The bride flutters across the hotel reception in a cloud of white lace and tulle and netting and a clack of stilettos. Her four bridesmaid's in clementine coloured silky dresses trail after her swooping and clutching at the billowing train like flustered exotic birds. Those of us watching think as one: "poor girl". Not because she is heading up the aisle, or in this case being led up a garden path to an arbor decorated with lilies and tropical flowers, to say her 'I dos', but because it is absolutely chucking it down and I mean cats and dogs in spades. Let's face it, if there is one day you don't want it to rain, it's your wedding day. And if you are getting married in the Caribbean during the rainy season, there's no getting away from it. Even on honeymoon.
The move to France was only supposed to be for a couple of years, not forever. Then I met The Frenchman. Then I had La Fille. Now there's no way back. But La Fille, to whom a horse is a cheval and a frog is just pond life is still half English. So before the Gallic nation claims her for its own, sprinkles her with garlic, sautés her and swallows her up whole we make regular escapes on the Eurostar. And we have discovered the grass is various shades of green either side of the Channel.