It's the waning days of July, and in the nick if time, summer weather has arrived in London. Fans are twirling, meals are eaten outside and Gemma is sleeping in her diaper. The fact that June and the first half of July were write-offs is starting to slip away. Our planned UK holiday (well, nothing was really planned but the idea was there) was scotched at the last minute and we opted for a week in Corsica. Beaches. Mountains. Good, cheap food. Sunshine. It was Gatwickchartersville on an early Sunday morning, but how reassuring to find we were being flown out by the multi-cultural tailfins of British Airways?

It was Gemma's first real beach holiday, and boy did she (come to) love it.
Day 1 on the beach: Waves - Don't know them. Don't like them. Don't make me touch them. I said, don't make me touch them. Don't make m... waah.
Day 2 on the beach: Waves - I'll be over here, play in the wet sand, maybe dabble my toes.
Day 3 on the beach: Waves - let me at 'em. Let's go a little deeper. Dip me in (but not my hair please).

We stayed in the heart of Poggia Mezzana (pop. 20) on the NE part of Corsica, with one 10 minute long railguard-free, cliff-ridden drive to the beach or shops. Our town was too small to have stores or markets of its own, so a mobile depanneur whips around and sells bread, fruit & veg, dairy products etc., sort of like a mobile canteen in an industrial park, but fresher. A nice little panorama from our balcony spanned the sea (with views of the Tuscan islands), mountains and local horses, which also provided Gemma with her first up front n' personal look at animals bigger than a dog.

Days were mostly spent at La Dune, a beach bar-restaurant run by Manny. Manny has the air of a fading playboy not ready to transition from the beach life to one of more everyday responsibilities. And spending the day chatting with customers, playing music with speakers suitable for Ibiza, yelling at family members in the kitchen and going for swims doesn't sound so bad. But for his Paris-based, seven month pregnant, lawyer of a partner, this seems to be heading for an eventual clash. Happily they all took to Gemma, gave her special treatment and an opportunity to have her first popsicle. Gemma's casual approach to comprehensive bikini coverage also fit in with local practice.

Onwards and upwards. Literally. From rolling to commando crawling, furniture cruising to high speed scambling across the floor. And this week Gemma adds stair climbing to the mix. It started with the beginner's trek from kitchen to living room ... four or five well spaced wooded stairs, the peak within easy site, generating a quick win for that sense of accomplishment, repeat a few times to make sure you've nailed it. Be sure to note the slighlty muted enthusiasm from parents. Next stop: living room up to top floor, a tricky proposition due to: a) slippery carpet and b) the hairpin turn at the mid-way point. That one was zipped up today for the first, second and third time. The trip down will be a little more daunting though. Gemma knows enough to get into reverse and start climbing back, but one stair into it she recovers her enthusiasm for heading up again.

The social calender? The Boys UK avventurra ended a few weeks ago and they headed back to Toronto, blissful in their bumped-up-at-the-gate result, but a sad moment for all in London. As David's ditched corporate life we can't blast him, and be blasted back, with emails as often. Such are the responsibilities of small business ownership. Last Sunday we headed out with Jasmin and Julian for lunch, art and coffees.

On the food front, the key word is focus, usually on an a la carte selection at the expense of the smorgasbord laid out for her. One day it's all about mandarin oranges, the next toast. And more toast. Amusing when they're not frustrating are the avoidance techniques: take some food in then push out with tongue. Or pick up and squish; rub on self or other. Or feign interest, pick up food and throw on floor. Or clamp mouth shut. Or take food and feed back to parent.