Paris Notebook

The French President says he wants to rule as a Jupiter — but he doesn’t look like a Jupiter to me. Not the bearded beefcake painted by Rubens in the Louvre, anyway. Macron’s more a clean-shaven Mercury, messenger god and patron deity of the financial services industry. So far the message has been: ‘En Marche!’ Forwards! But forwards where? ‘Macron est nul,’ says the graffiti at Porte Maillot.

Imiss London’s parks. Parisians tell me where not to walk. The Bois de Boulogne? Pick-up joint. The Seine? Rats. I have been taking the Métro to Château de Vincennes to walk in the woods. There’s a migrant camp pitched along one avenue. I never see a soul, only the hummocky hoods of tents under the trees.

I am living in Paris in the unofficial role of Diplomatic Wag. Though since I am neither wife nor girlfriend, but fiancée, or, in best Franglais, la vielle balle et chaîne, I have been searching for a new acronym.