Why France can’t save us
From an early age, my grandparents tried to save me the pitfalls of a lower middle class English existence by initiating me into the joie de vivre of France. Across the channel I would be ferried, left to the continental sophistication in a Calais bistro some 20 minutes from the ferry terminal. There I would watch my grandfather scoff a bowl of moules and cheap rose and flirt with the waitress. My grandma would beam upon the scene. This was the first of many escapades to the continent, a saving grace for the mediocrity and dullness that stalks the English petit bourgeoisie. We might like to joke about invading our