ALLEZ LES BLEUS

Today was rugby day, hurrah! And not just on TV: I went with a few friends to the Twickenham Stoop to watch one of the quarter-final of the European Cup (on these shores, it takes the name of a sponsor, a huge brewing company from a country where they have never heard of rugby. Sigh!).

The loyalties in the group were divided: I was supporting the Irish province of Leinster, and everybody else was supporting the local team of the Harlequins. That latter preference was mostly based on reasons only distantly related to sport: namely, the good looks, or rather shape, of some players. In contrast, my own criteria for supporting Leinster are highly rational: I like their attacking game, I have always had a weakness for Ireland, which has grown stronger over the years... Oh, and I just discovered that the usual jersey of their team being blue, the Leinster fans often encourage their favourites by chanting: "Allez les bleus! Allez les bleus!". What is a (French)man to do?

I must regretfully report that being handsome and shapely does not always ensure victory. In a hard-fought match, where brawl and resilience were more decisive than skills, Leinster, despite being better known for the latter than the former, held on to a 6-5 lead in the face of some rather unsportsmanly conduct by Harlequins.

And that was not the only happy event that day. One of our party couldn't come to the match as his wife was about to give birth. The baby is not born as I write these lines, but I certainly hope he will be named Rocky, in honour of man of the match Rocky Elsom. Then again, it could be a girl...

I LOVE IT HERE

© Hugues Léglise

Don't you hate these expats who move to a country because the weather there is more lenient, but never bother to learn the local language, never make any effort to integrate into their local community, and keep bitching to other expats how backwards and deficient their new adoptive country is compared to "back home"? Well, I do.

I have always thought that unless you have been kidnapped from the verdant valleys of your home country, and brought bound and gagged to the unhospitable shores of some hostile nation, not making the most of living under different skies is more than a lost opportunity: it's a crime. You might think that ending up here is merely the result of a quirk of fate, and that your home is somewhere else. The truth is, somewhere in your family tree, there's a similar quirk which resulted in your being born in your native country, or indeed your being born at all. While you may understandably remain attached to the place where you spent your formative years, home is really where you are living at the moment.

Of course, I may bitch from time to time about my adoptive country. You should have heard me criticise France when I lived there! It is something we French do quite easily: we have what is known there as "l'esprit critique". Believe it or not, it's a good thing...

In any case, let me say today loud and clear: I love it in London! I live in a house, which would be next to impossible in Paris, I have friends from all over the world, I can taste, or cook, food from around the world, the cultural life is second to none... And maybe best of all, Paris is only a little over 2 hours away. Que demande le peuple?

ALL THAT IS GREAT AND GOODY

Today was a sad day for Britain, and for OK! Magazine: Jade Goody has just been taken to her final resting place, and the world is weeping. You probably think that I am goimg to be all sarcastic and disparaging about this heroine of our times? I must admit the thought crossed my mind. It would be easy, and tempting, to make fun of somebody so obviously stupid, vulgar and narrow-minded. But that would be forgetting who put her in the eye of the media in the first place.

Who can blame Jade Goody for having taken advantage of everything that came her way? Coming from a difficult background, completely devoid of any talent or marketable ability, she must have been thrilled to realise that the very qualities that made her an object of loathing and ridicule on TV, and probably off it, could also make her famous and wealthy. Of course, she is not the only flawed celebrity around. But while others have become famous in spite of their flaws, Goody's exposure came because of hers.

It is not difficult to guess why the producers of Big Brother selected her: somebody with such a big mouth, such poor judgement and such limited intellectual ability would at the very least provide comic relief, and hopefully (for the producers) be involved in some conflict or some cringe-inducing antics. In other words, give the audience something to talk about around the water-cooler. Was she ever happy to oblige!

What is more difficult to understand is how she managed to sustain her appeal enough to earn year in, year out a multi-million pound income, and be voted the 25th most influential person in the world... Yes, she was still willing to make a fool of herself on just about every reality show on the face of the earth. Yes, the same tabloids that had initially vilified her and campaigned for her early exit from the Big Brother house, couldn't get enough of her afterwards. Yes, the Prime Minister himself led the tributes on her death, and she was nearly made a saint for giving more exposure to cervical cancer (as if that was the reason why she had called on TV to film her last moments!).

The thing is, Jade Goody was ideally suited to an age where people aspire more than ever to fame, and at the same time are fed up with beautiful, politically correct, unattainable role models. With her around, the most untalented wannabes can imagine that fame and wealth are within their grasp. Better still, they can sense some kind of connection, and even feel a bit smug, when they see the celebrity struggle with the same handicaps as them, and come out rather worse than they would.

So, rest in peace, Jade Goody, and have no fear about your legacy. In all likelyhood, TV scouts are scouring the pubs and hair salons of Essex as I write.

DO I KNOW YOU?

One of the advantages of a blog over a regular journal, or an autobiography, is that you can say just as much or as little as you want about yourself. And what you say might not even be true: I did warn when I started this one that I made no claim to candidness. Will you believe me if I tell you that I have yet to take advantage of that latitude?

But even though I have so far never lied to my dear readers, they don't know all that much about me: I am French, I like food (I know, it's implied in the previous one, but at least you know some of the food I particularly like), I have a knack for insulting people from other countries (I know, implied), my social life relies heavily on a set of German foldable boxes... Quite sketchy, isn't it? If you have a fertile imagination, you might be thinking that such scant information has to hide some dramatic secret. Maybe I am some serial killer taunting the police with, in each of my posts, some cleverly disguised clues to my next vilainy - in which case I am probably playing it quite safe: how many of Scotland Yard's best are reading this blog?... Or maybe I am someone famous who has chosen the cover of anonymity to say at last what he really thinks. Not that my posts are hugely controversial, but between us, would you like people to know you wrote them?

Anyway, at the risk of disappointing the thrill-seekers, I am not a murderer. Too bad: it would make my posts so much easier to write! And probably so much more exciting to read... But does this mean I have to be famous, then? Indeed it does. Of sorts. Do you remember that I told you I had  appeared on TV quite a few times, and in different countries? Well, you may even have seen me; that is, if you like quiz shows. After all, if you read this, you must have a lot of free time. No, I am not Gail Trimble, and you are not about to see some photos of me, however tasteful. But I have appreared to this day in about a dozen individual shows, not counting repeats. I even won a few, and I have a small glass pyramid to prove it (the cash is long gone unfortunately).

Even apart from that invaluable addition to the decoration of my house (actually, it's in a box somewhere), this interest of mine has brought me countless fringe benefits. I have been offered a behind-the-scene glimpse of how TV shows are recorded, I have been able to talk with game show hosts who are household names, and to realise that however difficult the questions they ask, a monumental intellect is not necessarily a criteria for their selection... I even had the priviledge to stand in a public urinal next to a very famous French director!

One side effect that it did not bring me is instant recognition. In fact, nobody has ever told me: "Don't I know you from that show?". Of course, they may have recognised me, and not said a word to avoid being outed as a dork who watches quiz shows... Whatever the reason, I should be thankful. Nothing would make me more uncomfortable than to have complete strangers stopping me in the street because they have seen my face on their TV screen, and think they know me because of that. Still, you can't help wondering if you are that unremarkable. Ah, to be a serial killer...

IRELAND'S CALL

© The Guardian

The VI Nations tournament is now over, and I must say it ended with a bang: the final week-end was by far the most interesting, and the most dramatic we've had this year. France have gone to Rome, where they always seem to do well, and have managed to restore a small part of their bruised and battered honour, beating Italy 50-8. Still, the previous week's humiliation at the hands of an unremarkable English team will not be easily forgotten. Not by me anyway.

England have gone on to beat Scotland, still without impressing, and pip the French to the 2nd place of the tournament, thanks in no small part to Sunday's thumping.

More importantly, Ireland beat Wales in Cardiff in a thrilling game, and won the second Grand Slam of their history, and their first since 1948. As much as I would have liked to see France in their place, I cannot begrudge Ireland their triumph. They are the stongest Irish team in years, they have the best supporters, the few surviving heroes of the first Grand Slam were so gentleman-like, and looked so happy, and it was St Patrick's Day this week anyway. So, without the slightest hint of a reservation: hearty congratulations to the winners, and Sláinte!

UNIVERSITY CHALLENGE

© BBC

Do you know University Challenge? If you hail from the UK, and you have a television, there is no doubt you do. For those who haven't lived here, University Challenge is THE best quiz show ever to grace our TV screen. It was launched in 1962, and has been running ever since with only a few years' interruption in the late eighties.

The principle of the game is very simple: it pits two teams of four competitors from the best universities in the UK, to whom are asked very diverse questions of general knowledge. But the quality of the questions, as well as that of the contestants makes all the difference, and this is probably why the program has lasted so long. By most measures in fact, it is as famous here as Who wants to be a Millionaire: it has its catchphrase that found its way into everyday language ("Starter for ten"), and that catchphrase is also the title of a novel based on the quiz show, as well as of the film derived from it. Granted, the film did not win 8 oscars, and all you get for winning the four rounds of the competition is just a book-shaped piece of glass. But no game show on the planet has had so many contestants go on to become famous: actors Stephen Fry and Myriam Margoyles, writers Sebastian Faulks and Julian Fellowes, politician Malcolm Rifkind and David Mellor, journalist Jon Simpson, historian David Starkey or TV presentor Clive James all appeared on the program as students. I wonder how many The price is right alumni have known a similar fate...

In any case, there was a controversy two weeks ago, a bit of a storm in a tea-cup, as you often get in the UK. It was revealed that Sam Kay, a member of the winning team (Corpus Christi, one of the colleges of Oxford University) was not a student any more when the last rounds were recorded. After it was made public, the BBC decided to disqualify the winning team, and award their prize to the runners-up, Manchester University, who seemed less than pleased with the accolade.

The fact is, stripping Corpus Christi of their title was the wrong decision on many levels. First, without belittling Kay's contribution, he was part of a very good team with a truly exceptional captain. Gail Trimble, dubbed since "the human Google", scored personally a record 800 points over the whole of competitions, which is two thirds of her team's points. She has so impressed the UK public that men's magazine Nuts apparently tried to contact her to arrange a "tasteful" photoshoot. Yeah, right! Even the Independent, reputed to be a serious newspaper, was wondering in an article who could win Gail's heart. Can you imagine that if the team's captain had been a man? Of course, they would be thinking of his career prospects...

But what makes the BBC's decision even more unfair is that for reasons only known to them, they record the program in two stages: one in March, and the other one in November, or in other words, in two different academic years. Sam Kay, who was still studying when the first recordings were made, failed to get funding for his planned PhD, and had to start work in September, and so became ineligible. So, the BBC did stick by their rules, but those were made absurd by the corporation's own lack of common sense. In fact, it looks like Corpus Christi is being made to pay for a couple of recent, more high-profile, scandals that have involved the Beeb recently, and where they had been criticised for their lack of a quick reaction.

I personally remain unmoved, and still consider University Challenge to be one of the best programs on British television. All that it lacked was a (moderately) juicy scandal to while away the weeks until the next series: what more can we ask for?
Maybe some tasteful photos...

RED NOSE DAY

Today is Red Nose Day. For those who don't live in the UK, Red Nose Day is a hugely popular charity event that takes place every other year in the spring. On that day, people are encouraged to don a red nose, and generally raise money for charitable causes by making fools of themselves. Since it is something that I do quite naturally, and for free, I can't help but find this an excellent idea. At last a national event that plays to my strengths!

This year however, although I gave to the charity, I haven't done anything really foolish (I think...), so I thought I would just remedy that situation here. Maybe I went a bit over the top, though. I mean, the round glasses make me look a bit geeky...

THE JOYS AND PERILS OF SHOPPING

© Punkbirder

Although I live in West London, I had never been to Westfield, a new shopping centre which opened at the end of last year. A grevious oversight for more than one reason: non only is it impossible to retain my claim to coolness without having visited "the largest in-town shopping and leisure destination in Europe", but in these days of credit crunch, it is my civic duty to spend my hard-earned cash to stimulate the British economy.

So, having some purchases to make besides my usual food shopping, and being reluctant to travel into central London, I decided to head to the fabled shopping and leisure destination. The location is quite surprising for a place that boasts such a high-end image: it is located between Shepherd's Bush and White City, which is to say between a run-down residential area, a giant housing estate and an industrial area. Not really where you're most likely to find customers for the Prada, De Beers and Armani shops inside the centre.

Now, maybe it is testimony to the plebeian kind of shopping centres I had patroned so far, but when I arrived there, I was surprised to see a valet parking desk, where two people were expectantly waiting for customers. The parking being quite empty, and finding a place next to the elevators being no problem at all, I am guessing they had not had a very busy day so far. But they were very helpful, and gave me ample directions to the toilet. That is, the one one the ground flour of the centre two levels above, not the one located on the same level, which was reserved to their hypothetical customers. For a moment, I felt like asking them to re-park my car, just to be able to see those undoubtedly sumptuous lavatories, but I thought better of it.

As I went on to start my shopping, I soon had the impression I was being observed. I even imagined that one of the sales assistants in the department store where I was browsing was speaking about me to a security guard, but I tried to dismiss it as a bout of paranoia. Well, no sooner had I stepped outside the department store that two other security guards (the first one must have transmitted my coordinates through walkie-talkie) converged upon me. I thought my cover as an international terrorist and spy was finally blown, but as it turned out, the trolley that I had found at the local supermarket and taken along, expecting to have a lot to carry, was not allowed outside of the confines of said supermarket. When I asked why such a ban was in place, all they could say was that it was the centre's policy (they repeated it quite a few time, as if the number of iterations could somehow make up for the lack of details...). I briefly weighed my odds in a trolley chase through the arcades (I watch too many movies, and after all these gym sessions, I tend to over-estimate my athletic abilities), but I had to relinquish my treasured vehicle, luckily still empty at that point, and was left to speculate for the reasons behind the iniquitous edict. Maybe they want to promote their "handsfree shopping" service, where for a fee, a member of the concierge team (I know!) will collect your purchases after you. Maybe they think that the trolley would hide the labels on the beautiful designer carrier bags, and deprive them of a well-deserved source of advertising. Or maybe they have access to some recent study which has discovered that the World Trade Center towers were in fact brought down by supermarket trolleys, and the planes were only a clever decoy.

Be it as it may, I must say I was not overwhelmed by that first visit. As slick as they try to be, they don't seem to have got it just right yet, and I probably won't go back there in a hurry. Of course, having the nagging suspicion that I have been judged too white trash to be a valued patron doesn't help...

EDIT: I actually went back to Westfield two days later (a long story - even for me), and spent like a drunken sailor. I have no shame!

WHAT DAY IS TODAY?

© Associated Content

Today is International Women's Day, and although I like to think I support women, and everything that this day represents (apparently, it is also the day for women's rights, AND International Peace...), as a man, I can't help feeling a bit left out. You can probably argue that each one of the remaining 364 days in the year is in effect an International Men's Day, but it's not the same, and I would like something more official.

Luckily, there is no shortage of official, international days. When you go to the United Nations' website, as I am sure you often do, you can see that there is an International Mother Language Day, a World Post Day, an International Civil Aviation Day, and an International Mountain Day, among more than 50 others.

Still haven't found your dream day? Many other organisations also declare days of celebration. You have World Bread day on the October 16th (launched, rather unsurprisingly, by the International Union of Bakers and Bakers-Confectioners), National Pig Day in the States on March 1st, International stop-snoring week in April (please don't ask me how I know), and World Crochet Day on September 12th, to cite but a few.

All these are worthy causes, I am sure, but not ones that I feel overly concerned with. When is the day where we celebrate everything that is Abraham Septimus? Well, I have scoured the web extensively, and it seems my day is yet to come. But I am keeping faith! And anyway, Friday is Red Nose Day...

DOUBLE BILL

© Royal Academy

Have I told you yet that I was a museum fiend? In fact, I have been known to time a trip to France so that I could go to a particularly interesting exhibition in the Louvre. So today, I decided to be greedy and I went to the Royal Academy of Arts, to see not just one exhibition, but two. You can never have too much of a good thing!...

Well, the day kept its promise. To be perfectly honest, I kind of knew what to expect, at least as far as one of the exhibition was concerned: I had seen Byzantium 330-1453 a few months ago when it opened, and I had been bowled over. The splendors of Byzantium, at a time when the Western world was plunged into what is dubbed "the dark ages", are legendary, but I had failed so far to realise the width and breadth of their achievements, especially from an artistic standpoint, and how much Christianity, and in particular the Great Schism, had changed that part of the world. The wealth of exhibits on display is quite staggering, from monumental doors to jewelry and paintings, from marble and ivory to enamels and fabric, from everyday objects to ceremonial garb fit for a queen. Leaving the exhibition, I felt (again) very much like Yeats, whose poem Sailing for Byzantium is quoted in the first room:

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

Incidentally, these beautiful words have inspired a song to the artist Lisa Gerrard, and I feel that she too has managed to capture the majesty and melancholy of these Lords of the Christian Orient, standing guard over the edge of the civilised world...

© Runmode

The Andrea Palladio: his life and legacy exhibition was focusing not quite so far away in the East, but it was steeped in the same Greek and Roman roots. What was impressive there, was to see that the harmonious lines of Palladio's buildings, so pure, so simple, were the result of a very conscious and methodically researched effort to modernise architecture. Ironic, since he drew his inspiration from the works of antiquity, but how visionary! In fact, two centuries later, English architects would copy Palladio's works for the benefit of wealthy patrons who had seen Italy during their Grand Tour.

As you look at those majestic "villas", and let your mind be carried away to the Venitian countryside where they can be found, you may dream of wealth and drowsiness again, of the elegant "far niente" of a priviledged few. In fact, Palladio's buildings were designed to save the somptuary costs of their predecessors, replacing for instance most of the marble with stucco-covered bricks. And some of them were originally very busy farms, whose elegant wings were hiding very prosaic storage rooms. A very modern approach...

I think you've guessed that it was a very good day, and that I heartily recommend either, or preferably both, of these exhibitions (be quick though, the Byzantium one closes in a couple of weeks). The only disappointment was tea in the cafeteria of the Royal Academy: dry scone, tiny amount of indifferent clotted cream and jam. They also had cucumber sandwiches, but the waitress advised against ordering one of those... Luckily, with Fortnum & Mason on the other side of the road, chances are you won't have to make the same mistake.

VICTORY AND THE FRENCH

After a brave defeat in Dublin, and a very unconvincing home victory against the Scots, France has at last produced a display more in line with their ambitions, and my hopes. On Friday night, the first time ever that a VI Nations match was played on that day, they beat the Welsh, the reigning champions whom every pundit was expecting to win a second grand slam in a row. Not only that, but France outplayed them, and if anything, the final score of 21-16 is flattering for the title holders.

A good result then, and since France's two remaining matches are with England and Italy, two teams struggling to get back in their game, they should beat those quite easily, and maybe win the tournament should Ireland lose in Cardiff. Well, you would think that, wouldn't you? That is, if you are not familiar with the ups and downs of French teams in just about any sport. But supporting France is full of surprises, and not for the faint-hearted. While their game is usually very entertaining and they can on their day beat any team (the All Blacks will certainly agree), they have an irritating knack for snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. You will rarely see a French team beating another major team by a wide margin. No, the French like to give their audience their money's worth in drama, and they'll make sure that any confortable lead melts away, so that the last minutes of a match are a breathless, edge-of-your-seat, swear-at-the-TV affair. Then, depending on their mood, they'll amaze you with a fantastic display of skills that will save the match, or they'll give victory away in a fit of abysmal stupidity. And it could be the same player! English journalists, who tend to admire a consistent, dogged, if slightly uninspiring game, like to call the French mercurial, and some French players' name has become a byword for that: I understand that in some quarters, the former french fly-half Frédéric Michalak is dubbed "Freddy Mercurial"...

So, although the French back row was for once dominant, although the whole team showed a hunger that seems to evade them usually, we have no guarantee their next match in Twickenham will see a repeat of that performance. In fact, one gets the impression that coach Marc Lièvremont stumbled upon the winning formula rather than reached it through a rigourous approach. Anyway, if in a fortnight, this blog remains conspicuously silent about the tournament, you'll know it didn't happen. Or of course, you could read the papers.

NATIONAL FOOD

Can I take back everything nice I said about British food? Marks and Spencer launched a few weeks ago a range of snacks and sandwiches dubbed Nation's favourites, and as you can see, they went a bit crazy with the Union Jack. Now, there is nothing wrong with being proud of your country's food. But wrapping yourself - or your products in that instance - in the national flag, just to sell a few extra sandwiches, is just ridiculous. And seriously, what is so quintessentially British in a small bottle of apple juice? Are the Brits going to claim they invented the apple? Clearly, it is just a way to re-package their most boring sandwiches and give them, apparently, a new appeal. Well, not to this particular customer. I think I'll have a quiche lorraine...

On the subject of British food again, I was doing my shopping this evening, in a different supermarket (Marks and Spencer are probably reeling from my boycott...), and I noticed the unusual content of the caddy that the man in front of me at the checkout was unloading: 8 family-size bottles of salad cream, 3 double-size haggis (each feeding about 4-6 people), and an impressive quantity of alcool. Either he lost a bet, or he has a very strange recipe and a huge appetite. Or maybe there are tonight in West London a bunch of Scottish rabbits holding a belated Burns Night celebration...

MY NEW BEST FRIEND

I have to apologise for not posting last week. Oh, come on! Tell me at least that you've noticed it! Better still, tell me that you have been coming every day, your little heart beating fast as the page was loading, hoping to see some new words of wisdom, and then unable to hold back a sigh of disappointment when the same Valentine post was immuably displayed. Of course, it was a very good post, but you must have started to worry, wondering if some disaster had not occured. Maybe I had finally decided to have a date on Valentine's day, and one week later, we were still at it like little bunnies? (Wait, that one is hardly a disaster...) Or maybe some irate representative of the card or velvet chocolate box industry decided to get rid of a trouble-maker before his message reached too wide an audience. Or maybe the poor performance of France in the VI nations tournament finally got to me, and I had decided to leave this valley of tears before they embarrass themselves irredeemably (by far the most likely scenario; as it happens however, France did beat Scotland last week-end - but only just).

Well, it is my sad duty to announce that disaster did indeed strike, a disaster much more terrible than any of these scenarios could foresee. Last Sunday, I lost my closest companion, my confident, my constant support, my friend of every moment, prematurely taken from me in the midst of a blissful relationship. In short, I have lost my PDA-phone. You may scoff, but that just shows you are not the proud owner of one of these jewels of modern technology. Otherwise, you would measure how life-changing such gadgets are; in fact, they are about as much of an improvement over a regular mobile phone, as the mobile phone itself was over the fixed version.

Indeed, not only did I have there all my contacts (not just their phone number, but their address, their spouse's name, and even in some case their photo, should I forget what they look like...), my appointments, my notes, my to-do list, my messages, but that phone was doubling up as an MP3 player; a video player for those long plane trips; a notepad (an actual one, where you can scribble handwritten notes, or even sketches); a wallet with photos of loved ones as well as all my passwords and confidential information; a dictaphone; a calculator; a converter (not just currency: seriously, who can be deranged enough to measure weight in stones and pounds?); loads of dictionnaries and other books, including the complete works of Jane Austen and a searchable King James Bible (I actually had to use the latter recently...); plenty of games, most of them coming with a willing and gifted playmate; a GPS navigation system usable in-car or on foot anywhere in Western Europe, a camera/camcorder, a backup remote for my TV, and of course an Internet access should I get bored. Now, if I had to carry all of that in my pocket, my slim and elegant figure may somewhat suffer, not to mention my back.

Can you see now why I have been in mourning for the past week? I am inconsolable. Or I would be if I hadn't found already a worthy replacement for my departed friend. That one has all of the above, or will when I transfer all the documents back from my PC, and it is slimmer, more elegant, has a larger screen and an integrated FM radio. Call me fickle, but I think I am in love again...

WILL YOU (NOT) BE MY VALENTINE?

Here comes again the dreaded day when single people are made to feel bad for not having someone in their life, or worse still, to scramble madly for a date so that people don't know they feel bad. And they are the lucky ones. If you are in a relationship, chances are you will receive a box of poor-quality chocolates in a red heart-shaped box, as well as an awful soppy card or worse, an allegedly humourous one (British cards can be incredibly gross: how on earth do they manage to work "fart" into a Valentine's day card?). In any case, expect to be sick by this time tomorrow: if the box doesn't induce nausea, the chocolates will do the trick, and the card will finish you off. Of course, you can always hope not to get presents, but then, you'll spend the whole day wondering if your loved one still cares for you...

Don't get me wrong. I am actually quite a romantic person. I have even been known to celebrate Valentine's day, although no heart-shaped box and no fart-related card has ever gone through my hands. I also recognise that it can be actually a good thing for a couple, especially one living together and at risk of being swallowed by the demands of daily life, to stand back and re-discover why they wanted to be together in the first place. But why does this have to take place on some universal pre-ordered day, and why should it materialise in a shower of tacky gifts and confectionery, and a reward for those tasteless enough to manufacture them?

My advice to you, dear reader, is to ignore the calendar, or even thumb your nose at it. Be nice to your loved one, by all means, but do it tonight, or Sunday. And by all that is holy and sacred, please stay clear of red velvet boxes! As for those who don't have a special somebody to spoil on that day, you have my blessing to treat yourself. Why should we have to wait for someone to do it anyway?

WORK HARD, PLAY HARD

© Sports Supplements Unlimited

Going to the gym would be a tedious affair if they did not provide some entertainment to keep your mind off the repetitiveness of exercises. In mine, there are half a dozen big screens so you can watch TV (some machines even have their own small screen with more channels), and you can always make a pause and read the papers or surf the internet in the lounge. Having said that, those who have had the misfortune to experience daytime TV, especially around noon, will know that it is more likely to send you asleep than to give you the energy boost you so dearly need.

So, you often have to switch to a slightly more engaging spectacle, like watching the other gym members. Purely from a sociological standpoint, of course. Far be it from me to ogle the aforementioned obscenely athletic ones while they perform lunges in impossibly close-fitting shorts... Actually, you might not believe me but I genuinely try to avoid watching them, as it is only too clear that being watched is their main goal when coming to the gym (of course, getting a superbly sculpted body has now been crossed from their to-do list). It just makes me cringe to see them looking around after each series of exercises to make sure of the impression they made, or strut in gym gear specifically designed to show strategic parts of their body: shoulders and pecs for men, abs and legs for women.

They are also the ones who like to parade in the dressing-room in their birthday suit (well, I can only vouch for the men, because I am not welcome in the women's changing rooms). But I wish they were the only ones! There is a grossly overweight, very hairy and quite ugly man who comes regularly and seems to enjoy walking around naked while other people are getting dressed. In fact, I'm starting to have a suspicion that's the only reason he comes: I have never seen him on any of the machines or in the swimming-pool and he certainly doesn't seem to lose any weight. Yet I swear he drops all his clothes as soon as he passes the door, and is still there contemplating his flabby behind when I leave the gym. Maybe he only comes for the foggy mirror?

And there are more, of course, in fact, a range of personalities that Big Brother would be proud of. There is the grunter, who makes all kinds of noise when he's lifting iron, some closer to a yelp, some remarkably close to articulate speech. There's the disciple of Charlie Chaplin who tries to catch his falling towel on the treadmill, loses his steps, seems to go into bionic mode in order to restore his balance, manages to do it and looks around as if to say: "how did you like that one?". There's the machine hog who comes to you as you sit down to do your crunches, asks you how much time it's going to take, stays standing next to you the whole time, and as you give up your place, tunes leisurely his iPod for 10 minutes before starting his exercises. And of course, there's the aspiring writer who stares blankly at people, trying to imagine what he's going to write about them in his blog... A psychologist's paradise, I am telling you!

HAPPY TIMES ARE HERE AGAIN

© rbs6nations.com

If you read carefully my profile - maybe not your favourite activity ever, but you need something to do for those days you are snowed in - you will have noticed that although it is strangely silent about quilting, it includes among my centres of interest the noble sport of rugby. I know, those of you who have seen rugby fans or rugby players celebrating a victory, or indeed trying to forget a defeat, might take exception to the word "noble". It is true that alcohol usually flows quite freely on such occasions, and that those who live in the vicinity might legitimately wish their neighbours were a quilting club instead. But for all their boisterousness, rugby players are much better behaved, on and off the field, than say, football players. And those who have seen a few matches can testify to the truth of the famous saying: football is a gentleman’s game played by hooligans, and rugby is a hooligan's game played by gentlemen.

In any case, we are coming now to a very special time for anybody interested in rugby: the beginning of the VI Nations tournament. In fact, today heralds for me an almost magical time, as it throws me back to those Saturdays in February and March, when I was still too young to truly understand the rules, but certainly old enough to feel the passion, the excitement generated by the thirty warriors - or so they looked, covered in mud, sweat and sometimes blood - on the field. Every Saturday for more than a month, I would nestle on the sofa next to my father, and eagerly watch our team battle against those from the British Isles in what was then the V Nations. Being an astute psychologist, or maybe just a realist, my father did not rely on the results of France (who am I kidding? If you haven't guessed it by now, you never will!) to keep me interested: at half-time, we would get from the fridge an ice-cream bought that very morning at the farmers' market. To this day though, I wonder what my sister, who did not watch rugby, and could certainly not be hoarse from encouraging a team - or castigating it, as the case might be - had done to deserve the same treat. Well, it must have served some purpose, because today, if she is still not a great rugby fan, she does have a soft spot for the Dieux du Stade calendar, a collection of photos of the Stade Français players dressed in, err, not much more than baby oil...

So, dear reader, I'm afraid you shouldn't expect many posts during the next few week-ends. I will update you on the results if they go the right way, but other than that, I won't be straying much from my TV set. Or one of the stadiums if I'm very lucky. Allez la France!

THE BLOGOSPHERE IS A MANY-SPLENDOURED THING

When I came to Blogger, my impression was that every other blog was created by supremely gifted writers, designers, raconteurs, whose only goal when they sat in front of their computer was to make us measure the inadequacy of our desperately uninspiring life. At least, dear reader, this is not a risk that you're running here...

However, after having browsed through a larger sample of those blogs, I can see now that the reality is more diverse. Yes, there are some who appear to be written by a domestic god/goddess, or by people who aspire to such deity status. Did you know that on Blogger, more than 43,000 people have listed knitting as one of their interest? 21,000 are interested in crocheting, 57,000 in scrapbooking, and at least one person sums up her interests as "quilting, quilting and I guess..." Well, you can probably guess too. She even writes no fewer than 3 blogs on that worthy subject. And I thought inspiration was sometimes hard to come by...

There are those of course who don't seem to have any attraction to domestic godhood whatsoever. Some of them are more concerned about actual godhood. I guess it shouldn't come as a surprise that more than 120,000 people on Blogger list The Holy Bible as one of their favourite book, or indeed centre of interest (sometimes the only one). After all it is, as the marketing cliché goes, an "international number one bestseller". We shouldn't be surprised either at the few thousands interested in paganism, or even the couple of hundred people who are into satanism: the world of blogging is apparently as diverse as the real world. And like in the real world, most of the weirdoes come from the United States... (so far, I have insulted: the Germans, the Scots and the Americans. Anyone keeping track? If I suddenly vanish from the blogosphere, I need someone to tell the police!)

But should we be concerned that only one person has listed "Loving (my beloved) the one God has for me even though God hasn't brought us together yet"? It does sound like a fun pastime, not too demanding, and it definitely beats traipsing around supermarkets with foldable boxes, be they ever so German...

I wonder what this pious colleague would think of the many blogs apparently written by people who are "horny", "crazy about sex" and apparently "well-endowed" (no, I'm not giving out the urls!). For those who would still be in doubt about the intent of the authors, they have been kind enough to clarify it even further by having as their profile photo a close shot of a certain part of their anatomy, whose size sometimes brings me back to those feelings of inadequacy mentioned above. Photoshop has a lot to answer for. Or so I choose to believe.

These meagre examples don't begin to do justice to the variety of interests, and indeed of personalities, displayed in the blog world. Whatever you are looking for, you will find it: whether it is scrabble tile jewelry (apparently, jewelry made of Scrabble tiles. I assume those made with Q, X, or Z are more expensive...), a horse farmer writing erotica (hopefully, there is no link between the two activities) or a fat bald satanist lesbian (don't laugh. I have seen her page!). So, if the time comes, Heaven forbid, when you grow tired of my prose, you can rest easy knowing that there will be someone, somewhere, who can cater to your specific tastes.

LET IT SNOW

Since Sunday night, a wave of snowy weather has swept across the UK, and we woke up yesterday morning to find everything covered in a pristine powdery blanket, the one that you see in books and films (although I understand in the latter case it can be made of paper, plastic foam, soap or even potato flakes) but not usually on your doorstep, at least not in London.

Don't you just love snow? I love the way it changes our perception of the world around, softening a sharp edge into a gentle curve, transforming a garish facade into a subtle harmony in black and white, muffling most sounds while conferring an eerie crispness to each of our steps. I also love the way it intrudes in the sometimes all too organised rituals of city life, and how it can disrupt them.

Although Britain is not renowned for its particularly clement weather, something as naturally occurring as snow can still wreak havoc on its transport system. We have all heard of trains delayed or cancelled because “the wrong kind of snow” had fallen on the tracks. Well, when you have a layer of snow 10-cm thick, whatever its kind, transport in Britain grinds to a screeching halt. There were no buses at all in London yesterday, very few trains coming in or out, three tube lines were not operating, and thousands of schools in the area were closed. In addition, an estimated one in five employees did not turn up for work.

Business associations may bemoan the impact on British economy, I just smile. Maybe I am just a lazy person who enjoys staying at home and watching the snowflakes dance. But also, what would life be without a bit of unpredictability? Beyond the transformation it performs on our once familiar surroundings, snow brings about lots of unusual, sometimes amusing scenes: cars still covered in a thick layer of snow driving along the street like floating snowdrifts, trees suddenly shedding their load on an unsuspecting passer-by, snowmen lined up on the pavement like so many misshapen and rather unlucky hitchhikers, some slightly immature adult engaged in a snowball battle with a couple of kids (okay, I started it, but it was a tiny snowball, not much bigger than a snowflake, and then they ganged up on me. And how could I have known they had such mastery of military tactics?)

So while the rest of Britain braces itself for yet more snow in the coming days, I say "Bring it on!": I have a new coat, a thick scarf, and a good reserve of snowballs.

BRITISH CUISINE: A CELEBRATION

I hope you are feeling hungry tonight, because I am going to talk about food again. I'm starting to think the title of this blog is just a misspelling...

Looking back on my post from last Monday, it sounds a bit disparaging for the noble institution that is haggis. I never even mentioned that I actually do like that dish, and as it happens, I had some on Burns Night. But beyond haggis, I would like to come to the rescue of British cooking in general. When I moved to the UK, many people commiserated on the misfortune, for someone who likes his food, of having to live in England. In fact, even German friends, whose own national cuisine leaves somewhat to be desired, were commenting on the notoriously poor reputation suffered by England in the domain.

It is true that I had myself some slight apprehension, fuelled by a couple of earlier stays in the country as a teenager. Memories of limp vegetables totally devoid of taste, of overly filling ready-made custard, and of the trembling chemical mess that is jelly, were making me doubt whether I had made the right decision. But I had to dismiss those fears after a few days. Granted, the quality of native cuisine is nowhere near that of France or Italy, for instance. Yes, jelly is still selling pretty well, as are other monstrosities like Marmite, spam, or sausages made of a nominal amount of meat mixed with something resembling sawdust. But having no strong culinary tradition, Britain has had no reason to be protectionist about food, and has been able to accommodate, in some cases even integrate, some of the best cooking traditions from all over the world: France, India, China, to name but a few. More strikingly, maybe as a reaction to past indifference for food, the last couple of decades has seen an explosion of interest in the field: I don't think any other country has as many programs about cooking and food on TV, and I am pretty sure none has elevated TV chefs to the semi-godhood status they enjoy there.

So, you can eat very well in Britain, that is, provided you are willing to pay the price. There are several three-Michelin-starred restaurants in and around London, one of which has been voted a couple of years ago the best restaurant in the world (would it surprise you very much if I told you it was by a panel of British food critics?...) In the best supermarkets, you will find delicacies from all over the world, good quality ingredients and ready meals that sometimes taste better than what you would be served in an average restaurant. And the emergence of the gastro-pubs means that having a quick lunch in a pub is no longer a game of russian roulette, but can actually be quite a pleasant experience. There are even a couple of local fast-food chains where you can have a meal that is both healthy and tasty.

As for the native dishes, well, Brits have been wise enough to preserve those that were worth it, and there are a few. I think I don't need to sing the praise of the English breakfast, one of the most satisfying ways to start the day when cooked properly. Or of the fish and chips, which can be can be a truly heavenly fare, if you know how to prepare it. I have to mention also pies (a turkey and ham pie made with the leftovers of the traditional Christmas meal can be to die for); bread and butter pudding; apple, or better, rhubarb crumble; stilton and port; pim's (not food as such, but there is a lot of fruit in it!); or, last but not least, scones with jam and clotted cream. Not only is that last one delicious, but the whole ritual of high tea as you can still experience it in some British hotels just sends you back to another world. One where no matter what the food in your plate tasted like, you were never going to allow the outside world to disturb your enjoyment of it. Admirable principles!

God, I am feeling quite hungry now. Do you mind if I go for an evening snack?

A LEAF FROM ABRAHAM'S COOKBOOK

Since we are on the subject of food, I have to give you a recipe. First because it was kindly requested by one of my very esteemed readers, and I would never do anything to antagonise either of them ;-), but also because it seems no one can seriously call themselves a blogger if you haven't shared the benefits of your culinary creativity with some strangers.

Before we start, I have to warn you that I have chosen a recipe that may test your skills. Not your cooking skills, it is dead easy to prepare, but your shopping skills: some of the ingredients might not be that easy to find, depending on where you live. Of course, you are free to replace some of them, or even all, by a substitute of your choice. But if you do replace them all, well, it's probably an entirely different dish you'll make, and more seriously, my many experiments with this recipe have shown me that the combination I'm giving you below is probably the best one.

GRATIN DE POISSONS A LA LYONNAISE

Ingredients (for 6 people):

• 600g of fish fillets, fresh or frozen.
  The original recipe calls for coley, although any white fish is suitable, as is salmon. Avoid fish with a meaty texture, like tuna.
  
• 150g of scallops, without the coral.
  Very small scallops are best. If using bigger ones, cut them in pieces about the diameter of a 50p coin.
  
• a packet of 6 small quenelles, or 4 bigger ones.
  Quenelles are a kind of soft pasta/dumpling made with eggs, a speciality of the city of Lyon in France. They are the shape and size of a sausage, and can be flavoured by adding chicken, veal or pike to the mix. Here, use the non-flavoured type (in the UK, you can buy those online). But whatever you do, buy fresh quenelles. The tinned variety are just pieces of sponge in a dubious sauce.
  
• 150g of button mushrooms, brushed, sliced. Cans of mushrooms are fine.
  
• 150g of crème fraiche
  
• 150ml of single cream (thick)
  
• a small piece of butter
  
• salt and pepper to taste
  

Poach the fish in water until its texture becomes very soft. Dry it on a clean towel or kitchen paper, then flake it thoroughly using a fork (or your fingers: it works even better). Express as much water from the flakes as you can: you don't want that water to come out at cooking time.
Unless you are using mushrooms from a can, melt half of the butter in a frying pan and cook the button mushrooms on low heat. They must be cooked through, but not too soft.
Melt the other half of the butter in another frying pan, and cook the scallops also on low heat, 5 minutes covered, then 5 minutes uncovered, to avoid searing or frying them. They must be cooked through and have gained that slightly meatier texture.
Poach the quenelles in water (preferably done last) until they have expanded. Then dry them briefly and cut them in slices about as thick as your little finger.
Put all the cooked ingredients in a large bowl along with the two types of cream, mix thoroughly and season to your taste. Then transfer to a gratin dish (shallow oven-proof dish) and put the whole thing in a medium-hot oven for about 20 to 30 minutes (the top must just start to turn brown).
Enjoy, as a (rather copious) main dish with some green salad on the side, or as a starter for about 10 people.

Here is what the result must look like, more or less (like most "cuisine bourgeoise", the emphasis is on taste rather than presentation):

This is a dish that my mother used to make on Sundays for the whole family, or when we had guests. Believe it or not, it was only meant as a starter, with a full roast and a cake to follow. Looking back, I think her philosophy for these Sunday lunches was: if at the end of the meal, anybody at the table is still physically able to eat, or indeed to breathe, she has failed as a hostess. Let me reassure you, she rarely ever failed...

Wow, my very first recipe published on my blog. I feel such a domestic God, now! Just call me Marty Stewart...

EDIBLE

I can't believe that I have been blogging for a month, and we haven't yet talked seriously about food. As you can see from my profile, I have a keen interest in good food. I know, it usually means "I am a fatty". I was going to protest "Not in this case!", but what's the point? You'll have to wait until I decide to publish a photo of myself - in a decade or two. Anyway, it's not good food I want to discuss today, but its opposite. You see, yesterday was Burns night...

For those of my esteemed reader who don't live in the UK, Robert "Rabbie" Burns is Scotland's national poet, and on his birthday, 25th January, Scots celebrate their Scottishness (I mean, even more than usual) with a traditional supper that has to include their national dish, haggis: a refined delicacy composed of sheep's heart, liver and lungs, minced together with oatmeal, suet and spices, and boiled for three hours in the sheep's stomach. Mmm... They even have a poem dedicated to this culinary chef-d'œuvre, written by Burns of course, in which he celebrates the superiority of that fare over effete French and Italian cuisine. Scots have never been afraid of controversy.

I know some would recoil in horror at the evocation of such a dish, but I am made of sterner stuff. In fact, being always eager for new experiences, culinary or otherwise, I have been able to sample from what would seem to some of you the shopping list for Hell's dinner parties: rabbit, octopus, snails, frogs, crocodile, python, cow's udder, lamb's brain, duck gizzard, chicken feet, fish eggs, swallow's nest...

Not feeling queasy yet? Good. Have you ever watched one of these reality shows where people are stranded in the jungle without food or a roof over their head, then made to eat the most disgusting stuff under pain of elimination and, Heaven forbid, immediate repatriation? Well, now you can recreate that lovely feeling in the comfort of your own home. A few years ago, some department stores in the UK started to sell an interesting range of dry goods, from which you can see a sample below:

The funny part of it is that although this, err, food, is probably the very last resort of some Amazonian tribe when they run out of fish eyes, here in London it costs significantly more than the same weight of prime quality steak. Oh, and if you wonder what it tastes like, the toasted ants are quite dry, with an earthy flavour, but not much worse than say, roasted pistachios. As for the Mopani worms, it's a bit more chewy and definitely an acquired taste.

Well, I won't detain you any longer, it's nearly time for dinner. Bon appétit!

AFTER THE FUNERAL

I have thankfully only a limited experience of funerals, but from what I have seen so far, both in person and on the silver screen, they always take place in gloomy weather, or preferably even under pouring rain; and I had the impression that there was an unspoken agreement between the Good Lord and his finest creation, that when any of them would be laid to rest, He would make sure that their immediate surroundings would appear to be in mourning too.

Apparently, my deceased relative was not party to that agreement because, although it was raining heavily when my plane landed, on the day of the burial, the sky was crisp and blue, and there was not a cloud in sight. I might have wondered at this oversight of the Almighty - after all, He is supposed to be all-seeing and all-knowing - but I couldn't help thinking it was actually quite fitting. The point of funeral services is to assist mourners along in the grieving process, to help them express their pain so they can free themselves from it, or at least learn to deal with it. Whether it is the meeting of friends and family, sometimes not seen in a long time, whether it is the rituals of religions, most of which see death more as a change than as a conclusion, whether it is the common reminiscing over cherished or half-forgotten memories, everything that helps us make peace with our loss, accept it and look beyond the painful feelings, has to be welcome. And so, maybe, the sun finally emerging in a pristine sky after days of torrential rain can play a role too. At least, I think it did for me.

I'd like to be able to say that, thanks to all that, I am in just as good a mood as I was before learning of my bereavement. But today, it was pouring again, there was not one parking place left at the gym, and someone stole my towel at the swimming pool. Barack has let us down already!

SOMBRE MOOD...

What a difference a couple of days make! I have just been told of a bereavement in my family, so I'm afraid I will be unable to provide you your fix of moods for a few days. I dare say you'll bear that deprivation better than I do mine...

GOOD MOOD!

There are days when you feel that the world is smiling at you. Or maybe it's you who are smiling, and the world is only smiling back. But the sky is bright blue, the sun is shining, there are lots of people at the gym and yet you manage to find a great parking place close to the door, on the way back that nice lady stops to let your car in, and when you wave to thank her, she waves back...

I have been told it's the Barack Obama effect. Apparently, he is going to beat the credit crunch, solve world hunger, and usher in a new golden age. Well, good luck to him, and thanks. He has already made my day, and I feel in a really good mood. Here's wishing that you're all feeling the same.

MY FIFTEEN MINUTES

This morning, a nice-looking girl accosted me in the street, and I didn't even have my foldable boxes with me! Of course, she was holding a mike in her hand, and she had with her a man pointing a professional-size video camera at me, so the likelyhood that she stopped me to make some romantic overtures was fairly remote, unless they were shooting the pilot of some strange new reality show.
(I'm starting to sound like I am looking for romance every time I set foot out of the house, aren't I? I swear it is not the case!)

Anyway, I was thinking she must be covering some burning news topic, and wanted to ask my opinion about it as the proverbial, well, man in the street. I must admit I was looking forward to being interviewed. First because, as my friends would undoubtedly tell you, I have a certain propensity to give my opinion, even when nobody is asking. And also because, having extensive experience of appearing on television, I don't feel as awkward in front of a camera as some novices would. Or so I choose to believe.
(Didn't I mention that I have appeared many times on television, in several countries - not that I take undue pride in it, of course -? Well, I guess it's a story for another day...)

Unfortunately, to my great disappointment, it turned out that the lady was making a survey about the impact of some advertising campaign, on beer of all subjects. The camera was only there to record what I said in more detail for the marketing executives to study. I must now make a very painful confession, in fact an unforgivable one for someone who lives in the UK, and which will probably cost me the respect of my male readership: I don't drink beer. I have tried, mind you, as it is such a social handicap in the English-speaking world, but I just don't like the taste of the thing. So I keep on embarassing my friends in restaurants and pubs by ordering soft drinks and sweet wines, "sissy drinks" as one of them (a woman!) quite bluntly put it.

As you can imagine, having for once no opinion on the subject, and being very unlikely to have noticed the campaign (especially as that one, quite uncharacteristically, did not make a large use of lightly-clad models), I was not a prime subject for the survey. I was therefore quickly dismissed by my interviewer, and that was the end of it.

So I guess that if I want to become famous, I have to hang all my hopes on this blog again. I'm counting on you!

© Bahia de Banderas News

THE LATEST GEAR

I did a spot of shopping today (did I mention that I like food shopping?), and not for the first time, I was the object of a lot of female attention at the checkout. You're probably expecting now that I am going to boast about the effect of the gym, or of the new coat, or maybe about my boyish good looks, wit and charm. Well, I am sure all those had some influence, but the ladies' attention was more particularly focused on the foldable plastic crate that I use to carry my purchases back home.

Thank God, I am not one of those scarily organised persons whose whole life is neatly stacked into little boxes (I wish I were sometimes!). But I have lived in Germany for a while, and although I have been assured that they don't actually shoot on the spot people who needlessly use plastic bags for their shopping, I have never beeen willing to put that to the test. So ever since, even after moving to the UK (they can get to you anywhere), every time I go to the supermarket, I have been bringing with me one of these.

This may look like an ordinary foldable plastic box to you, but this model, reinforced with metal pins, is specially imported from Germany: the puny British version just doesn't compare in terms of sturdiness and durability.

In the end, my status as a hero of nature conservation and practical living was short-lived and both women went back to their own shopping. Still, my friends were right: if you want the girls to notice you, nothing like buying the latest German import...

FLYING AWAY

I had some family staying with me over the week-end, and today I drove them back to the airport to catch their plane. Being at the airport, or on the platform of a railway station on such occasions brings up conflicting emotions in me. Of course, there are the farewells and the sadness of the separation (luckily it will not be too long in that instance). But when you look around you, there is also all the bustle of annoyingly tanned people in summer clothes, coming back from holidays in the sun, the calling of exotic destinations on loudspeakers, the planes taking off for their journey across the oceans; more than enough to send you dreaming of different skies, faraway places, and all that discovering you could be doing. The French have a saying: "partir, c'est mourir un peu" (to leave is to die a little). But to me, being left behind is the worse fate.

Talking about painful separations, the Christmas tree has finally found its resting place on the common. It obviously did not want to leave, because it left about half its needles on the floor as I tried to force it through the doors of the house. In the end though, its resistance was of no avail, and it is there now at the top of a heap, probably cursing my ingratitude. So many partings...

SKIN DEEP

I had decided not to go to the gym this morning, so I thought I would stop at a nearby park to take some pictures in the frozen morning light: these 365 photos don't just take themselves, you know!

As I was looking at the bark of a gnarled old tree, thinking it might make a good subject, a man standing next to me, and whom I had failed to notice, tried to engage in a conversation. Now, I am not a totally asocial person, I even have some friends, but I must admit I was not entirely thrilled by that fellow's overtures: it was early (and I am not a morning person), it was very cold, I was in a bit of a hurry... More crucially, the man had all the signs of the tramp: unkempt hair, bushy beard, scruffy clothes, skin not unlike that bark in texture, the cherry on the cake being a rather unpleasant smell coupled with a poor sense of personal space.

Needing no further encouragement than my occasional monosyllabic responses, he entered in a somewhat one-sided discussion about photography. Surprisingly, he was able to recognise instantly the brand and model of my camera. He then listed the three cameras that he personally owned (I must confess to some incredulity at that mention), and offered to show me his latest acquisition. He obviously took my lack of answer as an assent, because he opened a very battered pouch to reveal what turned out to be a brand new compact camera of the lastest model. And the photos he had taken, which he showed me very spontaneously, weren't half bad either; in fact, I am not sure that what you have seen of my production is to the same standard. We ended up comparing notes on indoor photography, and he even gave me a couple of tips on how to use my new flash.

Going back to my car, I tried to convince myself (without much success I must say) that he was some eccentric professional photographer just back from a week-long nature shoot, where he had no access to running water. The fact is, if he was a tramp, he was a very well-equipped and gifted one. But what worries me most is what he may be saying about me in his blog right now...

WHERE ARE YOU?

I was watching the news while having my breakfast this morning, and I came across a report on a fascinating gadget. It looks very much like a wristwatch, and it has all the features of a digital one, but it also contains a tiny GPS receptor inside which allows its position - and that of whoever is wearing it - to be tracked in real time. An additional feature prevents removal unless you have the required electronic key. But the most interesting detail is that the gadget is not meant to be worn by convicts, or cattle, but by children!

The chief executive of the company that manufactures the devices said, apparently without a trace of irony, that they were meant to "give children their freedom and parents peace of mind". Did I hear "Big Brother" and "doublethink"?

Not only does that device curtail children's freedom, but they will probably see it as a challenge. If you tell a feisty, but otherwise well-behaved child that he is punished and has to stay in his room, chances are that he will do it, albeit begrudgingly. If you lock him up, he will probably jump out of the window. Besides, a resourceful kid will find a way to get rid of the bracelet, and attach it to a nearby pigeon. Should make for some interesting location readings (it's apparently accurate to about 10m).

As for peace of mind, please let's not fool ourselves! If you are the type of person who feels the need to be informed of your child's location every moment of the day, you will never know peace of mind. Even if you manage to control your child, you'll be suspecting your employees, your lover, your accountant...

So, a word to the wise. If your somewhat jealous lover just offered you for Christmas a rather gaudy digital watch, you'd better be on your best behaviour. Or find a good locksmith.

BIRTH ANNOUNCEMENT

Moods is happy to announce the arrival of its little brother (sister?), My 365 sides. The birth went very well, although it came a bit later than expected. You can visit the new-born there.

The idea behind this new blog is not mine (you may have heard of "Project 365"), but the principle behind it is quite simple: I will post for every day of 2009 a photo I have taken myself, this year, preferably on the day of the post (although I may stretch that last rule depending on the availability of subjects, my workload, or even my, err, mood). The photos on My 365 side may have a -tenuous - link with the post on this blog, but then again, they may not.

The hope is that by the end of the year, I will have improved my photographic skills, or that at least I will have a somewhat whimsical record of the passed twelve months. It may even help you, dear reader, to form a better impression of me and my life, although how high that comes on your priority list I am not quite sure.

In any case, since a picture is worth a thousand words, this blog should give you plenty of reading. Especially as I can't promise I won't add a few words of my own from time to time.

MENS SANA IN CORPORE SANO

I go, not always regularly, to a gym (I started before January 1st, honest!). A very pleasant place admittedly, with a swimming pool, tennis courts, a big lounge with very confortable sofas and an Internet café, the works. Even so, I have always wondered at the underlying business concept of gym clubs. It basically relies on customers to pay hefty sums of money, month in, month out, for the privilege of putting themselves through hell in the company of other sweating, grunting people. I must say it doesn't sound like a winning proposition to me...

If you look at it in detail however, it's actually quite clever. For instance, they have in my gym a crèche, where working-out mothers can leave their progeny while they complete their masochistic ritual. It's amazing what kind of torture parents are willing to endure in order to get a couple of hours of child-free respite!

There are also other, subtler ways to build up the loyalty of customers. One of them occured to me this morning, as I was in the changing-room. Like most people, when you go to the gym, your goal is probably to shed a few pounds and reach a reasonable level of fitness: maybe enough not to be laughed off the field in the next Accounting vs IT grudge match, or for the parents mentioned earlier, enough to catch Junior when he decides that dog on the other side of the road looks cute.

In any case, there comes a time when you think that you are closing in on that goal, and you feel half-reconciled with the reflection you see in the mirror (especially that one closer to the swimming pool which is always half fogged-up). That is usually the moment when some obscenely fit so-and-so walks by nonchalantly, all bulging pectorals, rippling abs and tight behind (not that you look in detail - whether they welcome your attention or not, staring at other men in the changing room is a lose-lose situation). Coincidentally, that is also the moment when, resisting the urge to kick that foggy mirror, you decide you'll probably renew that yearly subscription.

© Sports eBooks

So, I might regale you in the coming months with some more anecdotes from the gym, because it looks like I'll be in there for the long run (no pun intended)!

AFTER THE PARTY

There is a moment at the end of a party when the music has stopped, the guests are gone, the adrenaline rush has ebbed away, and all that is left to remind you of the fun you had is your living room looking not unlike the plain of Waterloo after the battle. With you in the middle of it, feeling a bit forlorn, and if you are inclined to melancholy, indulging maybe in some reflection on the fleeting nature of human pleasures.

That is how I have always felt about the first days of January. As a child, I viewed the period around Christmas as nothing short of magical. The run up to it, with all those hours spent pouring over toys catalogues, lost in the delicious agony of choice, and scrambling to finish my letter to Santa Claus in time (the post was apparently more effective in those days, and you could send a letter to the North Pole in less than a day!). Then the wonderful ritual of the Decoration Of The Tree, which turned an ordinary, dull, green tree into a gliterring, multicolored symbol of Christmas, the beacon that was going to guide Santa to us. The extent of my assistance was limited to hanging a few sparklers at the end, and making sure I stayed well away from the most fragile accessories, but I looked at the finished article very much as the result of my decorative skills. There was the dinner on Christmas eve, the best meal of the year since you could gorge up on delicious child-friendly finger food and then just sample at will further delicacies in the adult plates, only to be carried half-asleep into your bed just before midnight. And at last came Christmas morning, the high point of the whole year, made ten times more pleasurable by the build-up of expectation. The foot of the Christmas tree was buried in piles of presents that took ages to unwrap; though they were never exactly the ones in the catalogue (Santa must have had a different version), they never disappointed.

The remainder of the holidays was pleasant enough, mostly a blur of invitations, luncheons and grown-up discussions in the background while I was playing with my new favourite toy, or engrossed in some new book. But I knew at the back of my mind that the best had already come and gone, and that we were just gently rolling out to the dreaded moment when everybody would have to go back to school or to work. That moment was heralded, on the first Sunday of the year, by another ritual: just before taking the decorations from the tree, we would light the sparklers and the candles on it (yes, live candle: how we never started the year with a real bonfire I will never know), to get a last view of all its splendours. With the last of those sparklers out, went the lights of Christmas for that year.

I may have grown up since then (not everyone would agree with this statement), but I can't help feeling a slight pang when I see the lights being taken down in the streets, and I realise that the Christmas tree will soon join the heap of its brethren on the nearby common, stripped of its baubles and waiting to be taken to the shredder. But hey, the year is brand new, there will be lots of parties, and there's always Christmas next year!

OF SALES AND TALL PEOPLE

I must have been encouraged by my surgical prowesses earlier on, because I have attempted today another heroic feat, namely to go and buy a new coat in London during the sales. Contrary to many of my gender, I actually like shopping for clothes (or food - or books - well, you get the idea). But to do that during the first Saturday of the January sales seems needlessly reckless: the crowd, the noise, the cold, the ruthless fights for discounted designer clothes... Most sane men would rather remove a cast using nothing but their teeth.

Well, in the end, it was all very civilised. As I would have known if I was of the gentler sex, most of the sales had begun just after Boxing Day, and all the items worth fighting ruthlessly for were long gone. As were unfortunately all large sizes for gentlemen's coats. Have you ever noticed how a large number of short men are impeccably dressed? You might have rather ungenerously thought that they were compensating for their small size in order to catch the eye of the ladies. Okay, that's what I rather ungenerously thought. But the truth is that they are the only ones who can find any clothes that fit them, especially during sales. Clothes for taller men, already scarce in normal times, seem to vanish when sales are on.

I am not far from thinking that it's part of a huge plot by short people to achieve world domination and start a race of dapper dwarves. How else do you explain the high number of world leaders, past and present, who are of short stature: Napoleon, Berlusconi, Sarkozy, Medvedev, Kim Jong Il?... Don't say you haven't been warned!

Anyway, to cut a long story, I mean, to cut to the chase, I did get the coat I was looking for, although the lady had to get my size from the back room, probably from some secret stash. And it seems to fit rather well. What do you think?

WITHOUT A BANG

© طاھر

There was a great fireworks display on the banks of the Thames two days ago to celebrate the New Year. I must confess the child in me is still fascinated by this kind of shows. There is something in these flowers of light, blossoming into the night in perfect synchronisation, and then fading away to be replaced by one even more beautiful, that strikes a chord in me.

However, my appreciation of pyrotechnics does not extend to the firecrackers that some retarded adolescents like to explode until the small hours every night, for about a week after New Year. These tend to wake up the grumpy old man in me instead; sometimes quite literally, at about three in the morning. On those occasions, I try to while away my moments of wakefulness by devising punishments I would like to inflict on the offenders (okay, I may be a bit harsh there, but in my defence, it takes some doing to wake me up at that time of night).

Well, the women of Naples have proved more creative than me. They are so fed up by the accidents provoked every year by illegal fireworks and firecrackers, that they have decided to withhold sex unless their partners (apparently, like weapons, it's a male thing) promise to clean up their act. So, gentlemen, what about spending New Year's eve in Naples next year? With all these women going without sex, you might get lucky. And if you don't, at least you'll sleep well...

A GOOD START

I hope you won't be disappointed, but after yesterday morning's surgical and culinary activity, there were no further larger-than-life exploits to report. Unless of course you count the ingestion of impressive amounts of very rich food to celebrate the passing of the year (which is threatening to make some of us larger than life), but that is hardly an uncommon occurrence in this house.

Which brings me nicely to the subject of New Year resolutions. Don't worry, I am not going to bore you by listing mine here. In fact, were I to have made such resolutions, I would not be too keen to shout about them on my blog: the last thing I want is to record publicly not only my current weaknesses, few as they may be, but my subsequent inability to amend them. You might say I am being a bit negative, but who am I to go against years of accumulated experience by would-be self-improvers all over the world?

The whole concept of New Year resolutions seems a bit strange to me. Does that day have some magical power to increase people's strength of will? Because on this occasion, they hope to achieve not just one, but most of the changes that have resisted their efforts the year before. If you absolutely have to be a better person, I don't see why it has to start on a calendar year. Nor should it necessarily be all in one go: not only does it seem more manageable to tackle your bad habits one at a time, but you should leave those around you some time to adapt to the new improved you!

But hey, what do I know? My own record in the field of self-improvement is best described as, err, patchy. So, maybe you can come back a year from now, and rub my nose (figuratively) in your slim waist, your stone-hard abs and your smoke-free breath. I will still have the last laugh, though. Because then, what resolutions can you possibly make for the following year?

Well, whether this year is one of relentless self-improvement, or just enough effort not to actually become a worse person, I hope it is your best so far.

© Bill Watterson