The Midweek Kickabout

Strange to go to play a game of football and look longingly at the hockey teams. But that's how it was. I thought maybe I should ditch the football and take up hockey again.

But that wouldn't be logical. I liked playing hockey at school but that was an eventual thing as the school did not have any organised football.

On the issue of organisation. I'm going to have to be even more diligent with the tennis. It's coming along but played and lost yet again in the journalist tournament.

As I contemplated yet another drubbing, I wondered about the approach to games. I have been looking at them as a way to stay fit rather than from the competitive side.

I go to run around and stay vaguely lithe rather than for the joy of victory. Am not sure when this change happened but occurred it has.

And that's no bad thing.

The midweek kickabout was on a small pitch and there were too many people, it meant passing the ball quickly. Only a few players were able to operate in the tight spaces, I was not one of those players.

But then I am used to the wide open spaces of 11 a side. But I have learned to move the ball on quickly so I wasn't a total jerk on the pitch.

Stayed in goal for a while too. Have to keep lucid for the doubles third round at the Roland Garros tournament.

Must try to think win.

The Cycle

Clearly there's some kind of escalation going on. The new season has brought fresh thinking. And I can see the differences between the two great cities from cycle saddle level.

First observation. There's further to cycle. The Paris flat to the radio station is a 30 minute stroll past some of the great monumental wonders of the world.

The Streatham flat to the Guardian is a as yet untimed slog past some of the monumental wonders of the world.

The Paris ride does not necessitate any pit stops. The London one was a kind of noblesse oblige. I came to rest at the Portuguese cafe near MI5's headquarters just along from Vauxhall tube station.

I sat ought and watched the cars thunder by. It occurred to me that had I gone on a few minutes more I could have stopped off at the National Film Theatre cafe and looked at the riverboats swan past.

Well I will chalk that one up to experience. But the good thing at the Portuguese cafe is one mean cafe latte. I know that doesn't happen at the film theatre cafe.

But then you don't get arthouse films at the Portuguese pit stop.

The New Season

Of course regular followers of parislondonreturn will know the New Season is likely to mean football. But as I like to be holistic, let's throw in the new school year and the new yoga year.

The second week of school has ended and as I shut the door on the Paris flat, it was to the sound of sniffing. Not because of my departure but because all three children have managed to become incrusted with various colds.

The boy was particularly hoarse, the middle child has recovered a bit and the eldest has refused to acknowledge anything like weakness.

This follows an episode last year in which she went back to school and promptly had a day off due to illness.

Me and the missus think it was overexcitement at getting away from her dull parents but the eldest isn't making that mistake again.

However the new season has indeed started and I went to my first practice match of the year - having had to miss last week's due to the first round of the doubles in the journalists' tournament at Roland Garros.

That was the start of a bitter sweet week. Through in the doubles, annihilated in the singles and through to the third round without hitting a ball in the doubles.

Me and my partner Eric are awaiting the schedule for our third round match.

As for the football....well I need to get match hardened as we embrace the new look format which will be a second division of eight teams - the bottom four from the top division and the top four from the second division.

There'll be a third division of eight teams.

I guess the ambition will be to avoid relegation. Last season it was about promotion.

A new season indeed.

The Zoo

There was a great song released years ago called 'Mamma's taking us to the zoo tomorrow' which I remembered singing when my mother was on the verge of taking me and my sister to the zoo.

Well fast forward about 40 years and I'm preparing to take my own children to the zoo in London. In these here times of technological white heat, you can look on the internet for opening times and buy tickets to avoid the queues.

It also saves the shock of arriving to find that to wander around London Zoo will cost you the best part of £100.

Actually it's going to be £67. But that's because I have declined the chance to add a £1.70 donation on each ticket to a fund to save the endangered North American Greengage Peacock.

I jest about the endangered peacock. But what about the endangered parislondonreturn bank account?

A trip to Sainsbury's at Harringay was enough to make the visit to the zoo look like a cheap day excursion.

But what do I expect? This is summer in the city and cities cost. London seems far more expensive than Paris. Maybe that's because it is far more expensive than Paris.

But there's no point bleating about it. I'm here with the children. They're over to see their paternal grandmother and that can only help a few months after losing their paternal grandfather.

But from the way the children have been behaving of late, I think they might be seeing some relations at the zoo.

The Doctor

Would you believe it but the doctor was on holiday in July. Am I ill? I phoned up last week and got through to her replacement.

We arranged for Thursday 10am. Now the great thing about the normal doctor is an almost otherworldly approach to time.

She has her first appointment at 9.00 but arrives for work at 9.30. Consequently the missus always ask for the one of the first appointments of the day and that way you get seen that day.

1140 is the one to avoid as you usually emerge anytime after 1pm because of the backlog. And people phone up while she's telling you that you've only got months to live.

It was good to see that the locum had eschewed house style by not only being in the surgery before his first appointment at 10am.

But he was ready to see me at 10am.

I went in to get a certificate which would allow me to play in the journalists' tournament at Roland Garros in September.

Last year's visit to my usual doctor for the certificate was not even in the notes. And I remember the exam was quite perfunctory.

This year the doctor asked me if I'd had an electro cardiogram. No was the reply.

As he loaded me up with the bits, a phone call came through and he just had to take it as it was the admin centre for his papers to start practising full-time at the surgery.

So there I was lying on the slab with electrodes attached to my test and he's talking to bureaucrat central. Oy what about your Hippocratic oath?

I was told to lie still while the things monitored my heart. I was motionless but one of the electrodes was getting into the groove of my heart and slipping off.

Sure enough the analysis of said heart showed I had an enlarged left ventricle. That's not bad in itself I was told. Sporty types often have this condition. What I've got to make sure is that it doesn't get dilated.

I have been given the numbers of two heart doctors who will do an ultrascan to tell me how it goes down from now on. I smell a scam here.

But given that my dad died of various complications to do with his heart and high blood pressure, you know where this might be going.

The heart doctor might well say you'll be fine just avoid playing football on a Saturday morning at 9.30 and avoid competitive tennis tournaments.

I plan to see the heart doctor in September.

The good news is that the soon-to-be-ensconced doctor at my surgery has a specialty in sports injuries. He told me this after seeing in my notes that I'd been on a couple of occasions for muscle strains.

My how we bonded over Eric Cantona and warm ups. I asked him if he played football. He said that he preferred rugby. I told him to see Looking For Eric and he spoke about the likes of Cantona and Lillian Thuram.

I chatted about interviewing Thuram for a programme at the radio station and blah blah blah we went on finally ending on if you've got any sprains or strains mate, I'm your man.

In at 1005. Out at 1115.

I think he's to the manor born.

The Top Man

Usually when I work the extra day in London I am tired by the third day. My poor sensitive system cannot cope with the rigours of the third day. Especially if I go out on the night of the second day.

So sure enough when I woke up this fair Tuesday morning, I did not feel like a third day. But trooper that I am, I have trduged into the office to perform my functions.

On opening up the emails I found that the saxophonist who played at dad's funeral is playing in the pub next door to the Guardian tonight.

Well book me in. Tommaso Starace was dad's saxophone teacher a few years back. While clearing up dad's flat just after I got the news of his death, I saw cards dotted about with Tommaso's name and numbers. I remembered that dad had got me to listen to one of Tommaso's CDs just after it came out.

I called Tommaso and left a message on his phone to say that if any lessons had been booked then obviously dad wouldn't be coming and also to thank him for giving the lessons because I knew that dad had really enjoyed them.

I left it at that but while I was going over to my sister's for lunch I thought wouldn't it be good to hire Tommaso to play at the funeral.

Tommaso texted me back, we spoke and he asked me if I wanted him to play at the funeral. I said I'd foot the taxi bill. He said there was no need to do that.

At the funeral I gave the eulogy after Tommaso's solo of 'Round Midnight. I just about held it together for the oration. Outside the crematorium afterwards when I saw him I burst into tears and gave him a huge hug - you can do that kind of things with italians. He'd made the service for me.

He consoled me and said it was an honour to play at Victor's funeral.

I've emailed Tommaso to say that I will be there on Tuesday night to listen in. He's written back to give me an idea of his agenda. Playing at the Royal Festival Hall's open space and then up to the Cross Kings to play with a few other chaps in an Anglo Italian band.

I had lined up an evening of sorting out dad's stuff.

I think this is one time I can change the plans. It doesn't matter if I get home round midnight.

The Lull

While there is no tennis to watch on the TV, nor any football, surprise surprise it's been cricket and the newsroom today was bubbling before lunch as England wrapped up the second test against Australia.

It wasn't that confident a win really.

England were bossing proceedings on Sunday when they'd reduced the tourists to about 120 for 5. But then there was a doughty partnership which took the score to 313 for 5. That was 209 runs off the victory target.

From a position of overweening confidence to anxiety. Would England snatch defeat from the molars of victory?

Andrew Flintoff hadn't read the script and decided to help England win the test. It was their first victory at Lords against Australia since 1934.

Made for a buoyant newsroom.