Northumbrian sands

The days shorten, the thermometer falls, winter approaches. Last week we exchanged the fading light of the Lyonnais autumn for the British version during a long weekend break. The occasion was a birthday celebration for the soggydiver (1st class, national instructor). Given the remoteness of the chosen location and associated lack of convenient flights, in the end we chose to extend the weekend with an initial stop over in Bexleyheath, which we reached via a half-empty British flag carrier flight to Heathrow and a hire car journey round the M25 in the pouring rain. The latter with a tea break in the middle to pick up keys from the mistress of the house at her workplace deep in Kent/Sussex border country.

In the event the keys went unused as our arrival at destination coincided with the return of the male half of the good Doctors C. No sooner had Madam returned with the two Jezlings in tow an hour or so later, than I sneaked away for an evening of guilty worship at the sacred ground. A lift to and from the train station, a 2-0 victory over the French champions and a 13th successive qualification for the knockout phases of the Champions League made missing out on beef stew for dinner and suffering the habitual British railway delays bearable. Tiredness was counterbalanced by loud snoring from both sides. La petite otherwise seemed to sleep well until the usual time, French time at least. She did allow us a fifteen minute lie-in though, before making the delighted discovery that her cot was right next to where her parents lay feigning sleep.

The part-time working mother had the next day off, so in the morning she took us to a garden centre where la petite had much fun in a small soft play area, pushed around a mini shopping trolley and said hello to three real-life Santa's reindeers. After the habitual post-lunch nap, we took her to the shopping centre for new shoes and new clothes - no VAT exemption on children's clothing in France. The mini-Jezoids returned soon afterwards and the house was filled with the sound of battling robots and more or less tuneful clarinet and tenor horn playing. Good old bangers and mash was on the menu for dinner before bed for the kids and champagne for the adults. Thence began a second night of sharing a bedroom with a toddler. This time the snoring wasn't as loud and the wakeup chorus from the cot was half an hour later at just before seven.

Faced by a six hour road trip, we said our goodbyes and took our leave of the former UKC postgraduates by ten on Friday morning. First two hour stint - smooth and quiet, with more gentle snoring from the child seat in the back. Following a Happy Eater lunch somewhere north of Peterborough, the second stretch was almost as smooth, though the chirping from the back grew gradually more plaintiff as the journey wore on. Coffee, apple juice and mince pie at Scotch Corner services brought temporary respite, but by the time we hit Tyneside car-seat stir craziness had well and truly set in, not helped by the total absence of direction signs for Alnmouth as soon as we got off the A1. A phone call to Dr Organiser soon set us on the right road though, and we arrived slightly the worse for wear at our impressive lodgings on the Northumberland coast less than 8 hours after setting off from Kent.

After our hosts we were the first to arrive, soon followed by the DenEboy who had undertaken the 6 hour drive on his own. Spaghetti Bolognese was on the dinner table for six before, later in the evening, numbers were completed by Crystal Tipps and the Caipirinha Kid, who more sensibly let the train take the strain of bearing not limes and cachaça but home-made Marmite sausages and bacon.

It was thus a late night for all, relatively speaking anyway, and therefore a late morning for most. Not surprisingly it was the couples without young children who had the longest lie-ins. La petite got us up closer to normal time, UK time, but only after a night of somewhat disturbed sleep. We managed to keep her amused for a couple of hours until brunch, a slap-up fry-up which was worth the wait. Replete with sausages, eggs, bacon, mushrooms, beans, English muffins and Scottish tattie scones, we then all trooped out for a walk along the beach. It was a lovely stroll - the hazy sunshine and calm sea on a windless morning almost made it feel warm. La petite took a 15 minute power nap on papa's back and then enjoyed digging in the sand and flying between two adults.

Back at the ranch, the morning activity led to another 15 minute power nap, this time for the birthday girl, the smallest tummy in the party had a lunch-time snack and then we all piled into two cars for a trip into Alnwick. A meandering stroll round the town centre was followed by an obligatory visit to Barter Books. La petite famille restricted themselves to a browse in the children's section before heading back to base to try and fit in an afternoon nap. Meanwhile the rest kept calm and carried on browsing for another hour or so.

Chicken Fajitas were on the dinner menu that night, delicious they were too, prepared again by our generous birthday-celebrating host. The rigours of the weekend then gradually took their toll and, one by one, we drifted off to bed. The Cambsac boys were the last up, viewing Rolling Stones retrospectives and then football, though in the case of the DenEboy, up was a relative term. Somehow he woke up when the Canaries came on, then fell asleep straight afterwards when the last, read least eventful, match of the day was shown. Funnily enough the latter was what forced me to be the last man standing.

As the rain poured down outside, a rather restless night of toddler and parent sleep followed, but at least we were allowed a lie-in until almost eight. Brunch was as good as the previous morning, and then it was time for an hour or two of concerted tidying and cleaning before we all packed up and made our separate ways home. The end of a lovely two-day Northumberland break.

Not quite the end of the travelling for us though. Wary of subjecting la petite to another six hours in the car, we chose to break our journey back to Heathrow with an overnight stop in a hotel in Robin Hood country. How right we were - la petite by this time had definitely decided she didn't much appreciate being strapped into a car seat. More rain and habitually heavy M1 traffic didn't make the journey easier, but we got there in one piece, had a quick dinner and then all settled down to sleep.

Tried to settle down to sleep anyway. Quality of sleep over five nights of sharing a bedroom with a toddler gradually deteriorated. Nonetheless we survived until first light, had breakfast and set off on the road south once more. The complaints from the back seat gradually quietened and were superseded by snoring during the final hour. We dropped off the hire car, checked in and were through departures a full 3 hours before our flight was due to depart. Which left plenty of time for a leisurely lunch and browse in the shops, but also left plenty of room for time to drag, particularly as the flight was delayed by half an hour. Back in Lyon, it was pouring with rain and the fridge and cupboards were bare. Welcome home.

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…

Pantomime routine

Familiar Monday morning routine: visit to l'Hôpital de la Croix Rousse; blood tests, blood pressure checks for la mère; heart monitoring for le bébé. All A-okay, blood pressure even slightly lower than normal. And one contraction detected. Ooerr, not long now…

Back at home, frustration. La Poste has managed to lose a parcel containing a vital means of support. They tried to deliver last week when we were at the hospital, so left a note telling us to collect it from the nearest branch. Next day, try to pick it up: "not here yet." Following day, try again: "can't find it, we'll try and find out where it is and call you." Three days later, still no phone call, so go back and ask. "Sorry, can't find it, won't find it, nothing we can do without a tracking number." Grr…

Yesterday evening I was spoilt by a second live match in a week. The richest team in the world were the visitors to Lyon and, for a seventh match in a row, they failed to beat little OL. They did manage to avoid defeat at Gerland this time, thanks to les gones' inability to turn a first half superiority into goals. Still, I enjoyed myself roundly booing some old favourite pantomime villains. Seems Greedybayor has been taking diving and whinging lessons from the Step-over nancy boy and the Special Bore. The latter replaced two attacking midfielders with a defender and defensive midfielder in an attempt to shut up shop when the royal madrilènes scored midway through the second half (relying on an ex-lyonnais to give them the lead), handing the initiative back to OL. Tactical genius.

Expectant

 Another week down, another to go. And perhaps another…

Little change in the wait for the little-big arrival. Two more blood pressure checks for la mère, while la fille performs more Alien-like acrobatics in her current world. Meanhwile le père had a couple of brief diversions from kicking his heels by going to watch some men kicking a ball. In a packed pub on Wednesday, I watched the glorious Gunners beat the 'best team in the world', and then on Friday watched some live football for the first time in five weeks. Having put four past the local enemy last week, OL did it again in the warm-up for the visit of Los Galacticos next week. Can't say it was a totally inspiring victory against Nancy, apart from a stunning overhead goal by Jimmy Briand, but eight goals in a week will put les gones in good heart as they attempt to maintain a 100% record against Real Madrid in their last three meetings at Gerland.

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...

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…

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…

Dark football nights

And so OL's day of history foundered on the rugged rock of a German team that was just too strong, too well organised and too good. When we arrived at Gerland on Tuesday 20 minutes before kickoff the mood was optimistic, the crowd in good voice. After surviving an early scare in the first two minutes, OL came on strong, ten men running, chasing, harrying. It lasted 15 minutes. The Bavarians were already back in control when they scored the goal the whole of Lyon dreaded. If it wasn't all over then, it was soon after half time, when Lyon's Brazilian captain was booked for what looked like a perfectly good tackle. Unwisely he offered some sarcastic applause to the ref, who pondered a moment and then produced a second yellow card swiftly followed by a red. No sense of humour, these arbitres.

So we woke yesterday to a sunny day but gloomy city. La bienheureuse had taken time off from a big meeting at work to go to the match and returned to the fray yesterday, while I finally won a battle with a recalcitrant online banking system despite the racket from the renovation work in the building next door. Sounds more like a complete demolition that at times threatens to take down our building as well.

In the evening, I wandered into town to watch the second semi-final at our favourite watering hole in the company of a colleague of la bienheureuse, while the lady herself was indulging in a post-work gourmet trail through Vieux Lyon, sampling food and wine before finishing the evening with more food and wine in a restaurant. Meanwhile, in the pub, we supped Irish beer and watched a demonstration of attack and defence on TV. An Italian team coached by a Portuguese master of the dark arts of defending against the Catalan kings of attacking - 75% possession, 550 odd passes against 67, 15 shots against 1, eleven men against ten: no contest. Another triumph for anti-football.

And on another anti-football theme, seven 'fans' groups in France have just been disbanded in an attempt to resolve the hooliganism issue. Five are from Paris, one from Nice, and the last is Lyonnais. Any bets on how long it takes for them to reform under another name…?

Broken hearts and broken records

A tale of two football matches - one a Messi tale of broken Gooner dreams, the other a dogged defensive story of a European first for Olympique Lyonnais.

The first chapter came on Tuesday evening. I made my way to the Wallace with a little hope but few expectations of a team missing five key players, arguably its five most important players. They were playing the best team in the world after all, who on the night had the best player in the world at the top of his form. It all started so well, perhaps the plucky underdogs scored too early. The little left-footer took over from thereon in, and the rest is history. Ah well, there's always next year.

Part two yesterday was somewhat less stressful, though tense till the end. OL went, took the game to Bordeaux for fifteen minutes, and then defended. And defended, and defended. A goal just before half time put everything on a knife edge but les gones held on for a heroic defeat and a historic victory. First time OL have reached the semi-final of Europe's premier club competition. Even better, they're facing Bayern Munich instead of the evil red empire. The queue for tickets starts tomorrow.

On the political field, the rumours of the alleged affairs of the presidential couple have finally made the headlines in France. Not because of the rumours themselves, which are widely regarded to be false, having stemmed from an unsubstantiated online newspaper blog, but because of the political row that has blown up in their wake. Sarko's praetorian guard, five close chums, have allegedly let it be known that an intelligence service investigation has pointed the finger at former justice minister Rachida Dati as the source of the rumours, in a plot to alienate her from the President's inner circle. Some of the perks she received as a former minister have supposedly been removed as punishment - posh car, bodyguards, etc. Yesterday Carla gave an interview denying any plot,any affair, anything, and today Sarko himself has reportedly ordered his advisors to keep their mouths shut on the subject forthwith…

Scaling the heights

Seven days that passed in a flurry of football, chocolate eggs, food and wine, the weekend de Pâques and coming back from the dead.

It all started at Gerland last Tuesday. The all French Champions League quarter-final lived up to the hype. After a first 30 minutes in which Bordeaux went behind early, equalised quickly and then played most of the football, Lyon got a second goal on the break and went in 2-1 up at half time. Les girondins were more exposed in the second half, les lyonnais duly scored a third, and the stadium bounced.

The following morning I caught a plane to Gatwick for the most hyped quarter final of all. After a pleasant day wandering round London buying cheese and apple software, some excellent beer and food in the Marquess with le grand chef, the match lived up to expectations. At least one of the teams did. Never before have I seen Arsenal so completely outplayed, and possession so completely dominated by the visiting team. Barcelona truly were the best team in the world. For the first 60 minutes anyway. Somehow it was still 0-0 at half time, so after all their great passing moves in the first half, it was even more galling to see them score twice in the first 15 of the second with simple balls over the top.

Then came the fight back, much to the relief of the sixty thousand. Pace and a goal got Arsenal back in it, and a penalty from our own Catalan king did the rest. Scored with a broken leg, which puts him out of the second leg today, along with Arsenal's four other best players. Objectively we have no chance. But then we had no chance 2-0 down with 20 minutes left of a first leg, which the opposition was totally dominating...

And so to the Easter weekend. I returned to Lyon on Thursday and was back at the airport 24 hours later to pick up the Caipirinha Kid and Crystal Tipps. A couple of glasses of Gewurztraminer and cheese provided sufficient fuel for a wander round Lyon viewing painted walls, crossing footbridges and drinking coffee in the old town. Then it was back home to prepare for dinner with a G&T. Les Oliviers was the excellent choice of venue, and tasty fare, particularly the duckling, was enjoyed by all. Back at home whisky digestifs ensured a mild hangover the following morning.

Thick heads and grey skies weren't going to stop a ritual visit to the mecca of fresh food markets though. Les Halles supplied fish, vegetables and cheese for dinner, and sundry photo opportunities for the new DSLR. Then it was off out into town again, this time the heights of Fourvière the objective, reached via the 798 steps of the Montées de Carmes Déchaussés et Nicolas de Lange. First time I've climbed the hill that way, so I accompanied the others to the top then turned round, leaving them to take an appropriately themed route down via the basilica, Roman amphitheatre, église de St George and cathedral while I took the direct descent into a hell of football watching in the pub lasting 94 minutes, until the great Dane's head relieved the angst.

It was thus safe for the two Js and la bienheureuse to accompany me home, where dinner was cooked, champagne and canapés, cod and olives wrapped in jambon, and two bottles of excellent Gigondas were consumed, and beds were finally fallen into. Strangely, it was with a clear head that we went for a quick stroll round the park the following morning, with frequent pauses for animal photo opportunities. And then it was time to take les invitées back to the airport. We waved goodbye at the end of a spiffing weekend.

Easter Monday passed in a quiet hive of inactivity, apart from a stroll along the river in the afternoon. Today the pub and football on TV awaits again. I maintain an air of realistic fatalism...

Kicking off

First it was Saturday, then it was Friday, then it was Saturday again, and now it may yet be Friday, but more likely Saturday. There's been a lot of to-ing and fro-ing this week, centred round a rather unseemly spat between Lyon and Bordeaux over the kick-off time of OL's match this weekend. It's all about another match entirely, the Champions League quarter-final between the two teams next Tuesday. Before the draw, Lyon asked for their match to be moved to Friday to give them more time to prepare for the Champions League. Permission granted by the French league, but when the draw threw the two French teams together, Bordeaux started getting uppity. 

Les Girondins are playing in the League Cup final on Saturday (presumably immovable), and when their request to UEFA to move the Champions League game to Wednesday failed, they asked to the French league to move Lyon's league match against Grenoble back to Saturday (in the interests of fairness, you understand). Permission granted. Result - Lyon not happy at all, and they appealed the decision. Appeal turned down, so they appealed again, to a (presumably) higher body (the national Olympic and sporting committee). However, the last ditch effort looks likely to fail, so it seems OL will have to play Saturday after all, and meanwhile Grenoble has been watching from the sidelines getting increasingly annoyed that nobody seems to have asked their opinion in the whole affair. French sports politics is just like the real thing - entertaining nonsense.

A spring in the step

Le printemps semble arriver. It was a very pleasant cycle down to Gerland in the afternoon sunshine today, to collect tickets for the all-French Champions league quarter-final, even if the reverse Mistral made it rather hard going on the outward trip. The only interruption to sunshine since we got back from East Lothian has been between sunset and sunrise, and temperatures have remained in the high teens, even reaching twenty today. Hope there's still some snow left for the skiing next weekend.

It's been a mixed week for French football. The success of OL and Bordeaux in the Ligue des Champions contrasted with the fortunes of the two French representatives in the Europa league, and yesterday a PSG supporter, injured in clashes a week ago between warring factions of the Paris fans, died. PSG's match against Nice - also in trouble because of the behaviour of their fans - this weekend will be behind closed doors.

On the political battleground, it was the first round of regional elections while we were in sunny Scotland. Sarko and the ruling party received a somewhat bloody nose, and with the Socialists, Greens and Communists agreeing a united left-wing front in most regions for the second round, said nose looks likely to be severely out of joint come Monday. Monsieur le Président has been accused of making political capital out of the killing of a policeman by Basque separatists earlier this week, and his Prime Minister made his own blunder in a speech yesterday by referring to the death of another policeman, who turns out to be alive, even if he was seriously injured in a different attack.

Galacticos eclipsed

Oh ye of little faith. As we walked away from the stadium through the sleet and rain, it felt just like the old times at Gerland last night. The Madrid superstars in their fancy 300 million Euro boots were outplayed, outfought and out-thought by a team of Lyon journeymen that at last found a performance and the desire to satisfy the demanding fans. And with a goal scored by everybody's favourite player, Jean II Makoun. Wonder if he'll get booed as usual during the next league game...

Not that everybody should have been so surprised. It was the fifth time Read Madrid have played their French bête noire in the last five years, and they've yet to win. Last night was the third successive time they've slunk away from Lyon, beaten, with their tails between legs good only for step-overs and fancy flicks that go no-where.

Of course the return leg in three weeks could be a different story. Probably will, if you take the pragmatic view. If there's a lack of Lyonnais euphoria this morning, it's partly through regret that OL didn't score more than one goal. They certainly deserved to.

Frosty times

The coldest winter for 25 years continues. Today is the 7th day in a row that temperatures have failed to climb above freezing. So, on Saturday evening we bundled up well to make the trip to the draughty concrete arena that is home to Olympique Lyonnais. OL matches this season are a bit like the weather - dull, uncomfortable and chilly. They've managed to grind out a few results since Christmas, but failed to warm the hearts of the fans, who still regularly call for the head of coach Puel. Trepidation will be high on Tuesday, for the visit of the over-paid, over-hyped galacitos of Real Madrid. We await it with interest...

Otherwise the weather over the weekend kept us mostly indoors - la bienheureuse slaved away in the kitchen while I lazed away in front of one screen or another - computer or TV. My excuse was that during the week I finally got down to doing a rewrite of book two for the purposes of resending the sample chapters to the agent who displayed mild interest. Surely two whole afternoons of work, merit a small rest...

Striking times

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

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

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

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

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

Lights, laughter and lack of sleep

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another match nul

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

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

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

Balls and balls-ups

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

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

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

No action

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

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

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

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

Conflicts, conflagrations and conflabs

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

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

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

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

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

Our bins.

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

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