Well it only seems like yesterday that we were being passed into the ground. Division 2 is ours again as we roll out for the new season.
The first match. The tension is mounting chez moi so much so that I went to a yoga relaxation class tonight.
The teacher, Michelle, got us into a downward facing dog and then onto our knees and told us to lunge forward and then try to pull back a foot with one hand.
I was most upset that cramp kicked in as soon as I tried. I thought it was a test of balance. Maybe my legs haven't been strengthened this week by cycling.
In fact there's been a singular lack of cycling this week and then I was denied my morning plunge in the pool.
I was put on boy watch duty at 6.15am as he didn't want to sleep anymore and I was conveniently placed in the sitting room listening to the radio and getting ready to go to the pool.
I gave him breakfast and we ended up watching Thunderbirds till his sisters were roused for school.
By the time I started losing focus in my tennis match I realised I'd been up a good four and a half hours.
I was burnt out. Cramp at 7.30pm was - like our descent last season - inevitable.
The watchwords for the season: short passing game/pass and move.
And with apologies to Madonna: Get into the groove, boy you've got to pass and move that ball to me yeah.
Let's hope I play better than that flourish.
Friday, 26 September 2008
Thursday, 25 September 2008
The Club
It was cocktails at the Tennis Club Boulougne Billancourt. All courtesy of the journalists tournament there. I got talking to a man from the club and I think I'll sign up there.
I'm going to go for the life of contrasts. The chic environs of the west of Paris and the hard urban edge of the city's north-east.
The polarity will be good for my soul. No chance of getting too chummy with the quasi country club clique.
But it did feel like a tennis club, lots of courts and the setting is there too.
Having once belonged to a tennis club in Streatham that is important. Somewhere where you can just go and spend a few hours, play and watch other people play.
At the Streatham club, they stopped for tea at 4pm. I don't think they do that sort of thing in Paris. But I won't find out without joining up.
I'm going to go for the life of contrasts. The chic environs of the west of Paris and the hard urban edge of the city's north-east.
The polarity will be good for my soul. No chance of getting too chummy with the quasi country club clique.
But it did feel like a tennis club, lots of courts and the setting is there too.
Having once belonged to a tennis club in Streatham that is important. Somewhere where you can just go and spend a few hours, play and watch other people play.
At the Streatham club, they stopped for tea at 4pm. I don't think they do that sort of thing in Paris. But I won't find out without joining up.
Wednesday, 24 September 2008
The Restaurant
Cafe life is so tough. It conjures up so many choices. Sitting here on Avenue Parmentier at the whatever it's called by Goncourt metro station and I'm wondering whether I should go and try the cuisine at some place called Chateaubriand on Saturday night.
Just how far can you go by reviews? Some say the place is over trendy and the dishes aren't that big. But then sitting on the terrace at the whatever it is called, some people arrived and started smoking.
When the smoke came my way, I asked the bloke if he could possibly send it in another direction. His mate began telling me outside was free space and inside there were smoke free zones.
Talk about touchy, just a request to divert the smoke if possible not a demand to stop smoking. Anyway Martin Luther who was going on about free space told me that the wifi was affecting his heart. I offered to turn the computer off but I don't think that was the point of his argument.
Actually, Martin, your smoke is doing more harm to your heart than my computer but when Martin, his mate and their chum all flicked their fag ends into the kerb, I realised these freedom loving citizens and me weren't ever going to see eye to eye.
And since I have a computer to protect, it's probably best no to get into a fight with this sort.
Now back to the Chateaubriand question. That's much more of a meaty issue.
Just how far can you go by reviews? Some say the place is over trendy and the dishes aren't that big. But then sitting on the terrace at the whatever it is called, some people arrived and started smoking.
When the smoke came my way, I asked the bloke if he could possibly send it in another direction. His mate began telling me outside was free space and inside there were smoke free zones.
Talk about touchy, just a request to divert the smoke if possible not a demand to stop smoking. Anyway Martin Luther who was going on about free space told me that the wifi was affecting his heart. I offered to turn the computer off but I don't think that was the point of his argument.
Actually, Martin, your smoke is doing more harm to your heart than my computer but when Martin, his mate and their chum all flicked their fag ends into the kerb, I realised these freedom loving citizens and me weren't ever going to see eye to eye.
And since I have a computer to protect, it's probably best no to get into a fight with this sort.
Now back to the Chateaubriand question. That's much more of a meaty issue.
Tuesday, 23 September 2008
The Test II
The brilliant idea backfired spectacularly. It wasn't a three minute assessment. It lasted nearly an hour. Fortunately I got away with it as the girls more or less occupied the boy for about 45 minutes while I ran around with a few people who were more adept than me.
Alain said he'd call me. But will he?
Oh the angst.
But this being tennis, it's only up to a point so to speak. The children didn't cause havoc in the club house.
So even if the backhand is deeply dodgy, there's something going right somewhere.
Alain said he'd call me. But will he?
Oh the angst.
But this being tennis, it's only up to a point so to speak. The children didn't cause havoc in the club house.
So even if the backhand is deeply dodgy, there's something going right somewhere.
Monday, 22 September 2008
The Test
It's becoming quite forensic this search for the tennis club. I'd like to think this thoroughness is a result of the PD James novel that I've just finished reading. It was called The Murder Room. It seems an appropriate title for a crime writer.
I started reading it on the way back from Beijing. It took my mind off being 400,000 feet up in the air and also kept me from playing with my reclining seat in Business Class.
After all I didn't want to look like a six-year-old.
And I've been very mature about this quest for the tennis club. After going for a test the other night and being told I could join a group to buff up my skills, I went to one of the sites where the members can play. It's up at Porte des Lilas in the north-east of the city. Not too far on the metro from where we live.
I've never been to Porte des Lilas and there's a huge project to green up the massive roundabout there which is criss-crossed by roads leading to the péripherique.
The state of the outdoor courts are appalling. The indoor courts seem fine and I got chatting to the site manager who told me that the site was going to be demolished and relocated to spanking new courts just where the cranes were. This was not far away at all.
He obviously told one of the club members that I'd been sniffing around.
Because Alain asked if I'd been up to the covered courts this afternoon. I said that before dishing out the cash I thought it wise to see what the facilities were like.
He couldn't fault my logic because it was flawless. The upshot is that Alain now wants to test my lack of skills so he can allot me to an appropriate group of similarly benighted wannabes.
The only snag about the test on Tuesday night is that while I was arranging that the missus was organising a night out with one of her mates who's visiting from England.
It's good to come home and share the day's developments.
Knowing how important my tennis is to me, she offered to rearrange it. Knowing how insignificant it is in comparison to her chance to go out with her mates, I said I'd try and get a baby sitter.
But then as I ate supper and my blood sugar levels were being bolstered, I was hit by a second swing of logic. Just take the children with me.
It's not going to require more than a dozen sweeps of the racquet to assess how I fit into the lesson scheme of things. The girls can surely entertain the boy for the three minutes or so of my assessment.
And if they can't, then maybe I should be concentrating on my parenting skills rather than my dodgy backhand.
I started reading it on the way back from Beijing. It took my mind off being 400,000 feet up in the air and also kept me from playing with my reclining seat in Business Class.
After all I didn't want to look like a six-year-old.
And I've been very mature about this quest for the tennis club. After going for a test the other night and being told I could join a group to buff up my skills, I went to one of the sites where the members can play. It's up at Porte des Lilas in the north-east of the city. Not too far on the metro from where we live.
I've never been to Porte des Lilas and there's a huge project to green up the massive roundabout there which is criss-crossed by roads leading to the péripherique.
The state of the outdoor courts are appalling. The indoor courts seem fine and I got chatting to the site manager who told me that the site was going to be demolished and relocated to spanking new courts just where the cranes were. This was not far away at all.
He obviously told one of the club members that I'd been sniffing around.
Because Alain asked if I'd been up to the covered courts this afternoon. I said that before dishing out the cash I thought it wise to see what the facilities were like.
He couldn't fault my logic because it was flawless. The upshot is that Alain now wants to test my lack of skills so he can allot me to an appropriate group of similarly benighted wannabes.
The only snag about the test on Tuesday night is that while I was arranging that the missus was organising a night out with one of her mates who's visiting from England.
It's good to come home and share the day's developments.
Knowing how important my tennis is to me, she offered to rearrange it. Knowing how insignificant it is in comparison to her chance to go out with her mates, I said I'd try and get a baby sitter.
But then as I ate supper and my blood sugar levels were being bolstered, I was hit by a second swing of logic. Just take the children with me.
It's not going to require more than a dozen sweeps of the racquet to assess how I fit into the lesson scheme of things. The girls can surely entertain the boy for the three minutes or so of my assessment.
And if they can't, then maybe I should be concentrating on my parenting skills rather than my dodgy backhand.
Thursday, 18 September 2008
The Quest
After my horrendous exhibitions in the two journalist tennis tournaments I've decided - and I mean really decided - to take matters in hand.
I will join a club. I've spent a good part of the day trawling through the internet in search of a tennis club. The Fédération Française de Tennis claims that tennis is a sport réservé à tous. Right.
Try looking for a club to join.
I have furrowed my brows and I eventually said to the missus tonight that things must be going well if this is the extent of the stress in my life.
You're havin' it too easy boy. But as a diplomat once told me: enjoy the fallow periods when they come because when it's on, it can be on for a long time. Was it really me working those 18-19 hour days in Beijing?
Well, yes it was.
Me and the lady went off for lunch this afternoon at a local Corsican bistrot. Was recommended by neighbours on the 4th floor. And rather than going to our usual haunt of Le Petit Chateau D'Eau we tried Le Balbuzard. And though the leaks in vinaigrette were a bit watery, the rest of it was wholly nourishing and for 11 euros per head and a lavish 6€ for the wine. Well weren't we happy.
The idea afterwards was to go to the Orangerie to look at the pretty pictures. But there was an exhibition of Richard Avedon at the Jeu de Paume so we walked round that instead.
Martina Navratilova was there too. Clearly she knew we were going to be there.
Avedon extravaganza wasn't at all bad. More comprehensible than the stuff at the Pompidou. At least it was human. All about faces and people.
What I liked especially was walking out into the Tuileries on a bright sunny autumn afternoon and seeing loads of people out doing the same thing. Existing. Enthusing. I particularly liked the Tuileries security corps who go round on bicycles telling people they're not allowed to cycle.
I never thought of that one.
What I did think of when I got back from yoga though was a relationship breaking down and there being no contest over who would have the children.
However the strife would be over the wine cellar. A bitter battle over bottles. I said I felt a short story coming on. The missus said each case could be a vignette and then it could end with champagne with the new partner.
We like the concept.
It sounds more plausible than people on bikes telling people on bikes that they shouldn't be on bikes.
I will join a club. I've spent a good part of the day trawling through the internet in search of a tennis club. The Fédération Française de Tennis claims that tennis is a sport réservé à tous. Right.
Try looking for a club to join.
I have furrowed my brows and I eventually said to the missus tonight that things must be going well if this is the extent of the stress in my life.
You're havin' it too easy boy. But as a diplomat once told me: enjoy the fallow periods when they come because when it's on, it can be on for a long time. Was it really me working those 18-19 hour days in Beijing?
Well, yes it was.
Me and the lady went off for lunch this afternoon at a local Corsican bistrot. Was recommended by neighbours on the 4th floor. And rather than going to our usual haunt of Le Petit Chateau D'Eau we tried Le Balbuzard. And though the leaks in vinaigrette were a bit watery, the rest of it was wholly nourishing and for 11 euros per head and a lavish 6€ for the wine. Well weren't we happy.
The idea afterwards was to go to the Orangerie to look at the pretty pictures. But there was an exhibition of Richard Avedon at the Jeu de Paume so we walked round that instead.
Martina Navratilova was there too. Clearly she knew we were going to be there.
Avedon extravaganza wasn't at all bad. More comprehensible than the stuff at the Pompidou. At least it was human. All about faces and people.
What I liked especially was walking out into the Tuileries on a bright sunny autumn afternoon and seeing loads of people out doing the same thing. Existing. Enthusing. I particularly liked the Tuileries security corps who go round on bicycles telling people they're not allowed to cycle.
I never thought of that one.
What I did think of when I got back from yoga though was a relationship breaking down and there being no contest over who would have the children.
However the strife would be over the wine cellar. A bitter battle over bottles. I said I felt a short story coming on. The missus said each case could be a vignette and then it could end with champagne with the new partner.
We like the concept.
It sounds more plausible than people on bikes telling people on bikes that they shouldn't be on bikes.
Wednesday, 17 September 2008
The Water Baby
The Pompidou Centre was bathed in sunlight when me and the second child went there for afternoon tea. It was all something of deja vu.
In the morning I went swimming with the boy. I did this with the eldest and the second child and so it seems only right that he goes too. The swimming instructors greeted me like a long lost client - which is essentially what I am.
So me and the boy stayed and played in the water for 20 minutes or so. All very bonding.
As the eldest is off the Pompidou Centre - something to do with an orientation trip with school two or so years back - the middle one is the only taker for the bus ride there.
We didn't muck about with exhibition stuff. We headed right for the sixth floor and Georges for our drinks. She took the chocolat viennoise and I did look on the lashings of chantilly cream rather enviously as I supped my cafe.
She said she liked the exhibition too. I didn't take the brochure and have no idea what it was about nor who was involved. Must say it wasn't obvious to the naked eye.
I will go back and read up about it. Maybe then I'll get it. But whoever it is, it doesn't ooze accessibility.
I always thought that was the first rule of creativity. But then I'm very old school on that score.
In the morning I went swimming with the boy. I did this with the eldest and the second child and so it seems only right that he goes too. The swimming instructors greeted me like a long lost client - which is essentially what I am.
So me and the boy stayed and played in the water for 20 minutes or so. All very bonding.
As the eldest is off the Pompidou Centre - something to do with an orientation trip with school two or so years back - the middle one is the only taker for the bus ride there.
We didn't muck about with exhibition stuff. We headed right for the sixth floor and Georges for our drinks. She took the chocolat viennoise and I did look on the lashings of chantilly cream rather enviously as I supped my cafe.
She said she liked the exhibition too. I didn't take the brochure and have no idea what it was about nor who was involved. Must say it wasn't obvious to the naked eye.
I will go back and read up about it. Maybe then I'll get it. But whoever it is, it doesn't ooze accessibility.
I always thought that was the first rule of creativity. But then I'm very old school on that score.
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