The Top Man

Usually when I work the extra day in London I am tired by the third day. My poor sensitive system cannot cope with the rigours of the third day. Especially if I go out on the night of the second day.

So sure enough when I woke up this fair Tuesday morning, I did not feel like a third day. But trooper that I am, I have trduged into the office to perform my functions.

On opening up the emails I found that the saxophonist who played at dad's funeral is playing in the pub next door to the Guardian tonight.

Well book me in. Tommaso Starace was dad's saxophone teacher a few years back. While clearing up dad's flat just after I got the news of his death, I saw cards dotted about with Tommaso's name and numbers. I remembered that dad had got me to listen to one of Tommaso's CDs just after it came out.

I called Tommaso and left a message on his phone to say that if any lessons had been booked then obviously dad wouldn't be coming and also to thank him for giving the lessons because I knew that dad had really enjoyed them.

I left it at that but while I was going over to my sister's for lunch I thought wouldn't it be good to hire Tommaso to play at the funeral.

Tommaso texted me back, we spoke and he asked me if I wanted him to play at the funeral. I said I'd foot the taxi bill. He said there was no need to do that.

At the funeral I gave the eulogy after Tommaso's solo of 'Round Midnight. I just about held it together for the oration. Outside the crematorium afterwards when I saw him I burst into tears and gave him a huge hug - you can do that kind of things with italians. He'd made the service for me.

He consoled me and said it was an honour to play at Victor's funeral.

I've emailed Tommaso to say that I will be there on Tuesday night to listen in. He's written back to give me an idea of his agenda. Playing at the Royal Festival Hall's open space and then up to the Cross Kings to play with a few other chaps in an Anglo Italian band.

I had lined up an evening of sorting out dad's stuff.

I think this is one time I can change the plans. It doesn't matter if I get home round midnight.

The Lull

While there is no tennis to watch on the TV, nor any football, surprise surprise it's been cricket and the newsroom today was bubbling before lunch as England wrapped up the second test against Australia.

It wasn't that confident a win really.

England were bossing proceedings on Sunday when they'd reduced the tourists to about 120 for 5. But then there was a doughty partnership which took the score to 313 for 5. That was 209 runs off the victory target.

From a position of overweening confidence to anxiety. Would England snatch defeat from the molars of victory?

Andrew Flintoff hadn't read the script and decided to help England win the test. It was their first victory at Lords against Australia since 1934.

Made for a buoyant newsroom.

The New Goal

I shuffled onto a tennis court the other day to begin the preparation for the 2009 journalists' tournament at Roland Garros. Last year I lost in the first round.

I was out of shape having been in Beijing for a month and out of practice. This year I intend to be only one of those two. I'm not quite sure how much practice I'm going to get but I can at least dedicate myself to avoiding too much excess.

I played the match after going out till late watching a few African bands at a place called Cabaret Sauvage. Indeed the venue was stashed away and it was pretty wild when the bands came on.

One was called Konono No1. Their sound was through some old speakers which had been bought from a failed politician. It was like listening to music in a pressure cooker. Not that I've ever done that kind of thing - though with the hot housing I plan to do on the tennis...

The other band was Staff Benda Bilili who were a group of disabled street musicians. They put out a sound which was pure dance.

Which is exactly what I did. So I wasn't exactly twinkle toes on the tennis court the next morning. Well at least one lesson is implanted: don't go out dancing the night before a match.

Probably knew that anyway.

Almost Back to Life

I haven't been going between Paris and London of late.

It's been more just getting rid of the working days in Paris to get back to London so that I can obey the housing association's ludicrous desire to have me out of my dad's flat. I was initially told July 22 but then in their letter, they said July 19.

Phone calls last week asking for someone in authority to look at the details of my plight don't seem to have borne much fruit. So I ferret away at my dad's flat before I come into work. I thought I cut rather a pathetic figure at 7.15am going through the papers.

Everyone's going on about the right to die and euthanasia what about the right to pick up the pieces in dignity?

I have to say the whole process of dealing with death is bleaker when there's no time to contemplate the minutiae of someone's life.

It's bad enough having to tear up letters and throw away pictures but doing it because some barbaric bureaucrat says there are deadlines to respect?

Yet it is not good to wallow in what was so to a certain extent it is good to be pushed. Part of the legacy is to embrace the what is and it struck me as I came into the Guardian this morning that I hadn't seen my children for more than a week. The little sweeties.

They're with their grandparents up in Bedfordshire and I speak to them but it is all very disorientating.

It's probably just as well that the football season is over and that I've been able to go out drinking on a Friday night in Paris with my mate Eric.

Friday night out? Well it was all so exciting. I even went to another arrondissement. I gawped in shock and awe at the wonders of the 18th.

More like I gasped in shock and awe after cycling up and down and round the labyrinth of streets to find the restaurant.

At least it was a freewheeling test of the bike's brakes down back into the 10th. Maybe next Friday we'll try somewhere on the flat plains.

Back to Life

I was humming the Soul II Soul tune to the girls as we got off the metro at Chateau D'Eau to go home. "Anyway you want it....however do you want it, however do you need it...."

it's probably the first time they've heard me singing for the past few weeks.

They stayed in London with me to help me go through my dad's things. And my little helpers did me proud, folding up clothes to take to the clothes recycling bank.

We got through the wardrobes and now there are only shirts left. I have acquired quite a few extra things. Don't know how they will fit into Paris.

Must try and relocate my routine over the next week before I go back to London to continue clearing up my dad's flat. The housing association has given me until to July 19 to get out of his flat.

I have written to the Wandle housing association asking for a bit of flexibility in getting out. The housing association has decided to be callous.

One of the functionaries wrote to me offering her condolences, thanks for your letter explaining your difficulties she said, but get out.

I guess another letter should wing its way to them and I should do my utmost to get out of their hair. What a bunch of clowns. I take the death certificate round to their offices and they can't even be civil enough to give me a decent amount of time to get out of the flat.

My old school mate Chris is coming over to Paris this week. He has just been on the phone and he mentioned that it might be best to be away from the flat quickly.

Well I'll be gone as rapidly as possible. Can't deal with a bunch of clowns. Appropriate that the Star Trek episode I was watching was called Bread and Circuse.

The Drought

In the waiting room before all the action of dealing with dad's death, I was able to cry some more today. This time because the blub king of tennis Roger Federer finally won the French Open.


I have been in Paris watching finals he has lost abjectly. This year I was in London not watching and he won. So that's 14 and the career grand slam. Now we can watch the tennis at Roland Garros with the Federer monkey off our back.

I am glad to have had at least one jolly (Roger) bit of news this weekend.

There's grim stuff to come but am at least certain that dad was happy with his life at the end. And you can't be unhappy about that.

The Unwanted Trip

Of all the trips between Paris and London this is the most painful. I was phoned just after playing football on Saturday morning and told my dad had died.

The team was celebrating coming top of the division and I think they were just about to break out the champagne. But I said my quick farewells not telling anyone of the news.

The middle child went out to a party and we told her and her big sister late in the afternoon. They were distraught.

I was on the train heading to London just on the verge of entering the administration of bereavement. I am upset because I was looking forward to going out for a coffee with my dad on Monday week before work.

He hadn’t called to say he was feeling unwell which he was perfectly capable of doing. And I hadn’t spoken to him for a week. So the whole thing is startlingly sudden.

For someone who had been suffering from prostate cancer, I always thought the demise was going to be in a hospital room accompanied by a bedside vigil until the end.

Preparation time. To hear after a game of football ahead of a weekend of French Open finals was not in the script.

I am not sure if I’m going to sign off from parislondonreturn for a few days or not. There was a heap of tales to tell about the end of the football season and even the tennis.

Not quite sure if I’ll be able to focus on those as there are trips to the mortuary to get to grips with and clearing up my dad’s flat.

Onerous times ahead.