Wasn't that a book or film title? Honestly I'm now succumbing to a lack of originality. And that for me is the ultimate dishonour.
But it's been a tough two weeks at the French Open. The weather has been terrible and the tennis has been just marginally better. But it's all over. Only Ana Ivanovic's name is new in the annals of Roland Garros history. Roger Federer may not fulfill his wish to be cited among the glorious. Rafael Nadal is again the boss man.
Well clay is history now. Grass is the word, it's got groove, it's got meaning. For sure Federer won't be singing Sandy.
If only the Swiss could move like John Travolta.
But that's enough of the retro allusions
I headed into the radio station today to continue the work thang as there is now the Euro 2008 football to keep an eye on. Sadly no one from RFI's English service is going to this. Or should I say...sadly I'm not going to be cavorting around Austria and Switzerland.
Though from the France v Roumania match I saw earlier today, that's probably no bad thing.
I went round to my mate Robin to watch the Holland v Italy game. And I ventured forth with the eldest for there's no school on Tuesday. Her teacher is on strike over plans to increase class sizes.
The middle child's teacher is not taking industrial action so she has to go to school tomorrow and she seemed a bit upset that we were going out to watch the football.
I've promised her that we will go and see the late game in Group D on Tuesday night. This equity business is a killer.
Anyway the eldest played with her school chum at Robin's flat and indeed we all seemed to be profiting from the day of action.
After the game, I took my first born out for a drink because....why do we need to go to bed? Disorder has been heaped upon us so I stepped parentally into the role of Lord of Misrule. As we watched the night go past along our road, we discussed the joys of living in central Paris where we could go out to a bar just opposite where we live on a balmy June evening and avoid the cigarette smoke from all the people who are now forced to pursue their nicotine thang outside.
I got huge hugs from the eldest once we were home. After doing her ablutions, she came back and told me: ''It's 11.30." And there were a few more hugs and off to bed without a whimper or complaint (for she was probably tired and doubtless in shock and awe that I could be so lenient). My heart turned over and over.
There are days when I can't fault a strike.