France. There are days so alien I feel I've dropped onto another planet.
On the way to the nursery this morning, right in front of a policeman waving his arms and blowing a whistle like a demented football ref, a scooter rider mounts the pavement and whizzes by. I look at the policeman. He looks at the scooter. He goes back to directing the traffic and blowing his whistle.
One car and three cycles jump the red light in front of the policeman. He sees them. He carries on waving and whistling.
I walk over the zebra crossing in a straight line. A woman crosses diagonally and barges into my shoulder. She glares and says: "Look out".
Someone lets their dog deposit the most enormous pile of poo in the middle of a cobbled pedestrian path.
10.10am, outside the health food shop supposed to open at 10am, a small, grumbling queue. Inside, several staff. Tap tap, someone raps on the door and points at their watch. A shop assistant, face like thunder, arrives and opens up. She says nothing.
On the way back from the nursery someone has parked blocking the pavement forcing pedestrians into the road. The driver sits in the car.
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.