The 18

I note that my tennis hero Roger Federer is into his 18th grand slam final. He's won 13 of 17 so far. His losses have been three times at Roland Garros and at Wimbledon last year.

If he wins in Australia on Sunday he'll equal my previous hero's record of 14. 'Pistol' Pete Sampras was a monster at Wimbledon. He won seven there, five US Opens and twice in Australia. None in Paris.

Sound familiar?

The Strike IV

Everyone seems to be angry with Sgt Major Sarko.

Nearly a month into the new year and a day of action. Or should that be inaction. General strike - grève générale or as the wags put it rêve générale.


I didn't stop to ask anyone with this daubed over their jacket why it was a rêve. My mistake as there were quite a few in the Petit Chateau d'Eau when me and the bairns went in for our snack at tea time. As I have been reading in the papers: people are upset over their lack of spending power and the fact that there are job losses aplenty.

At this juncture it seems to me that if you have a precarious position that it is not the time to go and possibly jeopardise. But I guess one day off isn't going to tilt things that much.


Maybe we should have been out there demonstrating. Though I don't think that a demo is any place for a child. It could turn nasty.

Instead after lunch we did improving things like read books - well that's what the eldest did. The youngest had his siesta while me and the middle child watched the A Team on the sofa. Or rather she watched the A Team while I nodded off.

I am a big fan of the do-gooding heroes taking the side of the underdog against overwhelming forces. And somehow it seemed the apt programme for a day of action.

As the lead into the show says: 'If you've got a problem and no one else can help, maybe you can hire the A Team......'

Get on that phone Sarko.

The Wellcome

A rainswept Euston Road is not the most alluring of sites but I braved it nevertheless to go and visit the Wellcome Foundation. It has loads of scientific stuff which isn't normally my kind of thing. But having left Paris at the crack of dawn and arriving a bit later in London, I thought I ought to do something with my mind before work.

The exhibition War and Medicine showed us that while we now have increasingly sophisticated weapons which can maim and kill, there are now increasingly sophisticated methods of repairing the human body.

It was a bit too gory for me. But one thing I did like was the interactive human body where you could press a switch and bits like the large intestine or appendix would light up.

Never had one of those at school.

After my trip on Friday round the Jeu de Paume to see the Robert Frank snapshot of pictures, I'm feeling suitably nourished intellectually.

Thanks to the same wonders of technology that can rip human flesh from its bone in the blood spattering of an eye, I am at my desk at the Guardian waiting for the day at work to begin and watching the Novak Djokovic Marcos Baghdatis fourth round match at the Australian Open.

I arrived to find that Roger Federer had to come from two sets down to beat Tomas Berdych. Not the cruise to grand slam glory that fans like me would want.

But methinks his days of conveyor belt victories are well behind him and he'll do extremely well to equal Pete Sampras's haul of 14 slams.

But I should concern myself with actually having a backhand. That would be a welcome addition to the repertoire.

The Alternative Saturday

Deprived as I was of combative physical exercise, I decided to go for a swim. Actually I was pushed off the sofa by the boy and decided to go and commiserate with myself in the pool.

The piscine is a glorious place when no on is there and at just gone 7am on a Saturday morning no one is there. In fact it was so alluring there might be a case to scrap the football and do the swimming.

Especially when I can spend it with the darling sweeties. I took the daughters to buy some yoga mats and on for a chocolat viennois.

They were then lunched. The middle child came with me to the radio station while the eldest went home - her belly full of confit de canard and pommes sautees.

Me and the mid kid spent the day at work with me working and her dooing drawings, reading and playing computer games away from the excoriating criticism of her big sister and the niggling tendencies of her baby brother.

I get the feeling the mid kid would love nothing more than jumping on the train with me and doing more of the same in London.

Wouldn't mind it myself.

The Cancellation

Just as I was getting geared up for Saturday morning's exertions, an email arrived to say that the match has been cancelled.

Gutted. Sick as a parrot. I was ready for a big game. But it will have to wait for another morning.

So to console myself it's time for one of the Rockford Files. It's guest starring Susan Howard who later found fame in Dallas or was it Knot's Landing. I dunno. It's a google kind of thing.

I don't need to google what another of the guest stars went on to do. Sharon Gless is in another one of the Rockford Files and she became Cagney or Lacey.

I never watched the programme. More of a Starsky and Hutch kind of kid was I.

In fact given my affinity with American cop shows of the 1970s, it's a wonder I never entered pub quiz teams. But for that I'd have to go to a pub on a regular basis.

And that wouldn't help my football.

The Waiting Room

It's so easy to yearn for warmer weather. This time last year I was dousing myself in mosquito repellent and broiling to a crisp in Ghana.

Now I get to sit in a waiting room at Streatham Common station and ruminate about life's great ride.

I had a curious conversation with the ticket seller at St Pancras International on Monday night. I asked for a ticket for Tuesday morning from Streatham Common to St Pancras.

And he said: " You mean Streatham?" .

"No," I replied. "Streatham Common."

"The train doesn't stop at Streatham Common it's from Streatham. They're two completely different stations."

"I know that," I said showing no hint of irritation that 40 plus years of using the stations should have afforded me.

"The website said that the train stops at Streatham Common."

"No it can't unless they've rerouted the entire network round there. It's 5.46 at Streatham."

And with that flourish he told me to look at a board of the routes. And indeed they showed me what I already knew.

I even asked him to check the station the train stopped at before Streatham. "Was it Tooting?"

He looked and he couldn't elucidate the stop before Streatham.

Obviously his stance slightly worried me. Had I been so tired that I incorrectly jotted down the information from the website.

I took the train to Streatham and another onto Streatham Common and sure enough 5.43 at Streatham Common and 5.46 at Streatham.

He was right and so was I. But he was very wrong to say that I was wrong.

The upshot was that I shuffled off for the walk to the nearer Streatham Common this morning and thought how kind of Thameslink to lay on an early morning train from my local station which takes me right to St Pancras International.

This cross border train travel is a breeze. Though I loved Waterloo, I always had to change to get there from Streatham Common.

Streatham Common to the Gare du Nord on two trains.

Now it's just a matter of waiting for the Thameslink service to be removed.

Matchday VII Post Mortem

The match actually started at 9.30am. And not 11am as some of the emails suggested. I had planned the morning for 11am.

I had breakfast and toast and set off for Aubervilliers. Fortunately all the connections came and I got to the pitch in enough time.

I didn't have enough time to do my warm up routines fully and I had just finished my second lap of the track when there was screaming about whether I wanted to go on. One of the players who was just back from injury injured himself and limped off with a gammy groin.

I thought it was too soon to be in the fray and took over being linesman.

I think I should have taken my chances on the pitch as trying to be an official is not my idea of football. Especially when one of the opposition liked standing in an off-side position and then running back onside.

Left me baffled and I allowed play to go on once when it should have been off-side. Oh well err on the side of the opposition is my motto. Not likely to endear you to your team mates.

The opponents scored through some flukey goal and though I observed from the sidelines quite a few chances for us, they didn't go in.

Of course my introduction at the start of the second half changed the course of the game. And it ended up with a 2-1 win to us. I didn't set up any goals, I'm not sure what I contributed but I was on the pitch and we won.

The kindest thing to say is that I gave the defence something else to think about. A different kind of movement.

A win and no muscles pulled. A result.