Malo's Mini Milestones - 2 -

Right. My hopes that writing about Malo's milestones would force me into posting more regularly have been crushed miserably. I have got my excuses lined up (very good ones, no need to say), but that will be for another post. Maybe.

Since last post, Malo has made a lot of progress, done many funny things, tried to say many new words., invented many others. I obviously told myself I needed to write all of this down before I forget, stupidly failed to do, and expectedly curse myself for it now.

A few of the ones I do remember, though:

- Starting with a very emotional note for me... My Grand-Dad left our world recently. A week before he left, I had taken Malo, Martin and some friends of ours to hike up Croix du Nivolet, a hike  in the Bauges Massif, where my Grand-Dad was from, and which my grand parents, brother and I did pretty much every summer when we were coming to spend a week with them during the summer holidays. These were memories I wanted to share with my two men, and I was very happy to take them there. Malo behaved as a real little "montagnard", walking pretty much the whole way. That same evening, I call my Grand-Dad to tell them about our hike, but he had been very tired lately, and he did not answer the phone. I am happy we made this hike... I am happy Malo seems to enjoy so much being outside... the wheel of life continues...

- Malo has lately taken to calling everybody "poupée" ("doll") with a preference for big burly men running past in tight lycra. This is since Martin, on a rare outing to a department store, told Malo, who was looking puzzled at some mannequin, that this was a "poupee", the German world for doll. Since my son is not stupid and that did not look, even remotely, like a doll, he clearly decided "poupee" was the word for anything human (yes, I know, a mannequin isn't, but since the manufacturer clearly did a good job, it did look more like a human than like a doll)... He has therefore, since then, been calling pretty much everybody he comes accross 'poupee". Little girls, young boys, mothers, old ladies. And big burly men in running past in tight lycras.

- He is saying "non non non non non" by way of "no", voiced in a vehement, concerned, end-of-the-world, maman-what-are-you-thinking-asking-me-to-do-this kind of way, all the while vigorously shaking his head  from left to right. And it goes for everything : eat red things, come to put his shoes on, change nappies, go back inside.

- Talking about red things, although the Petite Boule still loves eating, he has nevertheless developed some "like" and "don't like". Or rather, some "like" and "I absolutely refuse to let this get anywhere close to my mouth even though you're swearing to me it will be good". That especially goes for strawberries, cherries and raspberries, so I am starting wondering if he had not decided red things were not to be eaten, full stop.

- For Easter, Malo got a new book from his Austrian Granny, which has become one of his favourite. It tells the story of Olli the little mouse,  who one morning wakes up only to realise he cannot find his toy duck. Through the pages, Olli looks out for his darling duck, with the invaluable help of Malo, dutifully checking, on page 2, under the carpet, on page 3, in the fridge and  in the cupboard, on page 4 behind the shower's curtain and in the washing machine, and so on. As this is a happy story, Olli, in the end, finds his duck hidden under his bed's blanket. Malo loves the story, but the story-telling has lately become very short. As Martin or I turn on to page 2, about to ask in a very concerned voice, if, by any chance, Olli's duck could be under the carpet, Malo impatiently tells us 'non non non' while himself turning on the pages to the last one where he victoriously shows us the duck hidden under the blanket...  all the while clearly thinking that his parents are not the smartest cookies in the pack, not remembering, after so many times of reading that story, when the duck has hidden himself...

- Our Petite Boule absolutely refuse, no point arguing, threatening or trying to convince, to go barefoot in the grass. This is not new, but we had hopes, last year, that as he would start walking, this fear would disappear. It did not, and instead, Malo uses the "levitation" option when we try to put him down in the grass, or failing this, prefers staying completely still until we come and carry him somewhere safer, and this for as long as it takes. No need to say he wins. In the meantime, his tree-hugging parents wonder what the hell they did to deserve this and are considering getting a life-time mortgage to afford a house with a garden, so that Malo can be walking-in-the-grass trained on a daily basis.

That was last summer in Austria... but Malo's

levitation skills have not gotten worse since then

- Malo has had for a long time a fascination for bicycles, something that unlike his dislike for grass, we're pretty pleased happy ecstatic about, and for which, given that we cycle everywhere and our only car rarely gets out of the garage, we take full credit for. His love for bikes and our pride thus justified that we made a exception to our rule of not getting him big presents unless there is a birthday or Xmas coming, and we therefore invested in a wooden run bike. Admitedly, we had doubts he would manage to use it, given he is not even 21 months old. In fact, before being able to even check that he would understand what to do, Martin had to make an additional hole (despite this being the smallest bike on the market) to lower the saddle further! But once this was done, ... he was a star! Martin is beaming at other parents' comments that their child was too scared or not coordinated enough to ride their bike before their second birthday, and would almost already plan for Malo's first Tour du Lac (the 45km ride around the Annecy lake). As for me, I am taking the p***, out of Martin... while being (not so) secretly super proud of my son, too.

He's not even shying away of off-road cycling, my son...

It is hard to believe I once wondered if I would ever want to have kids...

Why? (A race report - or a psychoanalysis. You choose)

- "Well, I guess it will bring me luck", I say as as I am getting ready for the race and as I watch my now-dirty running socks, on which Malo has just decided to throw up part of his breakfast.

This is my first race since Malo was born. The last one I did with him in my belly, 5 weeks pregnant., but this time, he will be supporting with his dad, from the comfort of his Chariot.  And because chosing a local race would be too simple, I have signed up for a  21km trail race in the mountain part of Provence, four hours from home. We've planned to spend four days there, staying at a local campsite, racing (me), climbing (Martin),  mountain biking with the Chariot in tow (both of us) and wondering what the hell the parents think they are doing (Malo). As a result of this fun programme, the first challenge of the weekend was to try and load the car with two bikes, a Chariot, climbing gear, running shoes, cycling shoes, climbing shoes, Malo's folding bed and his rucksack. More often than not, it feels like having a truck instead of a car would be a smarter choice for us.

I leave Martin deal with a marathon of his own, i.e. making sure Malo's milk, organic courgettes, clean nappies, spare clothes, hat, sunglasses and whatever-else-he-fancies-stocking-up-at-the-bottom-of-the-Chariot, are ready in 15min, so that they can ride, Tour de France style, up the first uphill I'll have to run, and cheer me.

As for me, I get a ride to the start from our campsite neighbour. Last evening, Mister Neighbour looked at Martin in disbelief when Martin said that he was not racing, his wife was, and he would be looking after the baby.  Today, he quickly goes on to telling me he's hoping for a top 15 finish.  I guess the take-away message is: "I am so, SO good".  As for me, my only claim to fame is to have given birth less than 8 months ago, and altough the delivery was a marathon of some kind , I suspect it is one which is unlikely to tremendously help me today.  Well, I tell myself, the hills may be steep today, but at least I won't have to push the Chariot up them (I get comfort any way I can, as pre-race stress is building up).

Soon after, we start. I have signed up for the short race: 21 kms and 850m positive elevation gain.   Not that the long one did not appeal to me (I am a mountain masochist after all, or at least claiming to be, but after my ordeal of a few years ago, I must remind myself that I-am-running-less-than-I-wished is better than this-time-my-ankle-is-f***-for-good-and-I'll-never-be-able-to-run-again).

After the start in the village's centre, we're soon up the first hill.  Only 3kms done, and 18kms to go, but I am feeling good, and can see the regular Mountain Masochist uphill training should pay off.  Martin and Malo are here to cheer me, although Martin almost misses me, later claiming that, because I am so short, he did not see me, hidden as I was in the middle of a pack of normal-size runners.

First downhill, and trouble starts: a stitch. Oh, no. I blame it on pregnancy, not having got my abs back, and feeling like my organs are playing the mambo-jumbo inside my belly. But I need not worry because soon enough, it's uphill again, and, if there should be only one good thing about it, it is that the stitch goes away.

Or is it that the stitch has gone away because I AM BLOODY WALKING.  So that my pride does not get hurt unduly, let say straight away this walking situation (at that point at least) NOT of my own volition. I just happen to be stuck behind some runners clearly shocked that they could be so many steep hills ,on a trail run, in the Alps. Shocked, and breathless, and with lactic acid up to their eyeballs.  Hence the walking. Hence my being stuck. With no possibilty to overtake, as the single trail is indeed very "single" , and bordered on  each side by dense vegetation.  And as I am looking at my feet to kill time, I realise I am about to lose the time chip, which would be a bummer.  After all, at this pace, I am set to cross the finish line in about 2 or 3 days, and that would be a shame not to have it made official, wouldn't it?

By the time the trail is finally (a tiny little bit) wider, allowing me to overtake, I realise I find it super hard  to get back in motion and find my rythm again.  Then I spot Martin and Malo waiting for me, and stop to give the little devil (the big one too, actually) a kiss.

 WHAT?... Is that what motherhood does to you? Stopping, on a 21km race, when you don't have to? When you should be sprinting taking advantage of a few hundreds metres of not-so-steep dirt road? After a couple of minutes (ie just the time for Malo to wonder who is this stinking alien with sunglasses,  funny socks on, and a big, black number on her t-shirt), I am off again. But the fact remains: I have stopped .  During a race. And not even because I was about to die, just because I felt like it. Can't one get jailed for this?

Starting again, I enjoy a few hundreds metres of flatter terrain, with stunning views onto Mont Ventoux, which I will ride up to as soon as I get the chance (it is long, it is windy, it makes you wonder why you  thought you had to leave your car at the bottom, what not to like about it?).  The road-runner in me wakes up: no more heavy breathing, no more stop-and-go, the legs are just flowing. But a few hundreds meters are a bit short to get in the Zone, and soon enough, we're running up a steep countryside road again.

Unfortunately, by then, whatever killer instinct I may have had in me has gone. I decide I don't like uphills (even tough I have done rather well on them while training - sometimes being light and short has some advantages) , I don't like roads (not very credible either for somebody who spend the first ten years of her running life pounding the pavement), and I don't like the idea of the 18-20% climb waiting for me after the water station, at km 14. Looking at the race's profile the previous week, the upcoming climb, the steepest of the race, looked 3.5-4km long, i.e. more than long enough to make sure it will hurt big time.  I figure there is no point then to rush up that road now, knowing what comes later.  And so I walk. Again.

Of course, the thought that I have RUN (as in: NOT WALKED) steeper stuff when training with Martin, does cross my mind at this point... no explanation there: I guess I am just a wimp.  A wimp not used to to running with hundreds of people, and to sometimes having to adapt my pace to theirs, because I am stuck on a bloody single, very single indeed, trail.

That's when a guy who has been running next to me for a few minutes starts talking to me.
- "you're the wife of the guy who has been cycling up all that dirt roads with the Chariot. Whoa, that's quite a challenge, and I should know, we have a Chariot too, and we never got it anywehere else than flat land: too hard." Was I complaining about not having any decent claim to faim? Well, here you go: I may be the one running up that gruelling climb, but what I'll be remember as is "the wife of the guy cycling up with the Chariot". Oh well.

Anyway, feeling sociable today (which makes me a sociable walking wimp), we start talking about kids, Chariots, running, life in a nutshell. If anything, that helps passing time, and a little while later, we at last reach the water station. Again with the hellish climb ahead in mind, I figure a couple of minute stop won't make a huge difference now, and given that I have not been able to eat much  in the morning, I desperately need to eat something anyway.

Then, as I am refilling my camelbak, one of the girls at the station cheerfully announces that respite is soon there and we have only 1.5kms more to climb.  WHAT? I don't know how I got things so wrong, but in any case, it suddenly, it feels very, very stupid indeed to have stopped to refuel with only such a short uphill portion to go. Plus, a girl who is being paced by her boyfriend has just passed without stopping, and that, cannot stay unpunished (I just don't approve of pacers). 

So here am I, running full of energy again... only to have to stop a few hunderds metres further, because the climb may be shorter  than I thought at this point, but flatter it is not, and again, I am stucked behind this long queue of runners. Frustrating, but nothing to do about it, and partly my own fault anyway.

I eventually reach the top of the climb, and soon after, start the descent towards the village and the finish line. It is a super narrow, super steep, super technical, this is where I thought I would waste time, and I am flying.  WHOA, THIS IS FUN! The last km is run on the road, and again, the road-runner in me wakes up: I am picking up the pace again, things are feeling smooth. I sprint to the finish line with a huge smile on my face, and soon Malo in my arms.

I finish 16th woman, and 10th in my age group (nothing glorious here: it just means that 6 Vets were actually faster than me).  Not bad, given I have done only 3 trail races before (one of them pregnant) and most of all given what a poor race I did in view of my training. Maybe that's my claim to fame then: "the girl who is the wife of the guy cycling up with the Chariot AND runs much better and faster when she is training than on actual race day".

Then, as the awards ceremony gets started, the organiser announces that he wants to apologise, the course has been modified at the last minute, and he forgot to mention it at the pre-race briefing. The course was 1050m of elevation gain instead of the stated 850m, the water station had been moved further. than initially  intented, and instead of rollinh hills, we got a solid 10km-or-so climb. So the climbs were as  steep and long as they feel then. Well, that's a relief, for my mind if not for my legs. And my strategy of stopping for refuel would have been the right one had the station not been moved.  Still not  an impressive performance I gave, and still does not justify the walking, but it makes me feel marginally better about my run.

As I am walking back to the campsite later that day, I can't help wondering why I raced, and whether I did enjoy it. After all, there is no shortage of super nice trails on which to run back home, and more importantly, on which NOT to get stuck behing other runners.  And I don't need  races to push myself so I did not do it  either because I needed some kind of goal to train.  Instead, I feel rather frustrated with myself:  I finish in a decent time and at a decent place, but definitely not by pushing hard enough, which means I should have finish in a better time, at a better place.

But then... I have somehow enjoyed the race too...  I enjoyed the superb scenery (granted, I spent more time looking at my feet in an attempt to avoid the falls than admiring the mountains, but I am sure there were amazing). The friendly chats (even though they made me feel like the "wife of", and did not do any good to my speed). The bliss of managing to see my husband and son on no less than 4 points of the race (even though one should never waste time by stopping to kiss people - even ones son - on a race).  Oh, and I enjoyed the strategies devised post-race to improve my performance at the next race.

Oh yeah, because I have signed up for another one. Which means that if I walk the uphill sections of this one too, I will end up walking the entire race, because it will be a 23kms, 1500m elevation, climb, no flats, no downhills. Go figure.

Did I say Masochist?


PS - I think I have just managed a PB of some sort: that of the longest, most boring post. Actually, cross that out: nothing that long and rambling could be called a post. 
Self-inflicted flagellation maybe.
Or an online psycho-analysis.
Or a probably very successful attempt at using once and for good my few readers.
Or all of the above.
End of "post".

Gear Freak Heaven

Martin is definitely no gear freak. He kept his old raod bike for the best part of 20 years, and does not even buy that much climbing gear, since there are that many times you can joke about buying new nuts anyway. I would not be able to say the same about me. Truth be told, I just love my gear.

And pregnancy has one great advantage: if you are into new kit, it provides you with one big excuse to indulge.

I did not discover this straight away. In fact, I first started pretty frustrated. We found out I was pregnant a few days before Christmas, and I had been hinting (OK, let's be frank here: lobbying like mad and with no subtility whatsoever) that I was dreaming about that great Polar watch which would give me not only the time of day, but, more importantly (why would you want a watch to give you time?) run distance, maximum and average speed, altitude gain, etc, etc... In a nutshell, the perfect toy for a running addict.

And there I was, discovering I was pregnant, and realising that my mileage would have to drop. Right, that did not mean the new toy I eventually got (I am a great lobbyist) would not be used, but it would start its life being under-used, which sounded almost as bad. And that was just the beginning, was I telling myself with dread. No more excuses for a new climbing helmet I had been coveting (I have one of course, and it does the job perfectly. Except it is white, while Martin's is orange, therefore much more funky, and I am not sure how much longer I can handle the frustration). No more excuses for new bike tires (and worst: my road bike is baby-blue, and for as long as I would still be cycling during pregnancy, people would think the choice of colour had been an early sign of repressed clock-ticking issues). No more excuses for über-light trail running, folding, carbon poles (I knew I would be soon enough considering myself happy to run a few miles on the flat, where, let's face it, poles would just make me look like a pregnant grand-mother). And the list could go on. And on. And on.

But then, little by little, it drew on me that, unless I was about to spend the next 9 months playing the couch potato at home (which was so NOT the intention), pregnancy could just provide an avenue for new gear discovery.

And it has. The kit is just different.

The one piece of gear I am really excited about is the baby carrier we are planning to get. Check this out: not only can it be used as a baby jogger, but it doubles as a bike carrier and can also be used when ski touring. OK, we will have to deal with the issue of petite Boule not freezing to death in this thing, but as soon as I am in working order again, this one fine piece of gear should prove like the perfect let's-keep-Mum-happy tool.

And then there is yoga, meditation and birth classes. Swiss ball (we had two, but you see, we need a different size, for Martin to play an active role during delivery. Now, that's an excuse), wobble cushion, and meditation cushions with funky names like "zafu" have quickly transformed the living room in an annexe of, depending on which corner you happen to look at, my gym or my yoga studio.

As for my turbo trainer, after months of inactivity (given the choice, no way I will get on it while there are so many passes to climb in a 50 km radius), it got a new life when I stopped using my racing bike outside, and now stands proudly, and used, in the middle of our living room.

So, unlike what I initially feared, pregnancy has been so far quite good for my gear addictions. As delivery date is looming, I just now wondered what it will be like after the Petite Boule is born: somehow, I cannot see myself getting over-excited over nappies and baby bottles. I mean, if they were making you fitter or faster, somebody would have already noticed, don't you think?

We have been busy

I may not have been that diligent in keeping this blog updated in the last few months, but it does not mean I was doing nothing of my days. Actually, the very fact I have been busy could even be the perfect excuse for not being better at being in touch.

Busy doing what, I can hear some of you wondering (although may I say that I find it a bit mean coming from friends). And, to an extent, I would agree: I mean, it is not like I am still working in banking, for crying out loud. Actually, it is not like I am working, full stop. Still, the past few months have been busy, as, and you may have guessed that my now, we did not exactly stop our little adventures with the news of the imminent arrival of the Petite Boule.

So here is a quick account of the last 8 months, since we found out our team would soon expand to three (8 months summarized in a post, now that’s blog-efficiency… very unlike me).

Month 1 and… # 1 ski outing of the season
In case you are wondering: the fact you don’t see my bump has nothing to do with the fog. In fact, it will stay very discreet for another few months (and I won’t be complaining). So discreet here that, at the very moment this photo was taken, I had actually still no idea my life was about to change forever (that may sound a bit melodramatic, but I stick to it).

Month 2 and… a 2-person team effort on race day
The Trail Blanc was my first (and actually only) race with my new partner. Just keep it for yourself though: not sure where the rules stand regarding getting help from non-race-registered partners, and would not want to be disqualified…

Month 3 and… 3 days of snow shoeing and cross-country skiing in the south of Jura
Well, three days, and, as the photo may give away, nights too, since early darkness combined with a snow storm made our arrival to the refuge a bit more eventful than planned.

Month 4 and… a 4 hour ski tour 4 hours of back-country skiing, and some pretty cool powder
I did not thank Petite Boule for his lack of cooperation on the way up, but at least the few kilos I had gained may have made me a bit faster on the way down, and made me feel like the Free Riding Queen.

Month 5: 5 sports a day…
“5 sports a day keeps boredom at bay” could have been that month’s motto. Skiing, running, hiking, climbing, cycling, we did it all! So far, the Petite Boule has not shown any displeasure at practicing any of them, so we still have good hopes he will turn out to be a climber, runner, cyclist or skier, or preferably all of the above.

Month 6 - Not quite 6 hours on the bike (but it was still fun!)
OK, so feeling your belly getting in the way of your knees while pushing on the pedals is not super fun, but the ride itself was, anyway. I managed to fall, with my feet still clipped in the pedals and while at a stop, which is so far the only evidence of pregnant women losing their sense of balance I have experienced (and according to Martin more a clear sign that I am a d*** with clips).

Oh, and have you noticed: since I am expecting a boy, I have a blue bike… cute, hey?

Month 7 and… a 7 hour-hike
And I really mean 7 hours of actual walking (not including my numerous pit stops. I am pregnant after all). Something to do with us looking over the map a bit too quickly and somehow managing to miss the presence of 2 deep valleys on our itinerary while doing so). Oh well, at least, if I need to walk non-stop in order to make sure Petite Boule falls asleep after he is born, I will know why…

Month 8 and… 8 x 100m (and a bit) of elevation gain
Not the longest hike we did in my eighth month, and since the weather was not perfect, not the most scenic photo, but the other hikes had too much elevation gain to feature in Month 8. That hike became something of a small adventure thanks to the massive storm experienced the previous night, which made a long traverse rather slippery, to say the least. Petite Boule and I negotiated the mud pretty well, which is more than can be said of Martin. Anybody still wants to comment about pregnant women’s loss of balance?

Month 9 and ???
As for the 9th month, starting in less than two weeks, which kind of “9” stuff will it entail? I leave it to you to guess… and am expecting a lot of educated or not-so-educated guesses in the Comments page! The winner will be receive a voucher for (let be generous) a full weekend of baby sitting. Now, somehow, I am not convinced this was the best way of ensuring a record participation…

Never too early for the right kit

When “petite boule” arrives (our son, for those who had not guessed), he will have no choice but be a sporty baby. We however don’t plan to be horrible parents, and plan to let him chose whichever sport he likes best. As long as it is among running, climbing, road cycling and mountain biking that is. And as long as the word “football” is never pronounced within a 10 mile radius from home. Obviously.

Our friends are great. They understand (well, most of them at least) that, as a result, Petite Boule needs to have the right kit. That includes getting ready for the potential injury. And here is what Petite Boule got from our friend Nadya as a “well-done” present for having got a (well deserved) ++ as activity indicator at the last scan appointment:

Ankle support bands, to help with his first tendinitis or other running-related ankle injuries! Isn’t that cool? And he can even afford to injure both ankles at the same time. Luxury…

Merci Nadya…

Ready for exile?

So, this was it. The decision had been made. After twelve years of living in London – and swearing I would never leave, let alone to go back to France - this is precisely what I was about to do. Moving back. To France. And not only to France – I mean, after all, Paris would still feel like a smaller and somehow more insular version of London. No, I was taking the plunge, and sending myself, Martin, my running shoes and my climbing gear to Annecy, a small, provincial town nested in the French Alps. Was this really happening to me, the city girl who spent her entire adult life in London? Let get something straight here: I am not the food-obsessed, tick-accent, Paris-on-Thames, type of Frenchie. Until a few years ago, I would even swear to whoever would listen that I so disliked the French and their habit of continuously complaining and hating everything – thereby being very French myself you will tell me, and I will agree. But anyway, things changed, and after all these years, here I was ready to move on, and go… home? Well, it did not feel quite that way. In fact, I was… scared.

Sure, I wanted to leave London. Sure, I may have been until recently a city girl. Sure, I loved shoes, brunches in Notting Hill, feeling like a jet setter courtesy of EasyJet, ending up not doing anything at night because there is just too much to chose from. Still, the runner-cum-climber-cum-cyclist in me has always won against the city-girl and banker, Mrs Jekyll overpowering of Mrs Hyde. And, let’s face it, if your idea of a great weekend is to wake up early, jump on your bike, go for a 6-hour ride, come back, take a shower and go for a two hour session at the climbing wall before your evening run, London is just NOT the ideal place to be. Annecy, on the other hand, had everything it takes, at least on paper. Beautiful mountains, clean air. Check. A flat three times the size of our London pad for half the price, AND a garage big enough for our 6 bikes, mountaineering gear, skis, a small climbing wall, boxes full of summer flip flops and winter boots: re-check. Trails on your doorstep for those off-road runs, so much more fun than running on pavements? Still check. Dive in the Annecy Lake’s pristine water on a hot summer day that beats a London pool full of chlorine and screaming kids any day? Check again. Little winding roads especially designed for weekend cycling rides, or, even better, short lunchtime or weekday after-work sessions (how decadent)? Check, always check.

Not that the “after work” bit was of any relevance to me, mind you. And that’s where the scary bit started. Because I may have been happily giving up the London rat-race and the City job, I was still not ready to become a French version of your average desperate housewife. I only gave up to married life because, let’s face it, when the perfect man comes along and is reckless enough to think he can survive being married to me, it would have been crazy to turn him down. But between being a wife and being ready to add the prefix “house-” in front of it, was a big, very big, step I was not sure I was ready - or wanted to - take. Although I had no second thoughts about leaving Europe’s largest city to become a provinciale, the prospect of also being a chômeur, a jobless, and buying my beloved running shoes not with my own, hard won money but with that of my husband, was a different ballgame altogether!

And then, there was, of course, the issue of the French. Because, everybody will no doubt agree with me, they truly are a piece of work. And I should know, shouldn’t I? In London, it used to be at best funny – of the bittersweet kind – to admit it. But what was I supposed to do now? I could hardly complain to the French themselves, or they would probably try to send me back to where I, no doubt, in their mind now belonged, the visceral enemy: England. Still I figured that, if I learned to shut up even when really annoyed (not easy if you know me, I must admit), I should just about be able to deal with it and not being sent back from where I came from.

So that was it. The decision was taken. Martin’s thesis and my bonus in the bag, we would make our farewell to London, and head off to Annecy. Oh, via Thailand, as one does.