The first memory I have is of falling into a fishpond at four years old. Splash into darkness, a two-second lifetime, hurried
Devon-born, I've been living in Lyon for 14 years now, surviving on a diet of pragmatism and pain au chocolat, as I watch my children sprout wings. This is a blog on what happens here - the oddities, the people, and the kerfuffle it creates in the head of a rootless expat.
They chose to call it the Mooncup, not the Blood Mug, Silicone Scarlet, nor my son’s suggestion, the Holy Grail. They chose
06/12/2017 09:48 GMT
Bernadette is on her knees, fist clenched. Determination oozing out her eyes. The target is on the ground between two breeze blocks. <em>Traverser la cible</em>, go through the target. Focus. She sucks in one last breath, blinks, raises her fist...
06/11/2017 17:30 GMT
My son said he was bored for the first time the other day. Stumped, I was. Had I had wine in my mouth, it would have made the white wall abstract. Up to this point he'd accompanied his 8-year-old existence with a soundtrack of gun noises and whispers from inside an adventure-hungry and bellicose Lego community it was impossible to yank him out of.
23/08/2017 13:41 BST
You understand that this kid has made waiting an art form. And you cannot fail to note that the conclusive point somewhere in the future - the dental appointment, the dinner, the place that man just has to be - is in fact nowhere at all.
31/07/2017 15:45 BST
My son has been asking questions about God since he was four. It started during his most acute "but-why" phase. At his Catholic school in France - chosen more for its bilingual dimension than for its religious one - he heard many a biblical story cross-legged on the carpet.
20/06/2017 07:57 BST
"I personally wouldn't have taken the risk...", said one of my friends the other day, over a coffee, appalled at what I'd done with my daughter. "You never know...", she said, her eyes widening.
05/06/2017 16:34 BST
17/05/2017 13:19 BST
To be a distant bitch or an in-your-face bitch? To not be a bitch at all? To show an elevated sense of self-worth or be humble? To wear heels that reveal the curves in your calves, or flatties, wellies even? Cover the cleavage or let rip?
08/05/2017 13:24 BST
04/04/2017 13:25 BST
"What's<em> that</em>?" asked my three-year old son, head skew-whiff. Swamped by bubbles and an army of dinosaurs from the Cretaceous period, he was pointing at my lower regions with a Gallimimus in his hand. We were both in the bath. "Erm," I replied...
01/03/2017 16:24 GMT
<strong>My friend George</strong> loves the Virgin Mary. He thinks she looks very pleasant, caring, sexy, in a mother-sexy kind of way. He also thinks her name is genius. <em>The Virgin Mary</em>. It's a reminder to strive to be something you're probably not. Like a tax-dodger being called Honest Pete.
27/02/2017 13:22 GMT
Embrace the grey or dye. It's up to you. But go do something you love. Be someone you love. Move furniture around, set fire to things, chuck out the unwanted, find music in silence. Find truth. No one's truly happy being a mortal, sensing the final stop. So a grey hair, a crappy diagnosis, a simple wake-up call, remind you your days are numbered, and that it's what you do or don't do that defines you.
09/02/2017 13:28 GMT
A scream follows a thud. Then the crying comes. I step into the room and observe today's carnage. I sport three titles today, as parents do the world over - criminal investigator, referee and arse-kicking prosecutor with washing-up gloves on.
09/02/2017 13:01 GMT
A girl steps into a big house and won't nod in agreement with her mother who thinks the kitchen unit is absolutely stunning, is it IKEA? She won't look at surface, at cut-glass vases, at paintings of gravy-faced aristocrats holding guns - she'll look inside things. Cupboards, boxes, locked-up doorways, cellars. Or he will, if he's a boy.
28/12/2016 15:52 GMT
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