Cinq-à-sept

Eitan before last night's game. The last thing he says, as I tuck him into bed: "I cannot believe Spain won" as he drifts off into a perfect sleep (granted two hours past bedtime). Wouldn't it be nice to be seven and able to switch loyalties so readily? For the boy, it went England (who did not qualify) then Portugal (knocked out by Russia) and Spain - who win it all. This would be like me bouncing Cal for the Trojans. Mon dieu.

The French have this cool thing called cinq à sept (five to seven), or the time between work and family. Its a myth that Frenchmen use it to rendezvous with their mistresses - but again, there is always some truth to these things. My experience in France is for shopping or drink - happy hour, sort of - but above all, it is selfish time. The British work to hard - and are no way elegant enough - to pull something like this off.

Sonnet off early and I awake to find both kids fully dressed staring at me: "Dad's face is red in the morning" Madeleine observes. "It is always red" says Eitan. "Especially if he is angry." Monday morning, Dear Reader. Monday morning,