My Hols, Thursday, August 30, 2007 8:09 PM

Dear Fellows,

This is my fourth visit to France since the 1960's. Compared to those days( the 1960's of course) it is a different country in many little ways; some good, others not so good.

The good is the transport system, including the roads. Road humps are very very rare. Autorouts, (toll motorways) are very common; every page of the Michelin map shows at least one north-south autoroute, with accompanying Route National the former primary road, (which now acts as an A (toll free) road.) Adequate, but has more traffic and many junctions. We calculated that paying the toll more than made up for extra exasperation and increase in petrol consumption of stop start motoring.

The road system is about 20 years in advance of England.

The not so good is the prevalence of dirty diesel engines. If thoroughly flushed with flushing oil at the recommended intervals, the exhaust is not so smelly. As it is, instead of Galoise, the streets smell like a bus depot during a busy period.

I have actually been overdoing it for the past few weeks, so I did not really wake up until we reached Paris. Once again we circled Paris using the Route Peripatetic (the French equivalent of our M 25, though as far from the centre of Paris as Vauxhall is to London).

Paris cannot be compared to London, at least not to The Square Mile. Half of what people refer to as London is the neighbouring city of Westminster. Both of these city's are surrounded by umpteen small towns and villages.

Streatham, for example was, until just over a century ago, a north Surrey village.

Paris is now ringed by really rather dispiriting blocks of flats, the denizens of which were described by Nicholas Sarcozy in terms I will not repeat. The other Nicholas (Van Hoogstraten) would have probably agreed with him. Did not harm his presidential chances. I simply wonder what drives a man to uproot his family to live in what is, in effect, a prison within a foreign country.

The north half of France resembles south east England, rolling hills, occasional forests, that sort of thing. From mid France, the eastern side is dominated by the Massif Central, which needs no translation. Clearly this area was dramatically affected during the volcanic period. Not a safe place at all, in those days.

There are very few long valleys. Roads at ground level would be obliged to twist and turn all over the place, so the French have simply built viaducts, most are 50 or so yards long. I counted five along one stretch, under our and neighbouring roads.

The king of viaducts is, of course the one at Millau, built by Norman Foster and a French engineer: Michael Virlogeux.

Well worth driving through France just to enjoy looking at it. The statistics are astonishing; It is taller than the Eifel tower, just a little shorter (35 meters) than the Empire State building also, it is 2460 meters, over one and a half miles long. As a comparison; from Marble Arch, along Oxford Street to Centre Point, or Marble Arch to Charing Cross station. Nearer home, from Streatham Hill station to Brixton Underground. One Hell Of A Distance. Admit it.

Nearing the Millais Viaduct, we stopped for petrol. We had an unusually long wait, the driver of the car in front seemed to have vanished, we drove around him to reach a free pump just beside the cash kiosk, where I discovered a possible reason for the delay; the young lady at the till was of such beauty, almost rivalling that of my daughters. No, I will not apologise, which father does not consider his daughters as the most beautiful of women, almost rivalling their mother.

Whilst I was standing, regretting my mis-spent youth, I was elbowed aside by a burly lady who easily resembled an American footballer in full kit, with the mouth of a cheerleader, "A fishwife, if ever I have seen one, I mused"(and I have seen plenty)

Any doubt on this score was instantly dispersed by her letting fly a torrent of French (as in "Excuse my") at such a speed I couldn't keep up.

To my astonishment (and delight) my little Angel changed her appearance; her face was no longer cheerful optimism but outright fury "Wrath of God-On Stilts" would convey an idea. What she said was beyond me, but she was clearly responding in the same coin, with knobs on.

An approach not to be found in "The Employees Guide to Good Customer Relations", specifically chapter 10:"How to Win Over the difficult Client".

However it seemed to do the trick.

Over the years I have noticed that the observation: "A soft answer turneth away wrath..." (Proverbs 15:1) is only effective when dealing with those who are "Playing the Game" As also Jesus' comment on "Turning the other cheek". One might meet the chap who enjoys smiting cheeks; the more the better.

Clearly a Plan B should be somewhere to hand as was so ably demonstrated.

This brings to mind a report in last years Daily Telegraph of a desk sergeant in a South American country who was dealing, as best he could with a Member of the Public who had a real or imagined grievance. After a while a young policeman chanced into the outer office. Seeing his opportunity to take advantage of his tea (or tequila) break, the sergeant asked the Young Policeman to "Get rid of him", gesturing towards the "Member of the Public"

"Righto Guv" (or Latin American equivalent) responded the Young officer, who took the man firmly by the elbow, escorted him outside the building, withdrew his service revolver and shot him, dead.

Apparently the youngster was distressed when his executive action failed to meet with the unalloyed approval of his senior officers,
This action probably did not feature in the aforementioned manual either.

Plan B it may be, but rather more drastic than I would have recommended.

Is there more? I expect so
Neil