Well, summer arrived briefly (27C in the middle of last week, which encouraged a rather pleasant picnic dinner in the park one evening), then abruptly departed (a damp and chilly 9C on Sunday), and today spring seems to be trying to make a belated entry. The weather yoyo has seemingly mirrored other aspects of life over the last week or so. Potty training briefly gained momentum, but has since taken a back seat (so to speak) for a while. First success two weeks ago was followed by further encouragement when la petite coquinette was suddenly amenable to wearing 'big girl's knickers'. However, she was still only informing us about 'pipi' either when it was an event either in progress or already over. Which naturally led to four or five changes of underwear a day and, when it came to going to crèche, it seemed easier and kinder to put her back in nappies. And with a 6 hour cross-Channel train journey coming up this weekend, in nappies she'll stay for a while…
And after several weeks free of the wretched winter illness, last week le rhume struck the youngest member of the family once more, though fortunately a fairly benign strain which did little to put her off her stride. Meanwhile, the move to to a normal bed has been an almost unqualified success. Recently she's even been sleeping (or at least staying quiet) until eight and beyond. Only minor blip came one morning last week when we were roused by a rather plaintive whimpering rather than the more strident demands for attention that are more the norm. La bienheureuse went into la petite chambre to find the little dear curled up under the chair next to the bed. How long she'd been there or how she'd ended up there, only she knows. Our grasp of the syntax, vocabulary and grammar of toddler Franglais isn't yet sufficiently strong to decipher what she may have tried to tell us…
Affichage des articles dont le libellé est home. Afficher tous les articles
Affichage des articles dont le libellé est home. Afficher tous les articles
23 avril 2013
09 octobre 2012
Stand-up change
Week two of hum-drum autumn life, and things start getting a little less routine. La petite coquinette apparently enjoys herself while at the crèche, but home alone with papa it's an entirely different story. Grumpiness, tantrums, crying for no apparent reason. We put it down to a combination of teething (canines starting to push through), displeasure at being abandoned by papa every other morning, missing mama (away on another taxing, tiring 2 day trip to Brussels), and feeling not very well because of a lingering cold.
All very trying, particularly when she starts making a fuss during nappy changes. First hint is when one of the maternal assistants at the crèche asks me if she is scared of heights because of the problems they've been having changing her couche. Two days later the situation evolves to point blank refusals to lie down. She is quite happy to stand up to be cleaned and have a fresh nappy put on, which is all very well when the old one is just wet, but far from ideal when it's full of foul-smelling stuff and her bum is covered in it. And when there's only one nappy changer there's no way to make her lie down - the shit wouldn't just hit the fan, it would be covering the walls, ceiling, baby and changer too. Lovely, the things parents do for their beloved offspring…
I then discover that they've been doing standing changes at the crèche, for wet nappies at least, almost since she started there, which perhaps explains why she now refuses to lie down at home but not why she's suddenly decided it's an absolute no-no. Hmm, maybe she's ready to start potty training… So, over the weekend, first sign of straining, mama gets out the potty and puts her on it. "Uhuh, not sure about this", thinks la petite, but deigns to sit on it for about 30 seconds before getting up, sphincter firmly closed, and thereafter refusing to go anywhere near it. Toddler psychology, no fathoming it…
All very trying, particularly when she starts making a fuss during nappy changes. First hint is when one of the maternal assistants at the crèche asks me if she is scared of heights because of the problems they've been having changing her couche. Two days later the situation evolves to point blank refusals to lie down. She is quite happy to stand up to be cleaned and have a fresh nappy put on, which is all very well when the old one is just wet, but far from ideal when it's full of foul-smelling stuff and her bum is covered in it. And when there's only one nappy changer there's no way to make her lie down - the shit wouldn't just hit the fan, it would be covering the walls, ceiling, baby and changer too. Lovely, the things parents do for their beloved offspring…
I then discover that they've been doing standing changes at the crèche, for wet nappies at least, almost since she started there, which perhaps explains why she now refuses to lie down at home but not why she's suddenly decided it's an absolute no-no. Hmm, maybe she's ready to start potty training… So, over the weekend, first sign of straining, mama gets out the potty and puts her on it. "Uhuh, not sure about this", thinks la petite, but deigns to sit on it for about 30 seconds before getting up, sphincter firmly closed, and thereafter refusing to go anywhere near it. Toddler psychology, no fathoming it…
02 octobre 2012
Exhausting routine
And thus the holidays are over and summer ends. La travailleuse returns to work, la petite returns to la crèche two days a week, and l'homme au foyer tries to get used to a part-time job. Or two.
First day back at home babysitting is a breeze. Confounding expectations, la petite coquinette is sweetness and light all day. First day back at the crèche she clings to papa's arms and legs longer than normal but eventually allows him to slip away and apparently thoroughly enjoys the rest of the day. Meanwhile her parents both struggle with post-holiday exhaustion.
Second day of papa-toddler time is marginally more trying but still ranks as low-maintenance on the babysitting scale. Next day back at the crèche, more somewhat uncharacteristic clinging and shyness to start off with, but thereafter apparently all systems go.
Last working day of the week - TFI Friday for la bienheureuse, la petite starts climbing the crankiness scale, and papa looks forward to the weekend. If only he'd known. It soon becomes apparent that yet another cold is brewing in those little nasal passages, which pushes the grumpiness over the red line on Saturday and exhausts the supply of tissues on Sunday. The downside of sharing one's day with other virus-vulnerable little friends. Meanwhile mama and papa show signs of having picked up little bugs of their own. The weather also deteriorates and gives us the first real hint of autumn.
Welcome back to the mundane, grey days of those dreary three months either side of the winter solstice…
First day back at home babysitting is a breeze. Confounding expectations, la petite coquinette is sweetness and light all day. First day back at the crèche she clings to papa's arms and legs longer than normal but eventually allows him to slip away and apparently thoroughly enjoys the rest of the day. Meanwhile her parents both struggle with post-holiday exhaustion.
Second day of papa-toddler time is marginally more trying but still ranks as low-maintenance on the babysitting scale. Next day back at the crèche, more somewhat uncharacteristic clinging and shyness to start off with, but thereafter apparently all systems go.
Last working day of the week - TFI Friday for la bienheureuse, la petite starts climbing the crankiness scale, and papa looks forward to the weekend. If only he'd known. It soon becomes apparent that yet another cold is brewing in those little nasal passages, which pushes the grumpiness over the red line on Saturday and exhausts the supply of tissues on Sunday. The downside of sharing one's day with other virus-vulnerable little friends. Meanwhile mama and papa show signs of having picked up little bugs of their own. The weather also deteriorates and gives us the first real hint of autumn.
Welcome back to the mundane, grey days of those dreary three months either side of the winter solstice…
15 septembre 2012
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.
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.
New toys, part 1
In France, cars older than four years are subject to the controle technique, the equivalent of the MOT, every two years. Our more-or-less trusty 15 year-old petite voiture passed the last one, albeit with less-than flying colours. Among the rather lengthy list of non-fatal faults were leaking exhaust (hole slowly getting larger and noisier), non-functioning screen wash, unbalanced hand-brake and 'minor' play in one of the rear axle bearings. In others words, the old girl was beginning to look a bit long in the tooth.
And so, after months, years even, of procrastination, using family expansion as a reason for needing a car, we finally took the decision to replace it. There then followed several weeks of dithering about whether to go for cheap new car, more upmarket second-hand, this brand, that brand, how much to spend, etc, etc. Finally, last weekend, motivated by an imminent 900km round trip that might have tested the old jam jar to the limit, we bit the bullet and drove out to a dealer for a well known French make of car, still not having decided on new or second-hand.
However, having compared the second-hand prices with those in the show-room and compared the different models, we soon made a choice. Seduced by the supposed discount of more than six grand, including trade-in for our near worthless banger, we shunned shopping around and plumped for a shiny, brand-new, all-singing all dancing model with lots of marvellous tricks and gadgets. Well, they seemed marvellous to the owners of a car that was new way back in the last century.
Our excuse was that the salesman promised it would be delivered in time for our upcoming holiday. Easiest commission he ever earned. Apart from when he tried to sell us a finance deal we didn't need. Interestingly he claimed that his commission was more dependent on him selling loans than actual vehicles. Eventually we agreed to take a small, short-term loan in return for an extra discount that made it a 0% deal. Drives a hard bargain, la bienheureuse.
So now, a week later, a brand new car sits in our garage, awaiting its first real outing. Took one or two more attempts to park it too, being somewhat larger than our ancienne voiture, which currently waits its fate at the breaker's yard. Indeed, to ensure it fitted into the garage we had to spend a morning and a trip to the déchèterie to clear out the pile of junk that had mysteriously accumulated at the back. About time too…
And so, after months, years even, of procrastination, using family expansion as a reason for needing a car, we finally took the decision to replace it. There then followed several weeks of dithering about whether to go for cheap new car, more upmarket second-hand, this brand, that brand, how much to spend, etc, etc. Finally, last weekend, motivated by an imminent 900km round trip that might have tested the old jam jar to the limit, we bit the bullet and drove out to a dealer for a well known French make of car, still not having decided on new or second-hand.
However, having compared the second-hand prices with those in the show-room and compared the different models, we soon made a choice. Seduced by the supposed discount of more than six grand, including trade-in for our near worthless banger, we shunned shopping around and plumped for a shiny, brand-new, all-singing all dancing model with lots of marvellous tricks and gadgets. Well, they seemed marvellous to the owners of a car that was new way back in the last century.
Our excuse was that the salesman promised it would be delivered in time for our upcoming holiday. Easiest commission he ever earned. Apart from when he tried to sell us a finance deal we didn't need. Interestingly he claimed that his commission was more dependent on him selling loans than actual vehicles. Eventually we agreed to take a small, short-term loan in return for an extra discount that made it a 0% deal. Drives a hard bargain, la bienheureuse.
So now, a week later, a brand new car sits in our garage, awaiting its first real outing. Took one or two more attempts to park it too, being somewhat larger than our ancienne voiture, which currently waits its fate at the breaker's yard. Indeed, to ensure it fitted into the garage we had to spend a morning and a trip to the déchèterie to clear out the pile of junk that had mysteriously accumulated at the back. About time too…
14 septembre 2012
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...
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...
08 août 2012
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…
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…
18 juillet 2012
British BBQ
The weekend past was taken up with a flying visit across the Channel, Cambridge the destination, a barbecue to celebrate the half-century of la petite beaucoup the prime reason. We left warm, 27C Lyon sunshine behind on Friday afternoon and arrived in Stansted four hours later and twelve degrees cooler. There was at least a glimpse of sunshine as we drove the hire car towards Cambridge, where the welcome was as warm as usual. And habitually convivial, which meant the grey skies that greeted us in the morning matched the grey fuzz clogging up my skull. It was as usual though la bienheureuse who dragged herself out of bed to deal with the chirping coming from the room across the landing at seven o'clock on the dot. Young children obviously automatically recognise time zones.
The clouds soon brought forth rain, rain and more rain. Not the ideal weather for a BBQ, but while our hosts toiled in the kitchen we made a quick trip to the local supermarket to restock on vital British supplies and then kept la petite amused indoors. And then, as if by prior arrangement, as the first guests started arriving in the late afternoon the rain stopped. And then, as if by miracle, as the JeB sausages, lamb and pork sizzled in the grill the sun came out and dried up all the rain. Well, enough of it to make sitting and consuming but a small proportion of the provided feast outside feasible. And a great time was had by all, particularly one particular toddler who had twenty odd adults and a dog to amuse and be amused by.
We spent the next day consuming barbecue leftovers, took la petite coquinette to the local park, and otherwise enjoyed a lazy Sunday afternoon chez des chers amis. The next morning our travel alarm was already in the process of adjusting for the trip home because she woke up half an hour before the traditional hour of seven. Which did at least mean we had an unrushed morning before we bade a fond farewell to the lady of the house and weekend, and set off homeward bound. Apart from longer than usual queues at the airport, we had a smooth trip and were back in warm, sunny Lyon soon after 5pm.
And there the pleasant weekend ended and a nightmare night started. The travel-weary toddler went to bed as usual but was awake 45 minutes later. She was settled back to sleep and woke up again 45 minutes later. She was settled back to sleep again and awoke 45 minutes later. Whereupon she refused to go back to sleep for the next four hours. When finally we did all get back to bed at about three in the morning, the little so-and-so allowed us five hours of uninterrupted rest. I use the word rest advisedly because sleep wasn't easy to come by…
And in the morning, when we were all finally up, the reason for her unrest became clear. A wretched cold, courtesy presumably of cold weather Blighty. Another interrupted night followed, albeit less dramatic, but our own little domestic drama was put into perspective by a real life drama we witnessed on our traditional afternoon outing to the playground yesterday. A group of passersby was gathered around a man lying flat on his back on the footpath along the river. The drama soon became a crisis as two of the helpers started administering artificial resuscitation, heart massage and all. Flashing lights heralded the arrival of the pompiers a few minutes later and they continued the resuscitation for a few minutes before putting the victim into a recovery position. Then a medical emergency team arrived, put on a BP cuff and put in a drip, which I took to mean the unfortunate fellow was alive.
And so la petite and I went home to resume our mundane routine of the mealtime and bedtime battles that have intensified since the return of le rhume...
The clouds soon brought forth rain, rain and more rain. Not the ideal weather for a BBQ, but while our hosts toiled in the kitchen we made a quick trip to the local supermarket to restock on vital British supplies and then kept la petite amused indoors. And then, as if by prior arrangement, as the first guests started arriving in the late afternoon the rain stopped. And then, as if by miracle, as the JeB sausages, lamb and pork sizzled in the grill the sun came out and dried up all the rain. Well, enough of it to make sitting and consuming but a small proportion of the provided feast outside feasible. And a great time was had by all, particularly one particular toddler who had twenty odd adults and a dog to amuse and be amused by.
We spent the next day consuming barbecue leftovers, took la petite coquinette to the local park, and otherwise enjoyed a lazy Sunday afternoon chez des chers amis. The next morning our travel alarm was already in the process of adjusting for the trip home because she woke up half an hour before the traditional hour of seven. Which did at least mean we had an unrushed morning before we bade a fond farewell to the lady of the house and weekend, and set off homeward bound. Apart from longer than usual queues at the airport, we had a smooth trip and were back in warm, sunny Lyon soon after 5pm.
And there the pleasant weekend ended and a nightmare night started. The travel-weary toddler went to bed as usual but was awake 45 minutes later. She was settled back to sleep and woke up again 45 minutes later. She was settled back to sleep again and awoke 45 minutes later. Whereupon she refused to go back to sleep for the next four hours. When finally we did all get back to bed at about three in the morning, the little so-and-so allowed us five hours of uninterrupted rest. I use the word rest advisedly because sleep wasn't easy to come by…
And in the morning, when we were all finally up, the reason for her unrest became clear. A wretched cold, courtesy presumably of cold weather Blighty. Another interrupted night followed, albeit less dramatic, but our own little domestic drama was put into perspective by a real life drama we witnessed on our traditional afternoon outing to the playground yesterday. A group of passersby was gathered around a man lying flat on his back on the footpath along the river. The drama soon became a crisis as two of the helpers started administering artificial resuscitation, heart massage and all. Flashing lights heralded the arrival of the pompiers a few minutes later and they continued the resuscitation for a few minutes before putting the victim into a recovery position. Then a medical emergency team arrived, put on a BP cuff and put in a drip, which I took to mean the unfortunate fellow was alive.
And so la petite and I went home to resume our mundane routine of the mealtime and bedtime battles that have intensified since the return of le rhume...
11 juillet 2012
Mellow yellow
A fortnight has passed and much has happened. La belle-mère arrived for a two week visit, she and la petite-fille spent three days getting reacquainted in hot Lyon and then we all set off in the petite voiture for a week's holiday in the deep sud-ouest; more specifically the Lot-et-Garonne, a gentle land of green and gold, sunflowers and hazelnuts, ruined castles and hilltop mediaeval villages. We arrived at our base for the week, holiday residences near Monflanquin, after a smooth eight hour journey punctuated by service stops to keep la petite voyageuse from going car-seat crazy. We settled in and the week thereafter followed something of a routine - morning outing, relaxed afternoon, early evening swim, dinner and early to bed.
Sunday: with the aim of purchasing provisions for the first couple of days, we chose a morning trip to Pujols, a mediaeval village classed as l'un des plus beaux villages de France. Perched on a hilltop, with a Sunday market, it was indeed notably pretty. Provisions duly acquired, we sat down for a pizza lunch as the skies cleared, la petite made friends with the children from a large group of Dutch tourists and then displayed her talent for the grand departure by dramatically blowing a kiss at the perfect moment as we left. Mass "aaahhh". A scenic route home allowed a short afternoon nap, and then we sampled the heated outdoor pool in the holiday complex. Very pleasant.
Monday: the Chateau de Gavaudun was the chosen destination for the day's outing. On a warm sunny day we climbed and wriggled through the narrow entrance in a sheer rock face, and admired the views of the ruined castle and beyond from the top of the castle keep. Thence back to base for a late lunch, and late nap for la petite, which lasted three hours. Unheard of…
Wednesday: the weather broke, and heavy showers that came and went all day persuaded us to stay put and watch the rain coming down from the cover of the apartment. La bienheureuse cured a stir-crazy daughter by taking her for a walk in the rain, and then, like true Brits on holiday, we all went for a swim in a deserted pool despite a 10 degree drop in temperatures from the previous day.
Thursday: even cooler and wetter. Undaunted, we set off on the traditional morning outing, choosing a hazelnut farm with a self-styled 'museum' on the theory that we would be under cover. True enough, though we had a short wait outside while the owner came across from the farm to open the doors for us. Being the only visitors we had the benefit of a personal tour and tasting session, and naturally came away weighed down with nut oil, nut biscuits and nutty sweets. A short stop at another farm shop allowed us to stock up on that other local specialty, prunes. As it was even colder we skipped the swim in the pool on our return.
Saturday: homeward bound. A seven hour trip, including only two stops for a more travel-hardy toddler, and we were back in warm, muggy Lyon by five pm. The end of a pleasant and more relaxing than might have been expected week…
The last few days of la belle-mère's visit passed quickly for some. La bienheureuse spent 2 days and a night away in the company mother country while la grand-mère et la petite-fille enjoyed each other's company, apart from an extreme reluctance on the latter's part to go to bed. Perhaps the after-effects of a holiday during which she slept a lot during the day and went to bed late. Perhaps she was missing mama, or perhaps she was missing Wednesdays with her little playmates, as our nanny-sharing arrangement with the neighbours has sadly come to an unexpected and abrupt end.
Monday: the Chateau de Gavaudun was the chosen destination for the day's outing. On a warm sunny day we climbed and wriggled through the narrow entrance in a sheer rock face, and admired the views of the ruined castle and beyond from the top of the castle keep. Thence back to base for a late lunch, and late nap for la petite, which lasted three hours. Unheard of…
Tuesday: on the sunniest, hottest day of the week, we drove to le Jardin des Nenuphars, a calm and pretty garden of water-lilies and lotus flowers. The decision to stay for lunch in the outdoor café was the low point of the day. More than two hours later we finally finished the meal. A coach party of pensioners was the likely cause, but la petite didn't care, she just got ratty. However, the return to Monflanquin was notable for a couple of firsts. We took another scenic route home in the hope that la petite coquinette would sleep, a plan that worked better than our wildest dreams. Firstly she slept one when we stopped to look at a windmill on a hill, and then slept almost all the way home, a total of well over an hour. First time she's stayed asleep for more than 40 minutes in the car. A swim in the pool at the end of a hot day was more than welcome.
Wednesday: the weather broke, and heavy showers that came and went all day persuaded us to stay put and watch the rain coming down from the cover of the apartment. La bienheureuse cured a stir-crazy daughter by taking her for a walk in the rain, and then, like true Brits on holiday, we all went for a swim in a deserted pool despite a 10 degree drop in temperatures from the previous day.
Thursday: even cooler and wetter. Undaunted, we set off on the traditional morning outing, choosing a hazelnut farm with a self-styled 'museum' on the theory that we would be under cover. True enough, though we had a short wait outside while the owner came across from the farm to open the doors for us. Being the only visitors we had the benefit of a personal tour and tasting session, and naturally came away weighed down with nut oil, nut biscuits and nutty sweets. A short stop at another farm shop allowed us to stock up on that other local specialty, prunes. As it was even colder we skipped the swim in the pool on our return.
Friday: an improvement in the weather encouraged yet another outing, to another ruined castle. Le Chateau de Bonaguil calls itself the most beautiful fortified castle in France, and most impressive it was too, even if we were there a day early for the mediaeval fête the following weekend. After a picnic lunch in a shady spot above the chateau, we drove back to base and then, while the three generations of females slept or read according to age, the token male was given time off to finally visit Monflanquin, another plus beaux villages de France perched high on a hill. And very pretty it was too, all narrow alleys and picturesque stone buildings with an impressive central square bordered by arcades.
Saturday: homeward bound. A seven hour trip, including only two stops for a more travel-hardy toddler, and we were back in warm, muggy Lyon by five pm. The end of a pleasant and more relaxing than might have been expected week…
The last few days of la belle-mère's visit passed quickly for some. La bienheureuse spent 2 days and a night away in the company mother country while la grand-mère et la petite-fille enjoyed each other's company, apart from an extreme reluctance on the latter's part to go to bed. Perhaps the after-effects of a holiday during which she slept a lot during the day and went to bed late. Perhaps she was missing mama, or perhaps she was missing Wednesdays with her little playmates, as our nanny-sharing arrangement with the neighbours has sadly come to an unexpected and abrupt end.
29 juin 2012
Hubris & schadenfreude
Seems I spoke too soon about the improved mood in the French football camp. No sooner had they gained plaudits for their first two games, than they threw it all away against a team with nothing to play for. Thanks to English luck though, they still made it through to the quarter-finals, where the bad against Sweden went to worse against Spain. It seems the fissures in les Bleus had only been papered over post-Knysna.
The French public and media are reasonably unanimous in condemning the self-centredness and lack of respect displayed by some players. And squarely in the middle of all the blame flying around was one Citizen who shunned footballing idealism for huge reserves of oil-stained lucre. Quite apart from his hate-hate relationship with the French media, even his teammates were accusing him of selfishness. Now where have I heard that before? L'Équipe claims the authorities are considering banning him from the national team for two years. Hohoho…
Watching an otherwise entertaining Euro 2012 unfold on French TV has been something of a trial. Unlike previous major competitions, which have all been available on free-to-air channels, this year a new player muscled in on the scene and bought up a large chunk of the TV rights. And as it's a subscription channel, if you don't pay, you don't watch. In fact half the games, including all the knockout phase are on free channels and I thought I was quids in when the new channel appeared on our cable feed unscrambled during the first weekend. However, three days in the so-and-sos encrypted it, so I was forced to miss half the remaining group games. Which at least offered some relief in certain quarters…
In the domestic arena things trundle along happily. La petite continues to grow and develop at what I might describe as an alarming rate. Most things have to be be done by herself and help from parents is often decidedly unwelcome, which doesn't stop her becoming quickly frustrated and upset when things don't go her way. Favourite activities at the moment include taking dirty mugs and bits of rubbish into the kitchen and wearing papa's underwear.
The last couple of weekends we've kept her amused by taking her swimming on Saturday morning, where she floats and splashes happily when she's not gazing intently at all the other activity going on around her. Last Sunday we also ventured out on a day trip to the Parc des Oiseaux, where she remarkably suffered without complaint an unexpected half hour queue to get in. I guess the thing about queues is that there are always plenty of other people to keep the interest. As for the birds, well they were just birds…
The French public and media are reasonably unanimous in condemning the self-centredness and lack of respect displayed by some players. And squarely in the middle of all the blame flying around was one Citizen who shunned footballing idealism for huge reserves of oil-stained lucre. Quite apart from his hate-hate relationship with the French media, even his teammates were accusing him of selfishness. Now where have I heard that before? L'Équipe claims the authorities are considering banning him from the national team for two years. Hohoho…
Watching an otherwise entertaining Euro 2012 unfold on French TV has been something of a trial. Unlike previous major competitions, which have all been available on free-to-air channels, this year a new player muscled in on the scene and bought up a large chunk of the TV rights. And as it's a subscription channel, if you don't pay, you don't watch. In fact half the games, including all the knockout phase are on free channels and I thought I was quids in when the new channel appeared on our cable feed unscrambled during the first weekend. However, three days in the so-and-sos encrypted it, so I was forced to miss half the remaining group games. Which at least offered some relief in certain quarters…
In the domestic arena things trundle along happily. La petite continues to grow and develop at what I might describe as an alarming rate. Most things have to be be done by herself and help from parents is often decidedly unwelcome, which doesn't stop her becoming quickly frustrated and upset when things don't go her way. Favourite activities at the moment include taking dirty mugs and bits of rubbish into the kitchen and wearing papa's underwear.
The last couple of weekends we've kept her amused by taking her swimming on Saturday morning, where she floats and splashes happily when she's not gazing intently at all the other activity going on around her. Last Sunday we also ventured out on a day trip to the Parc des Oiseaux, where she remarkably suffered without complaint an unexpected half hour queue to get in. I guess the thing about queues is that there are always plenty of other people to keep the interest. As for the birds, well they were just birds…
11 juin 2012
Dampened expectations
The first round of the parliamentary elections in France yesterday were inevitably somewhat overshadowed by the presidential election that preceded them a month ago. It wasn't until about 10 days ago that the media started paying much attention at all to them, and that was mainly focused on the more high-profile constituencies such as the extreme right-far left punch-up between Le Pen & Melenchon. And it seems enthusiasm for the vote was duly dampened, perhaps in part by the wet weather yesterday, because the turnout was the lowest ever in the republican era.
The new president seems likely to be given a workable parliamentary majority, even if it is only with the support of the far left. Thanks to the election system, the Front de Gauche are ironically predicted to gain a dozen or so seats, at least four times as many as the Front National despite only getting half the number of votes and Melenchon losing the mediatised battle with Le Pen. Long may it continue…
Chez these particular disenfranchised foreigners, the election more or less passed us by. Other matters demand greater attention:
the weather - the arrival of summer ten days ago turned out to be a mere rumour. Since that blazing hot Saturday, temperatures have dropped below seasonal norms and the rain has been more or less ever present. Taking la petite out for her daily constitutional has become an exercise in dodging the showers. Yesterday we got it wrong. A trip by bike to the local garden centre for lunch and an emergency purchase of wellies for la travailleuse's sugar beet field trip to eastern Germany this week seemed a good idea until we left the shop to find the rain coming down. No waterproofs either. Fortunately it eased enough for us to get home without getting too wet.
toddler health: another routine visit to the paediatrician last week produced familiar results - tears and struggles before the jab but not after, a clean bill of health, another 3cm, another kilo, and a recommendation from the good doctor that la petite take up judo after her demonstration of muscle strength. He also warned of minor after-effects from the MMR vaccine, which possibly explain why la petite succumbed to yet another cold a few days later.
toddler adventure: the cold doesn't stop the little stunt artist from frequent demonstrations of her new found climbing skills. Latest favourite mountains to conquer are the arms of the sofas, from which it's great fun to fall backwards onto the soft sofa cushions. Continual admonishments from mama & papa as they nervously eye the more dangerous fall in the other direction have little effect.
The new president seems likely to be given a workable parliamentary majority, even if it is only with the support of the far left. Thanks to the election system, the Front de Gauche are ironically predicted to gain a dozen or so seats, at least four times as many as the Front National despite only getting half the number of votes and Melenchon losing the mediatised battle with Le Pen. Long may it continue…
Chez these particular disenfranchised foreigners, the election more or less passed us by. Other matters demand greater attention:
the weather - the arrival of summer ten days ago turned out to be a mere rumour. Since that blazing hot Saturday, temperatures have dropped below seasonal norms and the rain has been more or less ever present. Taking la petite out for her daily constitutional has become an exercise in dodging the showers. Yesterday we got it wrong. A trip by bike to the local garden centre for lunch and an emergency purchase of wellies for la travailleuse's sugar beet field trip to eastern Germany this week seemed a good idea until we left the shop to find the rain coming down. No waterproofs either. Fortunately it eased enough for us to get home without getting too wet.
toddler health: another routine visit to the paediatrician last week produced familiar results - tears and struggles before the jab but not after, a clean bill of health, another 3cm, another kilo, and a recommendation from the good doctor that la petite take up judo after her demonstration of muscle strength. He also warned of minor after-effects from the MMR vaccine, which possibly explain why la petite succumbed to yet another cold a few days later.
toddler adventure: the cold doesn't stop the little stunt artist from frequent demonstrations of her new found climbing skills. Latest favourite mountains to conquer are the arms of the sofas, from which it's great fun to fall backwards onto the soft sofa cushions. Continual admonishments from mama & papa as they nervously eye the more dangerous fall in the other direction have little effect.
30 mai 2012
Dipping little toes
After the rain, the sunshine, which seems to have finally arrived just in time for the first sporting event of summer, the French Open. The third bank holiday weekend in May (though a mere 3-day one this time) was for the most part bathed in warm sunshine. And on Saturday, the warmest day of the year so far, it was our turn to be bathed in blissful cool water. The occasion was an invitation to a BBQ chez une amie de la bienheureuse, where we got a first try of their new pool. Given the recent weather, you'd be forgiven for suspecting the water might have been rather too cool, but some solar heating got it to a more or less bearable 23C. And with a cute little neoprene suit, it was just about warm enough for la petite nageuse, though she was none too sure about her first taste of an outdoor pool at first. And she was perfectly behaved for the rest of a very pleasant evening, obligingly going happily to bed while the rest of us ate a sumptuous barbecue feast before putting up gracefully with being woken rudely at about midnight, carted across Lyon in the car, and put to bed again.
Sunday was recovery day, which was just as well because it was the one day of the weekend when the weather was a little less beautiful. The sun and elevated temperatures were back on Pentecost Monday, which allowed another balade by bicycle along the river to the Parc de la Feyssine. Yesterday, la petite and papa were back in the old routine while maman went off to work, and today le père has a day off while la fille is downstairs, where she has settled in as though it's an extension to home, having fun with her friends and being looked after by the nounou.
The father-daughter days are indeed pretty routine at the moment. La petite coquinette regularly wakes up at 7am, give or take 15 minutes, happily goes down for two daytime naps at regular hours (circa 10am and 2pm), eats fairly willingly (albeit needing a bit of gentle persuasion from time to time) as long as she's given whatever her parents are eating and is allowed to have a go at feeding herself, be it with fingers, fork or spoon. And most of the rest of the time the petit ange plays contentedly on her own or with parent, apart from the odd occasion when she wakes up in a bad mood or tantrums are thrown as a result of frustration with not being able to do something. Dressing herself is one source of annoyance at the moment, or at least trying to. Socks, trousers and tops (not necessarily her own) just won't cooperate at the moment, and she can get very upset when they won't do as she wants. Life when you're less than fifteen months can be tough at times but, fortunately for her parents, bad moods usually pass as quickly as they arrive…
Sunday was recovery day, which was just as well because it was the one day of the weekend when the weather was a little less beautiful. The sun and elevated temperatures were back on Pentecost Monday, which allowed another balade by bicycle along the river to the Parc de la Feyssine. Yesterday, la petite and papa were back in the old routine while maman went off to work, and today le père has a day off while la fille is downstairs, where she has settled in as though it's an extension to home, having fun with her friends and being looked after by the nounou.
The father-daughter days are indeed pretty routine at the moment. La petite coquinette regularly wakes up at 7am, give or take 15 minutes, happily goes down for two daytime naps at regular hours (circa 10am and 2pm), eats fairly willingly (albeit needing a bit of gentle persuasion from time to time) as long as she's given whatever her parents are eating and is allowed to have a go at feeding herself, be it with fingers, fork or spoon. And most of the rest of the time the petit ange plays contentedly on her own or with parent, apart from the odd occasion when she wakes up in a bad mood or tantrums are thrown as a result of frustration with not being able to do something. Dressing herself is one source of annoyance at the moment, or at least trying to. Socks, trousers and tops (not necessarily her own) just won't cooperate at the moment, and she can get very upset when they won't do as she wants. Life when you're less than fifteen months can be tough at times but, fortunately for her parents, bad moods usually pass as quickly as they arrive…
23 mai 2012
Key costs
Before three days of almost continuous rain arrived, the last two days of last week were reasonably mild and sunny, which made for a pleasant start to the long Ascension bank holiday weekend. On both days we took advantage of the good weather with afternoon outings on the bicycles. On Thursday we cycled to the Parc de la Tête d'Or, a pleasant little trip, which had an undesirable ending. On returning to the garage the keeper of the keys (he that wears shorts with zip-closing pockets) searched in vain for the key. Only then did he remember that there was a hole in the particular pocket in which the key had been deposited. Oops. In my defence, the garage key is rather large and the hole rather small. Still, it had obviously slipped through somehow, and an hour spent retracing our route scanning the ground carefully was singularly fruitless.
And so the bikes accompanied us back to the apartment and were laboriously lugged up six flights of stairs. The next morning a call to a serrurier produced a reasonably prompt response and by early afternoon the garage was open. The locksmith's method of gaining access: a large screwdriver and a couple of judicious blows with a hammer. Not the most secure of lockups. Total cost of a lost key: 210 euros. Admittedly that included a replacement lock & keys, but apparently Friday counts as the weekend when it's a bridging day, hence weekend callout rates. Hmm…
Anyway, as the weather was still good my disgruntled mood was cured with another pleasant little balade à velo, further upriver this time, as far as the Parc de la Fessine, where la petite adventurière could wander far and wide without need for immediate parental intervention.
And so the bikes accompanied us back to the apartment and were laboriously lugged up six flights of stairs. The next morning a call to a serrurier produced a reasonably prompt response and by early afternoon the garage was open. The locksmith's method of gaining access: a large screwdriver and a couple of judicious blows with a hammer. Not the most secure of lockups. Total cost of a lost key: 210 euros. Admittedly that included a replacement lock & keys, but apparently Friday counts as the weekend when it's a bridging day, hence weekend callout rates. Hmm…
Anyway, as the weather was still good my disgruntled mood was cured with another pleasant little balade à velo, further upriver this time, as far as the Parc de la Fessine, where la petite adventurière could wander far and wide without need for immediate parental intervention.
08 décembre 2011
Against the odds
While the rest of England laughs at Manchester, most of France is revelling in the unlikely victories of Lyon and Marseille in the Champions League. Needing to win in Dortmund, OM trailed 2-0 before pulling one back at the end of the first half and scoring twice in the last five minutes to win 3-2. OL's exploit the following night was even more spectacular, clawing back a 7 goal overall deficit to Ajax. The Dutch team duly lost 3-0 to Real Madrid, meaning OL had to win by at least 4 clear goals in Zagreb. And set about it by going 1-0 down before an astonishing second half saw them score six goals in 30 minutes to run out 7-1 winners. Predictably the feat in Croatia is being questioned (it seems mainly by the Dutch and English). Is scoring seven against ten men of a team that failed to gain a single point and conceded an average of three goals in their previous five games really that surprising…?
Meanwhile our own minor miracle is growing up fast. Full crawling, full investigative mode means she can cross the room in 10 seconds flat when something catches her eye. A favourite trick at the moment is to stand up in her cot looking mighty pleased with herself while a bedtime story is being read. We suspect the wide grin has little to do with her enjoyment of the story. She has acquired the knack of pulling herself upright on other items of furniture too, but not yet fully learned that if she grabs something off the sofa or table with both hands she might topple over backwards. Full time vigilance required. Fortunately, at the moment there is a spare pair of eyes, keeping a fond watch. La belle-mère is over and spending more time with her favourite grandchild, when her favourite beau-fils gives her time off from baking mince pies and other tasty nibbles, that is...
Meanwhile our own minor miracle is growing up fast. Full crawling, full investigative mode means she can cross the room in 10 seconds flat when something catches her eye. A favourite trick at the moment is to stand up in her cot looking mighty pleased with herself while a bedtime story is being read. We suspect the wide grin has little to do with her enjoyment of the story. She has acquired the knack of pulling herself upright on other items of furniture too, but not yet fully learned that if she grabs something off the sofa or table with both hands she might topple over backwards. Full time vigilance required. Fortunately, at the moment there is a spare pair of eyes, keeping a fond watch. La belle-mère is over and spending more time with her favourite grandchild, when her favourite beau-fils gives her time off from baking mince pies and other tasty nibbles, that is...
23 juin 2011
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...
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...
03 mai 2011
Summer quota
Two shocks this morning. 4.40am and the sounds of a grizzling baby woke us up. First interrupted night in over two weeks. Knew I shouldn't have tempted fate. Then, after la bienheureuse had done her duty and la petite had allowed us a whole further 45 minutes sleep, I opened the curtains and the sky outside was grey. After a month of almost unbroken sunshine and temperatures of 25C plus yesterday, perhaps it was tempting fate again to assume that summer had arrived early. Then again, maybe it has - Evelyn the weather girl remarked last week that the weather pattern in the first four months of this year is exactly the same as it was in 1976, that other long, hot summer.
Almost two months gone by since the family era began, time for the second visit to the baby doctor. Another measuring session (2.1cm taller, 650g heavier 3 weeks on), and more tests of motor, visual and auditory function. The old boy declared the young lady to have the development of a 4 month old. Bet he says that to all the girls. Then he jabbed her twice in the thigh. First vaccinations, first real screams of pain. Soon calmed with a cuddle. More torture by injection in four weeks.
Life beyond baby is slowly beginning to resurface. Last week I made an evening trip to Gerland to watch OL rather undeservedly overcome Montpellier to keep hopes of the title alive. Said hopes were then virtually extinguished over the weekend with defeat at Toulouse. Five games left, seven points behind Lille. Similarly hopeless position to that in which mon équipe preferée somehow found itself before the weekend. Tempted to avoid watching the big match on Sunday, in the end I decided it would be disloyal not to go to the pub. Happy decision, even if it was rather a pyrrhic victory over the evil red empire. At least it puts a spoke in their supposed coast to the title. At the moment, blue somehow seems the lesser of two evils.
Elsewhere in the footballing world, more scandal this side of la Manche with the leaking of minutes of a meeting at the Fédération Française de Football, which suggested the imposition of a 'quota' to limit the number of players of African origin in football academies. After initially denying everything, the FFF was eventually forced to admit the minutes were genuine, but claimed it was only a discussion about reducing the number players with dual nationality who, having been brought up and received their football education in France, then later opt to play for their other country of origin. Whichever, the minister of sport wasn't happy and promptly suspended the French technical director of football pending an inquiry. Just what French football needed after the World Cup fiasco...
Almost two months gone by since the family era began, time for the second visit to the baby doctor. Another measuring session (2.1cm taller, 650g heavier 3 weeks on), and more tests of motor, visual and auditory function. The old boy declared the young lady to have the development of a 4 month old. Bet he says that to all the girls. Then he jabbed her twice in the thigh. First vaccinations, first real screams of pain. Soon calmed with a cuddle. More torture by injection in four weeks.
Life beyond baby is slowly beginning to resurface. Last week I made an evening trip to Gerland to watch OL rather undeservedly overcome Montpellier to keep hopes of the title alive. Said hopes were then virtually extinguished over the weekend with defeat at Toulouse. Five games left, seven points behind Lille. Similarly hopeless position to that in which mon équipe preferée somehow found itself before the weekend. Tempted to avoid watching the big match on Sunday, in the end I decided it would be disloyal not to go to the pub. Happy decision, even if it was rather a pyrrhic victory over the evil red empire. At least it puts a spoke in their supposed coast to the title. At the moment, blue somehow seems the lesser of two evils.
Elsewhere in the footballing world, more scandal this side of la Manche with the leaking of minutes of a meeting at the Fédération Française de Football, which suggested the imposition of a 'quota' to limit the number of players of African origin in football academies. After initially denying everything, the FFF was eventually forced to admit the minutes were genuine, but claimed it was only a discussion about reducing the number players with dual nationality who, having been brought up and received their football education in France, then later opt to play for their other country of origin. Whichever, the minister of sport wasn't happy and promptly suspended the French technical director of football pending an inquiry. Just what French football needed after the World Cup fiasco...
25 avril 2011
Sunshine cousins
Babies: miraculous and demanding. And when baby's aunt and nearly grown-up cousins come to visit, it leaves even less time for the trivialities of life, such as blogging. That's my excuse anyway. La soeur et les nièces arrived 8 days ago and left yesterday. In between early morning trips to the airport at either end, it was perhaps not the most exciting of trips abroad for a pair of teenagers but that wasn't really the point. The main attraction was obviously their six week-old niece and cousin respectively
Activities of various sorts were organised during the course of seven days otherwise crammed with vying with each other to feed baby, leaving the parents to deal with nappy changing, helping with the shopping, and pram-pushing on the daily afternoon walks:
Monday: a walk in the park for everybody in the warm afternoon sunshine.
Tuesday: the rest of us leave la bienheureuse at home with baby while we climb les Pentes de la Croix Rousse, walk back down through town and then have lunch on les Berges du Rhône, where mother and baby join us in the warm afternoon sunshine.
Wednesday: the breastfeeding pair are once again left behind as I lead an expedition on a two-river cruise in the warm afternoon sunshine: down the Saône past the new Confluence development, up the Rhône, and back again.
Thursday: niece number two kindly gives me the evening off cooking duties and prepares finger-licking fajitas.
Friday: back to the touristing as we hire Velo'vs and cycle down the river to Parc Gerland and back in the warm afternoon sunshine. Quite enough exercise for the week for some.
Saturday: finally time for the visitors to do their duty with a bit of gift shopping for friends and family back home. Meet up with mother and baby for a final walk along the river in the warm afternoon sunshine.
And then there were three. La petite has just spent her first night in a room of her own. And carried on the happy recent habit of sleeping through the night. Long may it continue...
Activities of various sorts were organised during the course of seven days otherwise crammed with vying with each other to feed baby, leaving the parents to deal with nappy changing, helping with the shopping, and pram-pushing on the daily afternoon walks:
Monday: a walk in the park for everybody in the warm afternoon sunshine.
Tuesday: the rest of us leave la bienheureuse at home with baby while we climb les Pentes de la Croix Rousse, walk back down through town and then have lunch on les Berges du Rhône, where mother and baby join us in the warm afternoon sunshine.
Wednesday: the breastfeeding pair are once again left behind as I lead an expedition on a two-river cruise in the warm afternoon sunshine: down the Saône past the new Confluence development, up the Rhône, and back again.
Thursday: niece number two kindly gives me the evening off cooking duties and prepares finger-licking fajitas.
Friday: back to the touristing as we hire Velo'vs and cycle down the river to Parc Gerland and back in the warm afternoon sunshine. Quite enough exercise for the week for some.
Saturday: finally time for the visitors to do their duty with a bit of gift shopping for friends and family back home. Meet up with mother and baby for a final walk along the river in the warm afternoon sunshine.
And then there were three. La petite has just spent her first night in a room of her own. And carried on the happy recent habit of sleeping through the night. Long may it continue...
09 avril 2011
Shorts
Time is short and life looking after baby is busy, so a few short stories to resume the last two short weeks:
La belle-mère came and went, her time filled with sewing, holding and feeding her petite-fille a bottle or two when she was allowed, taking lots of photos, going for walks along the river, and browsing family history and camera websites. She promises to return soon…
La petite coquinette continues to guzzle and grow. One month old already. The statutory visit to the pédiatre on Thursday produced a weight gain of 300 grams in a week and a height gain of 4cm in a month. The bluff old doctor pronounced her in perfect health, 'belle et intelligente', a future Nobel prize winner. It's official then…
The milking machine has been put into temporary retirement. A visit to the baby care centre yesterday produced a new routine to follow: back to normal breastfeeding supplemented with formula if necessary. La petite doesn't care where the milk comes from as long as it's getting into her mouth.
At the other end, nappies continue to be filled as though they were going out of fashion, though not so often with the smelly stuff in recent days. Two stories to tell there, which I'll try to keep brief out of regard for those of a delicate disposition. Marvellous piece of technology, the modern disposable nappy: leakproof and foolproof. Well, almost. The one catastrophic failure occurred when the little angel was sitting on my lap. The rear end explosion projected material (which I've seen fairly accurately described somewhere as the colour and consistency of French mustard) some distance. Result: complete change of clothing for both of us, and a quick shower for me. Ma fille smiled beatifically through the whole palaver.
Second toilet story is slightly more mundane but perhaps instructional. As babies get older, their bowels mature and movements become less frequent and regular. After three days sans caca, we were beginning to wonder if all was right. The paediatrician assured us it was completely normal, and sure enough, that evening the missing material appeared all at once. This time the nappy did its job, though it's a mystery to me quite how such a large volume was contained in such a small space. In two such small spaces in fact…
Meanwhile, the flow of presents for la petite appeared to have ceased a week ago, but has resumed near flood proportions in the last few days, including a second offering from une copine de la bienheureuse, who visited yesterday. Seems women find it hard to resist buying clothes for little girls. A very spoilt young lady now has a different outfit for every day of the coming year. Thanks to one and all.
In between the nappy changes, feeds and sleeps, I was afforded time last weekend for a first trip back to Blighty in three months. Fine trip it was too, apart from the main event. Least said about football the better, but the day in London was redeemed by a lovely curry at the Masala Zone in Upper St and a pint or two of beer. On the social side, I found le grand chef and mademoiselle beaucoup in fine form, and eager to celebrate the new arrival with champagne on our return to Cambridge. Could hardly refuse, could I?
Finally, the weather in Lyon has been positively summery in the last few days. Full sunshine and temperatures in the mid-twenties. The shorts are on to stay.
La belle-mère came and went, her time filled with sewing, holding and feeding her petite-fille a bottle or two when she was allowed, taking lots of photos, going for walks along the river, and browsing family history and camera websites. She promises to return soon…
La petite coquinette continues to guzzle and grow. One month old already. The statutory visit to the pédiatre on Thursday produced a weight gain of 300 grams in a week and a height gain of 4cm in a month. The bluff old doctor pronounced her in perfect health, 'belle et intelligente', a future Nobel prize winner. It's official then…
The milking machine has been put into temporary retirement. A visit to the baby care centre yesterday produced a new routine to follow: back to normal breastfeeding supplemented with formula if necessary. La petite doesn't care where the milk comes from as long as it's getting into her mouth.
At the other end, nappies continue to be filled as though they were going out of fashion, though not so often with the smelly stuff in recent days. Two stories to tell there, which I'll try to keep brief out of regard for those of a delicate disposition. Marvellous piece of technology, the modern disposable nappy: leakproof and foolproof. Well, almost. The one catastrophic failure occurred when the little angel was sitting on my lap. The rear end explosion projected material (which I've seen fairly accurately described somewhere as the colour and consistency of French mustard) some distance. Result: complete change of clothing for both of us, and a quick shower for me. Ma fille smiled beatifically through the whole palaver.
Second toilet story is slightly more mundane but perhaps instructional. As babies get older, their bowels mature and movements become less frequent and regular. After three days sans caca, we were beginning to wonder if all was right. The paediatrician assured us it was completely normal, and sure enough, that evening the missing material appeared all at once. This time the nappy did its job, though it's a mystery to me quite how such a large volume was contained in such a small space. In two such small spaces in fact…
Meanwhile, the flow of presents for la petite appeared to have ceased a week ago, but has resumed near flood proportions in the last few days, including a second offering from une copine de la bienheureuse, who visited yesterday. Seems women find it hard to resist buying clothes for little girls. A very spoilt young lady now has a different outfit for every day of the coming year. Thanks to one and all.
In between the nappy changes, feeds and sleeps, I was afforded time last weekend for a first trip back to Blighty in three months. Fine trip it was too, apart from the main event. Least said about football the better, but the day in London was redeemed by a lovely curry at the Masala Zone in Upper St and a pint or two of beer. On the social side, I found le grand chef and mademoiselle beaucoup in fine form, and eager to celebrate the new arrival with champagne on our return to Cambridge. Could hardly refuse, could I?
Finally, the weather in Lyon has been positively summery in the last few days. Full sunshine and temperatures in the mid-twenties. The shorts are on to stay.
28 mars 2011
Milking it
And so the learning curve continues. Another appointment and weigh-in with the nice lady at the child care centre showed stable weight - not ideal in a 2 week old baby. So a new regime was instituted. Automatic milking machine hired, installed and duly put into action - a quite fascinating process, which may not be much fun for the milk provider but provides a certain amount of titillation for her husband. Thereafter, breast feeds supplemented with expressed milk and formula as required. Two days of pumping later, weight up by a hundred grams, and a further hundred at today's weighing. Back at birth weight. Marvellous.
Meanwhile, la nouvelle grand-mère arrived on Wednesday to meet her first grandchild. The family threesome set off for the airport to meet her, and got as far as the garage round the corner. Failure to freewheel and a grinding noise at first led me to suspect an old problem, seized brakes, but with passersby pointing at the front offside wheel, it eventually dawned that we had a flat tyre. It being lunchtime our friendly local garage was closed, but fortunately I only had a couple of minutes to demonstrate my total lack of competence in tyre changing (which I put down to inexperience - first puncture in 30 years of motoring) before la bienheureuse spotted someone in the garage. Of course, asking French workmen for help in their lunch break is often a risky exercise, but a sweet smile convinced the nice mechanic to change the wheel for us.
Dodgy spare thus installed in a matter of minutes rather than the hour it would have otherwise taken we set off and arrived at the airport only about half an hour late, to introduce la belle-mère to her petite-fille. One way introduction, as la petite slept through the whole adventure. However, she woke up later and immediately ignored the stranger in favour of a good suckle. As well she should, but they've got to know each other since. Amidst the full time job of feeding, nappy changing, bottle washing, pumping, cooking and shopping, sightseeing for la belle-mère this week has been restricted to strolls along the river with the pram in the glorious sunshine we had during the first few days of her visit. Spring is here even if it's raining now…
Meanwhile, la nouvelle grand-mère arrived on Wednesday to meet her first grandchild. The family threesome set off for the airport to meet her, and got as far as the garage round the corner. Failure to freewheel and a grinding noise at first led me to suspect an old problem, seized brakes, but with passersby pointing at the front offside wheel, it eventually dawned that we had a flat tyre. It being lunchtime our friendly local garage was closed, but fortunately I only had a couple of minutes to demonstrate my total lack of competence in tyre changing (which I put down to inexperience - first puncture in 30 years of motoring) before la bienheureuse spotted someone in the garage. Of course, asking French workmen for help in their lunch break is often a risky exercise, but a sweet smile convinced the nice mechanic to change the wheel for us.
Dodgy spare thus installed in a matter of minutes rather than the hour it would have otherwise taken we set off and arrived at the airport only about half an hour late, to introduce la belle-mère to her petite-fille. One way introduction, as la petite slept through the whole adventure. However, she woke up later and immediately ignored the stranger in favour of a good suckle. As well she should, but they've got to know each other since. Amidst the full time job of feeding, nappy changing, bottle washing, pumping, cooking and shopping, sightseeing for la belle-mère this week has been restricted to strolls along the river with the pram in the glorious sunshine we had during the first few days of her visit. Spring is here even if it's raining now…
12 mars 2011
Patient routine
Five days in hospital for the new mother and daughter, five days of climbing up and down les Pentes de la Croix Rousse for the new father. My routine was fairly fixed. Get up, have breakfast, brisk half hour uphill walk in glorious sunshine to the hospital, rest of day getting to know the new arrival, walk back home again in the evening (minor deviation from routine on Tuesday, with an evening in the pub to watch the brave boys in yellow beaten by the Barca ball-hogs. Least said about that the better). The routine for mes deux bien-aimées was more varied, with la petite calling the shots; her and sundry midwives, students, baby care auxiliaries and doctors. Principal aim of the week: both parties learning l'allaitement. The path to complete mastery was far from smooth, and rather painful at times for the food source. But, with the help of a kindly auxiliary specialising in nursing, the pair of them got it more or less sussed by the end of a week of largely sleepless nights.
La bienheureuse recovered well from the operation, la petite coquinette's glugging technique was good enough to start putting on weight again, and on Saturday both were given the all-clear to go home. Via a stop at the pharmacy to collect sundry prescriptions, and another stop at hospital administration to collect birth certificate and livre de famille, la petite famille were finally fully reunited at home sweet home early on Saturday afternoon. From here on in, we were on our own…
La bienheureuse recovered well from the operation, la petite coquinette's glugging technique was good enough to start putting on weight again, and on Saturday both were given the all-clear to go home. Via a stop at the pharmacy to collect sundry prescriptions, and another stop at hospital administration to collect birth certificate and livre de famille, la petite famille were finally fully reunited at home sweet home early on Saturday afternoon. From here on in, we were on our own…
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