 75% of trains are now running. The protestors are hoping the government will agree to negotiate in the last two weeks before the President definitively promulgates the law. The precedent the unions are pinning their hopes on came in 2006, when a new law on employment reforms for young people was approved by parliament only for similar street protests to cause a government cave-in, and the law was never rubber-stamped. I somehow doubt Sarko will be quite as flexible this time…

Striking success

So far so good. Football trip to London and Cambridge a resounding success. Flights remained uncancelled and six goals cheered to the rafters by the faithful at the home of good football. Which was slightly unusual, given that the score was 5-1. Never before have I seen an opposition goal greeted with such delight. Eduaarrdo!

I found the Cambridge crew in good form, le grand chef and ms beaucoup providing their usual convivial and generous welcome, and professor margarita and the caipirinha kid providing the customary entertainment in the pub on Monday evening.

And so, on a frosty Wednesday morning, I made my way back to strife-torn Lyon. There was a moment when I feared the worst: after everybody was checked through the departure gate at Stansted we stood going nowhere for over twenty minutes and, when we finally did move, it was to get onto a bus rather than the plane. Uh-oh, I thought, flight abruptly cancelled, Lyon ablaze, back to the terminal we go. But no, it was merely to take us round to another plane at another gate. Even the pilot was in the dark about the reason for the last minute change.

So in the end we arrived home less than half an hour late. At the airport it was my chance to sample, for the second time, the new tram link to the city centre, which has replaced the old shuttle bus at a 50% greater cost. Excuse for the higher ticket price is that it's quicker, which is true - 'guaranteed' less than 30 minutes, as opposed to the 35-40 minute bus trip. For me though, the total travel time is longer, because the tram terminus in Lyon is the other side of Part Dieu station, an extra 10 minute walk, and at the airport it's another 10 minute walk. Grumble, grumble.

Part two of a footballing week yesterday evening, and another surprisingly comfortable victory for the home team, made easier by a sending off for les lisboètes, whose large travelling support was comparable to that of a British club even if a large proportion were French residents. That makes it four wins out of four now, with a trip to the new Ligue 1 whipping boys, Arles-Avignon (1 point from 9 games) coming up. Strangely I didn't hear any "Puel, demisssion!" chants last night.

La bienheureuse was also spared any travel chaos in her business odyssey from Lyon to Brussels and back via Vienna and Paris. So far, at least. Final leg by rail this afternoon. And meanwhile we both missed the worst of the fun in central Lyon on Tuesday - burning cars and rubbish bins, running battles with police, shop windows smashed, water cannons and clouds of tear gas in Place Bellecour. Yesterday there were fewer incidents by dint of the authorities flooding the centre with police (including the elite GIPN, usually used for hostage rescue and the like) and closing down public transport in the Presqu'Île. Similar story today, though latest reports describe Place Bellecour as a 'battlefield'. Fuel shortages all over the country, rubbish piling up in the streets of Marseille, school students leading from the front: the protests show no sign of faltering and still retain the backing of the majority of the public, though with the school holidays starting on Saturday, things may soon start to change…

Cold comfort

Another Saturday, another day of protest, another Tuesday, another day of strikes. The protests continue to gather momentum. This time round, they may affect us personally. My latest pilgrimage to the holy ground has been brought forward a day because the flight tomorrow was cancelled. Meanwhile la bienheureuse headed off on her last business trip of the year this morning. The trip from Vienna to Brussels via CDG airport is the unknown quantity. Will the flight tomorrow go, and will the train to Brussels the following morning go? Who knows? Certainly not PM François Fillon who was on TV last night insisting that there would be no petrol shortages because of the 'illegal' blockades of petrol refineries and storage depots all over France. Bet the thousands of motorists queuing at petrol stations only to find them dry believed him.

Meanwhile, lyonnais protesters of a different kind were partially mollified yesterday. A concerted campaign has been going on to try and force the resignation of OL coach Claude Puel, including banners all over town. However, signs of an improvement in performances in the last couple of weeks were confirmed, result-wise at least, by the 3-1 win over Lille at Gerland last night. An entertaining game, even if Lille largely dominated possession and the result somewhat flattered the home team. We treated ourselves to a pre-match dinner in Ninkasi, but the early arrival to ensure a table meant we ended up in the perishing cold stadium almost an hour before kickoff. A biting northerly wind blew down our necks the whole three hours. Whatever happened to autumn? From Indian summer to Lyon winter in one fell swoop.

Echoes of '68

The protests continue and attitudes harden. While the railway workers appear to be gradually returning to work, the stoppages and blockades at petrol refineries and storage depots are causing more concern. Panic buying over the last couple of days have meant fuel stocks in some areas are running low, and the government was sufficiently concerned to send in the gendarmes to lift the blockade of several depots around the country this morning. And while they opened, others closed. Strike and counter-strike.

But it is school students who have been making most of the running and headlines over the last couple of days. Boycotts, blockades and demonstrations in 300+ schools yesterday and today; street confrontations with the police, often exacerbated by the presence of other jeunes, there to fight the police rather than the retirement reforms. I witnessed the fringes of the incidents in central Lyon this morning, on the way back from my weekly chores: twenty or thirty CRS in full battle gear marching down the road along the Rhône in the direction of the Hôtel de Ville, closely followed by half a dozen police vans. Apparently the vans were use to block rue de la République to stop a group of students heading in that direction, which of course led to some predictable stone throwing, bin burning, even one car being overturned, 20 odd arrests. As I crossed the river there were plenty of small groups of lads heading in the opposite direction, like moths to a flame…

Guillotine motion

Yesterday evening the event that we look forward to with great anticipation every year took place chez nous. Spot two false statements in the previous sentence, the second of which is that it takes place every year. I'm referring to the Assemblée Générale, the annual meeting of apartment owners in our building. Annual in theory - the last one took place nearly two years ago, which is a demonstration of the competence of our syndic, the property management company that is supposed to handle our building. Further proof of incompetence came with initial notice of the meeting lacking several agenda items and specifying a date, time & place (their offices) that suited no-one. Then the corrected agenda had the wrong date, and finally the corrected date specified the general whereabouts (our building) but not exactly which apartment. The latter mystery was resolved the evening before when our upstairs neighbour knocked on the door and asked if we could host it. Cue a two hour frenzy of belated spring cleaning and tidying up yesterday afternoon.

The meeting itself was lively, inconclusive, but productive in the loosest sense of the term. The particular employee charged with dealing with our troublesome building has changed recently, and the new boy was singularly under-prepared and ill-equipped for the haranguing and browbeating he was subjected to for two hours. Apart from approving the accounts of the last two years, which were wrong because an extra 500 euros had some how crept into insurance costs (did I say the syndic was incompetent?) the agenda for the meeting proper was zipped through remarkably quickly and efficiently, mainly by dint of leaving the most contentious issue till last:

Item 10 - changement de syndic: a choice between reappointing the current syndic or choosing one of two alternative management companies; the stick with which the poor chap was whipped into line. He was given one last chance: a month to take action on various contentious issues, or he and his company are out the door. He had no choice but to agree and left looking like a man going to the guillotine. Perhaps he'll spend the next month looking for a new job.

In the world beyond our happy little apartment building, yesterday the demonstrations against the new retirement and pension reforms were the largest yet. Two differences from the previous three journées d'action: the laws against which everybody was protesting are well on their way into the statue book (pushed through parliament over the previous couple of days, just the Senat rubber stamp to go), and some of the strikes have carried on longer than 24 hours. In particular on the railways, in the ports and at petrol refineries. Corsica ran out of diesel last week due to an ongoing blockade of the main port in Marseille, and the region round Nantes is running low on fuel because of a separate strike in the petrol refinery there.

And finally, as the Chilean miners emerge one by one from a hole in the ground, in the Ardèche the rescue of another man trapped underground ended tragically on Monday. The body of the cave diver missing for over a week was found by two British divers when they search the underground river one last time. RIP.

Weather eye

Lyon has enjoyed a week warmed by a brief été indien: temperatures in the mid-twenties and lovely sunshine (two days of cloud and rain apart). It's been a quiet week for me, less so for la bienheureuse at work. Plus ça change. On the family front, 21 weeks and still counting, tout va bien. Saturday we took advantage of the weather with a stroll along the river and back via the largest pedestrianised square in Europe, where there were displays linked to 'la semaine de la securité', mostly road safety with rolling car simulators and the like. Sunday was less sunny but we went for a walk in the park where the leaves are starting to turn and the dahlias in the botanical gardens are in full bloom.

Newspaper headlines over the past few days have been dominated by a mixture of stories: on the football field, the resurgence of les nouveaux Bleus, seemingly confirmed by two goals in the final few minutes against Roumania; on the political stage, the fifth nationwide demonstration against retirement reforms, backed by almost 70% of the French population, begins tomorrow with transport strikes ominously scheduled to continue indefinitely; and the human drama of the cave diver trapped by a rock fall in an underground river in the Ardèche for over a week. Rescue workers think & hope he's still alive but final confirmation and rescue remain elusive.

Post-holiday blues

It's been a fairly gentle descent from holiday highs to the mundanities of everyday life. La bienheureuse had a further couple of days off at home before coming back down to earth and work with a bump (annual budget to finalise by the end of the week) while I twiddled and fiddled, spending much longer than necessary sorting through thousands of holiday photos. Lyon was in the grip of autumnal weather last week, which suddenly turned into an all-too-brief Indian summer over the weekend. Bright sunshine and temperatures in the mid-twenties meant the shorts were given a reprieve.

Not that we did a lot to take advantage of the lovely weather, apart from a stroll around town and a drink on the banks of the Saône on Saturday afternoon. The sky was blue enough to tempt me up to Fourvière, where it was one of those rare days when Mont Blanc was visible 160km distant. Also visible was the demonstration in Place Bellecour, the climax of the 3rd day of action against the pension reforms in France. Not sure why it was fixed for a Saturday - perhaps less disruption by the strikes was balanced by higher turnout on the marches.

Sunday was rather less noteworthy. It was even warmer but the only sortie of the day was to the Wallace for another bad case of déjà-vu, watching the blue brutes mug the red and white heroes to steal an undeserved victory. Sigh. And today it's pouring with rain.

Stunning friends

The transition from Tobago holiday mode to normal life in Lyon was achieved via a three day stopover in dear old Blighty. Rain greeted us at Gatwick, accompanied us on the drive to Bexleyheath via Bromley and continued the rest of the day. Not much change there. After being welcomed by the good Doctors C, we gave them the news. Delight & surprise all round but a special mention for the Lovely L for being the first to complement la bienheureuse's usual leaky eyes. We took a two hour siesta after lunch to recover and gird ourselves for the return from school of the mini-JeZoids. They duly burst into the bedroom and inflicted an awakening that was rude in more ways than one. Bless 'em.

A pleasant afternoon and evening followed. With the Z-fils-cadet beavering for a couple of hours, his older brother was markedly calmer. We watched the rain fall, the squirrels bury nuts in the lawn, the fox climb over the garden shed, and the parakeets flock in the trees. Tired and jet-lagged we may have been, but we really weren't dreaming we were still in the tropics. Eventually we found our way to bed and real dreams, this time slightly less rudely interrupted by the Doctors' sons before they were dragged off to school the next morning.

Goodbyes said, after lunch we made our way to Cambridge via a somewhat unsuccessful specialist clothes shopping sortie to Bluewater. The relevant fashion sections seem rather small given that about 10% of the target clientele is concerned at any one time. We soon gave up and headed into the Friday afternoon traffic on the M25. Three hours later, we made it to Cambridge. Queue for the Dartford crossing - not too much worse than expected; traffic jam further round the M25 due to road work - not unexpected and a mere 20 minute delay or so; queue coming off onto the M11 lasting all the way (5 miles) to Harlow turn off - entirely vexing and unexpected, due to accident just off the motorway. Teach us for travelling on UK motorways late on Friday afternoon. Ritual gripe: in France they have a radio station dedicated to autoroute traffic, which keep motorists bang up to date with traffic conditions. In the UK we have to rely on patchy, out of date bulletins that may or may not be intermittently issued by random radio stations

The rest of the evening made up for the motorway hassle. A highly convivial evening, first chez J&C with a bottle of celebratory fizz cracked open and a belated birthday present, then a lovely Thai meal at the Lemongrass, with additional guests, Professor Margarita and the two Js. Ms Beaucoup made a game of leaking the news, which completely foxed the others, with the exception of the experienced Crystal Tipps, until some heavy hints were added. Reactions over the weekend ranged from Soggy stunned disbelief all the way through to shrieking delight. No less than expected.

The merrymaking continued back at Cherry Hinton with more fizz, brandy and beer finding its way down my throat while la bienheureuse looked on enviously (of the bubbly stuff, anyway). In the morning I thus felt a little the worse for wear, but a couple of pills and a huge and hearty brunch soon cleared that up. Shortly after noon I was being chauffeured to towards Mecca by the girls while le grand gooner generously forewent his seat and stayed behind to suffer the radio commentary. Suffer being the operative word for the abject defeat against the Lancashire Latics, who for a change won by playing football. Afterwards we put the finishing touches to my fiftieth gooner gift and sloped off home. Fortunately le grand chef had done his usual thing and cooked a delicious, consoling meal. A few glasses of wine did the rest.

A noon flight meant we were up early on Sunday morning. We bade our hosts goodbye, suffered the Easyjet Stansted check-in shambles, but were nonetheless back home in Lyon by mid afternoon. It was raining.

Lazy, rainy days

Our first full day on the upper Caribbean coast called for a bit of a lie in, with shutters the whole length of the front wall thrown open in the morning to take full advantage of the feeling of almost sleeping in the tree tops. The rest of the day was spent lazing by the poolside, reading on the balcony and generally relaxing. When a bit of exercise was called for we explored the beautiful grounds of the property that was our home for the week. A garden planted with banana, coconut and other unidentified fruit trees, laid out on a steep hillside that dropped away to a creek complete with small waterfall, and on down towards the sea further round. Throw in an infinity pool where we could float admiring the stunning ocean views, teeming bird life including resident hummingbirds, and we had an idyllic place for a lazy holiday.

Night times were becoming more routine now. Darkness falls, mosquito coils and citronella candles are lit, a fan moved to the balcony, dinner (fish delivered by Dwight and barbecued) taken on the balcony. Then a bit of reading, gazing out at the fireflies flitting through the garden, perhaps a visit from the affable Dwight to check up on us, and then early to bed. Once we figured out the cars going past at night were slowing down for the large potholes just up the road rather then to case the joint it was easier to ignore the strange night time noises and sleep rather easier too.

The next morning, Sunday, was spent much the same way. We resolved to venture further afield in the afternoon, perhaps to explore the nearby beaches and do a bit of snorkelling. While we ate lunch the heavens opened. So we lazed and read on the balcony instead, while the rain poured down the rest of the afternoon and into the night. Monday morning the rain had stopped and we even glimpsed the sun. So we jumped in the car and headed off for a tour round the north end of the island, with the intention of perhaps doing a boat trip with some snorkelling on the reefs at Speyside. Along the twisting, diving, climbing coast road we went. Past Parlatuvier, past Bloody Bay, past Man of War Bay, through rain showers towards Charlotteville, where we stopped in an unexpected burst of sunshine for a short stroll on the beach. Then we carried on, up Flagstaff Hill for the views of Man of War Bay and St Giles Island at the northern tip of Tobago, down again and on to Speyside, where we stopped for a drink at a beachside café. While we considered a boat trip the wind got up, the waves crashed a little louder on the beach, and then the clouds burst open. We decided to stay on for lunch, and as the rain continued unceasing, we abandoned the boat trip idea.

After a long lunch we headed back down the Atlantic coast with the idea of perhaps visiting Argyle waterfall, Tobago's highest. But the rain still came down, showed no sign of stopping, even getting heavier as we passed the entrance. We thus abandoned further sightseeing for the day and headed up the road over the middle of the island, through the rainforest. Negotiating potholes, hairpins, rain water cascading across the road, we eventually reached the top and breathed a sigh of relief as we dropped back down towards Bloody Bay. The worst seemed over, but a mere kilometre or so from the coast road, the tarmac disappeared. We bumped and crawled our way on through the rain, somewhat nervous about the rather soft front tyre on our hire car but in the end we made it home without mishap.

The rain continued through the evening and night, but early in the morning it stopped. Tuesday was our last full day in Tobago, and we ventured out once more. This time we headed south to Englishman's Bay, a postcard beach, which we had completely to ourselves. A stroll from one end to the other, then some snorkelling on the rocks at the north end, which hosted a few small colonies of coral and teemed with fish, a small moray, box fish, schools of blue tangs and surgeonfish among them. Then we drove on in search of a roadside fruit stall, which we eventually found south of Castara. On the way back we stopped off to admire the views of Castara and Englishman's bay before returning for our last night in Parlatuvier. A night that was loudly interrupted by a deafening noise rather like a strangled whooping, which emanated from the road just behind the cottage. Tentatively we ventured out onto the road to investigate and were greeted by flashing blue lights. It was the local police stopping by to check that we were okay at the solicitous Dwight's request. The man himself soon appeared, saw the nice policemen off and explained that the loudhailer horns on the police jeep were full of water. Hence the weird noise.

In the morning we packed, cleaned, bid a long adieu to Dwight and finally headed for the airport. With no stop off, the overnight flight back to London was rather quicker and more balanced nosh-wise. We landed at rainy Gatwick just after seven in the morning. After picking up a hire car we headed for Bromley, where la soeur had left her car chez the honeymooning petit frère. When the key he'd given us failed to open the back door, all three of us almost lay down and curled up to sleep in the rain, but the lock eventually gave in to a bit of desperate fiddling and we were in. A quick shower before we went our separate ways, la soeur back oop North, us the short hop to Bexleyheath for a siesta with a rude awakening by two excitable young boys…

Tobago ear ache

The post-nuptial week in Tobago passed quietly. The day after we all went up to the newly-wed's villa-for-wedding-night, further up the hill above Stonehaven Bay, for lunch and a dip in the pool. Immediately afterwards, the dispersal started. I took le grand frère and la hermana de la nueva cuñada to the airport to catch their London-bound flight, then shuttled back to home villa where la bienheureuse et la soeur were finishing packing up. The three off us then headed off north into the great Tobago unknown. Parlatuvier was a mere 20km up the coast as the crow flies, but on Tobago's sinuous, mountainous, non-signposted roads, it took a good hour to find.

Our new home for the week was a self-catering cottage in the grounds of a larger property, which is run as a B&B by a retired American couple during the six months of the tourist season. In off-season we were met by the manager, who I shall name Dwight in honour of two of his more famous namesakes, one a fellow Tobagonian. Due to our wildly optimistic estimate of journey time we arrived half an hour late. I apologised to the garrulously genial Dwight for this fact.
"Oh, you're not late," he said dismissively, and proceeded to introduce us to our new home. An hour later he was still showing us round a cottage consisting of two rooms, it was getting dark, and we still had the pool to go.

After giving Dwight a lift home, we ate an improvised dinner out on the balcony, looking across the treetops to the dark ocean beyond. Finally, we collapsed into bed, following Dwight's advice to keep the fans blowing full blast to keep the mosquitoes away. It worked, but it was rather like I'd imagine sleeping inside Concorde's engines would be, albeit without the searing heat.

The next morning, after a somewhat disturbed night's sleep, we headed back down the long and winding road to Stonehaven Bay. A mere 50 minutes later we arrived to find el hermano and la sobrinita suffering from ear infections. No matter, we all headed to the beach for a bit of swimming (head up in the aforementioned two cases) and inflatable doughnut surfing. After lunch, on a blistering hot day, it was time to ferry luggage to the airport and drop off afflicted ears at the clinic on the way. After waving goodbye to the bride's Colombia-bound family, it was back to the clinic to find the patients still queueing. La bienheureuse, la cuñada and I left the sufferers and went off to do a bit of suffering of our own, in the form of provisions shopping. Inquiry at a nearby pharmacy as to whether antibiotic ear drops could be had without prescription produced an answer in the affirmative. We returned to the clinic to find the queue unchanged, but it was decided seeing a doctor was the preferred option, given that the blocked ears would be flying two days later.

La cuñada engineered a bit of queue jumping for her beloveds, but as they still had some way to go before seeing a doctor and the shopping was cooking in the car, I took la bienheureuese and other perishables back to Stonehaven before returning to the clinic once more. Hallelujah, a doctor had been seen, diagnosis made, and prescription provided. Off to the pharmacy, another queue, and finally, three hours after setting off, medicine was obtained. Back at base, it was time for the happy couple to set off on a Barbadian honeymoon. Fond goodbyes over, we consoled ourselves with a dusk stroll to witness the surf pounding the beach and another stunning sunset. After a quick dinner came the long drive in the dark back to Parlatuvier and our isolated, windswept cottage.

Friday, after a somewhat better night's sleep, we retraced the tortuous route south to enjoy the Melbourne gang's last full day in Tobago. For a bit of variety we went to the beach. The breakers rolled in and dissuaded those with infected ears and gestating babies from risking the water. The brave tried a bit of body surfing, but everybody soon went back to the villa and the calmer waters of the pool. Dinner for eight and then it was time for tearful farewells. We hit the night road north one last time, leaving the sweet sobrinas and their parents to pack bags for the flight towards the Florida theme parks. The ears apparently survived.

Barefoot beach wedding

The day dawns bright and sunny, boding well for the festivities ahead. For most of us, it's a question of marking time until the ceremony in the early evening: plunge pool cavorting, beach swimming and snorkelling. For the family of the bride and las sobrinas, it's a day of frantic preparation. Early afternoon, the bride heads off to the marriage night villa to dress while the groom frets and sweats back at base. Furniture is rearranged and decorations put up in the top villa, and finally it is time to don the smart dresses and trousers.

In twos and threes we head down to the beach at the appointed hour, where the groom waits with the presiding clergyman before a temporary gazebo decorated with flowers. A mere five minutes late, the steel pan starts playing - here comes the bride, escorted towards the imaginary altar by her father and brother, while a flower girl (still sober at that stage) prettily paves the way with rose petals. Resplendent in white, la Colombiana joins her novio and the ceremony gets under way. The sun shines brilliantly, the cleric gives a sermon about Naomi, which passed right over my head, and mistakes (deliberately or not) Colombia for Venezuela, hermano and sweet sobrina the elder give readings, and finally the couple exchange their vows which onlookers struggle to hear over the roar of the surf. Then the wedding bands are slipped on, and le petit frère is finally married to his beautiful novia. Cheers all round.

The newly married couple and their witnesses sign the register in the late evening sunshine, and then husband and wife simultaneously fill a vase with individual bottles of sand to symbolise an inseparable union. Finally the groom pops the champagne cork amid a cloud of bubbles and a glorious sunset. Toasts are drunk (a little too enthusiastically on the part of la petite sobrina), many photos taken, many kisses and hugs exchanged, and many waves wet many legs and feet. Then paper lanterns are lit and rise into the rapidly darkening night sky.

Back to the top villa for more champagne. The partying starts with a splash when the bride and groom jump fully clothed into the pool and are soon joined by half the wedding party. The other half clean up while the impromptu swimmers head upstairs to change into dry clothes. Dinner is laid out and swiftly consumed, the cake is cut, and then the party continues back down at the bottom villa, where we are royally entertained for an hour by a drum and dance troupe from Trinidad. Audience participation towards the end with limbo dancing and bamboo pole hopscotch - risk your ankles if you dare.

The dance troupe leaves, and the party continues. More paper lanterns rise into the night sky, some more successfully than others, none of the spinster girls catch the bouquet, more drinking and dancing follows before la bienheureuse and I take advantage of her condition to lead a gradual drift off towards bed. The end of an idyllic day.

Surprise guests

Thursday 9th September
On our first night in Tobago, we're lulled to sleep by rain. Lots of it. The following morning we take breakfast on the terrace and watch the rain bucketing down. Three hours later water still falls from dark skies, but finally it stops and allows us to take an exploratory stroll along the beach before returning to the villa to polish off the remainder of our introductory rations for lunch. In the afternoon therefore, a shopping expedition to replenish food stocks. Cost of provisions at a nearby supermarket and fruit & vegetable shop, a round thousand dollars. Local currency, of course, but still a bit more than I'm used to spending on my habitual 30 euro Monoprix sorties. And we aren't finished yet. Another short trip to the fishermans' stalls at Mount Irvine bay provides some rather tasty mahi-mahi steaks for the barbecue, but value this time is somewhat better than our local Lyon poissonier.

In the evening, salad is prepared, the BBQ fired up (gas, fortunately), and we await the arrival of the bride and groom themselves. At two in the morning London time, they finally make it. Fish dinner swiftly cooked and consumed, beers drunk, and seven exhausted travellers fall into bed.

Friday 10th
Jet lag starting to recede, we allow ourselves a lie-in till eight. After being woken before dawn by the raucous chorus of the cocricos. Noisy birds. While the bride and groom get dragged off on a wedding venue sightseeing tour, the rest of us indulge in a day of rest and recuperation. Another dip in the plunge pool followed by a first dip in the Caribbean sea under cloudy Caribbean skies with a water spout twisting down from the storm clouds in the distance. The heavens soon open to let loose a tropical downpour, duly followed by thunder and lightening. We beat a hasty retreat to find shelter.

Early evening drinks down at the villa of the future jeunes mariés are interrupted by a text message announcing the arrival of the future in-laws of le petit frère on a flight two hours earlier than expected. Off rush two cars to meet them while the rest of us hasten back up to our villa to prepare dinner.

Salad prepared, the BBQ fired up again, and tables rearranged and laid for ten, it comes as a bit of shock when fifteen diners turn up. The uninvited guests are the best surprise though, the Melbourne clan and la suegra, arriving for the wedding after all, having told everybody they couldn't make it. Only the bride and la bienheureuse were in the know (the latter let in on the secret a few days earlier to avoid too much shock to her delicate condition). I should have guessed who the mystery occupants of the middle villa were...

Fortunately the sausages and pork chops stretch far enough, and a happy evening of eating, drinking and catching up ensues. Ten pm bedtime was noon the following day, Australian time.

Saturday 11th

The sun finally puts in an appearance, and after an early morning play in the plunge pool with the sweet sobrinas, everybody hits the beach. My sunbathing is interrupted by a return to the house to catch the final half hour of another glorious victory in faraway London, but others' first taste of Caribbean sunshine ends in sunburn.

In the afternoon, a mass outing to one of the proposed beach wedding venues, Pigeon Point. A bit of a logistical challenge, transporting seventeen people in two small cars, but in the end two trips for each car gets everybody there. Another beach, another swim, torsos and bald heads more judiciously covered this time, a refreshing smoothie, a stroll along the jetty and then it's time for the return trip. The four return trips. I pick up the stragglers in cloud of mosquitoes and finally everybody is back at three villa base.

In the evening we stroll up the road to take dinner for fourteen (la bienheureuse, la prima and husband pleading fatigue) at the Seahorse Inn. Which is full. Eventually they find space and enough tables and chairs for us upstairs and a very pleasant evening meal follows.

Sunday 12th
Settling into the holiday routine now. Fun and frolics with les nièces in the pool in the morning, salad lunch on the terrace, more swimming in the afternoon, pool and sea, with a bit of snorkelling thrown in. Speckled morays, octopus, leaf fish and trumpet fish among the more exotic marine life spotted on the rocky reefs just off the beach. Floating in the calm sea, we watch the sun go down and then head back up to the villas where the future belle-mère of the groom has prepared a delicious Colombian dinner for seventeen.

Monday 13th
The groom, the bride and her parents head off into Scarborough to take care of the administrative formalities of marriage in Tobago, in preparation of the big day tomorrow. Meanwhile, the sweet sobrinas keep us entertained in the plunge pool once more while the ladies go shopping on the hottest day of the holiday. In the afternoon, with the sun shining and the sea like a mirror, those less preoccupied with personal appearance head for the beach, while the bride's sister provides manicures. As the sun dips and flirts with the horizon, suddenly someone spots dozens of small dark creatures cascading down the beach.

Baby turtles! We all dash over to watch the rearguard making their desperate dash for the water. A local digs out the nest and recovers one last straggler who seems unlikely to make it all the way to the water unaided. He is picked up and carried most of the way before we all watch and encourage as he struggles the final few yards. Finally he makes it into the water and bravely swims away in the big wide ocean. A glorious sunset heralds the end of the beginning of a real life drama and we head back up for another tasty Colombian dinner, this time cooked by the original suegra. The young almost-married couple finally announce the chosen venue for the wedding - the local beach. Approval all round, and then it's early to bed for most in anticipation of the great day to come…

Striking lucky

Tobago bound or strike bound? That was the burning question the evening before our scheduled departure for the forthcoming nuptials of frater minimus in the sunny Caribbean sea. La grande journée d'action on Tuesday included promise of disruptions by air traffic controllers. After much agonising over alternative travel between Lyon and Gatwick, in the end we decided to grit our teeth and cross our fingers that our flight would go. Tuesday morning, it was still shown as scheduled, so off to the airport by taxi we went, leaving rainy Lyon behind. Check-in and security successfully negotiated, we settled down to wait. And wait. But at last we were on the aircraft and raised a small cheer as what turned out to be the sole flight of three to make it from Lyon to London left the ground. Only an hour late, too.

At Gatwick, we eventually made rendezvous with le grand frère in the hotel, had dinner, briefly met the groom and la soeur to take delivery of vital wedding supplies: a champagne bottle each to be  transported to Tobago. The following morning we were up at the crack of dawn to catch the shuttle bus to the airport, where we met up with la soeur and the future belle-soeur of the groom, checked in successfully despite the strict 5kg limit on hand baggage, and finally ate breakfast in departures. The flight was called before the last cup of coffee was gulped, and an hour later we were at last Tobago bound.

It was a long flight: eleven hours of cramped discomfort. Having survived the first seven hours on Monarch rations (small muffin, piece of melon and three grapes) before a more substantial meal was finally served a couple of hours before the brief stopover in Grenada, we touched down at Crown Point International airport. Long queue for passport control, even longer queue for customs. Fortunately our luggage appeared the carousel before the latter had lengthened too far. Our party of five was too large for the single hire car, so la soeur and la belle-soeur nominative took a taxi and had thus taken possession of our home for the week by the time we picked up the car and found our way to Stonehaven bay.

And a very nice home it was too. A mock-colonial villa fifty yards from the beach, up a hill giving stunning views of the sea. Well, it would have done if there hadn't been another rather large villa blocking some of the panorama. We settled in, took a dip in the plunge pool, then watched the sun go down and ate a picnic dinner on the terrace, before collapsing into bed.

Nail biter

And so, the brave new blue dawn on Friday was obscured by dark clouds of disappointment. The new era of Les Bleus under Laurent Blanc stuttered to a home defeat against lowly Belarus. Tomorrow evening, they must pick themselves up and win on hostile territory against Bosnia, arguably the strongest team in the group. No easy task when all three strikers used on Friday are now injured…

We are also biting our nails about travel problems tomorrow. The national journée de mobilisation against pension and retirement reforms is likely to include some action by air traffic controllers. Learning this on the evening news last night threw us into a bit of a panic, given that a Caribbean holiday is in the balance if we don't make it to Gatwick by Tuesday evening. Two options presented themselves:
a) hope our flight is unaffected, turn up at the airport tomorrow morning, with a long drive and ferry from Dover as an emergency backup plan if the flight is cancelled.
b) rebook our flight for the evening flight today.

Both choices risk costing in excess of 300 euros, and occasioned much internet searching, much anxious cussing and ranting, and a hasty bit of early packing. In the end I gave in to common sense and took la bienheureuse's advice: on calling Easyjet (no easy task as they do their level best to hide the call centre number on their web site - cue more cussing and ranting), I was told that flights from Lyon would be unaffected and that the Gatwick flight was certain to go. Hoorah. Revert to plan A. The Easyjet web site this morning appears to confirm that the Gatwick flight is going, though three other flights outbound from Lyon are cancelled tomorrow. All fingers tightly crossed…

The weekend otherwise was very pleasant. Warm sunshine induced us out to lunch on Sunday, pizza and salad at La Pie riverside restaurant, followed by a stroll up river to La Cité Internationale to watch the special version of the most successful film of all time, la bienheureuse being the one person in the whole of France not to have seen the original.

Custard pie

The maire de Lyon, Gérard Collomb, was pied yesterday. A nebulous group calling itself "Al Qaïtarte" (presumably a play on words linking tarte and a certain notorious terrorist group) claimed responsibility and condemned the "policies more than right-wing of a man who claims to be left-wing." The entarteurs also count the president of the Rhône-Alpes region and the artist Ben among their victims, claim the "greatest pieing ever in Lyon", that of the MoDem mayoral candidate, but regret failing several times to entarte the former minster and UMP mayoral candidate Dominic Perben. Ho hum. I suppose it's more fun than attending a city council meeting.

On the wider political stage the government is still struggling against the adverse headlines created by the new "security policy", with several government ministers breaking ranks to admit to unease about the expulsion of Roma and the proposed stripping of citizenship. And waves continue to be made by the Bettencourt affair. Sarko and Fillon are still backing Eric Woerth after he was forced to admit that he had indeed written a letter recommending Patrice de Maistre for a Legion d'Honneur. He claims that ministers and MPs routinely put forward people for honours, which may be true, but not all of them would dare to recommend the man they've persuaded to give their wife a highly paid job…

Interestingly, there's a view that the government are happy to take the flak about the security policy, safe in the knowledge that it's deflecting attention from other problems and that the majority of the French population support the Roma pogrom. One problem comes up on Tuesday, when a journée d'action to protest against retirement reforms has been called by some of the main unions. The union hand is strengthened by the fact that it's a distracted Minister of Labour, one Eric Woerth, who is handling the reform bill in parliament. The main strikes are likely to be on the railways, so perhaps I shouldn't be too nervous about the fact that we're flying to the UK that day…

Green yo-yo dreams

It's unseasonably cool in Lyon today. Not exactly warm over the weekend either, though I might just about still describe it as shorts and t-shirt weather. Since the hot spell ended ten days before the end of July, temperatures have been up and down like a yo-yo. Up at 36C on Thursday, back down to 24 by Saturday, a mere 20 today, but forecast to be back in the upper twenties by Thursday.

A pleasant weekend started on Friday evening with a cinema trip to watch a film about the manipulation of dreams. No, not a political documentary but a clever thriller. We followed it with dinner at the Place des Sens, which despite the name is not a massage parlour but an organic restaurant. A very nice meal it was too, though slightly on the bland side. We kept up the green theme of the weekend yesterday with an amble along the river and through the park to the garden centre in vain search of citronella candles.

Saturday required a ritual visit to the pub to watch a gratifying victory for the guardians of good football against the kick and lump disciples of Big Fat Sam. In the evening, the debut of the new lyonnais messiah failed to prevent les gones stumbling to another defeat in Bretagne. Gourcuff senior 2, Gourcuff junior 0. Four games, four points, fourth from bottom. Things can only get better.

Doctoring the news

They thought it was all over. Maybe it soon will be, but it ain't yet. Earlier in the week, three wise old men of French football (including the coach of the glorious team of 98) wrote an open letter to the French football federation suggesting that the match bans placed on the Knysna rebels be replaced with some sort of football community service - helping youth clubs, amateur teams, etc. An idea not without merit but rejected out of hand by the FFF, mindful of public opinion no doubt. Meanwhile Coach Laurent Blanc is quietly going about turning over a new leaf for the national team. Yesterday he selected a squad for the upcoming European championship qualifier that included only nine of the WC squad.

Elsewhere, others are less inclined to let sleeping dogs lie. The team doctor during the Domenech era has just published a book in which he describes the complete lack of authority the coach had over the team, dating from before the 2008 European championships. However, that's old news and what has made the headlines here are the comments he made about 'abnormal blood tests' amongst the 1998 heroes, particularly those who played their club football in Italy at the time. Tweak the tail of a sleeping tiger. A flurry of protest and denials followed. Just a means of selling his book of course. Which may be true. He's not exactly speaking from a position of authority - he only became team doctor in 2006.

Locally, things are looking up football-wise. Aulas finally got his man earlier this week, with the 22m Euro capture of the golden boy of French football, Yoann Gourcuff. The signing has been greeted with great enthusiasm by a Lyon public starved of consistent entertainment in recent years. 15000 fans turned up at the stadium to welcome the new arrival. The rest of the team were introduced as well, but that was almost by the by…

Meanwhile, it's the rentrée. Politically speaking. Schools don't go back for another week, but Sarko and co returned from their holidays earlier in the week to face the storm of criticism and condemnation of the government's 'security' policy. More particularly the xenophobic nature of said policy. The government spin doctors are working overtime while the expulsion of the Roma continues unabated. They've got a lot of work to do. A recent opinion poll suggested 55% of the French population want a left wing president next time round...

A lot of buts

Summer disappeared last week. But reappeared over the weekend. Monday last week the thermometer barely reached 18C. But yesterday it was back up at 35. The hot weather dissuaded us from any activity on Sunday. But Saturday was a little less hot, which allowed us to get out for a football afternoon and evening. First stop the Wallace, where les canoniers blasted six balls into the tangerine newcomers' net. But less entertainment on offer at Gerland, where les gones squeezed a single but out of les Brestois. But it was a first win of the season, so one shouldn't be goal greedy. But hot rumour of the day is that entertainment value may be on the increase chez les lyonnais, with Yoann Gourcuff apparently on his way for a cool 20M euros. But I'm not holding my breath…

Statistical insignificance

Le Grand Frère is watching. Our number came up in the computers of INSEE, the government institute that compiles statistics on all that is life in France, and as of Wednesday we are now a French statistic. The surveyor was delighted to find me home. Compiling a survey in the middle of August is a thankless task - only one of our neighbours is here at the moment, and the two buildings next door are undergoing renovation and thus completely empty. Funnily enough, the survey was all about work and unemployment. We decided in the end that I was an 'homme au foyer'. You'd have thought that a survey of an idle man wouldn't take long, but it also covered past work and educational history of both me and la bienheureuse. And it's not over yet. I can expect follow up phone calls every 3 months until the end of next year to check on changing circumstances, and another interview at the end.

Meanwhile, the French government continues its campaign to rid the country of undesirable foreigners. Hundreds of Roma have been forcibly flown back to Romania and Bulgaria. Unwanted and discriminated against here, unwanted and discriminated against in their countries of origin. A mere 300 euros won't help much. Hope Sarko doesn't decide layabout English wannabe authors are next…

Hotheads and Pissheads

First game, first trip of the season to the pub. Frustrating afternoon in Scouseland for the not so glorious yellows. Lovely though it was to see the opposition keeper throwing the ball into his own net for a change, it was two points lost rather than one gained. And just to add to the enjoyment I had to put up with a drunk, who invited himself into the spare chair next to me and proceeded to bend my ear about everything and nothing, including the opinion that Mancunians and Liverpudlians were 'voyous', and a bizarre obsession with how close each London club was to the Thames. Still, at least his allegiance switched from Scouser to Gooner in the space of twenty minutes. Perhaps it was my glowering that did the trick...

Elsewhere, the epilogue to les Bleus World Cup debacle is taking place this afternoon in Paris. Result: 15 match ban for the hotheaded catalyst, and 5, 3 and 1 match bans for the strike ringleaders. May that be the last of it.

Apart from the afternoon in the pub, the only activity of note over the weekend: a stroll along the river for lunch on Saturday, and a sortie to Les Halles by la bienheureuse in the midst of a cooking frenzy on a cool and rainy Sunday. The resulting fish pie, crumble and carrot cake are going down very nicely. Must try and do some more exercise…

Swimming against the tide

There's a French phrase used to describe being very happy - 'nager dans le bonheur'. They have literally been swimming in happiness this week with a flood of medals for French swimmers in Budapest, even outdoing the athletes. Cue the sounds of cocks crowing and the fanfare of vainglorious trumpets…

Elsewhere France has fared less well on the international stage. Earlier in the week the UN committee on the elimination of racial discrimination slated Sarko and the French government for showing a 'lack of willingness' to combat the rise in racial violence and discrimination. Committee members all but pointed the finger directly at Sarkozy and government ministers for contributing to racism in France, citing the recent speech by Sarko threatening to strip citizenship from convicted criminals 'of foreign origin', and the forcible clearing of travelling community camps in the last fortnight. About time someone called a racist a racist…

Closer to home, barely a kilometre from here, the body of a 70 year-old man was discovered in a chest freezer in the apartment he shared with his wife, 20 years his junior. Neighbours talked of 'violent arguments' between the couple, but nobody had seen or heard the old man for 18 months. All goes to show how easy it is to live a totally secretive and isolated life in an apartment building…

Marmite and Marmottes

The theme of this summer continues - another trip to the mountains over the weekend. This time however, we couldn't claim to be escaping the oppressive heat of the city. It was a mere 20C when we left Lyon early on Thursday evening, the journey east and upwards was through a succession of heavy showers, and it was positively chilly on arrival in Meribel. A friend of la bienheureuse had kindly loaned us an apartment for the weekend, and that night we had the unaccustomed experience of needing to sleep beneath a duvet.

The skies had mostly cleared the following morning. Wrapped up in sweatshirts we set off for a stroll through the Lac de Tueda reserve. A pleasant amble up through the forest above the lake, following a botanical trail, preceded some traditional Savoyard winter fare - tartiflette, eaten indoors to shelter from the biting breeze. After lunch, a highlight of the day - a trio of marmottes sunning and grazing on the grassy slope just above the lake. Another gentle walk up and along what is the Ours piste in winter took us back to the car park. Back at the apartment the opportunity for a swim was shunned in favour of a lazy evening, despite the sunshine and a heated pool.

Wall to wall sunshine and somewhat warmer temperatures accompanied us on our walk on Saturday. This time we set out from Meribel, heading up through the woods towards Altiport. The path took us across the Petit Lapin piste and through the golf course for a picnic lunch in the forest, accompanied by the sound of aircraft taking off and landing a short distance away. Refreshed we carried on upwards, under the lift towards Col de la Loze and then across towards the top of the Rhodos lift. From there it was back down into Meribel for a drink in one of the pubs before tidying and packing up to head home. A pleasant weekend in the mountains which confirmed that Meribel in the summer is much like Meribel in the winter - an English enclave (witness Marmite on sale in the Petit Casino and inefficient teenage English waitresses in the pub) which is twice as expensive as anywhere else. Lucky the accommodation was free.

We returned to Lyon on Saturday evening to find the warm weather reinstalled, and to witness the start of the French football season at Gerland. Plus ça change. OL struggled to a goalless draw against Monaco, which while not completely lacking in entertainment will have done little to attract back the thousands of season-ticket holders that have supposedly deserted the club this year…

Yesterday the sun shone, the thermometer climbed, and we restricted exercise to a short fruit shopping expedition to the market on the banks of the Saône in the morning. Delicious apple pie was the result, and la bienheureuse has today left me the enviable task of eating it all on my own as she jets off for a couple of days acting as bodyguard and babysitter to a colleague giving a presentation in the UK.

Woerthy causes

The flow of accusations against Eric Woerth continues undammed. Yesterday Liberation published a letter allegedly sent by Woerth while he was Budget Minister, which purportedly showed he had intervened to get a 27 million Euro tax rebate paid to the estate of the late sculptor César. Allegedly at the behest of the executor of César's will, who by pure coincidence is a major donator to the ruling party, UMP. Which, by the way, had one Eric Woerth as treasurer at the time. Of course Woerth has said it was the tax office who decided on the rebate, and the executor in question, Alain-Dominique Perrin, has denounced the letter as fake. This morning Liberation is standing by its story, the most extraordinary part of which I find to be that a sculptor I've never heard of can be worth so much money that he has to pay enough tax to even consider a 27 million Euro rebate. Though I've since learned that I'm very familiar with one of his works - le Patineur, next to the opera house in Lyon. Hmm…

Meanwhile the World Cup debacle is reaching its final phase. Bad boy Anelka has been giving his version, chiming in with the general player chorus - it was all Domenech's fault. This morning the new coach, Laurent Blanc, announced the squad for Les Bleus' first game since the World Cup, a friendly against Norway. He'd already decided not to pick any of the 23 grèvistes for this game, so the next French football team to take the field will have a decidedly unfamiliar look.

Gold and dangerous

It's been quite instructive watching the athletics on TV over the last week. With the French team hugely exceeding expectations, commentators, competitors, pundits, and politicians alike have been cock-a-hoop, their jingoistic pride in the national team inflated by a sense of redemption after the World Cup debacle. It's reached a point where the constant harping on about the fantastic team spirit in the French camp and the lauding of the down-to-earth, approachable athletes in comparison to the egotistical footballers has become downright nauseating. Normally I tend to regard any sports event not involving 11 men in red and white kicking a football with a somewhat detached air, but over the last couple of days I've found myself cheering on the Brits with uncharacteristic nationalistic fervour. French television has a lot to answer for…

The rejoicing over sporting success has contrasted rather sharply with the polemic on the political and social field recently. The recent attacks on police by the travelling community in northern-western France, and by disaffected youths in Grenoble provoked Monsieur le Président into another rabble-rousing speech this week, in which he declared war on delinquents, and announced plans to strip criminals 'of foreign origin' of French nationality. The implicit linking of delinquency to immigration has understandably unleashed a storm of debate, not least because under the sacrosanct principles of the French constitution, a French citizen is a French citizen, regardless. And quite how he defines someone 'of foreign origin' is unclear. Most of his targets in the banlieues were born in France and Sarko himself is the son of an immigrant. It's somewhat ironic that most of the athletic heroes in Barcelona would be fingered as 'of foreign origin' if they had been throwing rocks at in the recent violent confrontations.

Meanwhile, life on the home front remains quiet, apart from the deafening sound of thunder and pouring rain outside the window as I type and a pleasant midweek barbecue chez une collègue-amie de la bienheureuse. Custom made caipirinha and boudin noir on the BBQ, and a small Armagnac to finish. Lovely. Fortunately ma bien-aimée drove home.

Since I ferried la belle-mère to the airport last Tuesday (on time despite a massive traffic jam en route - summer in Lyon is open season for road works), I've been getting down to work again, strangely heartened by a couple of rejections I've received recently from literary agents. Encouraging words are inevitably concluded with the final letdown, but encouraging words nonetheless. Common themes - well-written, good story, doesn't get going quickly enough. Another rewrite (of the first three chapters, at least) beckons…