I must be a little mad...

So, it's half-term.  You've got time off the crazy merry-go-round of term time activities.  What do you do?  You take two small boys to France.  By yourself.
Anna was up in Edinburgh on a hen do, (she also spent time with her parents).  I'd been invited to my godson's confirmation in France.  This meant that I had a trip with both boys.  In actual fact, it was quite fun.

The first trick was to get Little Boy's passport sorted.  This was pretty straight-forward, but was the first expense in it all.  The next worry was that Big Boy's passport photo, having been taken when he was about one, bears very little resemblance to him now.  I even dug out a sort of 'middle years' photo, where I figured you could recognise the picture as being both older than the baby photo and younger than Big Boy now.
Next was booking flights.  This was done with BA.  We've done budget and it's all well and good, but I knew that BA would be a thoroughly more pleasant experience.  Also, not knowing how much luggage I was going to take meant that BA would guarantee no add-on costs.  I also saved money with an Avios (Airmiles) deal I'd been sent.  BA also means you can book the exact seats you want.
Accommodation was at my godson's house, so that didn't need organising!
The hire car was the next thing on the agenda.  I realised I needed to hire a reasonably large one so that we could fit our absurdly large pushchair in the boot.  I booked a Citroen C4.

No, this isn't a C4, it's a Bugatti Veyron.  It's a joke...

The last thing to book was airport parking.  This was where I got a little shocking.  I booked valet parking.  Yes, I know, it seems a little mad.  But here's the image that went through my head.  I had parked the car (in some car park about as close to the airport as Tahiti) and was standing at the bus stop in the rain.  I had one child in his pushchair, the other at my side.  I had my suitcase, Big Boy's suitcase, Big Boy's car seat, Little Boy's car seat, Little Boy's changing bag, my hand luggage and Big Boy's hand luggage.  As the airport bus drew nearer, there would be a sense of impending doom, as I considered the fact that I was about to have to fold up the pushchair (removing Little Boy first) and, whilst holding Little Boy in one arm, would have to carry the entire contents of the pavement onto the bus with the other hand (probably with people tutting about how slow I was being on the 7 trips it took).  So, with this image in my head, I cheerily clicked on valet parking.  Sure, it cost almost double, but I was saving money on the hire car by taking my own car seats, which halved the extra cost.  And I figured the saving of mental stress was well worth the rest of the money.  It also meant that, on landing, I could simply phone the parking guys, and they'd have my car waiting for me.
Online check-in meant that we could rock up at the airport without a care in the world (ok, slight exaggeration...)  I left about two hours early, but this meant that we arrived and could go through security with plenty of time to have lunch.  Apart from the fact that the lift signage in Terminal 5 at Heathrow is absolutely rubbish, this part of the journey was fine.

Once on the plane, it became apparent quite how wriggly Little Boy is.  Being strapped to Daddy simply wasn't his cup of tea, and he rivaled Houdini in his escapology.  It was like being strapped to a resentful eel.  However, having booked onto BA, we did get drinks and snacks without paying through the nose.  We arrived in France, collected our gear and headed to car hire.  This was the first fly in the ointment.  I said 'Parlais vous Anglais?' and got a very uncertain response.  Oh dear, GCSE French was going to have to kick in.  We got by though, with her fluent French, my rubbish French and her broken English.  I was a bit thrown when I was told the car I would be driving would be a 'sikattra', until I realised she was saying 'C4' in French.  Ironically, we went to collect the car from the parking lot, and the lady there spoke near perfect English.  Given that I'd misplaced the map to get to my godson's house, it was helpful to have directions to get out of Paris...  (The map turned up in Little Boy's pushchair the next day)
We drove off (sticking to the correct side of the road).  I kept finding myself surprised as people drove past and I'd think, 'oh look, it's a left-hand drive'... then realising that that is the norm in France.  We found the house (they'd moved since we were last there, but only a couple of streets down, so once I found the town centre, I knew where to go).  The boys went to bed and I had a lovely meal.

They live in rather a fine house.  (Ok, so this is actually the local chateau)

The next day the other guests all arrived, and so the house was very full.  We had a lovely day popping to the bakery (twice) and just enjoying spending time with my godson's family.

Our second bakery trip was to pick up puddings that we'd ordered on the first bakery trip.  On the way, I was quietly hoping to myself that the same people who'd been there in the morning would be there again in the afternoon.
They weren't.
This led to a conversation where I pointed to the cakey things we wanted and said (in French), "eight of them please".  This was despite the fact that there were quite patently only four there.  The lad behind the counter looked a little thrown, and slowly raised four fingers, saying (again in French) 'four'.  This was crunch time.  I now had to work out a sentence through which I could express the fact that we'd ordered eight that morning.  I could think of 'ce matin', which I figured would express the morning bit, but after that, could only think of the word for 'hire', not 'order'.  I wasn't sure that telling the lad we'd hired eight this morning would enable the conversation to progress with any real vitality...  I got out the 'ce matin' bit, and then tried the back bit of my brain where I thought maybe the word for order might be hidden.  As I was looking (I'm pretty sure he'll have noticed my eyeballs spinning back there...) the lad said (in English) 'for the morning'.  Although it was sad that he thought I was asking for some for tomorrow, it was a great relief to know that we could move forward in a language which I stuggle less with.  I told him we'd ordered eight this morning.  He got a box from the cupboard behind him, and opened it.  It didn't have eight, but one massive one.  Oh dear, I thought, I have no idea if this is right.  Thankfully, he 'phoned someone who did know, and said it was definitely for us.  Relief all round (particularly on the part of the burgeoning queue) and I paid and hastily retreated with Big Boy.
Saturday saw a trip into town complete with ride on the carousel.  He and his ... uh ... godbrother really enjoyed it!  (Only an 11 year age gap)  After that, we headed for a drink, and Big Boy ordered his own milkshake, in French.  Very impressive.  I asked him if he'd like to order in French, if I told him the words to say, and he completely surprised me by saying 'yes'.  This led to a brief mental panic where I tried to work out the easiest (accurate) way of ordering a drink, whilst being watched by my fluent godson and his fluent sister...  The outcome was that we got the drink we'd wanted, so we can't have been all that bad :)

Sunday was the confirmation service (as well as my godson's birthday) and a fun family celebration.

Loads of amazing food (including a stunning salmon!)  Sadly, given the need to be back for the new half-term at school, it also involved heading back to the airport and home.
Regrettably, Orly doesn't have the facility to leave your pushchair at the departure gate to be picked up by airline staff - you have to check it in.  This meant a rather farcical wait before going through security, then going through with all hand luggage and a child to carry.  On top of this, we got to the gate where there was plenty of seating, all full, with no-one inclined to offer a dad with a wriggler a seat.  We stood at waited (at the almost-front of the queue) and were eventually told the plane was a bit delayed.  It arrived a little late (Big Boy took numerous photos)

I'm glad to report this was the weather in France - it doesn't just rain in England, you know.  At this point, Big Boy announced he needed a wee.  This meant leaving our prime position in the queue and heading to the loo. 
We discovered the gents was closed for cleaning, so the disabled one had a little man-queue (us blokes aren't used to loo-queues!) which we joined.  When we got to second in the queue, Big Boy decided he could hold it in, just as the bloke in front got into the loo.  We left the loo-queue, rejoined the departure queue (much further from the front!) and then had a conversation about how desperate Big Boy was for the loo.  Once he'd established that the plane wouldn't leave while we were in the toilet, he decided he really did need to go after all.  Thankfully, the loo-queue had by this time gone, so we were straight in (obviously, being a caring daddy, I was loving and kind all through this process of indecision).  When we came out and rejoined the queue again, we were almost at the back (keep smiling Parish!).  What's more, the chap who went into the loo after us then came and tried to join the queue in front of us.  Shocker.  Anyway, we made it onto the plane unharmed

Little Boy was as wriggly as before, and I was thankful that he and Big Boy could 'play' in the minute amount of space afforded them.
We were only a bit late getting into Heathrow, all in one piece.

Having retrieved our luggage, we phoned the valet folks.  They said the car was ready for us.  After getting slightly lost, we found them and picked up the keys.  This was the sight that met us outside the valet parking office.

The guy said, 'Your car is in row three' and sort of motioned behind the first row of cars.  I said, 'oh, you've hidden it then?' to which he just laughed.  I then asked if we could have the rather fine white Jag in row one instead, to which he responded, 'you missed the McLaren this morning'.  At this point, I realised that I was way out of my depth, and pottered quietly off to find our hidden car.  Sure enough:

Yes, they have actually parked it between some random 'events' 4x4 and a white van with an orange light on its roof.  Oh the shame.
Still, we got home safely, and the only casualty of the entire journey was one of Little Boy's bottles, which disappeared somewhere en route.

Jammin'

The Lower Sixth (17 year olds) had a project last week which included making an advert for Superjam (which is a real jam, created by a guy called Fraser Doherty, who visited the school as part of the project)
This is one of the adverts created, with Little Boy himself in a starring role.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=is05FvGI1Fs

Pretty cute 'eh?  And Fraser even tweeted about it :)