Winter seems a little further away now. Blazing sunshine most of this week and temperatures creeping towards 15C. Lovely sunny day last Sunday too, in all respects. Though I have to admit I wasn't looking much on the sunny side of life at 2pm that day, more like staring into the abyss, with the red and white forces of good football two goals down to the local enemy. A mere hour later however, a five gun salvo had sounded and all was (almost) right with the world. Even if the previous ten days had seemed like a nightmare.
It all made for a very pleasant weekend jaunt across the Channel. Flight Sunday morning was on time, quick pint with le grand gooner before the game, albeit in the company of a fifth columnist who remained remarkably restrained all the way through the remarkable match, even when his side's second, illicitly obtained, goal hit the back of the net. Just desserts in the end for the diving lily-white though.
Afterwards I made my way south of the river to visit le petit frère & la cuñada numèro dos. Kitchen now finished, witness a very tasty lamb shank dinner, but much of the rest of the house still a work in progress. Monday morning I trekked back to Stansted and thence home, while the two not-so-newly weds oversaw a fireplace installation before heading off for a holiday in the Indian Ocean. Their home for the following 10 days, an infamous hotel, scene of a recent murder. Ooerr…
Meanwhile, back in Lyon, la petite, la mère et la grand-mère enjoyed an all girls weekend. La belle-mére arrived a week ago and was eventually picked up from the airport by her daughter, after a minor panic in the morning. La vieille voiture failed to survive two months of winter idle in the garage. Or more specifically the battery did - completely flat. Friendly local garage (2 minute walk away) started it for a mere 50 euro call-out charge, charged up the battery and then informed us the starter motor needed replacing too, suspected of being the cause of the prematurely flat battery. Total cost, more than 300 euros. Hmm, the old banger had better pass that controle technique this week…
Someone not suffering in the slightest from ignition problems is the little munchkin. The hesitant few steps have now developed into full-blown, confident walking, which now takes precedence over crawling most of the time. Astonishing how much babies develop in a mere 12 months, but no doubt all new parents say that…
Would that her parents were as full of energy. La bienheureuse survived her first trip involving two whole nights and days away from her darling(s), including most of Sunday, necessary for a brainstorming meeting with government authorities and competitor companies. Fortunately a strike somewhat perversely meant she got home four hours earlier than expected, early enough for bath and bedtime.
Meanwhile the old man exhausted himself in the pursuit of footballing pleasure over the weekend. The seven goal thriller in London on Sunday was preceded by an eight goal nail biter at Gerland on Saturday evening. The oil-rich mercenaries from Paris visited the plucky gones and walked away with the half share of the spoils, after coming back from two goals down in the last 10 minutes, including a last minute of injury time equaliser. Money can almost buy you everything. Still, fifteen goals in total made it an entertaining weekend.
29 février 2012
17 février 2012
Tottering
The big freeze is over. Maximum daytime temperatures finally crept above freezing on Monday, and minimum temperatures followed suit on Wednesday. Two full weeks of sub-zero temperatures apparently made it the fifth most severe cold snap since 1947, witness the Saône freezing over. Now we are back to normal, cold, dull February weather. Spring still seems a long way away.
It was so cold over the weekend that most Ligue 1 football matches were brought forward from evening to afternoon. It was still perishingly chilly at Gerland at 3pm on Saturday afternoon, where I shivered in a half empty stadium watching Lyon stumble to a 2-1 home defeat against Caen, a team just above the relegation zone. On Valentine's night it was a mild 2C with snow on the ground when I left my two true loves at home and repeated the trip to watch les gones play Apoel Nicosia in the Champions league. One goal was the sum total of 90 minutes of attack vs defence. The UEFA statistics on the big screen kept a running score of shots on goal; OL's total steadily increased to about 20 by the end of the match while the number in the visiting team's column remained stuck on zero until the 89th minute when Lloris was finally called on, and had to make a good save at that. I suspect the return match in Cyprus may be a little more difficult. At least Lyon have a good chance of making the last eight, something that can't be said for my third true love, but I'll skate quickly over that subject.
My little sweetheart is making great strides at the moment. Or, more accurately, small unsteady steps. However she now frequently tries to walk when going from A to B and can totter along upright for a good 7 or 8 steps.
Another small person tottering on the brink is Nicolas Sarkozy. On Tuesday we had confirmation that he would officially announce that he would be running for president the following evening. And on prime time Wednesday night TV the confirmation of the confirmation was finally delivered. He said he'd been considering standing for several weeks. Hmm, several years surely, Monsieur le Président…
It was so cold over the weekend that most Ligue 1 football matches were brought forward from evening to afternoon. It was still perishingly chilly at Gerland at 3pm on Saturday afternoon, where I shivered in a half empty stadium watching Lyon stumble to a 2-1 home defeat against Caen, a team just above the relegation zone. On Valentine's night it was a mild 2C with snow on the ground when I left my two true loves at home and repeated the trip to watch les gones play Apoel Nicosia in the Champions league. One goal was the sum total of 90 minutes of attack vs defence. The UEFA statistics on the big screen kept a running score of shots on goal; OL's total steadily increased to about 20 by the end of the match while the number in the visiting team's column remained stuck on zero until the 89th minute when Lloris was finally called on, and had to make a good save at that. I suspect the return match in Cyprus may be a little more difficult. At least Lyon have a good chance of making the last eight, something that can't be said for my third true love, but I'll skate quickly over that subject.
My little sweetheart is making great strides at the moment. Or, more accurately, small unsteady steps. However she now frequently tries to walk when going from A to B and can totter along upright for a good 7 or 8 steps.
Another small person tottering on the brink is Nicolas Sarkozy. On Tuesday we had confirmation that he would officially announce that he would be running for president the following evening. And on prime time Wednesday night TV the confirmation of the confirmation was finally delivered. He said he'd been considering standing for several weeks. Hmm, several years surely, Monsieur le Président…
11 février 2012
Powerless
The cold weather continues to bite, France's peak power consumption keeps breaking records, and we suffered the perhaps inevitable blackout on Wednesday evening. The lights went out in the middle of the afternoon and didn't come back until late in the evening. Out came the candles, torches and warmer clothes. Gas central heating is all very well if you don't have a boiler that relies on electricity to work. Fortunately, if the blackout had continued, our downstairs neighbours had offered warm shelter, having an old-fashioned boiler. Indeed we sampled their sweltering conditions first hand when we went down for a candlelit chat. No bath for la petite and her parents were in bed by nine thirty. What else is there to do when there's no TV or light to read by…?
The blown transformer which caused the power cut was presumably replaced the next day because we had two more cuts, one of over 2 hours in the middle of the day and another of a minute early in the evening. All lights blazing since then, fingers crossed. The sub-zero temperatures continue, -10C yesterday morning, even if our back window weather station recorded a maximum of 0.5C yesterday afternoon.
I experienced a different feeling of helplessness earlier in the week when my beloved daughter's attempts to escape from the changing table finally succeeded. As she pitched herself headlong off the end and into the bath my loose hold on her clothing slowed her fall enough for a desperate grab with the other hand to succeed in catching a leg. Result: a relatively gentle landing flat on her back with her head cushioned by a collection of rubber bath toys. No harm done other than a slightly grazed thigh and small bruise on one cheek. A lesson learned on both sides, we hope, but then I've said that before…
Another power problem, a sore elbow, eventually lead me to an appointment with a rheumatologist on Thursday. As I assume it's a bit like tennis elbow, I call it baby elbow, though in truth it started before baby came along. More likely computer mouse elbow or something. Anyway, he injected cortisone into the joint and told me to come back if it hadn't improved significantly after two weeks or so. More power to my elbow, fingers on the other hand crossed…
Someone else likely to lose power is Nicolas Sarkozy. He is still conducting what is referred to as a 'teasing' campaign for the presidential election. ie not officially confirming his candidacy, but dropping hints here and there. For instance, an interview in Le Figaro magazine a couple of days ago setting out his 'values' bore all the hallmarks of a personal manifesto. Headline grabber was his proposal to hold a referendum on the right of the unemployed to refuse whatever job or training they are offered.
The campaign is hotting up with a political storm this week over interior minister Claude Guéant's comment that not all civilisations are equal. The English translation might seem relatively harmless but the subtext and his subsequent comments made it all too clear that he was saying 'Western' civilisation is better than the rest, in particular Islam. Cue an explosion of polemic and a retaliation in parliament by a socialist MP from Martinique who compared Guéant's ideology to those that led to the rise of Nazism. A view which one might sympathise with but succeeded mainly in letting Sarko's right wing rottweiler off the hook by provoking a mass walkout by ruling party MPs, allowing them to bluster about being insulted instead of having to defend the original insult.
The blown transformer which caused the power cut was presumably replaced the next day because we had two more cuts, one of over 2 hours in the middle of the day and another of a minute early in the evening. All lights blazing since then, fingers crossed. The sub-zero temperatures continue, -10C yesterday morning, even if our back window weather station recorded a maximum of 0.5C yesterday afternoon.
I experienced a different feeling of helplessness earlier in the week when my beloved daughter's attempts to escape from the changing table finally succeeded. As she pitched herself headlong off the end and into the bath my loose hold on her clothing slowed her fall enough for a desperate grab with the other hand to succeed in catching a leg. Result: a relatively gentle landing flat on her back with her head cushioned by a collection of rubber bath toys. No harm done other than a slightly grazed thigh and small bruise on one cheek. A lesson learned on both sides, we hope, but then I've said that before…
Another power problem, a sore elbow, eventually lead me to an appointment with a rheumatologist on Thursday. As I assume it's a bit like tennis elbow, I call it baby elbow, though in truth it started before baby came along. More likely computer mouse elbow or something. Anyway, he injected cortisone into the joint and told me to come back if it hadn't improved significantly after two weeks or so. More power to my elbow, fingers on the other hand crossed…
Someone else likely to lose power is Nicolas Sarkozy. He is still conducting what is referred to as a 'teasing' campaign for the presidential election. ie not officially confirming his candidacy, but dropping hints here and there. For instance, an interview in Le Figaro magazine a couple of days ago setting out his 'values' bore all the hallmarks of a personal manifesto. Headline grabber was his proposal to hold a referendum on the right of the unemployed to refuse whatever job or training they are offered.
The campaign is hotting up with a political storm this week over interior minister Claude Guéant's comment that not all civilisations are equal. The English translation might seem relatively harmless but the subtext and his subsequent comments made it all too clear that he was saying 'Western' civilisation is better than the rest, in particular Islam. Cue an explosion of polemic and a retaliation in parliament by a socialist MP from Martinique who compared Guéant's ideology to those that led to the rise of Nazism. A view which one might sympathise with but succeeded mainly in letting Sarko's right wing rottweiler off the hook by provoking a mass walkout by ruling party MPs, allowing them to bluster about being insulted instead of having to defend the original insult.
06 février 2012
Goal blizzard
A weekend return trip to Blighty provided a satisfactory return, despite travel troubles and weather worries. Temperatures of -8C on Saturday morning had no impact on travel to the airport but once there I discovered that the brand new low-cost terminal was being closed because it was "too cold". Perhaps heating a large tin shed is problematic once external temperatures remain below freezing for over a week. There were however still two flights operating from the cold room, one of which was the one to Gatwick. The bonus of this was absolutely no queues at security and only short ones at passport control, and everybody was on the plane fifteen minutes before it was due to leave. And there we sat for the next 45 minutes while the engineers tried to unfreeze a fuel valve. And as the plane was refuelling the aircraft doors had to remain open. My plan of sitting near the front to allow a quick exit on arrival didn't seem so bright until one of the stewards got permission to hold the door almost closed.
In the end we touched down in Blighty only twenty minutes late, where I made another poor decision, namely to get the train to Victoria rather than London Bridge in an attempt to get to the pub for a swift pint before the game. It cost more and probably took longer because the Victoria line was closed for the weekend due to engineering works, resulting in chaos in the underground station of the same name. And I needn't have bothered trying to make the pub anyway because le grand chef et la petite beaucoup were going straight to the ground. Still, all was well that ended well and the seven goals smashed past the hapless Rovers were worth all the travel travails. And there was hot coffee and flapjack at half time to boot, courtesy of my genial hosts.
Back in Cambridge my ever accommodating hosts provided the usual tasty dinner, fine wine and convivial company. As the parsnip soup, sausage pasta and conversation were ingested and digested, the snow started falling outside. It continued until the small hours, prompting a regression into childhood, a double helping of TV goals, and a late night opera sing-a-long by le grand gooner. Perhaps the wine and house-strength G&T had something to do with it. Never does any harm to see a 21 gun salute in one day.
Six inches of snow on the ground threatened to make the journey home problematic, but snow tyres and a lift to the station from my generous host and trouble-free train journey got me to Stansted two hours before flight time. The boards showed my flight expected to take off nearly two hours late and the length of the queues for security suggested I might need all of the spare time. In the event it only took about an hour to get through to departures, which left nearly three hours to twiddle my thumbs before the flight eventually took off. Over two hours late I finally got home, just in time to kiss my petit ange goodnight. And, courtesy of my vrai ange, waiting for me was dinner and lunch for much of the week ahead and flapjack. Maybe I should go away more often...
In the end we touched down in Blighty only twenty minutes late, where I made another poor decision, namely to get the train to Victoria rather than London Bridge in an attempt to get to the pub for a swift pint before the game. It cost more and probably took longer because the Victoria line was closed for the weekend due to engineering works, resulting in chaos in the underground station of the same name. And I needn't have bothered trying to make the pub anyway because le grand chef et la petite beaucoup were going straight to the ground. Still, all was well that ended well and the seven goals smashed past the hapless Rovers were worth all the travel travails. And there was hot coffee and flapjack at half time to boot, courtesy of my genial hosts.
Back in Cambridge my ever accommodating hosts provided the usual tasty dinner, fine wine and convivial company. As the parsnip soup, sausage pasta and conversation were ingested and digested, the snow started falling outside. It continued until the small hours, prompting a regression into childhood, a double helping of TV goals, and a late night opera sing-a-long by le grand gooner. Perhaps the wine and house-strength G&T had something to do with it. Never does any harm to see a 21 gun salute in one day.
Six inches of snow on the ground threatened to make the journey home problematic, but snow tyres and a lift to the station from my generous host and trouble-free train journey got me to Stansted two hours before flight time. The boards showed my flight expected to take off nearly two hours late and the length of the queues for security suggested I might need all of the spare time. In the event it only took about an hour to get through to departures, which left nearly three hours to twiddle my thumbs before the flight eventually took off. Over two hours late I finally got home, just in time to kiss my petit ange goodnight. And, courtesy of my vrai ange, waiting for me was dinner and lunch for much of the week ahead and flapjack. Maybe I should go away more often...
03 février 2012
Chilled
Indoors we met the nanny from downstairs this morning. Nice lady, if a little brutally honest about my French. "It isn't any better after ten years?" So soon la petite coquinette will start learning to speak the local lingo better than her father, and start learning to share toys and playtime with a couple of little copains. And papa will rediscover free time. By which I mean time to write, of course...
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