365 photo project

Last call for people to take part in this adventure! One photo a day
for a year. Snaps will do. Create a photo diary for 2010. Doesn't
that sound fun? Sign up now!

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So, what happened in Brussels then?

Nothing. Precisely nothing. But that's not good blogging, so here's the whole story:

The adventure started with a flight from Belfast last Thursday evening. It started to snow as we boarded our plane. An omen. As we took our seats the pilot apologised for the heating not working. And then pointed out that Paris CDG airport was shut because of snow and we wouldn't be taking off. For at least 90 minutes. And we wouldn't be getting off the plane either, so the door had to remain open. So they were really sorry the heats not working.

So was I after about 15 minutes.

Eventually arrived in Paris for a two night stop-over before getting the Thalys to Brussels on Saturday morning to see Ulster play Stade Francais. Got very excited when the lovely, but extremely naughty (allegedly - judgement pending) Monsieur David Attoub turned out to be on our train. I think this was my last pleasant and positive thought of the weekend.

Paris Gare du Nord was freezing. Brussels, it turned out, was Baltic.

Arrived in Brussels Midi to discover that you need a degree to work their ticketing machines for the metro. Eventually gave up and opted for a taxi. Queued at the rank for 30 minutes in -9oC and when we hit the top of the queue and 'our' taxi arrived, it tried to pick up the person at the other end of the line, was sworn at in some language by all others in the queue (I think they called him a 'canard' but since when was 'duck' a swear word?), moved up to us, took one look, wound up his window and drove off!

Got to hotel, put on every single stitch of clothing in our possession for insulation and started off for the now renamed Heysel stadium for a 4:45pm kick off. Got the first call at 2:30pm. Then three texts. Then another call. Match cancelled, pitch frozen. So we did what all Ulster supporters do best and headed for the only Irish pub in town.

With no smoking ban in this primitive country, minor was starting to go a bit green at the gills when the first news of a rematch started to filter through, so we cut our losses, headed back to the hotel and started to plan a way to get to Paris for the re-scheduled match the next day. This should be easy - we had tickets to return to Paris the next evening anyway for a late night flight home.

Ha bloody Ha.

Up too early the next morning to see a blizzard. Four inches of snow had fallen in less than two hours. Put on all of our clothes again and checked out. All before 8:00am. Could we have a taxi for the train station please? No! Taxis were not working in the snow apparently. But we could walk to the nearest metro and try our luck with the ticket machines if we liked. We didn't like, but we had no alternative.

Ever tried pulling two suitcases through four inches of snow?

At Metro, ticket machine still as unhelpful as ever. Wouldn't take cards, wouldn't take notes and I didn't have enough coins. Nothing open and no one about to help - it was eight-ish on a snowy Sunday morning.

And then ... an angel. A homeless man had been watching us from a corner of the station. He came and tried to force his coins into the machine on our behalf, but it was full and wouldn't take them. So, having established we were travelling to Brussels Midi, he signalled us to follow him and escorted us through the station and onto a metro train, without tickets, right to the train station where he bade us farewell and Merry Christmas. Now we were getting somewhere!

No.

Found the Thalys desk and presented our tickets for the 4:45pm train to Paris, requesting a change to the 10:15am. It was very simple really, but the answer was a resounding 'non!' We could only do it if we were prepared to pay 88 Euro. Each.

We went to the platform and I thought about what to do. Hundreds of Ulster supporters were stuck in Brussels because flights out of the city meant they couldn't get to Paris and back in time. Hundreds more were stuck in some place in England because failed Eurostar trains meant they hadn't even got to cross the channel. And we were standing on platform 6, Brussels Midi with tickets for Paris, albeit invalid ones.

And so, somehow we found ourselves on the 10:15 to Paris which actually didn't get into Brussels until 11:30 and didn't manage to get out of Brussels until nearly 12:30. Without tickets; well valid ones anyway. Heads down, don't make eye contact with the ticket collector son!

Arrived in Paris at 2:10 pm with 50 minutes to cross the city and find the stadium, with the instruction of which metro station to head for and that the stadium was 700m west from it. Surfaced at 2:45pm realising I had absolutely no way of knowing which direction was west when angel number two appeared.

'Ulster ... this way!!' and as she pointed in the general direction, we ran like hell! 700m on icy footpaths with two suitcases and a ten year old, and there it was ... Stade Jean Bouin, home of the nudey calendar.

At the gate we had to exchange our tickets from Brussels for new one, which involved queuing. At last, as we hear the game kick off inside, we are at the top of the queue. Then disaster, that word again ... 'non!'

And then I did what all good women do in situations like that. I started to cry. Proper tears rising up to a severe hissy fit crying. And my Franglais went right out the window as I started shouting in English that indeed I had travelled illegally from Brussels that very morning and it had taken me seven hours to be here and damn it they would let me into the stadium with my ticket or I would....

Then a very nice French man came over and took my tickets and went to the queue I should have been in and exchanged them for valid ones and escorted us into the stadium telling us we could sit just anywhere we wanted. But we opted to stand with eight other Ulstermen who had also managed to make the journey (two of them having driven from Brussels in the only hire car they could get - a Fait Panda!) The Paris Ten. Trying to out-shout the home supporters and their drums whilst drinking mulled wine that tasted like paint stripper but greatly improved the circulation in your hands. It's the stuff of legends.

And, as expected, Ulster lost.

Christmas

Baby Jesus is the reason

We celebrate the Christmas season

He was born in Bethlehem

And visited by three wise men

Angels sang from up on high

And a very bright star was in the sky

Shepherds also came to call

To see him lying in the stall

Michael, 2007

I will never, ever, as long as I live...

...ever go to Brussels again

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Sack the pilot

I am sitting on a plane on Belfast runway. It is snowing in Paris and
the airport there is closed. We are not allowed to take off until 6:15
at the earliest. It is only 4:45!

The pilot won't let us off the plane. I drank a large tea in the
terminal before we embarked. He might live to regret that decision!

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I just have to pack my safety goggles

I am off to Paris tomorrow, and then onto Brussels to collect the sprouts for Christmas and see Ulster play their back-to-back fixture against Stade Francais.

I was very excited that my favourite prop forward, David Attoub of Stade Francais, (ref: photo of very handsome man at right of screen) was in Belfast last week, and even more excited that I would see him again this week.

Only, Monsieur Attoub has been a very naughty boy and tried to gouge someones eyes out in the scrum at Ravenhill last week, so while I am travelling to Brussels via Paris to see him, he is travelling to Dublin for a disciplinary hearing that could see him banned from the game for up to three years. Zut alors!

Anyway, Ulster supporters being the what they are, it has been decided that we should ditch the usual pre-Christmas uniform of Santa hats in favour of health and safety goggles for this match. Just to make a point.

It promises to be a great weekend; snow already falling, Christmas markets and a large travelling support. To be supplemented by the Brussels Munster Rugby Supporters club who are sending a sizeable possy to cheer on the Ulstermen, the Brussels GAA (Gaelic Football) having thirty members going to the match and a local rugby club putting on a BBQ for travelling support and also turning up at the game in droves to support the men in white.

The boys are back in town

Official photo

Gender discrimination

I have just read a recipe that requires two duck breasts (preferably male)

Go figure

Stress free birthday parties

Well, it took several years but we finally got there! For the Dolly's birthday party yesterday we turned on Singstar, had someone come and slap makeup on faces and then sat back and drank mugs of tea while it all unfolded around us!

Nobody kicked a hole through a bedroom door, nobody dropped their trousers in public, no one suffered anaphylactic shock, no one had an asthma attack, no children were lost and none killed in the process.

I think, having finally cracked it, I can now safely retire from the birthday party game. And now ... to put up the christmas tree :-s

Who's up for a challenge?

Gary McFlurry is considering doing the 365 photo project next year
which is to take a photo each day of the year and publish it on your
blog as a sort of snapshot/record of the year.

Sounds like a challenge to me, but I reckon I'm up for it! Who's
in?? Steve? Cosmo? Judy, you're bound to be in...!!

Sign up in the comments

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Bloggy marvellous

My blog rank has gone up to 60! People must be giving up blogging in
their droves

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First decoration in place

Amen

Some time ago I blogged about finding some of the children's old school notebooks and being amused by things they had written.

Like these three prayers, one his two hers:

Thankyou God for makeing the world, farmers, stars, moon and brown potatoes. PS I frogot to say Amen

You've got to especially thankful for those brown potatoes! And

Dear God, thankyou for the earth you made and for sending your son to earth to take away our sins, In school we learn about you witch is the moast exciting part about school. Thankyou for all the techers in school, TV and church. Amen

I think this one could be subtitled 'sucking up to God'. Interestingly, the teacher, or techer, had put a pen through 'TV and church', but I thought you'd like to read the unedited version. Finally:

Dear God, thank you for making us have so much food and thankyou for macking us so lucky hear in this country. Sorry that I am taking food for granted and that I sometimes wast some of my food. Please help others who have no food or clean water and please send rain where there is drought. Amen

Amen!

Dear Santa

Phone
Nerf gun
Lego 7686 city helicopter transporter
Vicar of Dibley DVD
Lego rockband (wii)
Place in Methody
Do well in my test

From M

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Ruane's guinea pigs

Tomorrow, my son is one of Catriona Ruane's guinea pigs. What? I hear you ask.

In her infinite knowledge, Ms Ruane (Minister for Education) did away with our selection exam used to determine whether children were more suited to grammar or secondary education. That in itself is not really the big issue as it was, perhaps, a flawed system.

No, no no. Ms Ruane's big mistake was that she did away with the exam, known as the 11+, but remarkably put nothing, absolutely no system, in it's place.

So tomorrow my son starts a series of tests introduced independantly by local grammar schools in an attempt to gain a place at one of them. However, these tests are not recognised by the Department of Education and could (to cut a very, very long story short) all add up to nothing anyway.

So basically, the lovely Ms Ruane, or that woman as she is affectionately known round this house, is playing hardball and holding kids, and their futures, to ransom to make her petty political points.

If the system was flawed before, it's totally fecked now.

An amazing Remembrance Sunday story

My son (currently) wants to be a pilot in the RAF. It says so in an Ulster Rugby match programme, so it must be true.

We were out visiting this afternoon when we bumped into and elderly lady and man. A few moments later we saw the lady on her own and she commented on my sons 'lovely blond hair'. I asked her where her companion was and she explained that he was her brother and he had gone home.

You might know him, she said, his name is Alfie Martin. Well, considering my success the night before with people spotting I was a little hesitant to agree or disagree that I knew Alfie Martin!

She went on to say that he had be shot down and had had to bale out over Belgium during the second world war. At this point she had completely got our interest, so she sat down and told us the story of her brother, Alfie.

When Alfie's plane was shot it went on fire and the pilot couldn't save it so the crew had to bale out. Alfie found himself in the countryside in Belgium where he hid in a lane way until he was ready to make his move. Unfortunately, a young lad with a herd of cows came along and in order not to be trampled to death by the cows, Alfie had to come out of his hiding place.

When he emerged, the young lad took one look at his uniform and saluted. Alfie made his way to a nearby farmhouse where he was hidden by the family for six weeks. In that time he did not cross the door for fear of being found and being killed, and having the family killed for harbouring him.

With the help of the resistance, he then started to make his journey back home, travelling through France and crossing the Pyrenees at night, wearing only espadrilles on his feet to get into Spain and eventually Gibraltar.

At one point on his journey, he saw the pilot of his plane on the same platform at a train station, but couldn't even make eye contact for fear of being found and captured.

The lady then went on to tell us that Alfie still gets a birthday card every year from the family who harboured him in Belgium, and that she herself went as a guest to meet them after the war.

Alfie had been laying a wreath, on behalf of the RAF, at the cenotaph in Belfast yesterday morning. She then told us he had also written a book about his experiences called Bale Out!: Escaping Occupied France with the Resistance. My sons's eyes lit up, and we have a copy home to read.

Today my son and I had a living lesson in History, it's so much more real when you hear it first hand from those who experienced it than when you read it in a school textbook.

On this Remembrance Day we want to say thankyou, and great respect to all the 'Alfies' out there who gave, and are still giving, so much for our freedom.

I watch too many 'Come Dine with Me' repeats

In Manchester airport tonight checking for gate numbers when a figure
appears at my elbow. I glance over, and then glanced again,
recognising the face. The man smiles at me and starts to make small
talk. Then someone comes over and asks for his autograph and suddenly
I had it.

'Oh, I'm sorry' I say, 'I know who you are now, you were on come dine
with me!'

Man in earshot's head spins round and he starts to laugh. 'That's
Rodney Marsh, ex Manchester United footballer you're talking to love!!'

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You'll never make me do it!

I'm singing with SingLive again this year. Sing Big Band: Feeling Good, Mack the Knife, Sway, Moondance, Beyond the Sea, For Once in my Life and ...

Eye of the Tiger. Sorry, but once a rock chick (now self confessed rock hen) I just cannot bring myself to sing Eye of the Tiger in four part harmony with a swing beat.

Especially for Cosmo

Avoca sultana and cranberry sugar crusted scones

• 125g unsalted butter
• 400g plain white flour
• 100g wholemeal flour
• 1 rounded tsp baking powder
• 65g demerara sugar plus extra for finishing
• 50g jumbo sultanas
• 50g dried cranberries
• 2 large eggs, 1 beaten for egg wash
• approx 250ml milk

1. preheat oven to 170oC/gas3
2. rub butter into flours and baking powder until it resembles breadcrumbs
3. mix in sugar anad fruit, making well in the middle
4. add 1 egg and milk and bring together to make a ball
5. roll out 4-5cm thickness
6. cut, wash with egg wash and sprinkle with extra sugar
7. bake for 15-20 mins until golden