Sorry, mes petits choux, but whilst I am thrilled to be back from France, I have to tell you, that the French seem to have it a pointe. Admittedly, I’m talking at the street level, but I have experienced ten days of, in the main, charming, cooperative and kindly people. Everyone just seems to try a little harder at the everyday, the trivial, the minutiae of life. The streets seem a little cleaner; a tiny corner shop reeks of the organic smell of fresh produce, that has been laid out immaculately. Melons smell of melons, tomatoes come in twelve different shades, fourteen different sizes, and they all taste different.
OK, at the risk of being cancelled, (plus ca change, mais pas une surprise), the glamour of the old Cote d’Azur is not the same. The women aged under 25 all dress like Amélie Mauresmo after six sets with Alvarez on the hottest night of the year; the woman aged under 45 don’t appear to be trying even vaguely to emulate a Catherine Deneuve; and the rest just look drab. There were only four male stereotypes on display and whilst I can hear shouts of “Pot” and “Kettle”, the men managed to exude a look of some form of ghastly seediness. I counted four stereotypes as: Gérard Depardieu has left the building; Gérard Depardieu is unwell; Vincent Cassel would like to look like Depardieu, and Mathieu Amalric would like to look like Jeffrey Bernard.
The most elegant people I saw over the ten days were all English. I was surrounded by beautifully dressed women from the four corners of our sceptred Isle, I might also add the Irish contingent cut the mustard with even greater elan.
They dressed for a smart wedding lunch, and then dressed down, but with immense style, for a Cannes beach party. Even at the hangover barbecue lunch the following day, where yours truly sat like a pole-axed gorilla incapable of even lifting a drink to my sorry lips, I was surrounded by beauty. It made you proud to be British, or in my case, simply drawing breath.
What else have I to tell you?
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