Or: how my meticulously timed itinerary lasted roughly 2 hours
I arrived in London with a plan. A proper plan. Timed, scheduled, practically laminated. Napoleon would have looked at it and said, “A bit much, mate.”
Then reality turned up, wearing a Ryanair lanyard.
The journey (a cautionary tale)
The flight to Stansted was, and I choose my words carefully here, horribly uncomfortable. I’ve had more legroom in a hamster ball. Once safely on the ground, I was rewarded with an hour on the Stansted Express and a couple of tube changes, which is London’s way of asking, “Are you sure you wanted to come?”
Yes. Yes, I was.
Eventually we reached Southwark station and our Premier Inn. The room is fine, the location is excellent, and nobody has yet attempted to charge me for breathing, so we’re off to a strong start.
Step one: the schedule says pub
Bags dropped, and exactly on schedule (enjoy that, it’s the last time), we marched to the marvellous old Lord Clyde for a pint of Tribute. Real ale, properly kept, in a proper pub. Each sip washed away another layer of Ryanair trauma. By the bottom of the glass, I had been fully rehabilitated and was prepared to forgive everyone, including the airline. (I later reconsidered.)
Step two: the schedule is overruled by my stomach
Unfortunately, real ale has a side effect: it makes you hungry. And so, with no warning to the Ministry of Itineraries, we deviated from the plan and headed to Est. India, the local Indian restaurant. The gin and tonic was good. The food was excellent. The plan was quietly taken outside and shot.
I suspect this will not be my only curry of the trip. The itinerary may as well accept this now and save us both the heartache.
Step three: early night (a bold strategy)
A ten-minute stroll brought us back to the hotel for an early night, UK time. A sensible, mature decision, made by a man who clearly doesn’t know his own body.
Because here I am at 3:30am, wide awake, typing this on my phone with the thumbs of a man wearing oven gloves. Jet lag is a stretch for a one-hour time difference, so I’m calling it what it is: Premier Inn’s very comfortable beds conspiring with a curry-and-ale cocktail to keep me up.
Day 2 awaits. The plan says “sightseeing.” My stomach says “breakfast.” We all know who’s winning.
Week 42, in which I become a human pincushion and then fly Ryanair
If this past week had a theme song, it would be a very small, very sharp ping. Needles. So many needles.
Let’s start with the baseline: four insulin shots a day, plus the weekly GLP-1 jab. That’s the everyday maintenance package. But this week, the hospital decided I wasn’t pierced enough and added a blood test, followed by a Hepatitis B booster. Then, on Thursday, came the monthly main event: a needle so enormous that the nurses gather round to admire it like it’s a prize marrow at the village show. Luckily, I have the right bum for the job. Every man should know his strengths.
With this many holes in me, I’m honestly surprised I’m not leaking when I walk. What’s left in there must be a truly remarkable cocktail, which probably explains why I’m no longer allowed to donate blood. I’d like to think the Blood Service looked at my file and simply said, “No, that’s a bit much, even for us.”
The quiet bits
Apart from the pincushion routine, it was a gentle start to the week. The days are getting cooler and I’m slowly adjusting. Plans are brewing: a night out in Nîmes before the month is over, and a pile of reservations made ahead of the London trip.
It’s also medical season, so midweek brought my yearly check-up with my new gastroenterologist. Verdict: nothing to report. In medical terms, that’s the best review you can get. Five stars, would be ignored again.
Fête du vin: a tale of unrealised enjoyment
Thursday was a lazy affair until evening, when the annual Fête du vin kicked off, with a few more stands than last year. We made it in time for the opening speeches, which were dreadful. I’ll say no more, other than that the wine could only improve things.
Friends arrived, ten of us gathered, and we enjoyed a few glasses. And by “enjoyed,” I may be exaggerating slightly. The truth is I’ve never been keen on drinking wine outside of a meal, and it’s getting worse with age. My kidneys filed a formal complaint and I went home early. A tragic loss for the festival, I’m sure.
Ryanair, or: Why I Suffer
Friday was all about setting the house in order, packing, and making our way to the local airport for the flight to London. I swear, hand on heart, I will never fly Ryanair again. (Obvious exception: getting home in a few days. I’m not made of money, or of patience.)
But then came redemption. A pint of Tribute real ale at the old Lord Clyde in Southwark, a few minutes from the hotel, followed by an excellent curry at Est India just two minutes further on. By the end of the second course, the journey was a distant memory and I was a man at peace.
London adventures to follow in a separate post. Stay tuned, and stay hydrated. Preferably not with wine.
I am writing to you live from the hospital waiting room, that sacred place where time stands still, magazines date from the previous administration, and everyone studies their own shoes with intense interest.
Today I am seeing a new gastroenterologist. My beloved previous one, a charming Luxembourger with whom I could chat in German, has been promoted to head of the service and no longer sees outpatients. I like to think he is now in a corner office somewhere, wearing a very important lanyard, managing the team and surgically removing things from people who are not me. We had something special, he and I. Now I have been passed on, like a hand-me-down jumper.
The hospital itself feels different: busier, buzzier, and I suspect some of the layout has been quietly improved. Naturally I noticed this only because I was trying to work out how to escape. A hospital is still a hospital, and I am about as comfortable here as a cat at a bath party.
And then came the shock. I was seen on time. In France! I had to check my watch, then the calendar, then my pulse. Having lived through the German experience, where punctuality is a national religion that mysteriously stops at the hospital door, I am forever amazed that France, the land of the leisurely lunch, delivers on the dot. Somewhere, a Prussian clerk is weeping into his appointment book.
Further follow-ups have been planned, so this is clearly the start of a beautiful, long-term relationship. I also left with the prescription I came for, which in hospital terms counts as winning the lottery.
Meanwhile, my left kidney, or rather the stone residing in it, chose this moment to start grumbling. I can only assume it knows exactly where it is. “Ah, a hospital! Lots of staff, lots of trolleys, excellent emergency facilities. Now would be a splendid time to make a scene.” Dramatic little pebble. It has all the subtlety of a toddler who senses a supermarket checkout nearby.
Back in town, I popped into the chemist for my injection, because nothing says “I’m having a glamorous day” like a jab and a paper bag. And then, wonder of wonders: the tents are up on Place Carnot for the annual wine festival, which starts tomorrow!
Now, I am in the middle of a long period of abstinence. Not a weekend detox, not a Dry January with a sulk, but a proper, extended, character-building stretch. Purely a health measure, you understand. But looking at those tents, I feel my resolve wobbling like a jelly on a washing machine. I may well end my dry spell a day early, which, given its length, is a bit like leaving a marathon at kilometre 41. For the sake of the local economy, naturally.
In fact, to steady the nerves after a day of hospital corridors, belligerent kidney stones and punctual doctors, I may indulge in a couple of large Scotch whiskies tonight. Medicinal, obviously. After such a long drought, I suspect the first one will be less a drink and more a reunion, complete with tears and a slow-motion run across a field.
Tomorrow, the wine festival. Tonight, the whisky. And somewhere in my left flank, a small stone waits patiently, plotting its next move.
Cheers, everyone. Or as they say in Luxembourg: Prost!
🇫🇷
Chroniques de salle d’attente : une aventure gastro
Je vous écris en direct de la salle d’attente de l’hôpital, ce lieu sacré où le temps s’arrête, où les magazines datent du gouvernement précédent et où chacun étudie ses chaussures avec un intérêt soutenu.
Aujourd’hui, je vois un nouveau gastro-entérologue. Mon ancien médecin, un charmant Luxembourgeois avec qui je pouvais bavarder en allemand, a été promu chef de service et ne reçoit donc plus de patients en consultation externe. J’aime à l’imaginer dans un bureau d’angle, affublé d’un badge très important, dirigeant son équipe et retirant chirurgicalement des organes à des gens qui ne sont pas moi. Nous avions quelque chose de spécial, lui et moi. Me voilà refilé à un autre, comme un pull de seconde main.
L’hôpital lui-même a changé d’ambiance : plus animé, plus bourdonnant, et je soupçonne que l’agencement a été discrètement amélioré. Évidemment, je ne l’ai remarqué qu’en cherchant la sortie. Un hôpital reste un hôpital, et je m’y sens aussi à l’aise qu’un chat à une fête de la baignoire.
Et puis, le choc. J’ai été reçu à l’heure. En France ! J’ai dû vérifier ma montre, puis le calendrier, puis mon pouls. Après mon expérience allemande, où la ponctualité est une religion nationale qui s’arrête mystérieusement à la porte de l’hôpital, je ne cesse de m’étonner que la France, pays du déjeuner qui s’éternise, tienne ses horaires à la minute. Quelque part, un greffier prussien pleure dans son agenda.
Des rendez-vous de suivi sont déjà prévus : c’est donc clairement le début d’une belle et longue histoire. Je repars aussi avec l’ordonnance que j’étais venu chercher, ce qui, en milieu hospitalier, équivaut à gagner au loto.
Pendant ce temps, mon rein gauche, ou plutôt le calcul qui y a élu domicile, a choisi ce moment pour se manifester. Je ne peux que supposer qu’il sait très bien où il se trouve. « Ah, un hôpital ! Plein de personnel, plein de brancards, d’excellentes urgences. Voilà le moment idéal pour faire un scandale. » Petit caillou dramatique. Il a la subtilité d’un enfant de trois ans qui sent la caisse du supermarché approcher.
De retour en ville, je suis passé à la pharmacie pour ma piqûre, car rien ne dit « quelle journée glamour » comme une injection et un sachet en papier. Et là, ô merveille : les tentes sont montées place Carnot pour la fête annuelle du vin, qui commence demain !
Or, je suis actuellement en pleine période d’abstinence. Longue. Pas une cure de désintoxication de week-end, pas un Janvier sec avec la mine boudeuse, mais une vraie période prolongée qui forge le caractère. Purement une mesure de santé, vous comprenez. Mais devant ces tentes, ma résolution se met à trembloter comme une gelée sur une machine à laver. Je pourrais bien mettre fin à ma disette un jour plus tôt, ce qui, vu sa durée, revient à abandonner un marathon au kilomètre 41. Pour le bien de l’économie locale, naturellement.
D’ailleurs, pour calmer mes nerfs après une journée de couloirs d’hôpital, de calculs rénaux belliqueux et de médecins ponctuels, je m’offrirai peut-être un ou deux grands verres de whisky ce soir. À titre médicinal, bien sûr. Après une si longue sécheresse, je soupçonne que le premier ne sera pas tant une boisson qu’des retrouvailles, avec larmes et course au ralenti à travers un champ.
Demain, la fête du vin. Ce soir, le whisky. Et quelque part dans mon flanc gauche, un petit calcul attend patiemment, préparant son prochain coup.
Santé à tous ! Ou, comme on dit au Luxembourg : Proscht !
🇩🇪
Wartezimmer-Chroniken: Ein Gastro-Abenteuer
Ich schreibe Ihnen live aus dem Wartezimmer des Krankenhauses, diesem heiligen Ort, an dem die Zeit stillsteht, die Zeitschriften noch aus der vorletzten Regierung stammen und jeder mit größtem Interesse seine eigenen Schuhe studiert.
Heute sehe ich einen neuen Gastroenterologen. Mein geschätzter bisheriger Arzt, ein charmanter Luxemburger, mit dem ich mich auf Deutsch unterhalten konnte, ist zum Leiter der Abteilung befördert worden und behandelt keine ambulanten Patienten mehr. Ich stelle ihn mir gern in einem Eckbüro vor, mit einem sehr wichtigen Namensschild um den Hals, wie er sein Team leitet und Menschen, die nicht ich sind, fachmännisch Dinge entfernt. Wir hatten etwas Besonderes, er und ich. Jetzt wurde ich weitergereicht wie ein abgetragener Pullover.
Das Krankenhaus selbst wirkt anders: geschäftiger, summender, und ich vermute, dass die Raumaufteilung still und leise verbessert wurde. Aufgefallen ist mir das natürlich nur, weil ich nach dem Ausgang gesucht habe. Ein Krankenhaus bleibt ein Krankenhaus, und ich fühle mich hier ungefähr so wohl wie eine Katze auf einer Badewannenparty.
Und dann der Schock: Ich wurde pünktlich aufgerufen. In Frankreich! Ich musste erst auf die Uhr schauen, dann auf den Kalender, dann den Puls fühlen. Nach meinen Erfahrungen in Deutschland, wo Pünktlichkeit eine Nationalreligion ist, die rätselhafterweise an der Krankenhaustür endet, staune ich immer wieder, dass ausgerechnet Frankreich, das Land des ausgedehnten Mittagessens, auf die Minute liefert. Irgendwo weint ein preußischer Beamter in seinen Terminkalender.
Weitere Kontrolltermine sind bereits geplant, das ist also eindeutig der Beginn einer wunderbaren, langen Beziehung. Außerdem habe ich das Rezept bekommen, wegen dem ich gekommen war, was in Krankenhauskategorien einem Lottogewinn gleichkommt.
Währenddessen hat sich meine linke Niere, genauer gesagt der Stein darin, entschieden, genau jetzt zu murren. Ich kann nur annehmen, dass er genau weiß, wo er sich befindet. „Ah, ein Krankenhaus! Viel Personal, viele Rollbetten, hervorragende Notaufnahme. Der ideale Moment für einen Auftritt.” Dramatisches kleines Steinchen. Es hat das Feingefühl eines Dreijährigen, der die Supermarktkasse wittert.
Zurück in der Stadt, schaute ich in der Apotheke für meine Spritze vorbei, denn nichts sagt „Was für ein glamouröser Tag” so sehr wie eine Injektion und eine Papiertüte. Und dann, o Wunder: Auf der Place Carnot stehen schon alle Zelte für das jährliche Weinfest, das morgen beginnt!
Nun befinde ich mich derzeit in einer Abstinenzphase. Einer langen. Keine Wochenend-Entgiftung, kein „Dry January” mit beleidigtem Gesicht, sondern eine richtige, ausgedehnte, charakterbildende Durststrecke. Rein aus gesundheitlichen Gründen, versteht sich. Doch beim Anblick dieser Zelte gerät meine Entschlossenheit ins Wanken wie ein Wackelpudding auf der Waschmaschine. Gut möglich, dass ich meine Trockenzeit einen Tag früher beende, was bei ihrer Länge ungefähr so ist, als würde man den Marathon bei Kilometer 41 abbrechen. Zum Wohle der lokalen Wirtschaft, selbstverständlich.
Um die Nerven nach einem Tag voller Krankenhausflure, streitlustiger Nierensteine und pünktlicher Ärzte zu beruhigen, gönne ich mir heute Abend vielleicht ein, zwei große Scotch. Medizinisch, versteht sich. Nach so langer Dürre vermute ich, dass der erste weniger ein Getränk als ein Wiedersehen sein wird, mit Tränen und einem Lauf in Zeitlupe über eine Wiese.
Morgen das Weinfest. Heute Abend der Whisky. Und irgendwo in meiner linken Flanke wartet geduldig ein kleiner Stein und schmiedet seinen nächsten Plan.
Prost allerseits! Oder, wie man in Luxemburg sagt: Proscht!
Autumn in our little corner of France has decided to perform a yo-yo ballet, and my wardrobe is the unwilling understudy.
Last week, in a fit of optimism, I packed away all my shorts and hauled out the long trousers and long-sleeved t-shirts. Very sensible. Very seasonal. Very premature. The weather forecast has since announced a few days of renewed heat, which feels less like a forecast and more like a personal taunt.
Case in point: I stepped outside for a post-lunch rest, and within minutes the sun had turned my chair into a frying pan with a view. I retreated indoors, defeated, like a vampire at a beach party.
The cruel trick of autumn is that the sun doesn’t hang around. The moment the shade creeps over you, the temperature drops like a stone and you go from “I’m melting” to “Where is my cardigan?” in roughly four minutes. It’s the weather equivalent of a friend who’s lovely at lunch and unbearable at dinner.
Meanwhile, I’m eyeing the London forecast with the intensity of a chess grandmaster. Ten degrees cooler than here, they say. Which means my packing list needs to cover “tropical lounging” and “damp British drizzle” in one tidy bundle.
And here’s the real kicker: we’re flying cheap, which means one under-seat bag. One. That’s not a suitcase, that’s a handbag with ambitions. Every item must earn its place. Do I bring the jumper that might save me in London, or the sandals that might save my dignity at home?
The solution, I suspect, is layers. Lots of thin, clever layers, worn all at once on the plane, until I resemble a well-dressed onion.
If you spot me at the airport sweating profusely in three jackets, please don’t make eye contact. I’m packing strategically.
What would you pack for a week of “sunburn with a side of drizzle”? Tell me in the comments, I clearly need all the help I can get.
I am sure there is no shortage of top roasts in London. This is the sort of confidence one has before opening a browser and discovering roughly four thousand “best Sunday lunch” lists, each written by someone who clearly has a favourite potato.
With a spare hour before lunch, I have decided to investigate the city’s finest Sunday meals. Pubs, restaurants, breweries: nowhere is safe. I will probably reserve a table for next weekend, which in London terms means I will be refreshing a booking page at 9am on a Monday like a man chasing Glastonbury tickets.
🍗 The Brief
First, the room. It must be welcoming. Ideally a pub, and ideally with an open fire, because nothing says “you are safe now” like a crackling log and a dog asleep on someone else’s coat. Sticky carpets are acceptable. Fluorescent lighting is not.
Then, the plate. Let us be clear about the non-negotiables:
Roast potatoes. Perfect ones. Crisp enough to be heard from the next table, fluffy enough to make you forgive your ex.
The meat. Lamb, beef or pork, cooked with care and not left to contemplate its mistakes under a heat lamp.
A decent plant-based option. An actual dish with thought behind it, not a lone cauliflower sitting there like it lost a bet.
🍗 Why This Matters
A Sunday roast is more than lunch. It is self-care. Forget the face mask and the meditation app: three hours, a gravy boat and a second Yorkshire pudding will do more for your mental health than any wellness retreat, and it costs about the same as a facial.
So what will it be? A snug neighbourhood gastropub, most likely, the kind with mismatched chairs, a chalkboard menu and a landlord who knows your name by the second visit.
The search continues, as it must, until aperitif time. Which, naturally, I have decided starts at noon on Sundays. Research is thirsty work.
Reports to follow. Gravy-stained notes available on request.
In which two people celebrate fifty years of marriage, and their bodies celebrate by filing complaints.
I cannot believe another 30 days have slipped by. September, you were a mixed grill: holidays, friends, medical worries and a side order of the blues. Not the menu I’d have chosen, but the Mallorca starter was excellent.
Fifty years and counting
The month began in style with 11 days on the island of Mallorca, a first for us but certainly not the last. We celebrated our golden anniversary there, which is a polite way of saying we have now been putting up with each other for half a century and both still seem to be turning up to dinner. We discovered a charming island, did a great deal of exploring and still left plenty unseen. That’s not unfinished business, that’s a reservation. Next September again? Consider the sun lounger booked.
Reality checks in
The return home was less joyful. For a couple of weeks I had been plagued by an unwanted medical condition that worried me rather a lot, rounds of specialists painted a worrying picture, then took a couple of weeks of deliberation to settle on a final verdict and a marche à suivre. Nothing quite sharpens your appreciation of the word “pending” like waiting for a medical one.
Sausages as therapy
Still, we were not beaten. We squeezed in what was probably the last barbecue Sunday lunch of the season at friends’ and welcomed German friends for a couple of days. It turns out good company, good food and a bit of grilled meat do wonders for taking the mind off things. Doctors, take note: the barbecue may be the underrated treatment option.
The blues arrive uninvited
The second half of the month was gloomy. Planning escapades for the coming weeks proved impossible, though London, Hannover and Nîmes are all hovering in the wings. The blues settled in like unwelcome relatives, with luggage.
Plot twist: it’s only a kidney stone
Then came the silver lining, delivered by an afternoon at the ER. My mystery ailment turned out to be nothing more sinister than yet another kidney stone. Yes, another. At this point I may as well start a collection. As usual it will take its own sweet time and most likely its fair share of pain, but it is only a kidney stone, and I have never been so relieved to be told I had one.
Looking ahead
So perhaps we can start planning the odd trip after all. I’ll just check my holiday bank account balance before committing to anything. Then again, on second thought, autumn arriving isn’t so bad. Cosy jumpers, cooler evenings, and a perfectly good excuse to stay home and be gloriously, boringly healthy.
Here’s to October. Be gentle with us.
🇫🇷
Le mois qui s’est écoulé : septembre 2026
Où l’on fête cinquante ans de mariage, et où nos corps fêtent ça en déposant des réclamations.
Té, déjà trente jours de passés ! Je n’en reviens pas. Septembre, tu nous as servi une vraie bouillabaisse : des vacances, des amis, des inquiétudes médicales et un peu de cafard au fond de la marmite. Pas le menu que j’aurais commandé, peuchère, mais l’entrée majorquine était excellente.
Cinquante ans et pas une ride (ou presque)
Le mois a commencé en fanfare avec 11 jours à Majorque, une première pour nous, mais sûrement pas une dernière. Nous y avons fêté nos noces d’or, ce qui est une façon polie de dire que nous nous supportons depuis un demi-siècle et que nous nous présentons encore tous les deux à table. Comme dirait l’autre, ça se fête, et pas qu’avec un verre d’eau. Nous avons découvert une île charmante, beaucoup exploré et laissé beaucoup à voir. Ce n’est pas du travail inachevé, c’est une réservation. Septembre prochain, même endroit ? Le transat est déjà retenu.
La réalité nous rattrape
Le retour à la maison fut moins joyeux. Depuis quelques semaines, un petit désagrément médical me tracassait pas mal, necessitant le tour des spécialistes. Ceux-ci ont dressé un tableau préoccupant, puis pris deux bonnes semaines de réflexion pour arrêter un verdict et une marche à suivre. Rien n’apprend mieux la patience que d’attendre un diagnostic. Même les cigales finissent par s’énerver.
La saucisse comme thérapie
Mais on ne se laisse pas abattre, fada que je suis ! Nous avons casé le dernier barbecue dominical de la saison chez des amis, probablement, puis accueilli quelques jours nos amis allemands. Il faut croire que la bonne compagnie, la bonne table et un peu de viande grillée font des miracles pour chasser les idées noires. Messieurs les docteurs, prenez-en de la graine : la grillade est un traitement sous-estimé.
Le cafard s’invite sans frapper
La seconde quinzaine fut maussade. Impossible de planifier la moindre escapade, alors que Londres, Hanovre et Nîmes attendent patiemment dans les coulisses. Le cafard s’est installé comme un cousin éloigné, avec valises et sans date de départ.
Coup de théâtre : ce n’est qu’un caillou
Puis est venue l’éclaircie, au détour d’un après-midi aux urgences. Mon mystérieux mal n’était rien de pire qu’un calcul rénal. Oui, encore un. À ce rythme, je vais finir par ouvrir une carrière. Comme d’habitude, il suivra son cours à son rythme, avec sa part de souffrance, mais ce n’est qu’un caillou, et jamais je n’ai été aussi content d’en avoir un.
Et maintenant ?
On va peut-être pouvoir envisager quelques petites virées. Je vérifierai d’abord le solde de mon compte « vacances » avant de m’engager. Cela dit, à la réflexion, l’automne n’est pas si terrible : les pulls douillets, les soirées fraîches et une excellente excuse pour rester au coin du feu, en bonne santé et splendidement ennuyeux, comme dans un film où il ne se passe rien, ce qui est parfait.
Je dois bien l’avouer, j’ai un petit coup de blues depuis quelques jours. Rien de dramatique — je n’ai pas encore commencé à parler au mobilier de jardin — mais il y a clairement un petit manque d’enthousiasme qui flotte dans l’air à la maison.
Le principal problème, c’est que, pour une fois, nous n’avons absolument rien de prévu pour les trois prochains mois. Normalement, cela devrait ressembler au paradis. Trois mois sans vols, sans hôtels, sans valises à faire, sans passeports à chercher cinq minutes avant de partir. Le bonheur.
Sauf qu’il y a un petit détail.
Nous ne pouvons justement rien prévoir.
Nous avons quelques rendez-vous médicaux de suivi dans les semaines qui viennent et, tant que nous ne connaîtrons pas les résultats — et surtout s’ils doivent éventuellement déboucher sur une intervention chirurgicale — nous sommes, pour ainsi dire, coincés.
C’est frustrant. Très frustrant.
Normalement, lorsqu’une chose est incertaine, je compense en planifiant autre chose. Un week-end quelque part. Un petit voyage en Espagne. Londres. N’importe quoi, du moment qu’il y a un hôtel avec un bar décent. Il suffit de mettre quelques dates dans le calendrier et de se convaincre que tout est parfaitement organisé.
Pour le moment, le calendrier commence à avoir un sérieux complexe d’infériorité.
Et puis il y a la météo.
Il fait encore relativement chaud ici, alors je sais que je ne devrais pas me plaindre. Mais au moment où j’écris ces lignes, il bruine dehors. La piscine a soudainement beaucoup moins d’attrait, le soleil est parti se cacher et l’automne s’est discrètement installé sans même prendre la peine de sonner à la porte.
Et, bien entendu, l’automne n’est que l’avant-garde de l’hiver.
Je sais que nous avons besoin de pluie et je sais aussi que nous avons une chance incroyable de vivre ici. Mais il y a quelque chose d’assez déprimant à regarder dehors et à réaliser que la saison des déjeuners en terrasse, des baignades, des apéritifs tardifs et de cette délicieuse illusion que l’été va durer éternellement touche doucement à sa fin.
Et puis il y a le troisième petit problème.
Je fais de vrais efforts pour garder le contact avec les amis. J’envoie des messages, je téléphone de temps en temps, j’essaie de maintenir les conversations et, plus généralement, de faire en sorte que les relations humaines ne disparaissent pas tranquillement dans le désert numérique.
Et, à quelques exceptions près, la réponse est… disons que l’enthousiasme ne se bouscule pas exactement au portillon.
Parfois, je me demande pourquoi je me donne tant de mal.
Peut-être que tout le monde est simplement très occupé. Peut-être que les gens sont fatigués. Peut-être sommes-nous tous arrivés à cet âge où répondre à un message est devenu une opération administrative majeure nécessitant une réunion de comité et trois jours ouvrables.
Ou alors, tout simplement, je suis de mauvaise humeur.
C’est probablement ça.
Alors, pour le moment, j’essaie de me rappeler qu’il ne s’agit que d’une petite période désagréable d’incertitude. Nous aurons des réponses à nos questions médicales, nous pourrons à nouveau faire des projets, le soleil finira bien par revenir, les amis réapparaîtront probablement de l’endroit mystérieux où les amis disparaissent parfois et je pourrai à nouveau me plaindre des aéroports, des hôtels, des compagnies aériennes et du prix d’un verre de vin.
En attendant, je vais continuer à m’asseoir ici, dans le Sud de la France, à regarder la pluie, à contempler un calendrier désespérément vide et à me demander ce qui est arrivé à l’homme qui, autrefois, se plaignait d’être trop occupé.
It has now been just about two months since I wrote A Tale of Two Cities (And My Wobbly Knees), a post in which I confidently identified a problem — two empty months on the calendar, two cities fighting for my attention — and then, with the discipline and follow-through of a man who has never once finished a New Year’s resolution, did absolutely nothing about it. October and November remain exactly as empty as they were in July. I have achieved eight weeks of extremely thorough procrastination. If indecision were a sport, I would currently be up for European Championship selection.
The original arguments still stand, by the way. London still has its comfort-food musicals and its unconquered Eye. Paris still has Atelier des Lumières quietly judging me from across the Channel — or the Manche, depending on which side of my own indecision I’m standing on that day. Nothing has been resolved. I have simply let the problem marinate, like a stew nobody’s bothered to put on the heat.
🐞 Enter the NFL, Uninvited But Not Unwelcome
Just to make sure I hadn’t gotten too comfortable in my paralysis, I discovered that the NFL is bringing six games to Europe over the coming weeks, all conveniently scheduled in October. Three in London. One in Paris. Which, on paper, sounds like exactly the tie-breaker I’ve been praying for — a bolt of American gridiron clarity descending from the heavens to finally settle the London-versus-Paris cage match once and for all.
Except it isn’t, because the NFL, in its infinite and slightly sadistic wisdom, decided to plant a flag in both cities. One f* — sorry, one — of the two cities would have needed to be left off the schedule for this to work as a deciding factor. Instead I’ve been handed a coin that landed on its edge. Thanks for nothing, NFL. You had one job: pick a side so I wouldn’t have to.
🐞 A Third Contender Enters the Ring
As if two cities weren’t already enough to stare blankly at over coffee, Mallorca has now sauntered into the conversation, deeply unbothered, holding a mojito. We had a genuinely lovely time on our recent Balearic trip, and there’s a reasonably strong case for a return visit: it’s closer than Paris or London, which matters more than I’d like to admit at this stage of life, and I’ve since learned that Palma switches on its Christmas lights at the end of November.
Is that an incentive? I don’t know. I’m asking the room. Palma’s Christmas lights are doing an admirable job of campaigning for a slot on my calendar, but I remain suspicious of any city that tries to win me over with fairy lights the way an ex tries to win you back with a playlist. Charming, sure. Load-bearing decision, not so sure.
All of this, mind you, is quite separate from the fact that I also intend to visit Germany — Hannover specifically — in early December, ostensibly for the Christmas markets but really to see family and friends before Christmas, since we’ll be spending the actual day itself in Asia. So we’re not talking about one trip I can’t decide on. We’re talking about a whole autumn logistics puzzle with London, Paris, and Mallorca applying for the October/November slots while Hannover has already quietly locked in December and is watching the rest of us squabble with popcorn.
🐞 The Actual Actual Problem
Here is where things currently stand, medically rather than geographically: as I write this, there is a constant twinge in my left side. Not yet pain — I want to be precise about that, because I have a PhD-level personal expertise in the distinction — just an insistent little reminder that my kidney stone is up to its usual mischief. There is a bit of blood making an unscheduled appearance too, which is the body’s way of sending a memo nobody asked for.
This is stone number five, for those keeping score at home, and my track record is unambiguous: every single one of my previous four has required surgical eviction. None of them has ever simply shown itself out. My kidneys, apparently, do not believe in doing things the easy way, which I suppose is a family trait — the same stubbornness that’s kept London, Paris, and Mallorca all in play simultaneously for two full months has clearly migrated south and taken up residence in my urinary tract.
And here’s the thing about kidney stones that nobody tells you until you’re five stones deep: they don’t care about your travel plans. They don’t care that Palma’s lights go on at the end of November, or that the NFL scheduled its games with such unhelpful symmetry, or that there’s a version of October where I’m sipping something overpriced at the London Eye’s base, gathering courage. There is, quite simply, no booking anything — flights, theatre, immersive light shows, anything requiring me to be upright and functional in a foreign country — until this stone has made its exit, one way or another, and given my history, “another” means a hospital and a surgeon with better aim than me.
So here I sit: three cities auditioning for my empty calendar, one uninvited kidney stone holding the entire production hostage backstage, and one mildly furious blogger who has just realised the single most productive thing he can do about any of this, right this very moment, is get up and pour himself another pint of water.
It sure is not a 5-star hotel reception but the ER is effective and efficient enough. Having been registered before, it only takes a few minutes to get the paperwork ready and being handed over to a very nice nurse named Pauline.
A series of tests follows, I shall not go into details but pleasant it is not. A combination of these tests as well as a blood analysis will determine the next steps or so I am told.
In the meantime, I am left alone with my thoughts, a paper-thin gown that closes with all the structural integrity of a pinky promise, and a blood pressure cuff that seems personally offended by my arm. I have decided the gown was designed by someone who has never once needed to bend over, sit down, or exist in public.
The waiting is its own genre of entertainment. Thankfully I have my phone and internet. Wires , tubes are sticking out here and there.
Pauline returns periodically with the calm efficiency of someone who has seen every possible way a human can react to a needle, and mine, apparently, barely registers on her scale. “You’re doing great,” she says, in the same tone one might use for a toddler who has successfully stacked two blocks. I decide to take the compliment.
No verdict yet — just the low hum of machines doing their quiet arithmetic and the promise that answers are coming, eventually, on hospital time, which everyone knows runs on its own private calendar.
The Verdict
We are now 24 hours later, I am at home since last night. I was released. I have to say that despite knowing what awaits me, I am thoroughly relieved. The hospital is plastered with posters regarding early diagnostic and passing blood is a major indication of possible cancers (prostate, bladders etc). Hence my reluctance to face the possible bad news. Fact is I have none of that, only a fairly large kidney stone. It is not my first one and I know what awaits me as far as pain and a hospital visit in the coming days or weeks. But somehow it is a major relief. No big C in sight.
I have to express my thanks to the hospital staff. Sure it is not a 5 star hotel as mentioned before but their professionalism and well oiled routine is to be admired. The wait sometimes can appear long but they do not stop.
So there it is: not the plot twist the posters were fishing for, just a rock. A geological event, occurring, inconveniently, inside me rather than somewhere scenic like a riverbed. I’ve apparently decided to skip the “get a nice piece of jewelry” step of mineral formation and go straight to “make a grown man reconsider his life choices at 3am.”
Four times now. You’d think by the fourth kidney stone we’d have an understanding, the stone and I, some kind of mutual respect built on shared history. We do not. Each one arrives like it’s the first, fashionably late, uninvited, and utterly convinced it’s the main character of my evening. I’ve concluded these things don’t learn. They just reload.
Still — perspective is a wonderful drug, arguably better than whatever they were giving me in there. Twenty-four hours ago “cancer” was a word doing laps around my head, and today my biggest problem is a mineral deposit that will eventually, dramatically, and against all dignity, leave the building. That is, medically speaking, what we call a good trade.
As for the MRI math — thirty minutes a person, call it two an hour, and that’s presumably with more than one machine running, though I didn’t see a fleet. Whatever the throughput, nobody rushed, nobody cut corners, and nobody handed me a bill on the way out. My American friends, feel free to sit with that one for a moment.
Next chapter: waiting for the stone to make its move, and trying to convince myself that “quickly and comfortably” isn’t an oxymoron in this particular saga. History says it is. History and I have been here before.
ll faut bien le reconnaître : chez BMW, quand on amène sa voiture pour une révision, il y a quand même un petit quelque chose en plus… à part, bien sûr, la facture !
Ce matin, changement des plaquettes de freins avant. L’accueil est aux petits soins, le salon d’attente est plutôt agréable et même le café offert au « Isetta Bar » semble avoir été sélectionné avec le même soin que les voitures exposées.
Pendant que ma voiture se fait bichonner, je vais donc aller jeter un œil aux nouveaux modèles. Après tout, il serait peut-être temps de changer de voiture…
Le problème, c’est que je suis venu pour changer des plaquettes et que je risque de repartir avec des idées beaucoup plus coûteuses !
