I’m on holiday in France for the first time in nine years and I’d forgotten how lovely it is. The food, the architecture, the scenery — it’s all exquisite. Indeed, I’d be tempted to move here permanently in spite of the 75 per cent tax rate were it not for the country’s single flaw: it’s full of French people.
Oh my, but they’re ghastly. Not all of them, obviously. No doubt there are some nice French people in France. I just haven’t met any on this holiday.
Our first bad experience was on the Paris Métro. We’d been led to believe we could change trains in Paris within a 50-minute window, even though it meant getting from the Gare du Nord to the Gare de Lyon. A taxi was out because the line at the Gare du Nord was too long so we took the subway. Unfortunately, the line which connects the two stations was closed and that meant changing, but we would have made it were it not for our fellow passengers. We were about to board out second tube train, a clearly stressed couple with four children under ten and several heavy suitcases, when everyone else on the platform barged in front, shoving us out the way. Charlie, my four-year-old, was knocked over. This is clearly par for the course on the Métro — it’s every man for himself and to hell with women and children — but such a thing would never happen on the London Underground.
After missing our train at the Gare de Lyon, we managed to get on the next one two hours later and that was a marginally more pleasant experience. I say ‘marginally’ because the journey was tainted by the smell of body odour.
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