Our family has been inundated with well wishes and kind gestures since our beloved father passed away on Wednesday evening. Through texts, emails, and condolences, we have heard a familiar theme emerge—that he was a great neighbour, a gentlemen, and as one young lady put it, like a second father to her. These touching observations do not come as a surprise to his family, but it does reinforce how truly blessed we were to have him as the head of our household. This morning I want to share with you a side of him that most people didn't see.

"You'll have extra time on your hands to catch up on things," they said. "You'll be able to slow down and finally finish that project you've been wanting to work on," they said. "Think of all the loose ends you'll be able to tie up during this period of lockdown," they said. They were obviously never in ministry.

From my habitual work seat on the sofa, I hear the sound of neighbourhood birds chirping their repeated refrain, their pattern familiar, yet free. The sky overhead is an immaculate azure blue, a colossal canvas painted in broad swathes of cirrostratus clouds. Winter darkness has turned—almost overnight—to light as the lone cherry blossom tree outside our window blooms into radiant pink bulbs of springtime.

Today at noon marked eight days of lockdown in France and it has mostly been plain sailing. On Friday morning, Val and I went to Auchan (a large shopping centre near our home) with slight trepidation over what to expect. Many of the news reports have focussed on the carnage at supermarkets—larges queues and lack of stock—but we were relieved to find both order and supplies in abundance. After making it around the store in good time like we do on most Fridays, we headed back home feeling very fortunate.

Yesterday evening, I did a Zoom call with some leaders in the United Sates that was broadcast live on Facebook. The topic of the discussion was about mobilising people during times of government-enforced isolation. What was interesting about the chat is the fact that here in France we are on day four of lockdown while it has not yet happened in the United States—although reports this morning are saying it started in California last night. It has also not been enforced in the UK, Ireland, and Australia where I have a lot of friends and family, so multiple times a day I get the same question: What's it like and what do you do?

Day three on home lockdown but how fortunate I am to have a home in the first place.

In yesterday's post I mentioned the "papers" one currently needs in France in order to go outside. Allow me to expound on that. The government has issued a fiche (sheet) that all people outdoors must have on them. It must be signed and dated and one of the five boxes on it must be ticked. Each box represents a different reason for déplacement and are as follows: Going to and from work if you cannot work from home (this must also be accompanied by a letter from your employer stating this is in fact true), going to the store for necessary items (I deem sushi to be incredibly necessary and who's to tell me any different?), going out for health reasons—doctor, pharmacy etc., going out for family reasons—assisting the vulnerable or dropping kids at childcare, and for going out close to home for exercising and walking the dog.

There were times over the past few months when I wondered who would drown out Brexit as the loudest voice in the room. Well, now I know.

I first became aware of the "C" word on Sunday, January 26th. I was at Charles de Gaulle airport (CDG) in northern Paris at 6 am to pick up someone flying in from overseas. In the preceding days, I'd heard murmurings in the news that a virus in China was spreading and had the potential to make its way overseas. Arriving at Terminal 2 that morning with sleep still in my eyes, my foggy brain woke up pretty quickly at the sight of TV crews rushing to interview anyone getting off a flight from China and/or with a mask covering their mouth. The warning signs related to personal hygiene placed throughout the terminal told me that another visitor—sans passeport—had potentially arrived in the land of Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité.

Eight years ago today, I woke from fitful, nightmarish sleep, completely poisoned by alcohol. The darkened room stank of vomit, alcohol, and a sweat so pungent—caustic, almost—it would make your throat gag and your eyes water. It was noon. I'd put away 15 litres (32 pints) of beer in the previous 24 hours and I was disoriented on a scale I'd never, ever been before. I reached for the plastic bag—already a third full with vomit—on the floor beside my bed and wretched up bile that burned my oesophagus like acid. Then my six-year-old son walked in the door and tearily uttered, "Please stop drinking Papa, I don't want you to die."

“If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.”

Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast.

Nothing satiates my appetite for self-reflection and the documentation of life's finer things quite like the end of year review. So without further ado, here's what got my juices flowing in 2017.