The Rest

I swapped shifts with a colleague and it has been instructive. I worked for him on Tuesday and so I've been off today.

'Off' is a loose way to regard things. Clearly I should have been off on Tuesday because I woke up this morning - no this is not a Blues song - and was so exhausted by the amount of administration that was looming into sight that I went out for breakfast.

I came back, opened a few files, arranged a few bank statements - the children seem to have more money than me - and then decided I'd had enough.

I went back to bed and slept. Obviously all too much for a frail petal like me.

But since my restart I've felt energised. Lunched well and in the still quiet before the wars (the children) arrive, I can dally with my blog and feel there has been achievement.

Perhaps I felt enhanced by a note from one of my doctors to his colleague.

My main doctor - let's call her Dr Chaumie - since that is her name - was away one summer and her replacement Dr Dumazy - no not made up - was her replacement.

When he met me you could see the euro signs roll round in his eyes. I said I needed a doctor's note because I wanted to play in the Roland Garros journalists' tournament. I also required a note to say that my heart was OK for football.

Dr Dumazy whipped out his cardiogramme and before I knew it I looked like one of the Borg.

The squiggles weren't right. "This calls for expensive testing," I muttered to myself and sure enough I was steered towards a cardiologue.

Now any self-respecting man of a certain age should have a cardiologue. And this one put even more terminals onto my extremities.

As far as I remember there was something which wasn't right but it wasn't wrong. I was sent away and told not to worry as it could be my ethnology.

Ah that be serious then.

Three years later. Doc Chaumie was on her summer hols and when I made the appointment with Dr Dumazy, I thought he'd dust off the cardioscam.

Not even. We chatted Olympic games as he cut to the chase and wrote a note to the cardiologue of yore.

At least he put in the note that I was 'sportif'. Which is probably Hippocratic oath code for you book the table and the drinks are on me.

End of the Dream

I am disappointed. I've just received an email from the Olympic site organisers informing me that the entrance near Hackney wick overground station is to close. 

That is a shame as it was very near the press centre and didn't involve running the retail gauntlet at Stratford. There are rather loftily entitled places called the Eastern, Western and Southern Gates. 

But they don't seem to be near any of the much hyped transport hubs. 

I can only assume this is being done for safety reasons and we can't complain about that. 

Were I looking to create a stir I would dub this Gategate. It's a scandal that we're being funnelled into tight spots.

But I really shouldn't complain. I've just seen in the Guardian that The Voice - Britain's biggest selling and oldest newspaper for the Black community - isn't being given accreditation for the Olympic stadium.

The paper is outraged as there are vast numbers of British athletes with Afro Caribbean backgrounds. The paper does have three other reporters allowed to roam the games but many wondrous things will happen inside the stadium and the paper won't be there to witness it at first hand.

Voicegate and Gategate - all within about 20 minutes. And with the continuing rain lashing down on our fair capital, we are on the cusp of a Watergate.

The Rain

It was the wettest June on record and if the 15 days of July are anything to go by, it will be the soggiest July since records began.

 So what? The tour of the athletes' village was a sun-kissed journey into the sustainable future. There was the bus which got lost on the way to the village from the media centre. 

There were the hurried interviews with the athletes' village mayor Charles Allen and there were the perfectly hidden toilets.

But most of all there was the green. Massive open spaces and a swathe of trees. When the athletes have departed, the area will be renamed East Village and be home to all kinds of incomes. 

That's enough to regenerate the cockles of my heart.

The Football Dad

My life as a football dad started on Monday July 9. It began in absentia.

I was in London while registration for football lessons for the boy was in Paris.

It meant that the missus had to stand in line for 47 hours for the lad to get on the course. I felt this was an abandonment of my paternal role.

It will be the missus who has to take him to the course as I will still be shuffling around the park on Saturday mornings when it all begins.

Strange really. At least there won't be any chance of living out my dreams through him for the moment. I couldn't become part of the Olympic Family in absentia. I went to the Olympic Park this morning to get my accreditation put into a lovely plastic holder.

I also put my name down for a trip round the athletes' village on Thursday. I will find out later if I have been accepted. The Mayor of London, Boris Johnson, will be there on Thursday. That should be interesting.

The park looks wonderful. They're still putting the finishing touches to it. And for the most part the helpers look helpful.

Going to the park from Stratford is a set a set-up. You have to run the gauntlet of shops and the urge to succumb to expenditure is immense. I faltered by the Cafe Nero. A macchiato and croissant were enough to gird my loins for the trip inside the fence or into the heart of the family - the international broadcast centre.

Once there I was sent off to the accreditation office and it was so painless. But then I've been used to accreditation centres at the Africa Cup of Nations. So anything other than that is going to appear scintillating in its efficiency.

There is another bonus to the Olympic dream. I am allowed to travel in the six zones of London for free until August 15. Quite what happens if you want to go to Hampden Park in Glasgow to see the football is a mystery.

If you have to pay, that will be a deep hole into any company's pockets. A snap train journey in Britain isn't cheap.

Might perhaps send you into a depression. Still I know one place where you can shop your way out of the anxiety.

The Confirmation

There's been far too much fun in the house of late. And I've been living a life far beyond normality. Went to church and had the bishop confirm me along with about 16 other people.

A few were being baptised and it was all very Italian with god parents hanging around, photographers and there was a moment when I didn't seem to have room to kneel at the front to get me blessing. Oh woe. I muscled a little place and the bishop did his thing.

The family came and the boy did the decent thing and fell asleep about 15 minutes into the extravaganza. Must have had something to do with the party the night before.

Well if there was ever a good reason to stay out till 2am, that was it. So out we went for food after the confirmation service and Le Grand Corona was serene. Said hello to the boss and sympathised with him as he'd just come down with angina. Next thing we know we were being offered aperos on the house.

All that was left was to send the children up to him to say thank you.

Come Monday and it was lunch with the eldest after her tennis lesson.

As we sat in the restaurant, I said my what a life is this. Sunday supper in the 8th, Monday lunch in the 16th. By this reckoning I will be skint by Tuesday and on the bread and cheese.

Or perhaps that should be bread and wine.

The Holiday part III

Wow wines galore. In fact it was a hyper market of the stuff at a place called the Cave des vins. Fortunately it was not underground. Had enough of subterranean ventures at the chateau at Breze. A chateau beneath the chateau was its unique selling point. And we wended through caverns and dungeons and underground bakeries. Would be a god place for a party or a film. But it was grey and cold and they must have suffered in days of old.

Loire version 2012 is not as hot as Loire version 2011. But 2011 was mighty warm and that was freaky. I have enough layers so that is a good thing.

And the owners have set the heating on. So it's cosy in the morning and not horrific at night. In between it means that you have to go out or get chilly.

But with so many chateau to choose from who would want to stay in. Chinon, Breze. Whar a wonderland.

The Holiday Part II

What I've always found fascinating about self catering holidays is the self catering.

But of course to do this means a trip to the hyper market or travelling with a car load of food. As we did not voyage packed with vittels, Monday has meant a trip to the Super U. Super it was was and U it was cold.

I can't argue with that really but I thought I'd gone into the tundra. When you end up doing the shopping in gloves you know that they take their food conservation seriously.

It fair knocked me out. I had to retire for a siesta while the children watched Harry Potter part 3. Something to do with the prisoner of Azerbaijan.

The eldest let slip that she found Harry Potter quite attractive. Might have something to do with the fact that he is the hero and solves problems. Guess I know what type of bloke she'll be bringing home in the future.

Man of action. That should really help send me into decrepitude. But I think I can do that very well myself.

The moustache project doesn't seem to be progressing apace.

But this is not something you can really do anything about. I looked at the table for the football team and from what I can gather the team is in the relegation zone, not on the fringes of it but actually in the zone with three games to go.

I sincerely hope the star players will be available for the crunch three matches otherwise it is division 3 next season and that would be a real drag. Might win some games.