Pale imitations

You can tell something about national character from the way a country clears its cupboards. In the States they have the yard sale. The American dream remains a detached house with a front and a back yard, all enclosed by a white picket fence. Daughter selling lemonade, son playing catch, consumer goods spread on the lawn. The French have the vide grenier — the emptying of the attic. The Frenchman in his romantic soul still imagines he is a poet or a painter starving for love and art in a bare, unfurnished room. The English have the car-boot sale. We take a picnic, waterproofs, stop at a stone circle on the way, and when we are ready to pack up and leave, we leave.

Back in Blighty after a year in France, I have been finding homes for my attic trufflings. The cups from Vincennes, the napkins from Aix, the enamel pot from Avignon, the measuring jug from Bordeaux: all part of a campaign to undo what I had previously done.