My oncologist has a new weapon in his arsenal

‘We’re at war!’ said the taxi man as I installed myself for the long drive to Marseille. I put a fist to my mouth and tooted my imaginary bugle. But world war three – as he saw it – was no joking matter. My tootling bugle irritated him and his voice rose by a querulous octave. Didn’t I realise? Everything has changed since this morning! European politics had changed! French politics had changed! Who was now going to vote for a political novice like Zemmour, for example?

Horizontal in its dashboard holder, his smartphone was showing a three-cornered TV debate on a rolling news channel. He turned up the volume. Everyone was yelling at once, including the presenter. He turned the pandemonium down a bit. And thus we sped down the outside lane of the A8 motorway, driver and back-seat passenger leaning forward, glued to the tiny television screen.

The presenter restored order and gave the floor to an old man who spoke gravely and in measured terms.