Another early alarm call last Wednesday, a shock to the system after a fortnight of lie-ins. By 11am local time I was in a different country, via a bumpy landing at Gatwick, while la bienheureuse followed me to the airport in Lyon, acting as chauffeur to la belle-mère. An afternoon of bookshop browsing and coffee drinking passed slowly, but at last I was back in the Marquess eating a burger, supping beer, and exchanging new year greetings with gooner confrère et consoeur, J&C. Three hours later we trudged out of the hallowed ground in the rain, having been treated to the sky blue citizens' idea of how to spend more than 100 million quid and bore your opposition and fans to tears.
After a morning reading and TV watching in chilly Cambridge I got home late in the evening via train, plane and fruitless dash across the airport to catch a tram. The following morning la bienheureuse and I were back at the hospital for another scan to check up on excess fluid. Still more than normal, but otherwise tout va bien, so nothing to worry about. Indeed, something to marvel about, with the kindly medicin showing off the scanner's 3D capability and giving us a glimpse of a little face in relief.
A spot of panic on Saturday morning soon passed, and I spent the rest of a very mild weekend slumped in front of the box, while ma bien-aimée attempted to restore order and routine to home life. FA cup weekend has the added advantage of English football on free-to-air French TV, though where the advantage of watching reserve heroes struggle against lower league opposition lies, only I can tell…
