mardi 5 février 2008
Looking out of my window I can see the hill of Fourviere, with the cathedral and the TV tower crowning it. The light at this time of day is surreal, not yet daylight, promise of great things ahead in the air.
On the Quai below the window, people are heading to work. Walking, cycling, in buses and in cars. I'm not one of them. My Lyon commute is to the desk in the corner of the lounge.
The river is still dark, the days colour not yet decided. Some days it's grey and dull, others it's a range of blues, turquoise, beige. The big barges head up and down during the day, taking cement, gravel, goodness knows what to the ports of the Saone and the Rhone.
I sit on my window ledge looking down at it all and warm my hands on the coffee mug I'm holding. I like my life here. We rub along quite well together, Lyon and me.
The phone rings. It's the allotted time. The phone call is the first in a series of interviews for a job that, if I get offered it, will see me returning to the UK. Leaving Lyon behind.
I'm in two minds about answering.