I'm off to rural France on holiday 17 years after my last venture into those quiet villages bursting with geraniums and well-tended fields. We went when our little girl was six-months-old and our son, a cheerful teenager, was not quite into the Kevin phase.Oh, how wonderful! La belle France, eh, Yaz?
It was a horrible holiday. The locals thought I was Algerian and so treated me like vermin. My baby touched the bright scarf of a woman in a shop and the Gallic bat screeched at us.Whoops! Maybe not.
I know I'll miss Blighty and not only because there won't be an Indian or Chinese takeaway to nip into. I feel my sap of patriotism rising in France, and only in France – that sense of pride in being British.I…. I just….
Anyway, I'm giving the French a chance to redeem themselves.How kind of you…
Perhaps this time they will be as sweet as eclairs. If they do, I promise to put aside my frightful prejudices and even try and speak a little French. Mesdames et messieurs, let's end this spat. Be nice.They usually are. Maybe they read your columns all the way over there, Yaz?