Be careful what you wish for....

It was 8.54 am on Wednesday morning and thanks to the Aix rush hour and the legendary punctuality of TGVs, some kamikaze driving was called for. The short term car park was the wrong way up a dual carriageway, but for some reason that didn’t seem to matter, instead I felt like I was playing Frogger as I slalomed past onrushing trucks. Discarding the car we dragged our heavy suitcases down the road, furiously pumping our arms but going nowhere fast.

“If only we lived in England,” shouted Tanya as we grappled for our tickets, punched them and wheezed our way through the sliding doors. Sure enough, there was the TGV, smooth and sleek with its engine purring a challenge to the station clock. Panting our way to our seats we reflected that engineering works and replacement bus services had their upsides.

We were returning to London for a wedding but rather than anticipating seeing family and friends I spent the 4 hour journey to Lille fretting about an incident in the market, which had the potential to make Tanya’s comment prophetic.

A boy and a girl had approached the stand and studied the wine list. If I’m generous to my conscience they were 17 but it’s possible they were no more than 14. They selected a bottle and handed over some money, “it’s a present for our father” they chimed.

Tanya was off shopping and I simply didn’t know what to do. In France the journey from nipple to grape is one of the shortest in the world. Once a child is able to walk parents are happy to dilute water with a touch of wine and the two eager young palates before me probably knew more about tipicite and terroir than I did. Should I serve them? Culturally - never mind for now legally - was this type of transaction acceptable in France? Mechanically I counted out the change and handed it to them.

It was only after they left, bottle in hand that I pondered the consequences of my actions. “A present for their father,” - what type of fool was I? In a couple of hours they’d be swaying down the main street of the village singing the Marseillaise and when the gendarme picked them up and asked them where they got their wine from, that would be the end of our nascent rose empire.

And yet, perhaps I was right, perhaps French children were more honest and adult about alcohol than the English. They’d certainly showed no sign of embarrassment as I served them. Had I refused it could have been another Anglo-Saxon faux pas to add to a long list embarrassing errors.

More on the big cat next week - a south African tracker is coming to search for paw prints, that’s if we haven’t been deported in the meantime.

By the way for those of you who have read Extremely Pale Rosé , the wedding we were attending in England was Peter Tate’s daughter’s. She looked beautiful!