A runner in France and a letter from same

And of course the last day of the November Cheltenham meeting

A busy morning for a Sunday with a runner in Auteil in about five nanoseconds (12:05) and a note from Pongo who finds himself in Paris. This came by email, so I can only imagine his arriviste wife pressed the buttons for him.

As I have little to tell you - other than put the mortgage on LASCA DE THAIX in the 12:05 at Auteil, I thought you might like to read Pongo’s note, which, in fairness, is quite deep for him when it comes to understanding foreigners. Almost sympathetic!

Dear Boydy,

Thank heavens, I am only temporarily marooned here in Paris, France. Aunt Dahlia decided that after my ‘cultural exposure’ in New York, I required a bit of ‘European sophistication,’ which translates roughly to: ‘Pongo, go and make contacts with a French cheese magnate so your Uncle Tom can sell more of his awful chutney.’

The air here is rather more pleasant than the smog of the Big Apple, though the whole country seems to smell faintly of strong coffee and philosophical angst. Observing the world from a small café table near the Seine, one has to admit that the French manage their political affairs with a certain dramatic flair that we lack in Blighty. No mere grumbling in the Commons; here, they have full-scale, magnificent public protests that halt the entire city.

Over the last month, the leading cause of the local ruckus has been an ongoing saga involving public sector reforms and strikes. Every time you try to catch a train, you find that the entire network is paralysed because someone is protesting the modernisation of their job. The argument is often grand, involving words like ‘solidarity’ and ‘betrayal of the workers.’ I tried to explain that the trains should run on time, and was met with a look of profound pity, as if I had just suggested trading the Mona Lisa for a packet of crisps.

And then there is the European Union.