A wet Sunday morning in France. Bonjour tristesse.

The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

The above should be taught to French children in kindergarten.

Indeed it should be carved in marble above the entrance to the

École nationale d'administration.

One could feel sorry for the French rugby  team after a well played match at Twickenham, indeed one felt the English left a lot to be desired throughout most of the game. But all’s well that ends well as the English might say.

Politicians of course, should remeber it, thick skinned though they are. As an example I rather feel that  Blair is so thick skinned that that is all he has between both ears.

Fillon could well remember this.

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,

Oh well, politicians come and go and nothing really changes.

All that’s really left now is the Joker. Doubtless he’ll spring us a surprise or two before the day is done.

In the mean time, the rest of us poor mortals must figure out what to cook for the next meal, how to balance the household budget and what to do about those aches and pains that beset the rest of mankind.