Hoorah! Out of the cubby hole under the stairs in St Pierre and off on a speeding ferry to sister island Miquelon. On the way, the hardy family saw two whales and experienced one instantaneous vomiting, so I think that makes us slightly ahead. Visiting Miquelon, population 600, is like being at the end of the world. Or the beginning. Either way, its like a pioneer village with the ocean lapping at either side of the strip on which it is built, and seals popping out to say hello. Went on a nature walk with Roger Etchberry, who is so fed up of film crews crying with joy over the wild wilderness that is Miquelon that he informed me we would be the VERY last crew ever to be taken around. “He always says that”, said a local farmer. The children went off to proper French school for the day, where the entire school body numbered 32, then caught frogs, and then saw Sphinx moths, whatever they are, and a basking seal on some rocks. Who says they are missing out on British education? Not so welcome news is the fact that tomorrow we have to brave the potential of yet more vomiting and go back on the ferry to St Pierre tomorrow, which Mr Millard thinks is like the location for The Wicker Man. Still, I think we are going to witness an Edith Piaf song night at a ‘Parisian’ cabaret on Monday night. That’s clearly what French people do when they are on the other side of the world, basically. Eat imported Brie, listen to Piaf songs and cheer themselves up with a bottle or two of Apellation Controllee. 

Look at those sphinx moths behind us!!

Blimey, but it’s tres cher here in St Pierre et Miquelon. Because everything is imported, but even so. The salaries of the employees here are as inflated as the cost of living, but what do the tourists do? Only gaze in envious awe as the St Pierre townsfolk drive around their tiny city in brand new 4×4’s, doubtless planning extensions to their brightly coloured clapboarded houses or thinking of when they will next visit the brand new hospital- or maybe the vast, heated and under used swimming pool, or perhaps the sparkling Francoforum for language studies. All in all, I’m rather reminded of my visits long ago to the former Soviet Bloc when the denizens rolled around under the impression that everything was sorted, enjoying the myth of 100 per cent employment and inhabiting lovely large State buildings rather cushioned from the reality which was that it had all  come about as a result of the patronage of the State and would collapse the minute the subsidies melted away.  Us? Well, after our swim in the giant empty piscine, we are staying put in our motel room, listening to Michael Rosen’s poems on a CD player and practising days of the week in French. Our nightly menu? Foie gras and brioches? Hardly. Take a look at the photo. That’s what we have eaten now for four nights running. Mega cheap and the kids like it. Salut!

Rosie with tins of Campbell's condensed soup (Tomato)

Rosie and the kids arrive in St Pierre on the tiny mail plane

Here we are, then, visiting our first of the French overseas empire. And what do you know – it’s very French. By that I mean rude hotel staff, toilets which are broken and croissants which are utterly delicious. We are all staying, that is the children, Mr Millard, and myself, in a single room which is part of a Butlins-style motel. Well and good, except for last night. “What’s this floating in the loo, Maman?” questioned Gabriel, 9. On inspection it proved to be the contents of the entire St Pierre sewer, complete with lumps of chewing gum. Delightful. “Toilets break sometimes,” was the pragmatic response from Madame le hotel patron when a complaint was made this morning, along with a Gallic shrug of the shoulders. Bien sur, on est dans la France ici. Even the cartons of milk are festooned with Eiffel Towers. Well, its come all the way from the mother country. Probably the most moving thing I saw today, on the windswept and craggy hills of St Pierre, this tiny island in the Atlantic, were two vast satellite dishes. Pointing at Paris. So the inhabitants of this island can watch proper French television. Forget Canada, only 11 km away. It’s la belle France they care about.

Us leaving London for three months

“WHERE are you going?” asked the friendly woman on the 17 bus. “Round the world” answered Lucien, 4, excitedly. The woman collapsed with laughter. Well, you would, wouldn’t you? Particularly as we had about 15 bags with us. Hardly travelling light. We nearly didn’t make it to the end of the road. And as for “I am only using hand luggage” – well, that was a great principle. We still have a majority of hand luggage, its just we have a LOT of hand luggage. Thank God for the kid’s Trunkie roll on cases. Stops us losing them, although it was a close call at 2 am when we finally arrived in Halifax, Nova Scotia. “I went out to find a cab” said the nine year old. Yeah, and gave us heart seizures at the same time. Getting a cab was easy, though. Twenty people waiting? No problem. Run ahead of them in good ol’London style, and nick the first one that turns up. Yes, I was the most hated person at Halifax International Airport that night, but needs must.

am reading the Murakami book on running, its SO inspirational. Makes me want to do the Paris marathon next year

Brian appleyard, big brain on the Sunday Times, has advised daily blogging so here goes. I find it hard enough to brush my teeth every morning, but they say that if you do something 13 times it becomes a habit. So here goes. Can I be as intellectual as Brian/Bryan however? Avec un mot…NON

alright, flattery has done it. To those nice people who stay up late and watch This Week. I’m growing my hair.

does it make any difference to what I say? Probably not, but you know people apparently only take in 20% of what you say on TV. The other 80% is taken up with noting hair, fashion, etc etc.

Well I managed the monster that is the London Marathon and it wasn’t as bad as all that…frankly it was the training that was the nightmare. I suggest anyone undertaking a similar task makes sure you can DO all the training.  Then, its a breeze! Particularly as the London Marathon involves running past Wombles, people wearing loo seats, Masai warriors etc. Takes your mind off the pain in your legs somewhat. For an indepth look you could go to www.thetimes.co.uk and check out my account….with Mr Millard….who was overtaken at Mile 20 by yours truly….

btw have definitely decided to GROW my hair. What a slog. Grow it, cut it off, regret it, spend the next three years growing it back.

Hi there! If only life was always like this…

carb loading, occasionally running round the parke, nothing major. Of course this is just preparation for the mighty 26.2 on April 13. I’m so nervous!

Ha ha! Ooh the power of the press….

Only the trouble is that the scamps have STILL got hold of the domain name. Shall I continue to sue them?