Along with more than a hundred others we went to a ceremony at which we were presented with certificates of naturalisation. About half of us were brown or black and most of the rest were Brits shimmying round Brexit. It was very French. There were not nearly enough seats and we waited for half an hour before the Great Man, festooned in gold braid, arrived to make a speech that didn’t say very much. We then watched a film on a computer that sprinted through French history. Like the speech there was nothing new because we’d had to mug up that sort of thing some time back. Then we were summoned one by one to shake the Great Hand and that of a small henchman alongside. They got my name wrong, but they usually do and I’ve learned to answer to almost anything. I think we should have been there for an hour more, clapping everyone who received their bit of paper, but we sneaked out. It was evident that we were all French already and needn’t have bothered to turn up. But we did sing the Marseillaise. Fortuneately the words were on the computer.

The cracks on this house following the dry spell last year are to receive a donation of €14k from the state for their repair, which is very kind. They’re even providing a contractor to do it, sometime. The specifications for the work are very detailed and largely incomprehensible.

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