A trip to the supermarché at the beginning of our French month yielded many of the necessary things one also buys at home, but even washing powder acquires romance when sporting a French label, and the fresh fish, meat, veg and wine sections are far bigger than ours, with mountains of lettuce and seven different varieties of tomato. The Carrefour bookshelves also yielded Tintin books which are, like Asterix, best read in French. I bought Tintin et L’Ile Noir, Tintin et La Crabe au Pinces D’or, and my favourite, Tintin et Les Bijoux de Castefiore. The French is simple, the drawings are masterpieces, subtle, witty, full of style and character. And what character, identifiable by their hair, clothes and accoutrements like black moustaches — baddies, goodies, the ever-polite Tintin and his best friend, the white Scottie dog Milou (better in English — Snowy). They have made me laugh aloud for a week. They are politically incorrect and of their time, but otherwise stories of innocent adventures, hair-raising scrapes and rescues, astonishing journeys by land, sea, air and other exciting modes of transport.
Coming to France a couple of days after the election was coming to another world. The terrible events at home were viewed through the filter of ‘abroad’ and seemed strangely unreal. French papers have naturally been preoccupied with their election, not ours, though the Grenfell Tower fire briefly became headlines. The banlieues of Paris and other large cities have tower blocks which house the largely jobless immigrant population, and those who say working-class Londoners are badly housed should take a day trip on Eurostar. The high-rise suburbs are boiling cauldrons of resentment, poverty and unemployment, especially during a hot summer. They will boil over any day.
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