Something Else

It's been nearly two and a half years, and it's been a lot of fun.
But quite unexpectedly, I feel the need to take an indefinite break from blogging.
Writing about my life in this way (a dollop of truth, a touch of humour, a drop of fiction) gave me a slightly tilted perspective on the world and my tiny place in it... and that perspective suited me for a while.

The writing suited me too: a chance to flex my style by composing these short texts that constitute - when all said and done - a precious diary of the past two years.
The photos, the ideas... the sense that I could look at my life through a lense and distance myself from it, to a certain extent.

All of this has been great, and served a purpose.
And now that purpose has somehow trickled away or, rather, transformed into something else.
I have the vague hope that the modest time and energy devoted to the blog may be applied to another form of writing (ah! my ongoing novels and my stubborn dreams!). Or perhaps something else altogther: definitely reading, probably yoga or - less predictably, something arty.

Apart from the few loyal family members and friends who've visited me regularly on this blog, I don't know how many people have ever read (or enjoyed) it.
But let me say thank you anyway.
It could have simply been nothing more than a diary... but the fact that there were readers gave me the boost I needed to reflect, compose, cut and paste my thoughts.
Thank you for reading, commenting, discussing, joining in.

And, for most of you, SEE YOU SOON!

Flawed & Perfect

Wednesday - as I think you've probably gathered by now - is not always the most serene day in our household.
Though in theory we have few commitments and no need to rush, in practice, I am usually run ragged by mid-morning, sneaking guilty glances at the clock and wondering how I might possibly engineer the situation to provide me with half-an-hour of "me" time before I am literally too tired to stand up.

But, you know, all in all, it's fun.

Anyway, most Wednesdays include moments during which 1/ Someone is howling 2/ Someone is crying 3/ Someone is shouting.
And yes, I do mean simultaneously.
Just to spice things up a little, there will usually be one major meltdown, probably in public and frequently involving a merry-go-round (last turn on), a sugary edible substance or a disputed toy.
Occasionally, parental sanity has to be preserved via strident means, and thus a howling boy will find himself briefly confined to a single room... while the other people in the house try to pretend that nothing is amiss.

Yes, this is the down side.
But, but! If you happened to take a peak through our kitchen window this afternoon between the hours of 4 pm and 5 pm, you would have seen something that made you gasp. Gasp in true amazement at the perfection of it all: one boy diligently drawing an intricate picture, the other engaged in a serious-looking car game, one deliciously fragrant homemade cake baking in the oven and a classicial music programme on the radio.

Could life ever get cosier than this?
Like all encounters with perfection, this one too was fleeting.
But it is all I will probably remember of the day in question.

Floored, not flawed

One Week To Go

I don't know exactly when I started to divide the year up into half-terms again?

Actually, of course I do know when: last September, when BB started maternelle (kindergarten).
After a respite of almost 10 years (the time it took me to 1/ Finish higher education, and 2/ Have a kid old enough to go to school), the unavoidable "school year" calendar is back!
And, in all probability, here to stay for the next 20 years.

The funny thing is, though I never gave more than a passing thought to the notion of terms and school holidays during that 10 year "freestyle" interlude, since BB has embarked on his educational journey, the whole notion of a definite, longed for and absolutely vital "break" has become a central point of my whole existence.
Whereas before, I could work for a few months at a time, looking forward to nothing more frequent than the prospect of a summer holiday... now, the idea of working for more than - say - 6 consecutive weeks without a week's break seems intolerable.

I am counting down the days to the (slightly misleading) "February holiday" (6 days from now).
And even though I won't actually be on half-term holiday until the week after that (half-terms last 2 weeks here: merci la France!!), I long for the first day BB will get to loll around in pyjamas and defy the routine that serves us so well the rest of the year.

I suppose it's just another example of the ease with which we all become accustomed to "comfort".
And the multiple ways we humans find to mark the passage of time.

BB's Best Day Ever

The new fridge arrives at 7.45 a.m.
It's Saturday morning, and our modest lie-in is shattered by the brisk clank of the doorbell.
FH scrambles out of bed, pulling on clothes and stubbing his toe in the dark, while, in the next bedroom, two boys (awoken by the bell) start to whoop and holler.

I manage to slip into their bedroom just before the front door is pinned back and the gigantic object is heaved into our narrow hallway, closely followed by two sturdy, overall-clad specimens of virility.

"What's happening, what's happening?!" BB clamours excitedly, scooping up teddy and making a bolt for the door.
"It's the new fridge," I yawn, misty-eyed. This is what you get for refusing to set foot in a home improvement store (or whatever they're called) and demanding door-to-door delivery.
LB, who waits for no man or fridge, demands his milk.
I settle him down with a bottle (he is like a mobile phone whose battery must be recharged instantly every morning - the very second you flick him "on": failure to do so results in a very piercing and persistent alarm bell).

Once the milk has duly reached its target and revitalised the youngest member of the clan, we are able to proceed as one into the kitchen, where the new fridge stands tall, almost regal in its splendour.
Wow.
It suddenly becomes apparent that we have been surviving with a very, very small fridge all these years.
The four of us contemplate the beast, wide-eyed and slightly intimidated.
"It's big..." BB observes, in quiet wonder.

Turning our attention away from the mega-fridge, we suddenly notice that every square centimetre of surface space is occupied with fresh food: the entire contents of our old fridge (which has been abruptly unplugged and taken away by the same sturdy men who delivered the beast to our kitchen. Such is the harsh reality of life: survival of the fittest).
We are facing a pile of yoghurts, two bottles of milk, some cheese, and an assortment of other foodstuffs that must somehow make it through the day until the new fridge can be plugged in (in case you didn't know - I didn't, needless to say: you have to wait 12 hours before plugging in a new fridge, to let the liquids settle, or something).
No matter: it's still cool enough outside to transform the garden into a temporary fridge.

But. There's something else.
At the same moment, all our eyes settle upon a half-filled box. A pale yellow container with a flower on top. An innoccuous little box containing something that will not survive the day, even if placed outside.
Something that must be either sacrificed and left to melt... or else consumed at once.

Ice-cream for breakfast.

This is BB's Best Day Ever.

Great Expectations

Sometimes I wonder: all these enthusiastic excursions and activities... all these Wednesdays planned to perfection and overflowing with good intentions and multiple ideas for healthy, outdoor fun...
Who gets the most pleasure out of it all?

Throw that question out today to the two little boys in this household, and you'll get a quick answer flung back: Maman.
Yes, decidedly, Maman.
Because, really, it would appear that a brisk walk, a spot of play in the radiant sunshine and a few bites of baguette and cheese "à la campagne" are a parent's idea of fun.
3 year olds and 1 year olds have radically different opinions on how free time should be spent.

Alas, to cut a long story short (I'm sure you can factor in the enthusiasm / whining / tears / thinly disguised disappointment in the appropriate slots), here's the brief summary of "Wednesday with Mum".

I pack up a huge bag of stuff and heap of outer garments, and drive for over an hour to take them here:

It is glorious and serene and slightly on the cool side but oh-so-invigorating.
And one of them refuses to get out of here:

... while the other expresses his displeasure from here:

And finally, after sharing a slab of cheese and half a baguette in the car, I concede defeat and drive them back here:

At which point, my two whingy, tearful, complaining kids suddenly morph into cheerful little boys.
Back home. Just doing exactly what they always do: drawing, painting and pushing felt tip pens along the table top.

Hum hum hum.
Who was it said "youth is wasted on the young"?!


There is an enigmatic post scriptum to this humble tale.
As I was jerking the car into reverse and preparing to drive away from my "day of outdoor fun", I couldn't help but admonish BB: "you know, you really are too soft! OK, there's a SLIGHT breeze and it's a BIT cold, but this is nothing compared to the weather in England! It's colder than this in England, you know! And windier! AND it rains! You should think yourself lucky to live here!"
I don't know quite what response I was expecting from a 3 year old, but the solemn little words spoken from the backseat were certainly intriguing:
"Yes, I know Maman. But I'm not scared in England."

Ah. I squinted into the rearview mirror and caught BB's eye.
That shut me up.

The First Sip of Beer

The title is a reference to a book by Philippe Delerm, a book that celebrates a selection of life's simple pleasures.
I would highly recommend it to any romantic soul... though I should warn you that it has (quite justifiably) been dismissed as "too French" by someone who - er - is not French.

Anyway, that's really beside the point.
This Sunday marked not the first sip of beer but the first outdoor lunch of 2011. (The blustery picnic we cobbled together and forced the boys to "enjoy" in mid-January doesn't count).
That magical first lunch of the year that is preceded by the hesitant words "Mmm... you know, we could almost... I'd say it's warm enough to... what do you think?"

And it was warm enough. A table laid for three adults and two little boys, a dish of Provençal vegetables, fresh fish and a bottle of champagne... for no reason other than to celebrate the first outdoor lunch of the year. And because - in my humble opinion - champagne goes best with unplanned moments, its taste so much sweeter when it celebrates "nothing in particular".

It's not the end of winter. But it's a glimpse of the beginning of the end.
And LB has a rosy sunkissed nose.

Personal Statement

The other day at work, I was asked to read through and correct the so-called Personal Statement of someone's son... who was applying for a coveted place on a degree course at LSE.
The French applicant (aged 23) had written the statement in English, so maybe the pompous style was partly due to the fact it wasn't his native language (or style).
But as I read more about how he was "really ambitious", "absolutely passionate about finance" and "so eager to learn more about financial trading"... part of me tensed up.

I try to be open-minded and non-judgemental, I really do.
But I suppose - like most people - I fail at that most of the time.
So hey ho, let me be honest here (and drop the pretense of open-mindedness): my overwhelming thought as I read this poor guy's application was please God, don't let either of my sons turn out that way!

That may sound strange, right?
I suppose it IS strange, in a way: finance and trading being a fairly worthy (and very lucrative) career by most people's standards.
But I don't know: the sheer dullness of it all... the overwhelming seriousness of this 23-year-old and his money-based "ambitions"... Well, it all just rattled me somehow.
Shouldn't 23-year-olds be more concerned about travelling the world, or saving it, or defending an endangered species or free education? Should they really be so keen to throw away their ideals for a fat pay cheque and the "privilege" of earning a fortune by working their hair grey in just a few years?

Probably I'm not giving our future trader enough credit.
We all know there's a lot of blah, blah, blah involved in most application letters, and who knows? Perhaps he only wants to shoot up the corporate ladder in order to retire at 30 and devote his time and earnings to some worthy cause?

But I know deep down that if either BB or LB one day asks me to edit such a letter... there'll be a tiny drop of disappointment in the pit of my stomach.
I know, also, that we can't live out our frustrations through our kids... and that, if they turn out to be corporate high-fliers, I'll have to embrace those choices, too.

But.. I can't help but hope their dreams will be sprinkled with art, and music, and travel and teaching, and social work and - I don't know - landscape gardening?

I guess that my hopes are those of a privileged generation of parents, for whom higher education is a given, not a bonus.
But they are mine, nonetheless, and if I can somehow foster a spark of idealism in my boys... I will.

Home Alone

February 1st: my first bout of sickness so far this winter.
I suppose, with hindsight, it was inevitable. Only last week I heard myself boasting to a couple of sniffly colleagues: "It's amazing! None of my family has been sick so far this winter! You know, I really think our immune systems are tip top now..."

Yes, naturally, I deserved to get sick after such a blatant flouting of superstition.

So, yesterday afternoon I writhed about a bit at crèche, fuelling suspicions that "no. 3 is on the way."
No, no, no, absolutely not.
But you know how it is: you puke up at crèche in front of a gaggle of mothers, and the rumour is launched. It will probably take another 6 months to demonstrate beyond any doubt that it really was just a tummy bug.

I then made a quick "sick stop" on the journey home - much to LB's disgust - and proceded to be sick for most of the evening.

Today, I feel better, but really: what's the point of rushing in to work with an empty stomach, a headache and a pressing urge to be horizontal?

This is the new me: the one who is kind to herself.

Today it's home alone: just me and the soft purr of the washing machine: that unique feeling of physical weakness mingled with euophoria: I have a day to myself! No pressure! No expectations! Just rest up and get better!

From the Mouths of Babes

1/ We're driving along, just me and him, when - entirely out of the blue - BB decides to treat me to his most comprehensive and breathtaking demonstration of bilinguilism so far.

"Maman, in English, CAR. En français, VOITURE!
In English, HOUSE. En français, MAISON!
In English, WINDOW. En français, FENETRE!"

Open-mouthed, I swing round to stare at my triumphant little BB, sitting smugly in the back seat.

I am so astounded I almost crash the voiture.

2/ FH is in the midst of a DIY frenzy. In typical FH style, though, the first few days (weeks) of the frenzy involve a good deal of ripping out and tearing away and not a whole lot of improvement.

Such is the current state of our bathroom. With no sink, no shelves, no cupboard and a lot of haphazard plaster all over the walls, no-one could really claim that the room is at its most advantageous.

Except, evidently, the son of the DIY fanatic.
Call it family loyalty, call it the innocence of the young... BB, on discovering the "new" state of his former bathroom, was heard to exclaim:
"Oh, papa! C'est TRES joli ce que tu as fait!"

Ah, if only I could find it in me to be so encouraging!

FAQ no. 1

Who knows why some days, weeks or months are so much better than others?

I have spent almost 33 years living on this planet, and I still don't get it.

I have a few tentative thoughts on the matter, a flash of inspiration here and there.
But nothing surefire and irrefutable.

Maybe it's all down to an imperceptible hormonal shift?

A sudden increase in the amount of natural light (we have had 10 days of unbroken sunshine here, albeit freezing cold sunshine...)?

A husband who welcomes us home with a hug rather than a scowl?

Or perhaps it's not so much the external stuff as the way in which we choose to position our own blinkers?
The tiniest shift in perspective and the light falls differently: on my job (a fleeting intellectual buzz), on motherhood (a privileged time to be savoured, not a challenge to be battled through on route to something else), on Toulouse (a place where the pinky morning light falls perfectly across the river as one cycles to work). And so on.

I don't know why or how these shifts happen, but I think I know that we can strive to influence them, at least a little bit.

But when I read what a wiser woman than I wrote on her blog, I knew a big part of the answer lay within:
Why can't it all just be great?
It CAN be great. It can't be perfect, but it can be great.

A Bird in the Hand is Worth...

The infringement of wildlife onto our little urban oasis continues.
After the mouse in the kitchen (last summer), this Sunday morning kicked off with... a bird in the bedroom.

OK, it was just a sparrow. But, if you're not quite 3 and a half, and just emerging from an 11-hour sleep, believe me: the sight of a sparrow hurtling towards you in the semi-darkness is pretty scary.
I know, I was there.

So, BB was frantic, LB was bemused, FH was flustered and I was trying to be mature about the whole thing. You know, to set an example (or whatever it is us mothers are supposed to do).
And the sparrow... well, he was absolutely terrified, from what we could see.

As FH tried to coax him out from under the bed of the frantic child, the bird stole its chance and made a kamikaze dive for the bedroom door.
It was at that point that I totally gave up the attempt to appear calm, and released a tragic, piercing shriek of my own.
See, I was standing right by the doorway, and so got a nice bit of "wing-lash" as birdie rocketed past.

Well, after that, FH was well and truly on his own.
I barricaded myself into the bedroom with the boys, slipping effortlessly and gratefully into "women and children first" mode.
It's amazing how a mere whiff of danger sets us right back a century or two.

A few minutes later, FH announced that our winged friend had been shown the door.
I insisted he swear on the Bible and a few precious people's heads that this was no lie, knowing FH's penchant for the "say what they want to hear" theory.
He promised.

So, it wasn't even 8.20 a.m., and we'd already experienced major drama. It was definitely going to be "one of those Sundays."

But on the upside, at least that explains the unfathomable noises we've been hearing above the boiler for the past few days.

LB, always cool in a crisis

Upward Spiral

Friday night, and I'm going out.
In the car, on the way to Sophie's house, I tap my fingers on the steering wheel and bask in the sense of freedom afforded by the darkness, the classical musical, the warmth of the heater and the prospect of the evening ahead.
All the lights are green; I buzz once in the frosty air and Sophie is down in a flash.

Now there are two of us in the car, two bottles of wine, some homemade cakes, a dab of lipstick.
We laugh about something silly that happened earlier, wonder whether I have enough petrol left to get us to Marie's flat and back. Sensibly, I pull in at the next petrol station and pump 10 euros' worth of petrol in. All I have on me is a 10-euro note: the petrol station guy is mighty impressed with the precision of my filling... and Sophie and I have a laugh about that too as we drive off.

Marie greets us with a hug; we proffer our chinking bottles of wine.
She's wearing fluffy slippers, and her new flat is cosy and elegant: we spend a good 20 minutes touring round and exclaiming over the details, though there are only 50 square metres to explore.

Marie is proud of her new corkscrew, but in the course of her bottle-opening demonstration, the cork splits and tiny splinters flutter into the very, very nice wine that is 10 years old and most probably not improved by the addition of bits of cork.
We have a real laugh about that, as we clink glasses.

The hours pass, and sometimes we are all talking at once, all laughing at once, or repeating that same anecdote from 2007 that we all know word for word... that we are embellishing as the years go by, in unspoken agreement.
We laugh about our colleagues: the usual idiosyncracies... the annoying habits that we mimic with affection after the third glass of wine.

Later, we talk about when we were children. We didn't grow up in the same country, of course, didn't watch the same TV programmes or speak the same language... but the way we feel about it all is the same, and that's all that matters.
Then it's 1.30 a.m., and we should really get home to bed.
We chatter our way to the door, chatter through the coat and glove ceremony, chatter our way down the stairs and back to the car and home.

Sophie and Marie and I have worked together, in the same unpretty office, for over seven years.
We see each other practically every working day.
If I think about it, I spend more time with them than anyone else, FH included.
We have had a couple of cross words in seven years: one or two misunderstandings and uncountable hours of conversation and laughter.

There is never a sliver of silence between us.
I never stop to censor what I say in their presence.
They know just about everything that has ever happened to me, and I'm pretty sure I know how they feel about most things.

Sophie and Marie don't know I write a blog. Somehow - through an unavoidable technicality - they got classified into the "colleagues" category in my mind, and I consciously decided not to mix blogging and colleagues.
So the chances are, they'll never read all of the above.

There is absolutely nothing extraordinary about the things we do together, or the conversations we have.
There is absolutely nothing extraordinary about our friendship, in the same way that there is nothing extraordinary about the routine of daily life.
Except that - from time to time, in a flash of lucidity and gratitude - we realise that all this so-called ordinariness may well be the rock that holds us together.

As unbelievable as it sounds, it was only last night that I finally saw what was right in front of my nose, so close I overlooked it for seven years: these are my friends. What would I do without them?

I have spent a lot of energy moaning about the fact my job doesn't provide me with the intellectual stimulation I expect.
But perhaps, in a way, I've been missing the point all along.

Mid-Meeting Musings

Yesterday, approximately two hours and ten minutes into a meeting that was scheduled to last one hour, I got to thinking. Not about professional stuff, of course (nothing so radical) but rather about time-wasting, mis-management, human nature... and then - naturally - I was a mere step away from contemplating the entire purpose of life.

As you can see, meetings tend to provide me with a real stimulus for reflection.

What I thought was: here we all are, talking about the possibility of work, debating the various ways in which we might work, reflecting on the potential obstacles that will prevent us from working... but not, of course, actually doing any work.
And then I started to do a few loose mental calculations: 9 hours wasted this week in meetings, 4 hours spent on "official" coffee breaks, roughly another 4 hours spent in "unofficial" conversation with my chatty open-space neighbour, 6 hours on lunch, 3 hours on polite conversation with visitors to the open space...

Give or take a bit, that all adds up to 26 hours, does it not?
The official working week is 35 hours. Except I only work 4 days, so in theory, I'm only working 28 hours.
And that's when it hit me.
2 hours.
That's about all the time I have left to squeeze in some actual work.

Is it any wonder I have the feeling I never actually get anything done?

OK. Next step: how to re-phrase all of the above and turn it into a professional-sounding formal request to work from home?

"Shirley?" asks my boss, suddenly. "Anything to add?"

"Oh, yes," I smile, snapping back to attention. "So, what's the actual next step? What do you actually want me to do?"

Blank, disconcerted, awkward, embarrassing.
After a brief pause, the discussion resumes.

Flying Pigs

The world is a-changing, folks.
Two years ago, a black man was elected President of the USA.
And yesterday - for the first time in history - The Firm's Special New Year Meal (a cousin of the equally renowned Christmas Meal) offered.... a vegetarian option.

OK, this radical new option was not actually on display or anything. It was merely hinted at by a lowly member of the canteen staff (a mere table wiper, if you will)... who passed on the rumour of its existence with the hesitant air of a druggie whispering the name of a dealer.

It had to be asked for. And the first waitress to whom I mentioned it responded with a look of complete and utter blankness. The second one too, actually.
But the third one nodded gravely, instructed me to wait a moment, bobbed out into the mysterious "back room" of the canteen... and reappeared minutes later with something strongly resembling a vegetarian paella.

My hands trembling, I beheld the dish of yellow rice that was placed before me.
No doubt: this was a turning point in the culinary history of south-western France.
Us vegetarians (or rather: I, vegetarian) can at long last exist alongside the eaters of pigeons, innards and fattened geese. We can approach the ordeal of the twice-yearly meat fest with serenity. We can come out of the closet! Vegetarians of France, je vous ai compris!

Frozen in Time

Our fridge was a donation from the in-laws. It came to live with us in our first rented flat in the Marais in Paris: a lone domestic appliance with only a cardboard box-cum coffee table and FH's student sofabed for company.

The years passed and the furniture clan grew slightly: eventually, there was a small oven to snuggle up to, a "real" bed (well, a futon) and a Swedish bookshelf.
The fridge wasn't pretty or special, but it did its job, survived one move, then another and another and another... with never so much as a rumble of complaint.

It has been with us for over 10 years, though it's actual age (unknown) is probably more like 20.

And now, one marriage, two kids and 10 eventful years later, the fridge is nearing the end. Though it bravely rattles on - stoically cooling the dozens of yoghurts and family-size packs of child-friendly cheese spread we stuff into it week after week - it is starting to show its age.
Were it a human, it would be wheezing and spluttering and crawling into bed for a nap.

Touchingly, it is only now that the end is near and its performance waning that we have started to actually notice it. Oh the injustice of life! Years and years of silent service without so much as a second glance... and yet now, as it struggles towards its last breath, we finally stop, take a look, poke around inside a little.

And the inevitable decision is made: our old fridge must be replaced.
Such is the unforgiving nature of life. Though - if it's any consolation, dear fridge - you should know that, had you fallen into any other household, you would probably have been replaced years ago. In a way, you got lucky.
You fell into the hands of a couple whose materialism thrives in the form of clothes and footwear... but ceases to exist completely when it comes to domestic appliances.

In fact, the mere burden of selecting and acquiring a new fridge tires us. After a few timely clicks on the laptop, FH announces he's found a suitor, and asks if I want to see it.
I don't.
Just order it, I mumble from behind my novel. Domestic appliances, like car problems and certain Swedish furniture stores, are my own personal hell. A sort of quagmire of boredom, the simple prospect of which makes me snappy and irritated.

But, while FH sighs and does the necessary, I do have a passing, tender thought for you, dear old fridge.
I think: you served us well, though you weren't flashy or modern or pretty by anyone's standards. You are part of a different era: you belong to a young, penniless couple setting up home together, an idealistic man and woman who didn't think twice about plonking an upside-down cardboard box in the middle of their living room, and calling it a coffee table.
They just don't make 'em like you anymore. And in a funny sort of way, I'll miss you.

With or Without You

Prior warning to more romantically minded readers, in case there is any confusion: this really is a positive post overall.


It's a funny old thing marriage, isn't it?
Or perhaps - less funnily - it's just my marriage??

Here I was thinking, "great, FH is off to Paris for 2 days: a break!"
Those of you who don't know FH so well may well raise an innocent eyebrow at this point and inquire candidly "a break from what?"
I shall demur and reply simply: "a break from those little foibles and idiosyncracies that are part of every individual's character... and which may occasionnally seem unbearable when one is over-exposed to them".

In a nutshell: 2 days without lost keys, misplaced objects, DIY experiments gone awry, gormless looks of utter incomprehension when confronted with simple questions, diverse opinions regarding the nature and timing of children's bedtime, empty yoghurt pots down the side of the sofa, etc, etc (yes, I know it sounds mean... but whose husband is perfect?!).

2 days during which I will be the Boss*

And yet, and yet. As is always the way, just a few hours into our short separation, the usual, baffling scenario has played out: I miss him.

The cynical may retort: you just miss the extra help!
Perhaps. But personnally I have long suspected that it was Bono who hit the nail on the head**.


*Although the other two remaining members of the household may not quite have grasped this.

** We finally walked down the aisle together - 8 years ago - to the sweet sound of U2's "Beautiful Day". Even I - though something of a realist in matters of the heart - could not quite bring myself to suggest we get married to "With or Without You"

11 Commandments for 2011

1/ I will be a fervent defender of my precious free time. I will make time for those people who truly inspire me, and forget the others.


2/ I will not live my life according to a sense of obligation.


3/ I will travel as much as I can; I will cover kilometres and kilometres and make unreasonable journeys in order to spend a few hours with the people I care about most.


4/ I will know when to take time out: I will greet my solitude like an old friend.


5/ I will read The Economist every week, to keep my brain ticking over.


6/ I will read at least two novels every month, because escapism is a necessity, not a luxury.


7/ I will continue to write - even if I only write one page a month.


8/ I will not be brought down to earth by those who fly the flag of reality... as though amazement and day-dreaming were reserved for the under-5s.


9/ I will not RUSH. If I arrive at work half an hour later than everyone else, SO BE IT!


10/ I will not compare myself to other mothers. Especially not unfavourably.


11/ I will be imperfect. Because, even if I fail at all of the above (see points 1 - 10), no doubt the universe will continue to unfold as it should...

Resolute

BB and me, on a train to Paris / A bus-ride through a slushy city / BB's trusting hand in mine as we clomp down to the metro / The bravery of my big boy, who never once asks to be carried / A hot bath in the hotel / Nana's arrival / A half-bottle of wine and some Marks & Spencer salads / BB and his colouring books, beautiful and neat / Christmas day, snow in Paris / Three generations in the back of a cab / A random Christmas lunch of chips and wine, a shiver of pleasure, the unexpected rightness of the untraditional Christmas traditions we are making up as we go along / Another train, to La Rochelle / FH and LB, on the platform / A reunion, a bridge, a house, "our" Ile de Ré / The ocean, vast, grey, vibrant, alive / Coffee, and wine, lots of wine / Ferrero Rocher and card games / Reading in silence / Biting cold air on an almost deserted beach / A strengthening of the core as vitality returns / A place, an anchor / FH and me, on a train to Paris / The last night of the year / A barge, Notre Dame, the Seine, the Eiffel Tower, friends, surprise, heat, a glow / Dancing, dancing, dancing / A touch, a look, a smile / 6 am in St Germain des Près / New shoes and cold hands / Coffee, croissant, train, sleep / Happy


Each little memory poured into the void: the listlessness is crushed and dispelled.

Some photos to follow, and perhaps some resolutions, too.

HAPPY NEW YEAR 2011
Moment by moment