This morning I awoke to my sister's mellifluous voice on the answering machine. It had a brisker note than usual, but I shall not go into that without incriminating myself. My Sorbonne-educated sister asked me if I was doing something for Bastille Day. Ahhh.  So that is why the Aldi catalogue was chock full of French items this week: electric crepe maker, 'curly' cream bedside tables, frozen custard croissants,  French-via-China clocks entitled Gallically - "Rustique"! "Bordeaux"!

A plan. Mais oui! A quick bath, which Polly (our water-obsessed cat) tried to share with me, several layers of woollens, some jolie accessiores and a toss of dirty clothes in the wash , and I was off on my jaunty French day. I passed several chirpy bay dwellers on my way au cafe, one jogging, to whom I wished a "happy Bastille day"and a big lady bundled up in home-knits like me with whom I shared a knowing smile (our jumpers were clearly knit by hand). The cafe was out of croissants. As I'd only recently discovered their pies - fresh from the Fat Goose kitchen and boasting exceptional flakey light pastry, I was rather over-anticipating my morning tea croissant.

Nevertheless, the latte soothed all, and knitting and sipping in sunshiney bliss, I was taken back to my youth and the Bradshaw family Sunday croissant tradition. It was actually pure bribery. We all disliked our new church, stilted and foreign after our warm and vibrant Pentecostal upbringing. But divorce had brought us to this new weird suburb and this 'weird church', and we weren't going to like it thank you. But my stepfather as he is wont to do, saw the big picture, and offered us rewards of icecreams from the Greek deli, and later, almond croissants from the St Ives pattisserie. They were extraordinary croissants, baked by a German chef who now owns an award winning pie shop not more than 20 minutes away from this little bay. Big, oversized, lush, mushy, warm, fragrant, almondy, custardy texture-of-heaven croissants. This was my first thought along French lines as I sat drinking my latte in the sun. I was warmed by the thought of my generous stepfather who gave us treats and traditions, made sure we were well educated and went to church.

The wind whipped up from the bay and my knitty fingers slowed down in the cold. I shifted camp with coffee, yarn, knitting magazines et al, and planted myself directly beneath the ceiling heater. Girt by two interesting families: one polite and intensely quiet, one spilling over with chaos, noise and a cantankerous two year old; and a group of self-conscious Lebanese boys in the corner discussing decorating schemes and Fantastic Furniture; I resumed my knitting and French thoughts.

Le table. My 'Fat Goose' laminated table is bare, save for some cutlery and a paper napkin. My mother's table settings were an explosion of saturated colour and pattern, fearlessly, GENEROUSLY provencale. Blowsy frowsy roses in lush pink on red, little yellow pineapples, dots, swirly paisleys (originally from India, that other land of fearless colour, and based I'm sure on some tropical fruit), plenty of wicked butter and red wine. The curtains were the same trademark French red, with little sunflower yellow paisleys. The source of these fabrics, Les Olivades, have pulled back on the busyness of the prints now to appease more modern tastes, though you can still buy the traditional fabrics. The Double Bay shop is like a jewel casket, well worth a visit just for the colour experience, let alone the quilts and French vignettes. The dye is so fast, my colours have lasted forever, faded only by the sun. My sisters and I have a virtual dowry full, though nothing could be further from my ex-husband's tastes. His mother excelled at austere, in a Syrie Maughm 30s kind of way, with a camellia in a deco glass vase, say, Chesterfield sofas, all tailoring and precision. But Les Ol still represents a girlier home; Babette is reminded of her Aunts and Granny when I bring out the placemats or tablecloths. Abundance. Love. I think of our feasting at a huge outdoor table by the pool, with boyfriends to visit, dripping grape vine overhead.

Paris. My thoughts fly to this bathed-in-gray, elegant city, where even the Citroens and Peugots are gray. The gray, symmetrical facade is punctuated in memoir however by une petites blob in pink. My baby Babette in a padded pink snowsuit and frilly cap with a VERY CROSS LOOK ON HER FACE which might as well have said "I hate Paris". She came with a urinary tract infection, and left with her first tooth, and was grumpy the whole two weeks in between. There was the 36 hour plane trip with bassinets set ridiculously close to the ceiling, such that one had to tippy toe on an armrest to reach one's child, tricky in (frequent) turbulence. Then the annoyed Parisian sighs when one blocked someone's film viewing whilst fetching baby from the ceiling. Baby Bette protested all the way to Paris, partly because I was too idealistic to give her Phenergan for the trip, having interviewed at least 3 doctors on the matter. I did note, rather neutrally at the time, some seasoned travellers downing Phenergan before the plane left the runway. My sister and I refused to sit next to each other on the way back. Poor Sarah. She nearly died when I forgot to pop my breast back after a feed, and then did the tippytoe thing to get the screaming Babette down, AGAIN. Parisians have an odd aversion to breastfeeding (given their au fait attitude with nudity and unprudishness in movies).

Ahhh, the snowsuit. I have photos and visions of a pink Michelin girl pouting by the Seine, pouting in the Marais, at cafes, pouting in the Loire valley walking beneath a tunnel of trees, in the Picasso Museum, at the Louvre. A very pretty, dark, fine-featured baby, with intelligent dark eyes: "*gasp* A little jjjjjewel!" cries an elegant gallery guard and holds out her arms pour bebe as I trot around the stunning "Leger" room in the Picasso Museum, at a steady pace, pram piled before me with camel coat, Sophie the Giraffe and other baby accoutrements. Babette is momentarily diverted by the unveiled admiration.

A beautiful surprise in France: people may not like breasts, but they adore babies. In addition to the petite gallery woman, I had a dear sweet waiter who fell in love with Babette. He was endlessly charming and attentive to our cranky little charge, and made us both feel particularly cared for during our stay in the Loire. This was true of most of the waiters in Paris: they showed a softness and interest in our infant, the likes of which one does not observe in Australian men (a horrific generalisation; when Babette was a baby, my husbands' best friends were adoring and interested).

Back to the photos: I am always in black, a surprising choice given that I was often vomited upon. I had a thick 60s camel hair coat, loaned to me for the occasion by my mother-in-law, who still wondered how I could go to Paris, when I could be putting the money towards good new saucepans. She had a point. I did have a "book tea" instead of a kitchen tea, and even now have only two good, REALLY good pots, actually given to me by a cafe-owning friend of mine, but that is another story. I still had a long way to go on the practicality front.

Saucepans or Paris? "Non, je ne regrette rien", as Edith Piaf chirped.

Three thoughts on France: almond croissants on Sunday, Provencale fabrics and feasts, and Paris, I city I will never regret. Merci Papa, Maman et Babette.

A dark and dreary day ... Snoopy wrote this in a Schultz cartoon with his typewriter propped before him on the dog house. What followed was blank paper paralysis, and a rainbow of barely typed sheets cast off the typewriter and into the air. I find my uneventful life quite interesting and seem besides, to have been infected this year with writing fever. My separation tipped off in me a weird need to be 'heard', and thus I became a Facebook hog as words poured (uncharacteristically) forth. My daughters' friends laughed at my poetry posts, with amused affection (I hope), I probably lost a few friends over the steady stream of real estate posts, and finally, as my knitting frustrations vomited up in Spenserian language and metaphor, some kind friends suggested I take my writing to a more legitimate forum, the BLOG.

So here I am. I feel a little shy with you my unknown reader. But no doubt you will get used to my eccentricities, as are my dearest, nearest friends. I am mama of two, two creative, sweet and lovable girls. Together we are the three little mussels or "Trois Petites Moules", to be pretentious and indulge my francophilia. As our sadness over the recent "sep" is abating, the girls and I are piecing together an identity as a reconfigured family, one with Mummy at the helm, and distinctly girly (and a little disorderly, or "spontaneous" as the girls say). We are trying to rely on God's guidance as we proceed, throwing ourselves into worship as we never have (needing His help like we never have) and reflecting on bits of the Bible together. Many nights I hear the girls up late in bed discussing God matters. Big Sister, whose knowledge of the Bible is so deep, and who is so faithful in her study of it, can be heard with her deep, strong reassuring voice, answering Little Sister's questions, the little one my thinker, sensitive, full of questions. At these times, my little chest(!) puffs with pride, that this is the way they are handling a grim situation, that this is the way they are growing up. As for me, I will let God represent himself. I just know that the case for Christianity is watertight. My blog will no doubt be a higgeldy piggeldy explosion of matter, unlike many A Fine Christian Lady's orderly and graceful arrangement of themes. This is in part due to an overabundance of hobbies. Knitting is currently the most rampant one.

We live by a lovely, undeveloped bay. Our corner of it is hugged in by imposing hills - delightful and cool in summer; cold, dank, shadowed and a fungi-breeding ground all winter. We have made several dashes to (warm) shops this winter to acquire various comforts: heater, padded ski mitts lined in polar fleece, head-warmers, a woollen trench coat for Big Girl, and even toasty ski boots for us all, though Big Girl, being a teenager is opposed to being or appearing warm, and warned me that she would never wear them in public.

So, back to this cold and dreary day. Much of it was spent on a plush blue recliner overlooking the ocean, vast glass doors pushed back to better take in the view and bracing air. My sister and I knitted, made cups of tea, chomped on iced tea loaf, and tried to divert her overtired three year old. I helped her with a quick vacuum before setting off down the hill back to my bay turf, where we arranged to meet up for coffee and chips. I sampled a flaky, earthy-spinach quiche from the posh cafe before meeting her and the boys in their bedraggled tracksuits (had been rock climbing) at the humble cafe. Hot chocolate, flavoured milks and one coffee later, my sister and her four boys bundled in the car after rounding up two runaways, for the trip home to Sydney. I simply love my sister being here.

Knitting:

I am working on the deep blue cotton lace cushion which I mentioned last night- quatrefoil lace. I must concentrate to align the little holes just so.

I have 4 balls of alpaca blend in pale gray with which to knit another "Elizabethan" style "ruff". two layers of ribbed, gathered knitting tied at the neck with velvet ribbon.

Today I wore a scarf I recently knitted to the local cafe to pick up a coffee for my sister, whereupon a kind woman commented that it was wonderful, especially in a jewel bright with my red lipstick, and that I should try selling them at our local arty shop. I am letting this idea "steep".

Emma is knitting a beautiful pale pink baby's blanket in garter stitch with eyelet edging.

J.

It is a bloggy sort of evening. Keenly night-wired, my day is merely beginning. Two consecutive cups of tea course through my veins, and I contemplate a night sans the other "deux Moules": Babette and Charlotte. Their Daddy (I am yet to find a civilised respectful substitute for the word "ex"; he is still their Daddy and I, his friend) has whisked them away for five and a half days. For the first time since our separation, I feel alright about this: excited for them, and about the window of woolly opportunities this affords. Knitting. Sweet, tactile pastime. Cool steel turbo Addis and soft, slippery yarn.

I have a deep blue denim cotton yarn which produces neat, defined stitches, perfect for a square lace pillow; a fine cornflower 78% mohair which wants to be cast as a lace scarf, and plans for a cardy for which no wool or yarn in my stash immediately suggests itself. Since the cushion cover is 20 rows in, I shall settle down to it first.

Our talk in church this morning was about work; work as serving, looking after others in the community vis a vis making a buck. It is referred to in the Bible in the context of cooking and serving up a meal, and in ways more obviously connected with what we moderns call "ministry" (ministry is so much broader I think than we define it).. Even before the Fall turned the world awry, work was man and woman's day to day life. It is honourable, though not to be romanticised. I am excited about the idea of being a bit more civic minded and am thinking about this in relation to knitting. Last night in my google travels I came across a knitting charity which delivers slippers to women and children who have been afflicted by violent marriages and are temporarily living in shelters. To me, handknits and love go together. I could not think of a more delicious revelation of the care of a stranger, than the gifting of handmade, handknitted slipper-boots. The charity is American, so I will have to see whether a similar operation runs in Australia.

J