The sky sparkled red, white and blue and then shattered into millions of sparkling golden flecks. The boom of fireworks thumped into us.

Maria cackled with pleasure and Carlo stared, mesmerised, then put his fingers in his ears without for a moment breaking his concentration as the massive balls of fireworks seemed to hurtle towards us. The Eiffel Tower switched colours through familiar grey, black, red, orange, golden and then sparkling like a champagne bottle.

Early in the day the kids giggled excitedly at the low flying jets, watching them approach on television and then looking out the window to hear them roar and see them hurtle low over our apartment as they swept on down to etoile and over the Champs Elysees. Maria thought the best bit were the jets trailing the French flag - blowing long trails of red, white and blue smoke. Carlo mimicked the marching soldiers. Whatever else one might say about the French military, there is no question they have the smartest uniforms.

In the afternoon we played La Marseilaise and Zizou y va marquez one more time. When Maria and I play football in the park (which is against the rules but we play anyway), she announces she is France and I am Italy. She hammers the ball past me with brutal force and I can either sting my shins trying to stop it or admit that at five she is already a terrifying striker.

Late in the day we dined at Gallopin where the windows are painted like the label of Perrier Jouet champagne in baroque flowers.



When I told Maria to wait in French, she rolled her eyes like a teenager and mocked my accent. "Patientez! patientez! What is 'patientez'? I don't want pasta, I'm not having pasta Dad." How will she be when she is fifteen?

The Metro from the brasserie down to the Eiffel Tower was packed. Tens of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, were already picnicking in the park on red wine and baguettes when we arrived an hour before the fireworks began. Most of the audience seemed to be speaking English. Real Parisiens have left town for the long weekend or for the summer.

The show was a spectacular half hour set to opera. After the fireworks ended the kids fell asleep lying on top of each other in the pram. It was warm and there were people everywhere so we decided to walk home. The Seine was bustling and brightly lit as we crossed the historic, pretty Pont L'Alma. Every bridge in paris seems historic and pretty. We pushed the pram up the small hill to Etoile, circled the arc de triomphe and slipped down the sidestreets through the Paris seductive fete national midnight air to home.