Creativity is supposed to flow during illness, says one line of literary ideology. Oh dear.
It's true that I've not committed anything to paper of late. But I have been productive.
I've generated samples on demand for various doctors and chemists. I have doused the sheets in rivers of sweat and as for my interactions with the toilet......
Still don't know what's wrong. I went to the doc on Thursday after a few days sleeping. She got me to walk through the waiting room with a little plastic beaker — which I did with a nonchalant dignity.
I offered some liquid into said beaker and walked back through the waiting room. People in waiting rooms have nothing better to do than look I guess. I decided it was the dashing pink Oxford shirt and light chinos combination that was catching their attention and not the hapless sap on the way back from his first instant urine sample at the doctor's surgery.
Today's blood test was more straightfoward. I dropped the boy off at creche. Forewent the coffee at Chez Prune and went into the lab. They had really good music on. Some classy jazz and there was a Nespresso machine available for general use just outside the cells where they deprive you of your blood.
I said to the doc as I left her cell: "You've got great music here. Please pass on the compliment to the boss."
She was genuinely pleased that someone had noticed. Clearly they must have had a recent meeting to discuss how people can be made to lose their vital juices in a much more harmonious environment.
The silky sounds of jazz.
"On the jazz" is a phrase often used in the A Team. It is supposed to denote a plan or series of schemes of impudent simplicity.
So the leader of the A Team, Col John "Hannibal" Smith, would often be praised for being "on the jazz".
And having used this opportunity of sickness to watch certain episodes from season 2, my only conclusion is that Stephen J Cannell, the co-creator of this particular 80s classic, has been on the jazz for many years.
Because I've been sleeping at times when I'm usually awake, I've been left awake at times when I'm usually asleep.
And for these junctures, I've wheeled out the Rockford Files starring James Garner. Recuperation is a joyous process.
The Rockford Files — which Cannell sired in the mid-seventies — are just such timeless vignettes of how to elude pomposity and venom.
Listening to Rockford talk his way out of a putative dead end has sent me off to sleep with a smile.
This bout of enclosure has also helped me solve a question which I posed a few months ago in parislondonreturn.blogspot.com and I think I have the answer.
The viewing of the Star Wars episodes has definitely got to be chronological even though I've just rewatched episodes IV, V and VI chiming in and out of consciousness.
True, because of this I've missed quite important slabs of denouement. But since I know the story quite well, I can safely decree the boy child — when he is of a decent age — will be shown episodes I, II, III, then after a day's rest— IV, V and VI.
I shall not turn.
If my present ailments do not allow me the force to actually perform this task myself, then it shall be put into my will.
Shares in houses and insurance funds are one thing.
Appreciating Star Wars is a matter of galactic import.
Friday, 9 November 2007
Wednesday, 31 October 2007
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?
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?
Sunday, 28 October 2007
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 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.
Monday, 22 October 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, 21 October 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, 20 October 2007
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.
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.
Monday, 15 October 2007
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.
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.
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