Christmas in Britain means misery not merriment. It’s why I prefer France, which doesn’t shut down lock, stock and bauble. This year I’ll be in Aveyron, as profonde as La France profonde can be, and the highlight will be the Quine – that’s Bingo to Brits – which starts at 4pm on Christmas Day in the village hall. It’s an annual event organised by the local rugby club and it pulls in punters from dozens of outlying villages, all desperate to win one of the prizes on offer. You know you’re in France when the prize-winner who gets the most envious glares isn’t the one who scoops the flat-screen TV but the lucky devil who makes off with the hind leg of ham.
The thing about Christmas in France is that it is mercifully short, starting roughly at 4pm on Christmas Eve and ending at 6am the next day. Last year in Paris I was woken on Christmas morning by the binmen going about their business at 7am, and an hour later I was in the boulangerie buying bread.
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