The Art House

Quite incredible. For the second time in a week I found myself cycling down Boulevard St Germain. This time I was en route for the L'Arlequin cinema in Rue de Rennes.

I had it in my mind that it was a plush venue to see a film. It was not. But at the same time it wasn't a dive. Maybe I as confusing it with somewhere else. Though where that elsewhere is now escapes me.

There was a lovely cinema in London called the Lumiere. It was in St Martin's Lane and I used to go to watch late night art house numbers there when I was a-courting in the city.

But that was London in the late eighties. This is Paris in 2008 where I can now go to the movie house for a reduced price thanks to my Carte Famille Nombreuse.

And you don't even need the children to enjoy these things. I love France.

I saw Peter Greenaway's latest offering: Nightwatching. Usual cinematic feast. It was about the painter Rembrandt fulfilling a commission to paint some soldiers in Amsterdam — The Night Watch
(The Company of Captain Frans Banning Cocq and Lieutenant Willem van Ruytenhurch).

There was one particular scene which struck me as masterly. The Rembrandt clan were having an alfresco meal in the countryside. They all piled onto a table and formed a tableau. The camera receded to show white sheets swaying in the wind in the trees.

I thought wonderful. Simply wonderful. I was hoping for shots of decaying apples and oranges which seemed to permeate Greenaway films of yore. Didn't see anything of that sort this time. Like the fruit, he has matured.

And the narrative was more comprehensible than earlier films such as the Baby of Macon or the Pillow Book.

I emerged enlightened visually and intellectually.

The Final Tablet

Perhaps I should have had more ceremony. Perhaps it should have been a lavish meal. I took the final malaria tablet. It was a simple repast.

As I was eating I wondered what it must be like to eat alone often. I rarely do this at home. The noise of four others fills out the meal usually. And it's punctuated either by the eldest wolfing down her food, while regaling us with her mind's incidentals or complaining that the middle one is lingering.

Or there's just the horror that the boy has regurgitated some clump of rice and meat. Oh it's animated.

Tonight it was just me and my malaria tablet.

Now that it's down I have to be wary for a few months at the slightest sniffle. It could be the onset of something far worse.

I wrote an email to the captain of the football team to say that I would be again available for selection from March 15.

That will be nearly two months out what with the trip to Ghana and the school holidays. Knowing my fragile frame, I'll probably do myself a mischief and be out for a few weeks as soon as I kick a ball in anger. But we must be brave.

I have resumed my training programme and so I cycled over to the radio station this morning. To embellish this resurgence I planned to stop off at the Piscine Pontoise on the way back home.

It was a mild afternoon and I crossed the river to join Boulevard St Germain just by the Assemblée Nationale. It was a pleasant ride, not too much traffic and I was able to see the posh boutiques and cafes along the route

I even stopped off at the Bang and Olufsen shop as it was advertising a sale on display items. Helas anything vaguely within my price bracket had long gone.

But I do know where I'll get my next TV.

I eventually reached the swimming pool. I read the notice that it was closed for cleaning between February 25-29. I went in and asked for a ticket for a swim.

The man pointed at the notice and of course said it was closed.

I said I'd seen the very same poster and registered the information. Sadly the twirl of foam bouncing between my ears couldn't process the data.

I'd gone through a whole day not knowing the date. What kind of state is that?

Me at the Bang and Olufsen shop thinking I could buy something. Unaware of the date. Perhaps the rambling, delusional symptoms of malaria have already kicked in.

The Church Visit

Since I spent a good amount of time on the roads in Ghana praying for deliverance, it seemed only right and proper that I go to church on my first Sunday back.

At St Michael's the service has the benefit of being in English. And since that's my mother tongue, it does help unravel the mysteries of the almighty. Then again a service in French might be a mystical experience. But I did have enough of those during the road trips in Ghana.

St Michael's is run now by someone who used to be vicar at the church at the end of my road in south London, so there's a certain amount of familiarity with his modus operandi.

What's strange is the area around the church. St Michael's is off the Rue du Faubourg St Honoré which sports some of the top shops. Going along the well scrubbed road just before I went to Ghana, the eldest gasped at a garment that cost 1,500 euros.

"Can you buy me that?" I asked.

Given that I had refused to purchase a Nintendo XXV456LVXYMK4-443 or its upgrade - she naturally refused.

I missed the window shopping with my disinterested girls before the service.

Church has changed in my lifetime. When I was a bairn, there were wooden pews and gritty sermons. Now it's comfy chairs and coffee and biscuits before and after the service. Altogether more humane.

I've never bought into the line that God was all about suffering, distress and having a poor experience of life on earth.

Then again I did notice an inordinate number of churches in Ghana.

The Repose

Solitude is mine once more. The school holidays have taken the family to England and so I've been deserted. Of course that's a gross exaggeration but there's no one here to rein me in.

I took the girls to school for 8.30am. They told me when I picked them up three hours later that there was only a handful of children in school. So they stayed in their classroom and played.

Well there's lip service to the end of term and there's just stupid posturing.

But since I took them away to America back in October for 10 days to see their great grand father, I feel it's only right to have them there right until the end of term.

We phoned him in Jamaica today as he was 91 on Friday. We all wished him a happy birthday and he seemed pleased. Even his two year old great grand son managed to join in with a few murmurs.

It was quite moving.

And just as I was getting used to the raking sounds of my children, they've gone. And all I've got is the ticking of my mind.

I'm not yet sure if that is a boon. But what is undoubted is the unlimited access to my video and DVD collection. There's no need to share the TV screen.

This is almost too much. Where do I start? Quality time with me, myself and I.

Perhaps the four Die Hard films. I was going to take those to Ghana but opted for the Matrix trilogy and Star Wars.

I was a tad disappointed with the Matrix. I didn't remember how number three ended so it was something of a surprise. But I still felt let down for some reason. Maybe it was the heat outside.

Nearly a week back in Paris. Ghana does seem so far away. But while I'm taking the malaria tablets, I still feel slightly exotic.

The Readaptation

It's astounding how quickly I've resumed normality. I've taken the boy into creche and as was my wont I've returned to Chez Prune for a coffee afterwards even though a new cafe on the approach to creche looks quite appealing.

I'm quite pleased about the familiarity. It's so reassuring.

What's not so thrilling is the news from the medics. The nurse at RFI told me to be wary should I get a cold or fever over the next couple of months as it could be malaria.

That's good to know. I've got another four days of the malaria tablets to go and then I'll be free of that concern.

They're a bit jumpy at the radio station about the tablets. This follows the demise of one employee who came back from an assignment abroad and didn't take the tablets once he got home to Paris.

Suffice it to say there was an opening in his department.

I will be vigilant.

Of course the full reimmersion will only begin once I recommence training for the football.

Nothing quite as highpowered as the Africa Cup of Nations just the veterans league.

Ultimately it's all about goals.
F

The Voyage Home

Go Ghana Go was the exuberant cheer which enveloped Ghana's participation in the Africa Cup of Nations. I often heard Go Black Stars Go.

And the chant was valid until the semi final defeat against Cameroon 11 days ago. It was in currency for the third place play-off against Cote D'Ivoire nine days ago.

But now all the Black Stars are back with their clubs around the world. And me, the faithful follower of their footballing fortunes, well I'm back in Paris.

Gone Ghana Gone.

I was whistling Soul to Soul's song Back to Life as I wended my way through Schipol this morning to catch the connecting flight to Paris.

It's a summery tune and it seemed apt as heat is where I had come from. It was -4 in Amsterdam.

I was wearing my flip flops and a tee-shirt. I was also wearing a pair of trousers.

And because I'm a sober sort I had packed an anorak, a pair of socks and shome deck shoes for the final thrust home.

The night flight is perhaps the best way to do the airwaves for me.

The food was wheeled out and I took a couple of small bottles of red with my pasta bolognaise concoction.

I was so becalmed - hardly surprising since it was about 11.15pm - that I couldn't dredge up the energy to watch Elizabeth The Golden Age. Cate Blanchett, who regales us as the regina, is one of my favourite actresses. Maybe it's because she reminds me of a girl I used to step out with.

Whatever.

But not even La Blanchett's cheekbones rising wrathful towards the red thatch could halt the march to slumberland. Go Bess Go. Paul's Going, Going. Gone.

I was perhaps still sleepy as I went through the baggage check at Schipol. It didn't seem too horrific.

I was obviously reintegrating into my natural context.

Gone Ghana Gone.

The Chill Out

In a former incarnation I used to get up, have a light breakfast, jump on the bike and cycle over to Tooting Bec Lido where I'd swim anything up to a mile before getting out.

I'd then continue breakfast at the poolside cafe or with things I'd taken along myself.

This was the summer time idyll.

All that came to mind when I woke up on Friday at the Busua Inn. I got out of bed, put on my trunks and took a dip in the ocean before returning to the inn's terrace for coffee and toast.

It's all so simple. Sea, splash, relax. And I'm to the manor born.

I followed the same pattern this morning and I can safely say that it would take quite a while for me to become bored with this regime.

It's probably just as well that my ticket back to Paris is for Sunday evening.

I head to Takoradi in a couple of hours for the four hour coach ride to Accra.

I'm not looking forward to that. But with any amount of joy there must be suffering.

And have I been joyous.

Busua is a zone as yet unspoilt. The beach stretches on and on. The fishermen cast their nets into the sea of a morning and heave them in as a synchronised unit of muscle.

The hotel/restaurant looks out onto the sea and that is the main sound. It was difficult to be churlish about the cock crowing or the reggae pounding out this morning.

That is the vibe.

Three weeks of football, three days on the beach. The structural incompetence of the tournament seems so far away.

As a place to work, Ghana has been a nightmarish gridlock of perceptions. But when time can melt into the distance, it is a dream.