The Appearance

The boy was having his afternoon snooze and I was contemplating the shopping list when a call came through on the mobile.

Would I go on France 24’s programmed called The Debate to talk about Arnaud Clement’s comments about match fixing in tennis?

Having hosted a programme on RFI for 18 months called the Crossroads Debate, I know just how dodgy these things can be.

So I asked for details about what I would be expected to say.

“Oh just a few opinions about what the ATP should do about it,” said the researcher.

“Is there going to be anyone from the ATP there?” I asked.

“We’re trying to get someone…

“Anyone from the ITF?

“Not yet….

“Well,” I said. “I’ll just double check to make sure if there are no problems this end and I’ll call you back in half an hour.”

France 24 sent a taxi — a silver grey Mercedes. It arrived at 6pm and as soon as I arrived at their headquarters 45 minutes later, I was met at the entrance by a young lady who took me down to the make-up room. I was prettied up — as if that was necessary — for the cameras.

I was taken up onto the set where the presenter, Andrea Sanke, was at her seat chomping through a packet of crisps. She asked if I and the other studio guest wanted anything.

I said a piece of paper and a few crisps. The paper was brought for me.

This was nothing like the cosy comfort of the Crossroads Debate. When I did my programme, I went down to greet the guests. I would buy them coffee while Ariane, the studio producer, would get the water and more coffees if needed.

But then I did stop doing it after 18 months. Ravaged by the stress of setting up the guests and making sure they had something punchy to offer.

It was a tight ship the Crossroads Debate. There were no surprises and that was pre recorded.

On Tuesday night I was really not that fettered. Not that it mattered as I didn’t have anything controversial to say.

My main point being that if Clement was approached and declined the offer then he should tell the tennis authorities about it.

He said at his press conference on Monday that he didn’t want to say when it happened nor how it happened.

Though there was a lot of coverage given to his comments, it doesn’t really take us any further.

My line is that if he doesn’t give some details privately to tennis authorities then he should be punished.

I returned home to find that another French player, Michael Llodra, had also declined an invitation to lose a match.

Well wow.

I’m not able to gauge my TV performance as the family didn’t see me. We only get the French rendition of France 24 on our cable package.

I phoned this morning to ask for a DVD of the programme and have yet to hear from the researcher.

Maybe they aren’t even going to bother to do me a DVD because my input was so appalling.

Maybe she had a day off.

And it would have been well spent out and about in Paris. It was crisp and sunny. My girls were at the school holiday club and I was in charge of ailing boy.

Into the buggy and off to BHV to buy some light bulbs and actually just get out.

The great thing about BHV is that it’s within spitting distance of the Pompidou Centre, so on the way back home we took that in.

We headed straight for the sixth floor and the panoramic views from the café restaurant concept that is Georges. We were sent to a yellow pod in the middle of Georges. I perched myself on the fringe of the Zone Jaune so that I could see out into the distance as far as La Défense if I craned my neck.

The boy got his milk. I got my coffee. Georges got 6 euros.

That strikes me as expensive. It was 5.50 for a long time. And really the high outlay is only palatable because of the vista. But if I have to almost go into a yoga position to profit from what makes the place so pricey, then I’m on the very wrong side of being fleeced.

No problem with the costs when beholding the view is effortless.

But maybe the zone jaune is a pre-lunch thing. I’ll have to make the final decision after going back one afternoon.

And that will be quite soon as the reason for being at the Pompidou — the exhibition about Giacomettti — looks spectacular.

I breezed through it this morning. Firstly because I wanted to get the boy back for lunch and his afternoon snooze and secondly because the show was packed.

I thought that if he started to wail because he was suddenly hit by a combined wave of hunger and tiredness then it would be a most unseemly retreat out of there.

Perhaps if I remained with a bawling baby, a couple of gallery assistants would offer me inducements to leave.

But would I throw an exhibition?

The Strike

Vive l’Air France. But it’s easy for me to wax lyrical about Air Food because I’m on the ground in Paris and not due to be flying somewhere.

The air stewards and stewardesses have been on strike of late. Of late are the school holidays, which started on Friday in the Paris region.

My sympathies go out to the thousands disrupted by the industrial action over pay and conditions but the movement has left me feeling relieved that we went to America 10 days before the holiday.

At least that way we got a holiday rather than spending our holiday at an airport waiting to go on holiday.

The timing of the strike was gruesomely appropriate — a bit like the RER B train strike on the day of the rugby world cup final.

I thought being inconvenienced for about 30 minutes at Charles de Gaulle airport on our back to Paris was difficult, but I really wouldn’t like to imagine the horror of trying to fill the void with three children if a flight were delayed.

It would have been worse for us as we were due to see my grandfather. But in the end this is all projection.

We were fortunate. Which is not the case with the football team at the moment. Travelled miles on Saturday morning to Mantes la Jolie to be annihilated 7-4.

We’re ravaged by injuries and having to get up early to travel to Mantes didn’t sit too well with my constitution nor anyone else’s it seems Maybe the trip to our home ground will have the same effect on the opponents.

Anyway after four games we’re second from bottom. We’ve played a couple of the top teams so I guess the season starts from after the half-term holidays.

By then I might be getting uninterrupted nights of sleep. The boy has not been well. In fact neither has his mother nor his elder sister.

I had to scrap the Sunday trip to London to stay and tend the flock. What a good shepherd I am.

Remaining here has given me the chance to catch up with episodes on the Rockford Files DVD.

When the Rockford Files were first on back in the early 70s, our TV didn’t have BBC2 so all I had to go on — as they say on the show — was my mate Eddie Flanagan telling me that it was fantastically successful.

I saw the repeats — though for me they were new — while at university and once I got my video tape recorder I faithfully recorded them off the BBC for posterity.

What’s great about the videos is seeing the tacky adverts from 1988. The DVD however provides me with one long extravaganza. Something to fall asleep to even as the sickly crew cough, splutter and wheeze their ways through the night.

I’ll probably be infected fairly soon for now I’m nursing a bruised toe from Saturday morning’s exertions. Somebody trod on it.

Maybe they didn’t like my joy at scoring our third, which I have to say it was classily dispatched.

I said to my eldest this morning that I scored a goal. She asked me if I was going to the world cup.

I said I was far too old and not good enough.

“You’re not that old daddy,” was her reply.

I might be scuffling around in the veteran’s top flight but I’ve got a Premier League daughter.

The Comeback

Well the Red Sox did it. They beat the Cleveland Indians and so have the chance to play the Colorado Rockies in the World Series.

I never thought that was going to happen. Fenway Park, which we walked past on our way back to our hotel in Boston, must have been explosive on Sunday night after the comeback.

Boston's return from the depths is the 11th time in more than a century of play-off baseball that a team has fought back in such a manner.

The Red Sox were the most recent to achieve the feat when they rallied from 3-0 down in 2004 to beat the New York Yankees, thereby becoming the first club in Major League history to make such a reversal from the brink of elimination.

Clearly this is not the simplest modus operandi. But maybe it's the Red Sox way. It wouldn't surprise me if they now go on and winthe next four games to win the World Series.

I might just keep a watching brief on it. But my sympathies are more likely to be with the Colorado Rockies since I have more of an affinity with Denver having been there a handful of times to visit my old university chum Frances and her family.

And it's home to Skyline — the ultimate sporting location.

The Agony

No two ways about it. Bad few days for English sporting heroes.

I logged onto the BBC website while I was in Rhode Island on Wednesday to discover that England's footballers had lost in Russia. This now jeopardises their participation in Euro 2008.

England's rugby chaps lost the world cup final in Paris as I was whizzed into London on the Eurostar.

I don't have a mobile phone which can capture the internet so I didn't know the score. While I was at Waterloo I heard a few lads singing and asked them for the result.

There were lots of disappointed drunken faces on the Northern Line down to south London.

Would Louis Hamilton restore pride by clinching the formula one world title on Sunday?

Woe, woe and thrice woe.

When I was but a young boy I used to get very upset at England's demise in football. I distinctly remember wailing when they lost 3-2 to Germany in the 1970 World Cup quarter final.

"They'll be back," said one of the consoling adults. I think it was my mum. But she was so wrong. England didn't qualify for the 1974 World Cup in Germany, nor the 1978 extravaganza.

By the time they were in the 1982 finals I'd found things like French and Gemany literature to interest me.

This was what was so interesting about being in France last summer. Experiencing the feeling of a place preparing for a football World Cup final. Marvellous.

Even if France had won, I don't think I would have gone down the Champs Elysées to celebrate frenetically

After all I'm not actually French.

But as I prepare to return to action this Saturday in my own veterans' soccer league, I take heart as it's better to have been within reach of glory than nowhere near it.

I must maintain that frame of mind as the team's first three games in the top flight have yielded one win and two heavy defeats.

And it's still early in the season. So there's no need to be even thinking negative thoughts.

Look at the Boston Red Sox. They were 3-1 down in the seven match series for the right to contest the World Series.

While I was in Boston on Thursday night game five was on. I could hear the TV upstairs in the foyer of the guest house we were staying in.

The Red Sox won that game and on Saturday they won game six against the Cleveland Indians to tie the American League series at 3-3.

Game seven is on right now and Boston are 2-0 up but as they're in the bottom of the third innings, I have no intention of going back to American time to follow their progress through to the bottom of the ninth innings.

I'll go to sleep and find out what happened in the morning.

Much more logical. And maybe that kind of clear, incisive thinking will finally kick in with the English Football Association.

The bigwigs there might actually pick a manager who has an idea about winning things. Steve McClaren, the present coach, is likely to get sacked if England don't qualify for next year's tournament.

One football writer suggested in one of the Sunday papers that McClaren should be shunted even if they do qualify and the FA should hire a certain José Mourinho, formerly of the parish of Chelsea, on a short term contract.

He knows how to create a winning team.

If England won without the putative entertaining style that cost Mourinho his job at Chelsea, I don't think many people would care.

Roman Abromovich owns Chelsea and is at liberty to choose his terms. Somehow England belongs to all. During the 2006 world cup, England weren't particularly dazzling under Sven Goran Eriksson and they didn't advance past the last eight.

It's really not looking that good for the national team.

Moreso since no major silverware has been anywhere near being added to the trophy cabinet for more than 40 years.

It sounds like the scenario at Chelsea before a smooth young Portuguese took control.

The Upgrade

As South Africa and England slug it out at the Stade de France, I speed to Waterloo in the Eurostar.

There was no space on the trains from Paris on Sunday morning. But of course there was room aplenty on the Saturday night.

It wasn’t the ideal way to end 10 days in the States — taking a train to London.

But since I have commitments in England, I must be flexible.

And that approach seemed apt given what Air Food at the Boston check-in had done on Friday afternoon for our 5.30pm flight.

I explained to the assistant that when I forked out the cash at the Air France outlet at La Maison de la Radio, I’d been led to believe that I would be getting seats with individual TV screens on the flight over to Boston from Paris.

When these didn’t materialise it was something of a disappointment. I told her that as I’d been holding a child who had just fallen asleep in my arms, I wasn’t in a position to pursue the point with the staff on boarding the aircraft

She said that in the Jumbos we were travelling in, these sorts of seats were only available upstairs. I asked if it was possible to have what I thought I had paid for.

She said she’d look at the plan on the computer for me. She lowered her eyes and after about 30 seconds furrowed her brows.

That seemed to be a bad omen. So not to appear too aggressive I said that it wasn’t a problem if we couldn’t get the seats, I’d take it up with customer services when I got back to Paris.

She kept consulting the hidden screen. She could have been watching the sports channel or re-runs of Hill Street Blues for all I knew but she looked up and said authoritatively: “There’s some space opening up ... I’ll go and ask the flight manager.”

I watched her go over to a man. In the distance I saw their mouths open, some nodding and gesturing.

She returned and said the flight manager had agreed to let me and the three children go upstairs to where the TVs lived — or to put it in competitive service industry speak — to the seats that I thought I had paid for.

I was grateful for her help and a little ambivalent about being too emollient for wasn’t it me who had suffered most monstrously?

Well, away from the exaggeration.

I thought if I was trying to blag an upgrade, mine wasn’t an implausible yarn. Why wouldn’t I want an eight and five-year-old to be distracted as much as possible during a seven-hour trans Atlantic flight?

I said by way of eulogy that we’d flown American Airlines during the summer and that we weren't at all happy with the experience. I even got the girls to comment on the flight 10 days earlier from Charles de Gaulle.

There was a spontaneous paean encompassing the friendly staff, the culinary excellence of the Children’s Meal as well as the Goodies Bag of crayons, puzzles and toys.

This was not a bellicose family unit.

For all the honied words, the check-in operative probably knew she was doing her in-flight colleagues a favour.

The flight back for the girls from Boston to Paris was thus much better than the return journey back in July. It was an improvement for me too.

In the summer the boy screamed solidly but then there were two adults to share the duties of calming the bairn who was teething. This time he slept for the first couple of hours as the meals were served and then woke up as everyone was settling down for their post-prandial nap.

I gave him a set of complimentary headphones to mangle and dreamed of post-prandial naps.

The daughters were having none of that. They were transfixed by Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, which they watched at least 4,000 times.

In the moments while the boy quietly drank some water, I reclaimed the headphones and dipped into the latest instalment of Potter. But, for me, the magic was lost in French.

The man in front of me was busily tapping away on his laptop and had the screen on the channel, which showed the flight status. What a waste.

We seemed to be over open water for a very long time. This, I thought, might be a metaphor about my parenting skills.

Worse still it resuscitated my query about whether — in the event of engine failure — we could watch our own descent into oblivion on the screen.

I felt I'd been doing a fairly good job of not believing that I was at 400,000 feet. Trying to keep the boy relatively quiet helps me remain distracted.

A stewardess came through and scythed through this symbiotic self-congratulation by asking me if there was any way I could get him not to cry out.

I said I was trying but if people wanted to sleep at 9pm in the evening…then I was out of ideas.

Actually later I realised that there was something I could do. I took him off to the nearby bathroom for a nappy change and we stayed in there. He was altogether jauntier on the fold down flap.

I was perkier too. There were bright lights and a wall of mirrors into which we, actually forget him, I could look.

I wondered if I appeared haggard enough. Here I was in charge of three children and I have to admit I was looking far too good. The eyes were neither sunken nor hollow. There was even a soupcon of sparkle.

I felt the bright red and orange floral shirt suggested an unwillingness to convey the air of a colourless, hapless dad. And the bottle green cotton trousers oozed confidence with smear absorbing tones — so crucial while travelling with offspring.

The boy was quiet. He was just looking at me in the mirror, looking at myself. He smiled when I looked at him in the mirror.

My eldest daughter halted all this muted masculine mirth. She wanted to use the facility for its central purpose.

When I tried to go again — so to speak — I felt constipated. We left because I thought about the incongruity of being in an upgrade and spending time in the toilet.

I might as well be looking in the mirror in bog standard economy.

But at the same time I didn’t want to inflict shrieks of the boy's frustration on the other passengers. But in the end it's a 20-month-old baby in a noisy aircraft. The eight and five-year-old who could have been banshees were serene.

Gaby, who was drafted in to sit next to me by the stewardess at take-off and landing, commented as we neared Charles de Gaulle that they were impressively quiet.

She complimented me for coping admirably with them all. As she’s a lecturer in international law at Harvard Law School, I felt bound to tell her the truth and nothing but the truth.

The girls were under a sword of Damocles. They knew we’d been upgraded and they understood that our seats downstairs were empty.

They saw that I wasn’t really watching that much on the screen and most importantly they knew (for such are my parenting skills) that I’d be quite happy to go downstairs with them at the first sign of consistent naughtiness.

I got Gaby’s card and promised to buy her a drink the next time we — the adults — were passing through Boston. I figure that any stranger who’s willing to lend a hand is worth buying at least one drink.

Gaby had five hours to wait in Paris before going on to Tel Aviv.

“Five hours,” exclaimed the eldest. “That’s almost as long as the flight from Boston.”

So grateful was I for Gaby’s small act of kindness that I said it was a shame that we couldn’t invite her home for breakfast.

After landing at 6am, the children and I got to the Charles de Gaulle RER B station at 7am to discover that the rail unions were staging a day of action — thereby drastically reducing services.

The next train into Paris was at 7.28am.

Gaby had, it seemed to me, got the better deal.

As we trundled our way into Paris on the RER I told the girls that their behaviour on the flight had been impeccable and gave them huge hugs and kisses.

I'd taken them to see their grandmother and greatgrandfather. Four generations had been together for 10 days.

Whichever way you travel, that's a first class experience.

The Honor System

I became aware of the "Honor System" thanks to an episode of Seinfeld entitled The Contest.

This involved the four characters betting on who could last the longest without masturbating.

As they could not monitor each other’s movements, they had to rely on the "Honor System".

The beauty of the writing was such that the M word was never mentioned.

I came across the honor system in a field in Jamestown last Friday. Hodgkiss Farm was selling some of its wares and we swung in to survey the goodies.

My mother picked the corn and I looked around for someone to take the cash. No one.

Then I saw a box with a little sign saying pay here and that the honor system was in operation.

My grand father, who’s visiting from Jamaica, could not believe what he’d just witnessed. An unmonitored box with money in a field.

I paid the $6 for the 12 corn on the cob and at supper out that night everyone agreed that the corn was very sweet.

My theory is that if we hadn’t paid then we’d have been ill. Call it corn karma.

On the subject of eating, I descended from the trans Atlantic flight from Paris absolutely stuffed.

Air France excelled itself to the point that I forgot about my hatred of flying because I was just savouring the cuisine.

Air Food gave us a complimentary glass of champagne, which was such an elegant touch as was the meal especially for the children. It was an altogether better experience than the American Airlines atrocity.

And such urbanity went part way to appeasing my chagrin over the lack of individual TV screens which is why I opted for Air France to travel to Boston with three children.

As it was, the 19-month-old slept for the first hour and a half and was on good form for the rest of the flight apart from the descent when he just wailed because he had to be belted in with me.

A few people cooed afterwards about how wonderfully well behaved he was. Maybe it was the shot of Dolipran an hour before boarding.

Maybe I just looked as if I wasn’t going to brook any kind of disapproval.

Being in Rhode Island in October has been unusual. Both visits before have been during the blazing summer months. The eldest is having great difficulty understanding that October sunshine doesn’t necessarily mean short sleeves. Maybe she misses the routine of school.

She hasn’t been given any homework to do. Her teacher says she should do a project about her time in the States visiting her grand mother and great grand father.

The middle child has been given maths and reading exercises.

I’m getting into Gafi le fantome and all his antics. I met the class teacher before we left and she outlined what the girl had to do on holiday.

As I decipher the instructions with the five-year-old and help her to keep track with her schoolmates back in Paris, I realise i'm living a derivation of the honor system.

From yoga to yohji

High hopes for the 9.10 to London were dashed as soon as I got into the frequent traveller lounge. No Sunday papers from Britain. I really thought that was just an 8.07 thing. Clearly not. I bore this latest setback with fortitude and picked up Le Journal du Dimanche which was obviously so delighted with France's 20-18 quarter-final victory over the All Blacks on Saturday night that it could only bellow: Enorme.

Since Saturday morning's front page of L'Equipe had said: Ce serait immense ..... I got the feeling that these papers were run by men with psychosexual projection issues.

But indeed it was big. France beat New Zealand to reach the semi-finals of the rugby world cup where they'll play England who did gigantic things themselves on Saturday afternoon by beating Australia 12-10.

These two results have left southern hemisphere rugby in a state of massive shock and certainly France must be fancying their chances of defeating England.

If France reaches the final and then wins the whole thing, it seems to go without saying that I’ll probably be learning some new words for throbbingly mega.

I wanted to go to Tate Britain to see the Millais exhibition. But Monday has been taken up with car problems. The Peugeot cracked up and the man from the Automobile Association came to fix it.

It was a broken fan belt. Alan from the AA diligently went about his work, my contribution to the repairs was simply to stand on the pavement near the car and to look on purposefully.

My mechanical dexterity extended to putting my hand through the fan belt and spinning it round my wrist like a hula-hoop.

But this wasn’t Waikiki Beach. This was grey and gritty SW16 London where the cars race down the street and the house prices rise before your very eyes.

The Millais exhibition will be around for a few more weeks yet.

Why Millais? I first heard about him when I was a student in Paris.

I remember it quite clearly. I was in my room in the Collège Franco-Britannique at the Cité Universitaire in the 14th. It was hot and for some reason I woke up early and couldn’t get back to sleep so I turned on the radio.

The BBC World Service was airing some dramatisation about the life of John Ruskin and it necessarily took in his doomed marriage. As far as I remembered it wasn’t consecrated because his lady wife, Effie Gray, was menstruating on their wedding night. This so appalled the brain of the Britain that he could never bring himself to go anywhere near her.

The lady bore her frustration up to a point but finally spoke fully and frankly to Millais. As Effie was something of hottie, he thought that Ruskin was committing a crime against femininity and got her to divorce.

What followed was a ginormous scandal. Nevertheless the Pre Raphaelite painter married the girl himself. Effie bore the opprobrium and bore Millais 750 children.

As all this was unfolding during the early hours of the morning, I thought I’d heard wrong but I eventually found a library — this was in the days before Google — and the story — give or take a few disagreements over details among biographers — checked out. The couple actually had eight children.

Ooh la. As my friend Sebastian would say.

Education, education, education. As Tony Blair once said.

So Millais will have to wait until after the trip to America.

By the time I get back I fully expect fashion trends to be moving towards a model I have inadvertently outlined.

Yoga on Thursday was a non-starter because I arrived at 7.25pm. This was on time but too late.

People who hadn’t reserved had got there earlier. But as I had reserved I got there later but yet I was not allowed in.

There is an illogic at work here but I was unable to kick up a stink about this because it wouldn’t have been very om to be emitting fury outside a yoga class where I should have been calming down.

So I had to remain at one with my internal anger. Another reject was on the pavement outside.

She said: “Tonight is the first time I’d reserved and there was no place. Usually I don’t reserve…..”

I suggested going for a drink to drown our sorrows but once I’d unchained my bike I realised I didn’t have any money.

Laura said she had cash. So I followed. She also had an invitation for the opening of the Y3 shop in Rue Etienne Marcel.

She bumped into a few people from Bread and Butter on our way and we had pre-opening drinks in one of the bars near the shop. Once we were all sat down at a table I was asked if I was involved in the fashion business.

No. I was actually just out for a yoga session hence the reason for my appearance. “Don’t worry,” said one of the B&B men. “You’re wearing the right track suit.”

It was only when I got in that I realised that Y3 was a link up between Yohji Yamamoto and Adidas.

Hanging with the black clad brigade of the beau monde was an impromptu treat. I stuck with the orange juice figuring that if I started on the wine, I’d end up tottering and since I was in outré garb of grey sweatshirt, a holey blue track suit bottoms and black plimsoles, that would make more of a spectacle of myself.

And to a certain extent, I was in my natural habitat. I loved what Yamamoto did for the kimonos in Zatoichi a few years back.

More importantly I’ve been an Adidas boy and man. Only a few weeks ago I was buying the Kaiser 5 football boot for the new season not to mention some Adidas shin pads. I have sported in Adidas ever since I can remember.

I think I once toyed with Puma Brasilia but that was because Pele wore Puma and my grand dad adored Pele and Brazilian football.

So I soaked up the spontaneity of the moment. The German PR girl stopped talking to me when Yohji came in and went off to take pictures of him and his gang of exquisitely buffed acolytes.

I’m pretty sure I saw Yohji looking over at me at one point. I’m going to keep a close eye on the boutique. If I see a line of trousers with holes in them I will demand some kind of creative acknowledgement.

If there’s nothing I’ll know exactly how Effie felt.

happy holidays

I was just preparing to plunge my hands into the washing up bowl on Wednesday night when the mobile rang. It was Neil asking if I was up for the second half of a Champions League match.

“I didn’t call because I thought you’d be guarding the children while your missus was at the day –feel- lays,” I said.

No, he retorted, “The défilés were last night.”

“So what’s the look?”

Neil told me that the look from Jean Paul Gaultier — which is where his missus is a designer — is of pirates.

“But wasn’t that 15 years ago?”

“We’re all pirates now,” Neil reminded me.

Well after my fashion update, the brigand in me wanted to just leave the dirty dishes there. But admirable behaviour prevailed. I completed the assignment, got on my bike and met up with Neil at the usual venue.

Quigley’s Point is an Irish bar near one of the side doors of St Eustache, a massive church that somehow seems belittled by the sprawling modern complex of Les Halles.

What I like about the area around the church is that it is well illuminated, animated but yet the building emits a powerful calm.

Chelsea under Jose Mourinho used to pump power and as I went over to greet Neil, I looked up at the giant screen to see Liverpool trailing at home to Marseille.

“Chelsea are two one up at Valencia,” he informed me.

“I’m off Chelsea,” I replied. He laughed.

We were watching Liverpool’s increasingly frantic bid to equalise when one of the immigration officers from the Gare Du Nord came up to say hello.

I’d bumped into her when I was at the bar with Neil sometime last season during a Champions League match.

“The last time I saw you, you were having trouble with that bloke…”

I told her that I saw him in the Frequent Traveller Lounge without his family. She just rolled her eyes.

We got chatting and she told me that her three-year posting to Paris was ending and she was off to work at Calais.

This would lead to no end of domestic difficulties as her partner worked for French immigration at la Gare du Nord but there were secondments she could do in Paris.

Neil suggested that she could get medical leave if I attacked her during one of my next trips through.

She pushed her lip out while pondering the crocked genius of it.

I must admit it was inspired but ultimately flawed but then he is an architect.

An architect hailing from north-east England. So Newcastle United Football Club is the logical team for him.

And in the days when Chelsea were falling short in the Champions League, he used to say: “At least your team is in the Champions League.”
Couldn’t argue with him on that. Now that I am teamless I just looked at the results and thought about the surprises of the night.

The Chelsea win at Valencia was a shock given that Chelsea couldn’t beat their struggling neighbours Fulham last Saturday. So coming from behind against a team that had five straight victories under their belts in the Spanish league was something of a coup.

After the Liverpool match we stayed and watched the highlights from the other games and caught up over a couple of drinks.

His girls are learning to play the flute and guitar. From next week for 10 days I’m going to have to be teacher to mine.

I went to see the teacher of the six year old at 8am this morning to find out what she’d have to do while she’s in America.

I squinted as the exercises were explained to me briefly. I’m glad I’m not going to school every day.

As for the tasks for the eight-year-old, they are much simpler. She has to prepare a review of her trip, taking in things like the people she meets and what she does.
And then she can present it all to the class soon after her return.

Her teacher says that she can catch up on the lessons missed during the half-term holiday in Paris.

We’re obviously entering the realm of hothouse holidays.