French people don’t expect to get something for nothing. Years of receiving scratch cards that bluntly say ‘ PERDU’, telephone calls fictictiously saying you have won a prize, heat pumps that are free, etc have hardened them to believe that there is nothing free in life. Arriving, with hope in my heart that entry in a competition was worth a chance, I was met with, ‘Vous croyez en Père Noêl?’ Even after losing several thousands of pounds on a ‘free’ heat pump, my belief had not been entirely quenched.

The newly opened IKEA promised prizes to the first customers of the day. Persuading my husband to leave our bed early on a Saturday morning was the hardest part.. My daughter assured me that IKEA was incredibly generous and gave out vouchers of varying amounts at the door and someone she knew had got £70 worth. Arriving just before opening time, I was second in the queue, behind a man. In fact, I was last in the queue too, as there were only the two of us. The doors opened and the manager gave us both a mug and indicated we should go upstairs to the coffee bar.

That was it! We could have a coffee in the mug that was the prize! No tokens, no vouchers – did they know that in English ‘a mug’ has another meaning?

I was still undaunted when the local municipal magazine promised a bicycle to the winner of a competition that had as its aim to teach us all about every tidy tip and recycling point in the city. There were about 12 questions on the specifics of various ‘déchèteries’ and recycling opportunities. Over the next two or three weeks we visited all the locations mentioned and found the answers to the questions. At each one, I asked, ‘has anyone else asked you this question?’ and the answer was invariably, ‘Non, vous êtes le seul‘. One or two of the places we needed to visit were the other side of the city in the northern suburbs. I became an expert at Google Earth on my computer and by dropping the little man in the location, I found the answers from the comfort of our study. One question asked, ‘which recycling facility was to be found in the carpark at Office World’. Because we lived nearby we knew that there had been a metal container for posting old clothes. But, it was no longer there!! I figured that if I got all the answers right, I must have an good chance of winning as anyone else who was not from Cormontreuil would search in vain.

I hand delivered my entry to the address given. Several weeks later I received a letter to say a bicycle was waiting for me. Always hope, always have faith!!

Recently, I had seen advertised a stack of mugs that sit nicely in a wire holder and only take up the place of one mug. Being in the process of moving and downsizing, I thought this set would take up less space than conventional mugs.

We receive publicity brochures in our letterbox every week and so when I saw a stack of mugs advertised for only 9.99€ . I was tempted. I tore the page out of the brochure. A few days later, I set off down the road and up the hill, brochure page in hand. Drawing close to my destination I realised that the torn out page hadn’t got the name of the shop on it. Was it GiFi or La Foir’Fouille?

I was closest to latter, so I entered and approached the till. ‘Bonjour, excuse me, but is this brochure for you or GiFi?’ ‘It’s us’, said one of the 2 assistants. I explained that I was interested in the stacking mugs. ‘Come this way,’ she said, leading me straight to a tall display unit. Sure enough, there were the items, but high up, way above our heads. ‘Which would you like?’ It turned out that there was a choice between 5 with a geometric black and white design, or 6, each having a different colour. The 6 were more attractive and cheaper!

By then she had clambered on top of packing cases that were in front of the shelves. Reaching up and balancing precariously, she retrieved one of each for me to make my choice. At this point, I was holding onto her leg in case she fell! But, she was soon down on the ground again – perhaps her sport is rock climbing – she was certainly very agile. I returned to the till with my chosen item, having had a personal shopper to guide me straight to the item I wanted and to help me access what would have been impossible. And all with a friendly smile as well.

Every example of bad customer service remains in one’s memory. So, today I will immortalise in writing an example of excellent customer service.

We all need to reduce our energy consumption. What better way than investing in a type of adapter that switches of your TV at night when it’s on standby mode? I saw one advertised in the publicity brochure of a Office Furniture supplier that was just down the road from our house. However, when I got it home and removed it from its plastic wrapping, I could not get it to work. As I am a fierce champion of consumer rights I took the item back to the shop the very next day.

The manager dealt with my complaint. ‘ You have opened the packaging – we can’t put it back on display, so you can’t have your money back’. A less brave person might have caved in and accepted defeat. He obviously had not encountered a Brit who had fought many battles in the past. ‘How could I know that it doesn’t work without opening the sealed package?’ He called for a minion and thrusting the device into his hand, ordered him to go and test it. A few minutes later the young employee returned, ‘It doesn’t work.’ was his brief report.

The manager offered me an ‘Avoir’. This is a slip of paper that credits you with the sum you have paid, obliging a purchase during the next 3 months. I took it reluctantly as I seldom shopped there. That evening, as I mulled over the events of the day, I became even more dissatisfied with this outcome. I could see that flimsy square ticket could easily get lost, or forgotten about, or expire before the date limit. Each of which outcomes would mean the shop had profited at my expense. I did not want to have a bank account at an office supply shop that I seldom used.

I looked on line at the shop’s website. In big letters it proclaimed ‘Satisfait ou Remboursé’ .It didn’t take a degree in French to know that a dissatisfied customer should be offered their money back! I printed out the webpage.

The next day I was back in the shop with my husband in tow, just for moral support – he hates confrontations. I approached the manager, proferred the offending, flimsy ‘Avoir’ and the page from their website – ‘Satisfied or Your Money Back’. It couldn’t be clearer. The bossman looked at the page and said, ‘That’s for internet purchases only.’

I have heard tales from young employees that the only way customers get their money back in some establishments is to scream and shout and create such a scene that the boss man accedes to their demands in order to get rid of them. I had also heard that having a man with you, who could potentially threaten the boss is also seen as a way to get justice.

I don’t know if he thought that my husband might grab him by the collar but, his tone changed. ‘As I am a nice man, this time you can have your money back.’ My ‘Avoir’ was duly exchanged for cash but I left the shop unconvinced that others would benefit from the breech that I had opened for the rights of the consumer!

It was our wedding anniversary this week. Instead of going out for a meal or exchanging presents, I suggested heading off for the day to look at hot air balloons.

Every year there is a festival to the west of us, a two and a half hours drive away. Every year hundreds of ‘montgolfières’, as they are called in French, after their inventors Joseph and Etienne Montgolfière, gather on an aerodrome close to Verdun. The balloons come from 67 different nations and the week long event attracts tens of thousands of visitors.

As we got closer to the airfield, I said that we should play a game to find out who could be the first to spot a balloon in the sky. I had expected to see the sky full of wonderful multicoloured shapes with their small baskets -‘nacelles’ hanging underneath. When my husband had been in hospital it was one of the things that gave him joy when groups of hot-air balloons flew silently over Reims.

Car parking was free, but there were not very many cars, though camper vans were in abundance. We still had not managed to spot a balloon, even though we were now on site.

The airfield hangers had been taken over by various large companies and there were displays as wide ranging as milk production through to a flight simulator. Many children were present as part of their summer holiday play schemes. We watched a Triathlon which consisted of the children riding little bikes though a course, then jumping small obstacles followed by a running event. Children were having fun. Others could have a rugby initiation session.

We still had not seen a hot air balloon. Several light aircraft were landing on the airfield but we were not sure if they were part of the event or whether they were part of the normal daily activities. The sound system was playing mostly Elton John’s hits but gave out no announcements of activities to come.

We learnt that 6.30 in the morning and 6.30 in the evening are the stillest parts of the day and flights usually take off at these times. But surely there would be one or two balloons inflated on the ground and tethered, even if they were not due to fly? It was not a windy day after all! Could it be that a camper van camped for the week was the best way of seeing these illusive objects, as 6.30 in the morning would pose no problem to families sleeping on site? Whereas for us to arrive at 6.30 a.m. would need a pre-dawn depart.

There were rows and rows of Range Rovers with trailers that contained packed away balloons, neatly folded into their baskets, but no magnificent inflated colourful orbs.

Should we have lunch from one of the fast food stands? The same foods seemed to be on sale at all of them, the prices were inflated and the calorie contents were high. We cut our losses and drove home.

We must be among just a few people who have gone to a balloon festival that attracts people from around the world, that boasts 10’s of thousands of participants and who have come away without seeing a single one!

It is hard to believe that we have been here so long. When we arrived there were 2 bakeries, a horse-meat butcher, and a delicatessen that also sold raw meat. Now only one bakery remains.

Our established evening walk is to join the dots between the new buildings under construction in the roads surrounding our habitation.

The first stop is the large house only 2 metres back from a busy main road and bus route. It has been built on what was the front garden of the widow’s home. She used to say ‘I have a – large parcel – ‘grand terrain’ . This turned out to be very true as her house still exists close behind this new build. The first to be altered was her old bungalow . The roof was removed, walls were built higher and dormer windows added to make a two-story building. The garden behind became a newly built creche and the bottom of the garden has a new two-storey large home. Fortunately, her rear garden abutted the end of our road, so these properties are accessible . But it is the closeness of each property to the other that intrigues us. The upstairs windows overlook the gardens of the neighbours. French planning permission allows for garden walls being 2 metres high – but does not give anyone the right to light or a view. Our house overlooks the cemetery. This does not please everybody, but we are increasingly grateful for our dead neighbours as no one can build on the land at the bottom of our garden.

Our next stop is to check on the progress of……. well, we don’t know what it is yet. It started as an enormous hole in the ground, as do most new buildings. It’s on a long piece of garden that was beside the road for several tens of metres. Is it going to be one house? If so it will be big. Is it two houses or more? Several gaps in the brickwork indicate possible entrances. We will have to wait and see how it develops. Again, the proximity to existing houses is chilling. The homes behind this property are exactly like ours. The new house walls rise from the line that was the fence at the bottom of the garden. From having a view, these houses will be only able to see the back walls of these new builds – again – ‘thank- you God for our cemetery!’

Next stop, a block of flats three storeys high, the frontage of which bends in order to follow a slight curve in the road. Not a centimetre of ground has been left off the architects plans. The house beside it has lost its out-buildings where their children’s toys were stored. The block now has inhabitants that look down on the now tiny yard of the house that is dwarfed by it. A neat fence marks the new-build’s limits, but on the old house’s side of it are piles of rubble and roughly cut off out buildings. We assume the owners were promised that their buildings and yard would be put back to being a semblance of neatness. However, we noted with horror that there is now no access to this ugly pile of builder’s rubble except though their house. I can imagine the regular phone calls to the developers asking them to come and sort out this mess which was no doubt agreed when contracts were signed. ‘Thank-you God for our cemetery’.

Around the corner another 3 storey block of flats fills the exact ground plan of a old recently demolished house and garden. This one has strange balconies. They are not in alignment with the front of the building. They are smaller at one end and larger at the other, so the room inside is not rectangular. What a nightmare for trying to fit in furniture! ‘Thank you God for our rectangular rooms.’

This brings us to the subject of balconies. Having watched these buildings being constructed from the digging of the huge hole for the garage, to seeing people moving in, I am deeply concerned about balconies. The problem, in my eyes, is that they are not supported by any substantial brickwork and anyone standing on one is over a void of fresh air. Balconies have become of great concern to me. I note that almost every new flat must have one. Yet, architects delight in suspending them over the heads of other balcony owners and only fixing them to the buildings on one of the 4 sides. My worries are not unsubstantiated. I read about a building firm that had been passed from father to son. The father was a qualified architect, but the son had studied art. The balconies had been made from cast concrete instead of being pre-formed. A group of friends was enjoying a party and several were on the balcony which snapped off killing some of these young people. ‘Thank God for our tiny balcony that is not even one storey from the ground.’

This brings us to the last new build on our circular walk of our neighbourhood. The ground floor has been made into a little tiny shop. The name ‘Proxi Market’ hides the fact that it is a very small outlet for the giant Carrefour chain. Who would have thought 15 years ago that the independent boulangerie and the horse-meat butcher would be replaced by a supermarket selling industrial bread and pre-packed meat.

Who would have thought that a humble, yellow sauce would be something that divides our two cultures? The origin of the English word ‘custard’ is apparently ‘custarde’ which is a corruption of ‘crustarde’ which means a pie with a crust. Hum, I am not entirely convinced by the logic of the pie giving its name to the sauce.

The French equivalent is ‘crème Anglaise’ whose name would suggest that it takes its inspiration from our vanilla flavoured sauces. However, there is one major difference. French ‘crème Anglaise’ is invariably served cold. Let me tell you a little story.

When I was teaching English to a class of retired people, I would ask them what they did at the weekend. One gentleman said that as his wife was away, he used her ‘robot’ to make some ‘crème Anglaise’. I asked him to describe all the steps and procedures he had to pass through to make his favourite sauce. He related putting, cream, egg yolks, vanilla and sugar into the machine, turning it on and waiting for the appliance to mix, stir and heat the preparation until it was thick, creamy and delicious. Then I interjected, ‘And you eat it while it is nice and warm’. ‘Oh, no,’ he replied with a look of horror on his face, ‘I put it in the fridge until it is cold!’ I was equally horrified that such a gourmet eating opportunity was passed by. ‘Is this true?’ I asked the class. ‘You eat ‘crème Anglaise’ cold?

No wonder, I had never had hot custard served with a desert in France. I had assumed it was easier for the chefs to keep the sauce in the fridge and that they couldn’t be bothered to heat it up. How many times had delightful pairings been bypassed? Chocolate desserts with hot custard, apple tart and hot custard, profiteroles and hot custard – all great opportunities had been sadly missed by chefs not taking the time to heat the sauce, I had supposed.

We receive hikers and cyclists who are on their way from Canterbury to Rome. One of the deserts they love is fruit crumble served with hot custard. One group of young men enjoyed it so much they ate it again at breakfast! The custard they enjoyed was made with Bird’s Custard Powder.

The story behind the invention of the powder is inspirational. Mr Bird was a pharmacist, scientist and a Fellow of The Chemist Society. His wife was allergic to eggs and yeast, so he invented a thickening powder based on cornflower so she could enjoy something equivalent to ‘crème Anglaise’ thickened with egg yolks. Their guests appreciated the sauce and he realised that there could be a market for his custard powder. So since 1890 it has been available firstly in Birmingham where they lived and later round the country. Bird’s Custard powder was even supplied to troops during the First World War.

Only a very few British people heat double or single cream mixed with 3 egg yolks, sugar and vanilla essence to make ‘a proper custard sauce’ as Delia Smith, our favourite TV cook, calls it. There is the risk of over heating it and the whole pot curdling and separating. It is so much easier to heat a pint of milk with 2 tablespoons of Bird’s custard powder and 2 tablespoons of sugar. Eating lovely, comforting, thickened milk is far less calorific than eating thickened double cream. Second helpings will not ruin a diet. Even the British TV chef Rick Stein in says in his book French Odyssey that his TV director preferred Bird’s. AND he says to serve his french style crème anglaise warm. Quelle horreur! He calls himself a ‘francophile’?! Similar products exist in France but have far more ingredients than the cornflour, natural colouring and vanilla in Bird’s Custard powder. The one I looked at recently contained, potato starch, palm oil and lots of other unnatural things and it too was meant to be eaten cold.

But, there is a ‘grand souci’! Bird’s Custard is no longer a family concern, it is not even owned by a British company. There is talk of the plant in Knighton, Staffordshire being sold! The French take to the streets and protest over everything they disagree with. Where are the protests and petitions to save Bird’s Custard powder? It is not any old product – it has a Royal Warrant that means it is eaten in the palaces of our country. I decided to write to the company to ask if the rumours were true. I received a reassuring reply that even though the plant where Bird’s Custard is currently made is closing, that product will continue to be made.

Just to be sure, I ask you to go out and buy a tin of Bird’s Custard Powder. Let the manufacturers know that British people care about our history and culinary traditions. There is the expression, ‘revenge is a dish best served cold.’ Apparently it was coined by a French writer. I would say that he was gravely mistaken. Neither revenge nor custard are ever best served cold.

I am an avid reader of people’s problems on the Facebook site ‘Strictly Legal France’. Recently someone made an apt observation. Her father was getting older and every time he had a health problem his doctor sent him to hospital, where the excellent French health service would find yet another illness that he was suffering from. The lady commented in passing that the French health service was ‘too good’. Her father returned home after each stay in hospital with yet more pills to take and lists of specialists with whom he needed to make appointments.

Can this possibly be correct, that a health service can be too good?

I recently had a colonoscopy examination. I had to visit the anaesthetist and fill out a series of forms a few weeks before the operation. I had a booklet of instructions to follow for the week before the hospital visit, a blood test to book at the local labs to check my creatine levels and a Covid test to take as well. There was also the online pre-admission survey which would not accept information and required the help of my husband to load as apparently it didn’t like our Safari server. The things I had to do seemed to be taking over my life and the stress of not being able to send off the last survey became close to overwhelming.

If all that needed to be done for a colonoscopy, what would be the burden of having several illnesses to cope with? We have an elderly friend and it seems that her life rotates around continual medical appointments. The pile of paperwork becomes daunting, blood tests require an appointment to be booked at your local lab, then later in the day you must log in to their site and look at the results – for the older generation with limited IT skills all this is a daunting task. Booking an appointment these days is supposed to be easier on the internet. Doctors offices don’t answer their phones, but have voicemail messages to ask you to book via Doctor Lib. When you go onto the site, you find that many specialists are not taking new patients, so booking an appointment is difficult. Every time I phoned a Dermatologist’s office, I got recorded messages that they didn’t work between certain times and on certain days. After many failed attempts I decided to visit the surgery and make the appointment in person, an impossibility if you don’t live in the town.

In France we pay 25 euros each time we visit our GP. People expect something in return for their money. If you don’t come away with a prescription with 3 items on it, then you are not getting value for your money. A blocked-up nose might result in a prescription for antihistamines to rule out hay fever. Each visit results in the number of daily medicines being taken increasing. Anti-biotics are expected by the patients. I read recently that the over 40’s who take antibiotics are at risk of intestinal troubles in later life.When I visit my local chemist, I am horrified by the large bags of drugs being handed over to older customers.

         Yes, the French health service is good, but be remember that each medicine has secondary effects and can lead to another  problem. A good friend of ours is now so medicated that she has a nurse that visits three times a day to ensure she takes her abundant supply of pills as prescribed.

This week I had to take a simple medical test. I’ve taken this one before in the UK where it wasn’t half as complicated as here in France. I’ve often said that you need to be fit to be ill in France because they expect you to do so many things once you feel poorly. For example, to get up and go to the doctor, when all you want to do is to lie in bed and recover; to then take a blood test that means getting up early before breakfast and queuing with other sick people at the laboratory where your blood is taken, then going back to the doctor for the results, getting a prescription, which means queuing again at the chemist. Yes, it takes stamina to be ill in France. 

            The instructions on the British National Health Service site for the test I needed to do are written as 5 concise bullet points. Number one is – take a clean container. In the UK this can be an empty  jar that has just come out of your dishwasher. In France, nothing is as simple. On leaving the doctors, it is necessary to go and queue at the laboratory in the ‘Haven’t made appointment line’  in order to be given a complete sterilized pack with 4 items in it and an A5 sheet full of instructions in small print. The container is not a simple jar with a lid, it is a plastic ‘flacon’ recipient with screw lid that for some reason has a sort of funnel that goes down into the jar. Am I supposed to fill this without opening the pot? That is the first dilemma. There is also a capped  test-tube with a small quantity of white powder in it. Do I fill this as well as the pot? 

             I have to supply a myriad of details on one side of the sheet, details I have never been asked for before, such as the policy number of my health insurance. That takes about 5 minutes of research.

            I must do the test first thing in the morning after a night of sleep during which my bladder will be awash with evidence that has collected overnight.

            Unfortunately, I fail at the first hurdle. I woke up in the early hours and couldn’t get back to sleep without a visit to the W.C. Failure number one. Will the test produce any useful result?

            Morning comes and I enter the bathroom with my kit. Our convenience hasn’t got any cupboards or surfaces on which to rest the plethora of bits and pieces so I lay them out on the floor. Clean myself with the wipe provided -‘lingette’, which I drop into the pan (later I see that I should have disposed of it in the ‘poubelle’ – bin). Fail again! Take plastic flacon, try not to fill it as the first ‘jet’ could be contaminated. It’s very difficult to stop after starting. Females are inclined to produce several ‘jets’ at the same time, which seem determined to miss the pot! Tell me if I am wrong, but I‘m sure these tests are designed by men, who don’t have numerous ‘jets’.

            I am not sure how much I need to produce and in spite of holding the pot to the light, turning it and squinting at it I can see no ‘Fill to here’ line.

            Then I have to take the test tube and push it head first into the funnel of the now closed pot. Magically, with a whoosh, the tube is full! How did that happen? Do I keep the rest of my efforts? Is this all that is required?

            I fill up the plastic envelope with both samples and 2 pieces of paper in the 2 different sized pockets (I told you it was complicated) and tell myself that after my shower I will take this to the lab and will be within the 4 hour window required. 

            After a leisurely shower I saw that my son in the UK was trying to contact us for a Facetime with our delightful little grandchildren, so a pleasant ¾ of an hour passed. When going to the laboratory came back to mind, I realised that it was now mid-day and the lab would be closed for lunch for the next hour and a half. Possible fail?

            At half-past one I was again in the ‘Hasn’t made an appointment’ queue with sample bag in hand. I was dreading responding to questions. When was the test done? ‘Vers 10h.’ Around 10 o’clock. Has it been stored ‘au frais’ –in a cool place? My reply was that it had been stored in a cold room. It is autumn here but the central heating does not come on all day so it was not in a warm or hot room. Pass or fail? I was not asked for more details.

            The results came through this morning straight to my computer. The test revealed nothing amiss, not even the presence of multiple dangerous bacteria picked up from spreading all the elements out over my bathroom floor.

            I have learned a lot including a new word ‘miction’ which I don’t think I will ever be able to use in conversation as it simply means ‘urination’. But, if it ever comes up in a test, I might pass.

Whenever we say that we live in France, people reply with, ‘Oh, how lovely’. There is a romantic image in everyones mind that probably has a rural house with a shady terrace overlooking fields of cows and perhaps a paddock where your own horse is stabled. The local village has a boulangerie and a café situated near the thriving market where local producers come to sell their fresh from the fields produce.

When we arrived in Reims we rented a town house for the first year while we searched for our dream house. Every week we would search the housing section of the newspaper for something that tallied with our wishes. We saw houses in cute little villages, but how would our daughter get to school each day? We saw houses where DIY enthusiasts had overreached themselves and created a nightmare of work for future buyers to put right. One set of owners had removed all the old wood panelling that had covered the walls from floor to ceiling. Rough and uneven walls that had been skilfully hidden for many years were now exposed. The owners had also sought to remove an interior wall to join the kitchen space to the living space. Unfortunately the two floors were of slightly different heights – another problem waiting to be solved.

We saw another house where the outbuildings were choc-a-bloc with old machinery and tools. Great if we wanted to open a museum. The cellar was full of the jars of bottled beans and carrots that the now deceased lady of the house had preserved – vegetables grey with age and covered in cobwebs. The seller told us we could have them and most of the old, heavy, dark wooden wardrobes and furniture. As I had recently cleared the home of a close relation, I had no desire to do the same for this man who somehow thought he was doing us a favour!

Another house had gutters that drained into a small brook at the bottom of the garden and had a skull in the attic. Another had downpipes feeding into the small walled garden at the front of the house, which explained the ominous damp patches climbing the sitting room walls. A relatively modern house was fine except the kitchen window looked out onto the side a large industrial farm building on the other side of the road – not the country view were were hoping for unless I asked if I could paint a mural on it.

Because of Napoleonic law, all children inherit part of their parent’s houses. Sometimes the property gets divided by cutting it in halves or thirds among the children. Imagine if your house included the ground floor, but only half of the upper floor and none of the attic. A friend has a house, but the garden is down a nearby lane.

After a year of looking we were on friendly terms with the nice young estate agent, but had got nowhere with finding our dream house. One evening the neighbour from number 5 knocked on our door and asked if we wanted to buy his house. His work was moving him to Brittany. In our row of 4 terraced houses, his was nearly identical to ours. I cried. It was the end of our French Dream if we said ‘yes’. But our daughter was at school in the town and the bus stop was close enough for her to still be eating that last mouthful of breakfast as she boarded. Both of us had found work as English teachers in different parts of the town and we had different schedules – impossible with one car and a house in the countryside. We knew the neighbours, the neighbourhood and all of the amenities. Our bank was down the road and our doctor was within walking distance. Our heads said ‘yes’ but my heart was forlorn.

Having lived here now for 16 years, we are so glad our French dream was not realised. My husband suffered serious heart problems and was in hospital for 3 months. The bus took me straight there or I could go by bike. What would we have done if we had lived in the countryside? Our house has a tiny garden yet I grow raspberries, strawberries, blackcurrants, gooseberries, and am harvesting nearly a pound of blackberries each day and we are gathering enough homegrown tomatoes for our daily needs. The autoroute is less than 5 minutes away, and the TGV can get me to the UK in just a few hours in emergencies.

I have a hazelnut tree that gives me several kilos of nuts. (for this paragraph you need to know that 2.2 pounds equal 1 kilo and that there are 16 ounces in one pound) As I was shelling them and longing for a machine that would do the work more quickly, I reflected on the misconceptions of the ‘French Dream’. What we think we want is actually far from easy, and far from what we are used to in our normal lives. We have freezers where we can find frozen peas and beans – do we really want to spend afternoons and evenings shelling peas, blanching them and preserving them? Do we really want to be far from medical services as we get older? Do we really want to be stranded if our car doesn’t start? I have always liked the idea of having my own chickens, but would I really trust eating the eggs or feeding them to guests, having read that someone nearly died after eating duck eggs and the doctor said it was the worst case of salmonella he had ever seen. On reflexion I really do want my eggs tested before I eat them. We have bought cheese from market stalls at eye-watering prices that make you love your local Aldi and Lidl. Here, I have 7 kilos of hazelnuts that take 30 minutes of shelling to produce 8 oz of nuts, that is quite enough exposure to the ‘French Dream’ of self-sufficiency and rural isolation that I can cope with!

French people seem to like depriving themselves of sleep. I thought that it was common knowledge that a good night’s sleep was good for health, mental alertness and is a necessity. Missing sleep can lead to road accidents, irritability and headaches. Just a quick look at the internet tells us that lack of sleep can cause high blood pressure, heart problems and cholesterol increases. A good night’s sleep can help improve memory, decision making and creativity.

Why do so many French events require staying awake for much or all of the night? In the UK we have the tradition of ‘seeing in the New Year’ which means staying awake until midnight, watching fireworks and hearing Big Ben chime until the strike of midnight – then we can happily go to sleep having wished each other a ‘Happy New Year’.

In France the celebration is called the  réveillon de la Saint-Sylvestre. ‘Réveillon’ from ‘se reveiller’ to be woken up. ‘Un réveil’ is an alarm clock. ‘Saint Sylvestre’ because it starts on the day dedicated to the Pope Sylvestre the first who seems to have been quite a good chap as he fought against the heretical teachings of Arius of Alexandria who was denying the divinity of Jesus. Anyway that was between 280 and 355 A.D. 

Apparently Romans used to have a meal together on New Year’s Eve, and according to the wealth of the family, it could encompass many different dishes. It seems that the idea of eating a lengthy meal together came from that time. Typical dishes for a St Sylvestre celebration include oysters, foie gras, snails and thankfully smoked salmon! People assume that you will stay up all night and go home as the dawn breaks after being served a bowl of onion soup. Remember, dawn in winter is at breakfast time!

Weddings are also occasions for sleepless nights. Often the evening starts with aperitifs, small appetisers that go with a glass of champagne. About 2 hours later the sit-down meal begins with a starter. The long pauses between courses, sometimes filled with videos made by the couple’s friends and family, or songs sung by the parents and parents-in-law mean that it is well past midnight when the couple get to cut their cake and dancing begins. We have felt like terrible party-poopers when we are among the first to leave. Our friends asked us why we hadn’t returned to the venue to take part in the breakfast provided. But it hadn’t occurred to us that breakfast would be included in the festivities!

Paris offers a Nuit Blanche the first weekend of October when restaurants stay open all night and the theme of the city is illuminated Modern Art.

The 14 July, the anniversary of the French Revolution is also an occasion to stay up all night. In Epernay people are invited to dress entirely in white for the occasion. They can bring their own picnic and sit at one of the 230 tables set out on the avenue de Champagne and celebrate with the other 3,000 revellers all night long.

Unfortunately, we are usually tucked up in bed on these occasions, our brains being rejuvenated and refreshed, while our cholesterol is diminishing and our creativity is being enhanced!