Paris notebook

In the few days I’ve spent in Paris, I’d say the terror alert level is fluctuating between a little antsy, really quite nervous and eye-twitching, hair-tearing, run for your lives woo-woo. People still go about their business, but there are wary looks on the Metro and a palpable sense that they could really do without the stress of hosting a major international football tournament, what with so many nutters running about and the Belgians useless, as usual.

Last week, a colleague covering the French Open was travelling to Roland-Garros when a couple began having a domestic which cleared the carriage at the next stop. I had a similar experience shortly after 9/11. The captain of our plane aborted landing because there was already a light aircraft on the runway and we thought the woman in the seat next to me would have to be shot with an elephant tranquilliser gun.

Travel was much more fun when the worst that could happen was Leonard Rossiter slinging a Cinzano down your blouse.