Chink of light

While it was optimistic to expect all coughs and sniffles to have gone within a week, in the case of papa et la petite at least, there seems to be light visible at the end of the tunnel. For la travailleuse however, another cold has added to the persistent cough. Not serious enough to stop her travelling to Helsinki this week though, hopefully the last work trip for several months. Father and daughter just about survived two days and nights without her last week, but only just. Seems 72 hours without mama is the absolute limit for a nearly two year old toddler...

On a brighter note, sunlight reappeared in the apartment last week, the first indoor sighting since early November. Maybe the sombre, unhealthy days of winter really are numbered. Then again, maybe not. A couple of minor snowfalls last week would seem to suggest otherwise anyway, even if the bigger dump forecast over the weekend instead turned to rain. Temperatures are still well below the seasonal average though.

In the wider world, almost half the primary school teachers in Lyon and elsewhere are on strike today, as protest against the reform of the school week proposed for the start of the next academic year. For the last twenty or thirty years, French primary school pupils and teachers have had Wednesdays off. Up until a few years ago, they went to school on Saturday mornings instead, but that was done away with under the last government.

There is general agreement that this led to too intense a school day for the children (French primary school children have 6 hours of lessons a day, the  highest in Europe, when psychological studies show they are generally attentive for a maximum of 4.5 hours day). What there is less agreement about is how to redistribute the hours in the school week. The government is proposing Wednesday morning lessons, with a longer lunch break the other days of the week and non-academic activities in the afternoons. Parents and teachers alike aren't too keen of the idea of a change in the routine they've got used to over the last twenty years. The argument continues…

Sniffy, snotty, snooty

The third Thursday in November is a notable day in the Lyonnais calendar - le Beaujolais Nouveau est arrivé. The first barrels duly floated down the Saône to be opened at midnight in Place Bellecour last night, despite what has been termed a difficult summer for les viticulteurs. Poor weather has apparently halved the grape harvest in the Beaujolais with a subsequent knock-on effect for wine production and could result in around 300 of the 2300 producers going out of business. On top of that they had to put up with Marine Le Pen paying them a publicity-seeking visit. Adding insult to injury, a view shared by the president of the traditional Beaujolais Nouveau fête in Beaujeu, capital of the region - "I hope I don't bump into her…"

Fortunately the bad weather and the presence of the National Front leader haven't soured the quality of this year's vintage, which apparently tastes of banana, strawberry and sweets.

Domestic wine consumption over the weekend was more restrained than normal because I was across the Channel for another overnight pilgrimage to the home of football. Normally the reverse would be true due to my hosts' generous hospitality, but on this occasion the morning flight and two pints of beer to accompany a very tasty pre-game lunch in the Snooty Fox resulted in a mild hangover before the evening was out. The upside was that it was gone by the morning. Overall, a splendid weekend, bar the topsy-turvy result against the Cottagers.

Meanwhile, back in Lyon les deux filles were having a good weekend without me, despite la petite suffering the beginnings of yet another cold. Fortunately it seems to be a less virulent variant, having almost run its course already. Even at its worst on Sunday I was treated to a beaming smile when I was picked up at the airport. Ahh...

Hearing things

Ups and downs. La petite still refuses to submit to prone nappy changes but, after minor protest, will at least sit down for part of the process. Minor progress, and as the cold and catarrh recedes, and teeth break through the gums, so her mood improves. Meanwhile, the heating finally goes on as temperatures drop, and her parents suffer their own form of seasonal-affective disorder. Tiredness and a ringing in one ear and throbbing in the other finally drove me to the doctor last week. Result: a blood test and a referral to an ENT specialist.

The blood test shows slightly high cholesterol, no surprise there, high iron and low salt and vitamin D levels. Hmm... After initially telling me to cut down on salt to reduce somewhat high blood pressure, the doctor reverses the advice, tells me to cut down on fatty foods, eat less red meat and prescribes more sunshine and a vitamin D supplement. The weather follows orders to a limited extent, turning milder and slightly sunnier.

Meanwhile the ear consultant checks my ears and hearing, and pronounces them both okay. He tells me the causes of tinnitus aren't well known and that there is probably little he can do about it. Doesn't stop him prescribing three different medicaments. No wonder the French national health insurance scheme is several billion Euros in the red. Though when I go to the pharmacy to get the prescription filled I discover one of the drugs is not reimbursed, which leads me to do a bit of research.

It turns out that the drug in question (a vasodilator) is on the 'close watch' list of the French medical safety agency after the equivalent European body pronounced it to have debatable benefits and undesirable side-effects, and recommended its withdrawal from prescriptions for ear problems. Oh, and that also happens to be made by the same pharmaceutical company that produced Mediator, the drug developed to treat overweight diabetics that may have caused the deaths of up to 2000 people before it was banned. Didn't stop the consultant prescribing it or the pharmacist selling it to me. Makes you ponder the nature of the links between consultants, pharmacies and drug companies…

New toys, part 2

The mobile phone industry in France was deregulated in the nineties, which means that phone contracts have never been exorbitantly priced. However, for most of the last fifteen years, the same three networks have existed in a cosy arrangement, which ensured that real competition never really drove prices down either. And it's not just me saying that - the official body that oversees pricing and competition in France fined the three phone companies a total of close to half a billion Euros in 2007 for an illegal pricing agreement.

All that changed at the beginning of this year, following the award of a fourth network licence to Free, an aggressive newcomer that made its reputation (good & bad) as an internet service provider. By offering an unlimited contract (phone calls, SMS and internet) for just 20 euros a month, it totally shook up the industry. Never mind that Free's network coverage was a fraction of that of the other three  (a problem which they partially solved by reaching a network-sharing agreement with Orange) and that there were plenty of initial problems, the price seduced subscribers away from their competitors in droves. Something like 3 million took up their offer in the first six months. And the other networks were forced to respond and bring their prices more in line.

All of which eventually motivated this particular phone user to get off his arse and shop around for a better deal than the one that I've had more or less unchanged (in price and service) since I first took it out. And for an upgrade to my battered but trusty 10 year-old phone whose battery was beginning to require charging every couple of days despite being hardly used. And so, a week or so before our recent trip to the UK, I duly switched provider and contract for something that gave me more than twice as much for barely half the old  price, and went shopping for a new phone. Given that the new contract allowed limited internet access I decided to go the full hog and upgrade from a phone on which I could merely make calls and send texts to a so-called smart-phone. Cheapest one I could find, I hasten to add.

Eager to try out my new toy, I duly snapped out the new micro-SIM and opened the phone to insert it. Should have checked that it indeed took a micro-SIM rather than normal size one. Oops. However, I cobbled together the micro card and the cutout and managed to get the ensemble into the phone and, what's more, it all seemed to work. Phew. 

Alas, I soon discovered that the wifi on the phone didn't work, which limited its use somewhat. And by now it was only a couple of days before we were due to leave on the two week holiday. No matter, a hasty phone call or two to the technical hotline of the shop I bought it from eventually produced a promise to replace it. Phew. So I opened the phone to take out the SIM card before taking to back to the shop. Only to find I couldn't get it out due to it being in two pieces. Bugger.

Eventually, after much cursing and with the help of a thin-bladed knife I did manage to get it out. Most of it anyway, and without destroying the phone in the process. Fortunately any bits of plastic that might have been left inside weren't visible, so I took the phone back and got it changed, no questions asked. And the new phone worked, wifi and all. Phew. 

However, with our flight the next morning, there was no time to get a new SIM card. ie two weeks away without a phone beckoned. The question of whether that was a good or bad thing never really arose because la bienheureuse always had her phone for emergencies. Anyway, ordering a new SIM card was a painless and not-too-expensive process, and it was waiting when we got home two weeks later. And new phone and new SIM have since worked flawlessly. Long live commercial competition.

Crèche course

Travel note 14: La petite coquinette does not like being strapped in on parents' knees. Even more screaming and struggling in the flight home than the outward journey.
Travel note 15: don't be tempted to try and evade airport parking charges when car is left in an overflow field with a mere wooden barrier that was open when we parked. Arrive in said field to find said barrier firmly padlocked shut. Fortunately a hasty round trip back to the terminal to validate parking ticket doesn't take too long. We arrive home exhausted with a toddler who has had a mere 40 minutes sleep during the day. She's in bed a full two hours before her habitual holiday bedtime, and parents follow soon afterwards.

The next day it was in at the deep end in the return to normal life. Both parents accompanied la petite to her new crèche on the first morning of a three day adaptation. We all stayed ninety minutes, then la petite and papa went home for lunch while la travailleuse went in to work briefly before jetting off for a meeting in Barcelona. In the afternoon, another short spell at the crèche, but this time papa left his little baby on her own for half an hour.

Thursday we were both back for another two part session at the crèche, only this time I left my little darling fending for herself in the big bad world of collective childcare for a total of more than two hours. Each time I left her screaming - screaming with delight, that is, while throwing herself energetically around exercise mats. Seems she has taken to the crèche like a duck to water. Conversely, once she was home alone with only papa for company she was in a distinctly grumpy mood. I thus looked forward to the return of la bienheureuse that evening with more than the usual anticipation. Alas, her flight took off, turned round, and landed back in Barcelona. Faulty undercarriage. Another night in Catalonia beckoned. Humph.

A short night, that is. Early flight the next morning meant a 4.30am alarm call. Meanwhile, la petite and papa enjoyed a full night's sleep only for the former to get out of bed on the wrong side. Worst morning strop ever - refused milk, didn't want to be picked up, didn't want to play with her toys or cuddle doudou, yelled and cried non-stop for half an hour. Obviously missing mama and staging a protest about all the travelling and change in the last few weeks. Finally I was reduced to the TV drug - putting on her favourite DVD of children's music at last calmed her just in time for the return of la voyageuse.

Of course the little dear was fine while she was at the crèche that morning in her final adaptation session, this time staying the whole morning and sharing lunch with her new friends. The downside of spending time with other children her own age became apparent over the weekend: yet another cold. Still, it wasn't bad enough on Sunday to discourage us from setting out in the car to go swimming. Only we didn't - arrived to find the pool closed for cleaning. No matter, the warm sunshine encouraged us to stop off in the Grand Parc de Miribel-Jonage where la petite paddled and splashed in the lake. Her parents having neglected to swap clothes for swimming costume, she got so wet she had to travel home in only a nappy. With temperatures approaching 30C, she didn't get too chilled. We hope. The cold was worse the next day mind you…

First full week at the crèche followed. Well, full week of two full days a week. Tuesday it was déjà vu - la petite at the crèche, for the whole day this time, la bienheureuse travelling for work again, Bratislava this time. Home on his own, papa sighed and suppressed the longing by getting on with some chores. Wednesday evening mama returned home on schedule and took the next day off to recover. She took her little girl in to the crèche in the morning and then we both spent the rest of the day clearing junk out of the garage in preparation for another new arrival...

Sour grapes

La bienheureuse et la petite have both suffered but coped remarkably well over the last week while I feed my TV sport-watching habit, though the latter has been displaying more of her naughty side recently, perhaps as a protest at not getting enough attention. My excuse is of course that the summer Olympics only come along every four years, and the Olympics in one of my home countries only come along roughly once every thirty years. Not that I've been able to as fully satisfy my urge as I no doubt would have done had we been living back in Blighty. Coverage of the games in France has more or less been restricted to two channels, and naturally that coverage has tended to concentrate on the fortunes of home heroes. Envious of the BBC's 24 live HD streams, moi?

Early on in the fortnight, TV coverage on France Televisions adopted a tone which was a mixture of the genial and the exultant, as French golds in the swimming, canoeing and judo rolled in. Midway through the first week they were having a quiet snigger at the fact that the host country was still awaiting its first title. No doubt I'm just being cynical, but I detected a bit of revelling in schadenfreude. The games should of course have been in Paris not London.

However, it all changed a week ago when the British gold stream started flowing just as the French one dried up. Firstly the presenters on France TV made a big fuss about alleged British cheating in the cycling and rowing, judges favouring British competitors, etc, etc. The fact that the French cycling coach inconveniently admitted that they would also have deliberately crashed in the event of a poor start was largely ignored. As for the bias towards home competitors, dare I suggest it was bit of a sore point. The games after all should have been in France...

Since then it seems to this particular viewer, albeit perhaps overly sensitive, that British successes have been pointedly ignored. At one point France 2 was showing badminton, a game normally rarer on TV than tiddlywinks, while a track cycling final that ended in British victory was going on. This in a country that is home to the greatest cycling race in the world. Fortunately Eurosport was immune to partisan considerations and showed the cycling. It was almost enough to turn me into a bigoted nationalist.

There has also been constant carping by commentators about problems (transport nightmares) and perceived injustices at the London games, particularly the alleged marginalising of the French language. One presenter was outraged by the lack of announcements in French during an archery event at Lords. Well, what did he expect of an institution that only started admitting women members a little over ten years ago? It was of course a Frenchman who was the driving force behind the first modern Olympics, though a certain Shropshire village claims he got the idea from them. The modern Olympics are a British invention after all. So there…

Pride, prejudice, pathos

And so, Président Hollande and the Socialists duly won a thumping parliamentary majority in the second round of elections yesterday. Not that 43% of the French electorate cared enough to go out and vote. Media interest has been concentrated on various high profile circonscriptions, such as the one in Northern France where the Front National leader's gratifyingly lost by a whisker to her Socialist rival. Perhaps Mme Le Pen should have grown a beard to go with the voice. Unfortunately, 3 of her similarly inclined colleague, including her 22 year old niece, did win their seats to give the extreme right MPs for the first time.

Elsewhere, Ségolène Royal was soundly beaten in her chosen seat by the dissident Socialist who maintained his candidacy despite being ordered by the party hierarchy to stand down in favour of the 'parachuted in' Royal. The battle was given added piquancy when Valérie Trierweiler, the current partner of Hollande tweeted her support for the rebel Olivier Falorni. Mme Royal was given lukewarm backing by the president and is, of course, his ex-partner and mother of his four children. Miaow…

One novelty this year was the introduction of 11 'foreign' constituencies, among them one for Northern Europe which includes the UK, giving expat French people a minor say in what goes on in their mother country. Anybody in Westminster listening? asks one expat Brit who will lose his right to vote in the UK in less than five years…

Perhaps France was more preoccupied by the European football championships in Poland and the Ukraine, where the national team's campaign has borne a marked contrast to the 2010 World Cup, despite a mere draw with the boring English. The subsequent win over Ukraine has seemingly set les Bleus on course for the quarter-finals, barring an unlikely set of results in the next games.

The football itself was somewhat overshadowed over the weekend by the sudden death of Thierry Roland, the doyen of French football commentators. His enthusiasm for the game will be sorely missed on TV games from now on, even if TF1 had already rather rudely deprived him of his largest audience some years ago. Perhaps the best description of his commentating style was given by another larger than life character in French football, Rolland Courbis, who said he commentated as though he was watching games at home from his own sofa. RIP Thierry.

Sun & water dance

On Saturday, the sun shone, the temperature climbed into the thirties and we spent the afternoon at the Fête de l'Eau, not so much a water party as the Jons village fête. A friend of la bienheureuse was one of the organisers, hence our presence, and we enjoyed delicious paella for lunch in the sweltering heat. Someone had rather thoughtlessly cut down the large trees that had apparently provided shade in previous years, but a giant marquee fortunately sheltered the lunch party from the worst of the sun, even if it also trapped warm air somewhat.

On the agenda after lunch was a guided visit to the Barrage de Jons, one of the dams on the Rhône management system that diverts water to a small hydroelectric station upriver of Lyon. Meanwhile, back at the party, dancing dogs, rides in horse-drawn carriages and various river craft continued through the afternoon. And so did the music, the rhumba band delighting la petite danseuse so much that she climbed up onto the dance floor and led the boogying.

The next day we recovered and the water arrived a day late, lots of it falling from the sky. As if in sympathy, the thermometer mercury tumbled too, a full fifteen degrees. From midsummer to early spring in one fell swoop, and la petite grognarde went a little stir crazy, despite being taken out for a walk in the rain by maman while papa remained dry in front of the TV tennis. Or perhaps she was suffering from the previous day's excitement and lack of sleep. Still, the day spent mostly indoors allowed her to practise her latest skill, climbing. Nothing so easy as the sofa for her. No, something more challenging like the baby walker or the wooden activity box. And once she's reached the top and stood up, the huge self-congratulatory grin - 'look, no hands, how clever am I?' - makes it hard to tell her off with a straight face.

A few days earlier a different sort of water was falling from above. La bienheureuse went into la petite chambre and realised there was leak coming from l'appartement au dessus. Visions of the infamous flood of 2006 came flooding back and she dashed upstairs to warn the neighbours. Yes, the same flat and the same neighbours who were the origin of that six month nightmare. 

Meanwhile, I hastened to see how many buckets might be required, only to find that the leak had stopped. The neighbours arrived in a state of some bemusement until Monsieur said to Madame, "Did you just water the plants?". She nodded. A simple case of an overfilled house plant pot; only damage - a couple of small damp patches on the bed cover. Phew!

Late departure

A hastily arranged trip last week gave us three pleasant days across the Channel, even if one of those days was taken up by the funeral of the family doyenne, the reason for the long weekend. And it was a long weekend. Woken in the small hours of Thursday morning by an SMS from Air France to say our 9am flight had been cancelled wasn't the best start, even if it also said we'd been put on another flight later in the day. No-one told la petite though, so no luxury of a lie-in…

We eventually reached Birmingham airport in the early evening and set off for the three hour drive north; three hours in theory - rush hour traffic on the good old British motorway system pushed it closer to four, and inattention to road signs added another half hour as we got lost somewhere in the wilds of Teeside. La petite suffered being cooped up in a car seat for over four hours remarkably well until the physical discomfort (and an emergency stop occasioned by the driver's lapse in concentration and clumsy use of walking boots on the pedals) got the better of her and brought forth most of her dinner. It was thus a somewhat bedraggled trio who eventually made it to great-aunt's house late in the evening, where we had a quick snack before joining la belle-mère et le beau-frère for the short drive to a nearby hotel.

There was no lie-in the following morning either. Despite the lack of sleep the previous evening, the little alarm clock woke us close to her normal hour (French time). She was however persuaded to join her parents in having a good hour's nap after breakfast before we checked out. From the hotel it was back to join the assembling family at the senior S-sister's house prior to the lunchtime service, and then la petite enjoyed a 45 minute siesta as papa perambulated round an estate of mansions while everyone else said goodbye to the last of the great generation at the crematorium.

There were snacks and much catching up after the service before those not staying overnight made their way homewards. Which for us meant our Cheshire home chez la grand-mère. Despite more rush hour traffic on the M62 and a short screaming fit solved by a stop to feed la petite and interrupt uncle's fast food dinner, we were there by 8pm and in bed by ten.

Saturday we finally managed a lie-in of sorts as la petite coquinette woke at her normal time but then caught up on some sleep by dropping off for another hour. First bowl of porridge of the winter was on the late breakfast menu before we headed off to brave the hounds in north Wales for a deluxe meals-on-wheels lunch. Everyone should have a Lebanese father-in-law who likes cooking. Thence it was back to Tattenhall to give baby a much-needed early night.

A late afternoon flight back to Lyon made for a relaxed Sunday morning and drive back to Brum, and a grumpy baby was kept more or less quiet during the latter part of the flight by drip-feeding her biscuits and dilute apple juice. We finally got home in the early evening, put la petite straight to bed, and ate defrosted red cabbage before getting a welcome early night ourselves.

No rest for the wicked, or the saintly for that matter. Work for la bienheureuse on Monday was followed by a late afternoon visit to the baby doctor - routine 9th month checkup after an hour spent in a waiting room unusually full of other babies and parents. While notre petite was pronounced to be in bouncing good health, elsewhere there were sniffles aplenty and one baby suffering from bronchitis - winter fast approaches.

Tuesday morning la travailleuse endured a 6am alarm call and an all day trip to Germany while la petite and I slowly got used to having only each other for company during the day. Apart from when the locksmith visited to replace the broken front door lock, and the survey lady visited to complete our official entry into French work statistics.

Adjusting

La petite coquinette seems to have adjusted to winter time. Seven am alarm call this morning, but the previous two it was closer to 7:30. As the season changes so it seems do her habits. Perhaps understandably, as the days shorten, she seems to think she has to take advantage of every available daylight hour. And sleeping during the day earlier this week was not part of that agenda. Actually she did eventually, but usually only after lengthy and vociferous protest. Maybe it was just a phase, with tooth number two on the way. Hopefully the reversion to a former favourite pastime - raspberry blowing during mealtime - is also a passing phase. If not we'll soon have rather fetching spatter-effect wallpaper and furniture...

The weather in Lyon remains mild, though not quite as mild as a week ago, when the minimum nighttime temperature was a couple of degrees higher than the average maximum daytime temperature for this time of year. It was looking a lot more like autumn though, with the sunshine of the previous week making way for overcast skies. Which tended to make our habitual afternoon riverside promenades rather gloomy affairs before the sunshine returned yesterday.

La petite famille was reunited again yesterday, after several days apart. Last Saturday I caught an early flight to Blighty for another pilgrimage to the blessed ground. For a change the game was comfortable, as was the habitual overnight welcome chez le grand chef et la petite beaucoup. La bienheureuse and I then briefly crossed in Lyon on Sunday night before she flew to the teutonic north for a couple of days of meetings.

Economic belt tightening is the adjustment apparently required in France to reduce the deficit and retain the sacred triple A rating handed out by the same American based agencies who gave AAA+ rating to Freddie & Fannie Lehman right up to their respective financial deaths. And yesterday one of them 'erroneously' downrated France. Hmm, reliable these ratings then. Anyway, a second austerity plan in two months (still judged insufficient by the EC) resulted in a two per cent rise in lower rate VAT, a bringing forward by a year of the increase in retirement age and linking some social security payments to growth rather than inflation. Economic 'experts' in France and Europe are full of doom and gloom, but then not so long ago most of the same experts were forecasting full recovery by next year…

Elsewhere, belt-loosening is more in the news. A top hotel in Lille has been exposed as the centre of a prostitution ring, with the hotel manager and a high-up policeman among the chief suspects for running it. And another name heavily linked to the affair is none other than Dominic Strauss-Kahn, the man with seemingly the biggest libido in France. Texts from him have been found on the phone of a local businessman also involved in the whole business talking about parties and 'young ladies' in Lille, Barcelona and New York.

Another policeman in trouble is the former number two in the Lyon Police Judiciare (rough equivalent of the CID), who is in prison while under investigation for corruption and links to organised crime. The man once fêted as Lyon's top crime-busting cop allegedly used drugs seized by the police to keep a supposed informer sweet, supplied copies of police files  to, and accepted expensive holidays from, individuals known to be part of Lyon's criminal underworld…

Firsts

A quiet week back in the bosom of the family home, following our return from Blighty. Quiet, at least, for the two of us lucky enough not to have to go out to work. The past few days have, however, been notable for a couple of 'firsts' in the life story of the youngest member of the family:
First tooth finally broke through a few days ago - age 7 and a half months.
First aquatic stool evacuation - in the bath a few nights ago. Hope that one isn't repeated too often…

This week also saw the second occasion I almost killed our daughter. Leaving the apartment building for our habitual afternoon promenade, I carelessly knocked the lens cap off the camera slung over my back. Ducking back inside to pick it up, and finding it just out of reach, I momentarily let go of the pushchair. Oops. The steep pavement camber sent it careering towards the road. Normally it wouldn't have come to much harm as cars are normally parked bumper to bumper along the side of the road. However, this was one occasion when there was a gap just outside the building. Fortunately a passer-by happened along at the right time and stopped the pram's precious bundle being pitched headfirst into the road. I console myself by thinking I might have caught it myself. Perhaps. Must remember to use the brakes in future...

You'd have thought I'd learned my lesson from the the previous heart stopping moment, which occurred a couple of months earlier on the nappy-changing table. The little dear had recently acquired the knack of scooting backwards by vigorously pumping her feet. A moment's inattention taught me just how fast she could propel herself - one moment she was safely in the middle of the table, the next her head was hanging over the edge as she teetered above a sheer head-first drop into the bath. Can't take my eyes off you… On the other hand, she seems to have inherited her father's thick skull, so perhaps no damage would have been done.

A few other milestones in the development of notre petite puce adorée (purely for future reference, not for my-baby-is-more-advanced-than-yours purposes you understand):

5 weeks: first genuine smile
7 weeks: first sleep through the night (8 hours, 11pm - 7am)
4 months: first roll, front to back
5 months: first full night sleep (12 hours, 7pm - 7am give or take)
5 and a bit months: first back to front roll, mastered sufficiently in a week to be able to roll across the room at remarkable speed until an immovable obstacle is encountered. Only in one direction though, over her left side. She's only just figured out rolling in the other direction. Also recently mastered - the tummy swivel, which gives her complete movement in 2 dimensions. Crawling is only a matter of time, once she realises she needs to get up on hands and knees at the same time. And the apartment is far from baby-proof at the moment...
6 and a bit months: able to maintain sitting position unaided for several minutes. Until she gazes up at the ceiling and falls backwards. Fortunately she has that thick skull…
7 months: able to demonstrate that she wants something by grunting repeatedly and gazing expectantly at her parents. We assume she'll find some way of telling us exactly what she wants soon…

There was another first in France over the weekend. The first time the French rugby team deserved to win a match in this year's World Cup. Rather ironic that it was the final. They've just returned and are being fêted as heroes, which is a bit odd considering the team was universally slated for its performances up to the final, apart perhaps from when they disposed of the English. Egg-chasers this side of La Manche even have the gall to be complaining about an allegedly biased referee…

Summer sport

The first weekend in July marks the real arrival of summer: the schools are on holiday, the city starts emptying, and the Tour de France starts. And that means the first major bouchons on the A7 autoroute between Lyon and Marseille, the first time there might be a small chance of finding a parking space outside the apartment, and the first bit of previous-winner-of-the-TdF baiting by the French public and press. This year, with drug allegations hanging over him, it's Contador's turn again. Booed when the teams were introduced on Thursday, and yesterday caught up in a major pileup, which lost him over a minute on his main rivals. Suggestions in the French press this morning that he may even give up…

Anyway, with Wimbledon almost over, le Tour provides me with afternoon entertainment to supplement that provided by the little sweetheart. Who has been a real dear most of the week, despite apparently starting to teethe. At least, she chews on everything and anything at the moment.

In the wider world, l'affaire DSK is once more dominating the headlines. A poll in one of the newspapers this morning suggests half the French public would like to see him making a political comeback. Assuming of course he is cleared of all charges, as most people here are expecting to happen. The fact that he did have sex with the woman is apparently neither here nor there…

At the other end of the political spectrum, the current president was 'violently attacked' in Agen, which was almost overlooked when the new Strauss-Kahn revelations broke. The attack turned out to be a man grabbing him by the lapels and pulling, which provoked the amusing sight of Sarko ducking a blow which never came. He sportingly let it known he wouldn't file a complaint afterwards, but his aggressor still copped a six-month suspended prison sentence.

Leaks

Wet, leaky day in Lyon yesterday. And I was still wet when I emerged from the bathroom in the morning and noticed a strange odour. Obviously it wasn't me because I'd just had a shower, but it reminded me of the stink bugs from an African childhood that produced an awful smell when they got squashed. The insects that is, rather than the childhood. Never stepped on one in France though, so it wasn't that either. 

Uhoh, gas!

In a naked panic I immediately ran into the kitchen and turned off the gas supply to the cooker and boiler. The smell had pervaded the apartment but eventually dissipated. Unlike 1000 other people in Lyon and the surrounding area, I wasn't panicked enough to call the pompiers. Turned out it was sulphur dioxide leaking from one of the refineries in Fezyin, about 10km further south. No danger to the population, we were told...

Leak number two occurred the previous evening, when some bright spark published one of the questions in the following day's maths Bac exam on the internet, sowing instant panic in the education ministry. The exam papers for the Bac are normally as closely guarded as secrets of state. The education minister eventually decided to strike that particular question from the exam but maintain the rest of the paper sat by thousands of students yesterday morning. The students were none too happy about it, as the question in, err question, was apparently the easiest in the exam…

A more mundane domestic leak occurred later in the afternoon, when a thunderstorm caused a minor flood in the bedroom because I'd left the window open in my perennial summer quest to keep the apartment cool. And another which involved a particularly messy nappy episode, but perhaps I'd better not elaborate on that one.

A day earlier, the annual fête de la musique on midsummer's day was rather dampened in Lyon by leakage from the skies. Music events in the city were played out to a backing track of percussion from the heavens. The summer storm season has started with a bang...

100 days

A century of days has come and gone in an instant. And ten days of maman back at work have passed quickly and fairly painlessly. Tous les trois are slowly getting used to the new routine, which is hardest for la bienheureuse as she only gets to see her petit coeur for an hour at either end of the day. The pain of separation was eased slightly by an afternoon off last week, and a bank holiday Monday this. The three day weekend came and went in the usual blur, even if the major activity was but the usual afternoon perambulation along the river bank.

In the big wide world, a couple of stories recently distracted from the usual diet of tragedy and disaster. Police in north-eastern France stopped a car they spotted driving erratically last week. Inside they found a lorry driver and his ten year-old son. The former was more than two times over the legal limit. Silly man, you might think, driving with a child in the car while drunk. Not so. He knew he would lose his licence if he was caught, so he hit on the brilliant idea of getting his son to drive him home. Yes, the driver of the vehicle was the 10 year-old boy. His father lost his licence anyway.

Meanwhile, former president Chirac caused a stir over the weekend by declaring that in next year's presidential elections he would vote for François Hollande, one of the potential socialist candidates. Chirac's fellow UMP member and current president Sarkozy deigned not to comment, but is assumed to be unamused. Hollande quickly passed it off as a joke, and Chirac eventually did a day or two later. That won't stop people believing it was a joke with a message. Chirac's autobiography was published a few days ago. His descriptions of the two other men are revealing: political rival Hollande is described as statesmanlike, while political 'friend' Sarko gets cast as overambitious, nervous, rash,  overconfident and doubting nothing, least of all himself. All is fair in love and war...

Extremes

From summer to winter in 24 hours. The hottest spring on record was immediately followed by the coldest June 1st in living memory. The thermometer barely hit 9 degrees here, and some alpine resorts had over 40cm of snow, which was ironically the heaviest single snowfall so far this year. And for the start of the Ascension bank holiday weekend, holidaymakers on the Côte d'Azur shivered beneath umbrellas while those on the Channel coast basked in warm sunshine.

One day of rain did nothing to alleviate the drought that is causing great concern in France. Water levels even lower than in the famous drought of '76; restrictions virtually country-wide; arable farmers not allowed to irrigate crops; cattle farmers forced to use stocks of winter feed to keep their herds alive. And the E-coli outbreak is only making things worse. Vegetable sales in France have dived despite there being no case here that's not associated with travel to Germany. The words extreme and irrational come to mind...

Bringing up baby sometimes produces similarly perplexing behaviour. All the sleep training of the last 3 months seems to have paid off handsomely recently: la petite gets tired, we put her to bed, she immediately starts screaming, we shut the door and it's like flicking a switch - instant silence. Marvellous, even if it may be partly because she's just discovered where her thumb is. Less wonderful are her moods when she's particularly hungry, sometimes getting so wound up and intent on screaming that even even shoving a teat in her mouth doesn't distract her. The only thing that stops the screaming is to get up and walk around with her, and then she'll quickly become calm enough to feed. Other times, when she's fed in time, she'll grin and giggle enough to melt the coldest heart. We're learning slowly, very slowly...

On the back foot

Never underestimate the people's belief in their right to break laws that don't suit them, particularly when they're behind the steering wheel. That's the lesson the French government learned after their attempt to tighten up road safety was roundly condemned by the populace and, more importantly, members of their own party. A revolt by UMP deputés last week resulted in a swift bit of back-pedalling. The announced removal of signs warning of speed cameras was 'suspended'. They may or may not be removed later, or may be replaced by 'pedagogical' speed traps - ones which warn the motorist he is exceeding the limit without punishing him. Clear as mud then. And following 'discussion' with manufacturers of speed camera warning systems, the government announced that they would be 'modified' into systems warning of dangerous stretches of road. Hmm, plus ça change...

Meanwhile the shadow of DSK still looms large. Georges Tron resigned yesterday from his post as government minister, though curiously not as mayor of Draveil, the position of power he allegedly abused to sexually abuse two former female employees. Said abuse is alleged to have involved foot fetishism which progressed upwards while one of his female deputy mayors allegedly performed fellatio. You couldn't make it up, though that is exactly what Tron is claiming. One of the victims said she was inspired to bring a complaint by a mere chambermaid being brave enough to do so against the head of the IMF.

Back in our personal mundane sphere, things trundle along much as normal, though there is another break today in what is officially the hottest spring since records began at the turn of the last century. The feeding, playing, sleeping routine for la petite continues with more playing and interest in objects, which in turn leads to being more easily distracted when feeding, and getting more readily bored when there's nothing to entertain her. Growing up fast...

Walking out

Life in Lyon with added small person continues in a routine of sorts: feed, sleep, play, feed, sleep, feed, play, walk along the river in the sunshine, feed, sleep, sleepy feed, big sleep. Minor disruptions from time to time, particularly in recent times and particularly towards the end of the afternoon when cranky moods are only resolved with food. Major disruption in just over a week when la bienheureuse is forced to return to earning a living for three. Apprehensive we are, all three…

Medical life resulted in another routine visit to le pédiatre yesterday. Another jab in the thigh, though this time la petite screamed before rather than after. Babies, laws unto themselves. Satisfactory growth observed, 1kg heavier, 2.5cm taller, brain circumference 1.5cm larger.

Sporting life in Lyon received a needed boost last night with victory in the Champions League final for Olympique Lyonnais, female version. Their male counterparts have not done so well, and the not-so-sporting public at Gerland have let them know it. On Saturday evening I trudged along to the last home match of the season, a singularly uninspired 0-0 draw with Caen, which leaves 3rd place in the league and a qualifying spot for next season's Champions League in the balance until the last game of the season on Sunday. Regardless of the result, the fans made their displeasure known before, during and after the match. The self-styled Bad Gones, the lower tier hard core in the Virage Nord, unveiled sarcastic and critical banners and chants (mostly targeting coach Claude Puel - example: 'Puel, the man who transforms a formula one car into a pedal car') throughout the match. Or rather until the 69th minute, when they walked out en-masse (the local paper put the number at 500) in protest at the way the team has performed this season. Talk about supporting your club through thick and thin…

Media life in France is still dominated by l'affaire DSK, which continues to rumble along in the background of every news bulletin, now providing context for two other stories: firstly the candidature of Christine Lagarde to replace DSK at the IMF, and now there is now another sex scandal to share the headlines. Government minister Georges Tron has been accused of sexual harassment by two women who worked under him in the mairie at Draveil, where he is mayor. He denies everything and denounces a far-right plot designed to bring him down because of disagreements he has had in the past with the sister of the leader of the Front National, pointing at the fact that the lawyer for the two alleged victims is a close friend of Marine Le Pen. The latter is in turn threatening to sue Tron for defamation. All good dirty political fun.

Thunderclaps

The long hot spring-summer broke briefly at the end of last week. A thunderstorm worthy of mid August lit up the Lyon night sky on Wednesday. Thursday was cool and wet, and the following weekend was a mixture of sunshine and showers. Proper spring weather. The early summer was back on Monday. 27C sunshine today and hotter weather on the way. Reservoir levels are at record lows and there is deep concern about what is looking like the worst drought since 1976.

Meanwhile, a political thunderclap and three letters have dominated headlines in France since Saturday: DSK. The french love an acronym, and the downfall of the head of the IMF has been a gift for headline writers. The main reaction here has been one of shock, not so much by the fact that the frontrunner for the presidential elections next year has been accused of rape, but more so by the way he was treated by the American judicial system. The images of Strauss-Kahn handcuffed and appearing in court, banned in France, have shocked the nation and generated a certain amount of sympathy for the alleged rapist. My own straw poll of opinions in the jewellers I visited yesterday (changing watch batteries, I hasten to add) produced a split result. The jeweller said he'd never sell an American made watch again, his wife thought DSK had it coming, and the client thought it was all a plot. She's not the only one - a newspaper poll this morning suggested over 50% of the French think it's an anti-French conspiracy.

The winners and losers are fairly clear. The Socialists have been left reeling, and the ruling UMP have been rather smugly refraining from any comment that might look like gloating. Polls had DSK a fairly clear winner against Sarko in the elections next year; Sarko against other socialist candidates would be much closer affairs. Meanwhile, Marine le Pen is almost openly rubbing her hands with glee…

Before the news broke on Saturday, French minds were occupied by the road safety changes announced recently. No more road signs warning of speed camera placements; speed camera warning systems made illegal; stiffer penalties for drink driving and excessive speeding. The outrage was almost as widespread as a couple of weeks recently, when parking fines went up from 11 to a whole 19 euros.

On the domestic front, la bienheureuse et la petite survived 30 hours without papa on Sunday/Monday, while he made a final pilgrimage of the season to watch another abject performance. Least said about that the better. The trip was made worthwhile by lunch with le grand chef et la petite beaucoup in the pub before the match, in the company of an old schoolfriend, who is as good as me about keeping in touch - 35 years since we last laid eyes on each other. Funny how little we've changed, and how much we've changed. Grey hair and wrinkles, but still the same old school mate...

Loose ends

Hangovers were pushed to the back on News Year's Day with a visit to Les Halles, where la cuñada and I feasted on oysters, prawns and Chablis while the others watched. The afternoon was spent recovering, with leftover duck on the menu for dinner. Sunday was an even lazier day, apart from our guests rousing themselves early to do the croissant run and purchase tartiflette provisions for dinner. A day of snoozing and DVD watching.

Monday la bienheureuse was technically back at work, though at home, her boss having granted permission for home working for the final two weeks before confinement. While la belle-mère busied herself with some sewing, our other guests decided they ought to do some more sightseeing. I acted as demanding guide on a wide-ranging round tour - Bellecour, Vieux Lyon, Places Celestins & Jacobins, le mur des lyonnais and a gruelling ascent to the Croix Rousse. Then a steep descent to the banks of the Rhône where little legs decided they were too tired for a further detour via the park.

La bienheureuse and I had another antenatal session in the early evening, so once breathing and pushing were mastered we met the others for a farewell dinner at Les Oliviers. Thanks to our generous guests for a lovely meal and visit.

This morning I was up early to go and consult a man about a rear end checkup and home in time to see off our visitors as they headed towards the station via a cheese and meat lunch in Les Halles. Quiet re-descends, leaving us to contemplate a busy few days and a busy year.

In the wider world, a few stories were in the process of winding up towards the end of the old year. Bettencourt mere et fille called a truce in their inheritance war, though the richest woman in France is still facing investigation over tax evasion. Meanwhile, recriminations over the way the country grinds to a halt in bad weather continue (sound familiar?), and the investigation into the Karachi affair rumbles on.

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.