Blablabulle

Guignol

 Ca marche toujours...

La pirate des Claraïbes...

Des princesses, des fées, des fleurs... la plupart des petites filles présentes au château de la Hulpe ce jour-là réclamaient un maquillage tout girly pinky. Pas ma crapouille, qui a exigé un grimage de pirate. Ou alors un tigre ou Spiderman. Bon, c'était pas la surprise de l'année, sachant que je dois négocier ferme pour lui enfiler une robe toutes les 36 du mois ou lui accrocher des barrettes  dans les cheveux. Les jupes qui tournent, montées en chantilly, c'est niet, je l'ai dans le baba...

 

Arnacoeurs

Oh, dis donc, encore au cinéma ! Deux fois en 2010, on remonte la pente... Alors, cette fois, une jolie comédie, pas le film de l'année, mais un p'tit vent printanier, pétillant une coupette à bulles, gai comme un départ en vacances, avec un petit parfum de madeleine pour la bande son... Romain Duris est parfait en beau gosse pas rasé qui joue à "mes yeux dans ton regard", et ma belle Vanessa so glam', sans compter les seconds rôles qui leur volent quasi la vedette – François Damiens, Helena Noguerra, Julie Ferrier... Un joli moment, qui donne envie de week-end dans le sud et de sorbet au citron.

 

Duo

Petit soleil d'avril

Couch potatoes

Dans le bain

Bouille à bisous

Clichés de Pâques

Alice. See you on the other side

 
'Wake up, Alice dear!' said her sister; `Why, what a long sleep you've had!'

`Oh, I've had such a curious dream!' said Alice, and she told her sister, as well as she could remember them, all these strange Adventures of hers ; and when she had finished, her sister kissed her, and said, `It was a curious dream, dear, certainly: but now run in to your tea; it's getting late.' So Alice got up and ran off, thinking while she ran, as well she might, what a wonderful dream it had been.

But her sister sat still just as she left her, leaning her head on her hand, watching the setting sun, and thinking of little Alice and all her wonderful Adventures, till she too began dreaming after a fashion, and this was her dream:

First, she dreamed of little Alice herself, and once again the tiny hands were clasped upon her knee, and the bright eager eyes were looking up into hers – she could hear the very tones of her voice, and see that queer little toss of her head to keep back the wandering hair that WOULD always get into her eyes--and still as she listened, or seemed to listen, the whole place around her became alive the strange creatures of her little sister's dream.

The long grass rustled at her feet as the White Rabbit hurried by--the frightened Mouse splashed his way through the neighbouring pool--she could hear the rattle of the teacups as the March Hare and his friends shared their never-ending meal, and the shrill voice of the Queen ordering off her unfortunate guests to execution--once more the pig-baby was sneezing on the Duchess's knee, while plates and dishes crashed around it--once more the shriek of the Gryphon, the squeaking of the Lizard's slate-pencil, and the choking of the suppressed guinea-pigs, filled the air, mixed up with the distant sobs of the miserable Mock Turtle.

So she sat on, with closed eyes, and half believed herself in Wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all would change to dull reality– the grass would be only rustling in the wind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds--the rattling teacups would change to tinkling sheep- bells, and the Queen's shrill cries to the voice of the shepherd boy--and the sneeze of the baby, the shriek of the Gryphon, and all thy other queer noises, would change (she knew) to the confused clamour of the busy farm-yard--while the lowing of the cattle in the distance would take the place of the Mock Turtle's heavy sobs.

Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood: and how she would gather about her other little children, and make their eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of Wonderland of long ago: and how she would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days.

Lewis Carroll – photos Guy Gagnon