Sunday 2nd August

Regular followers of this diary will be aware of my turbulent relationship with the French. In many ways, I am the ultimate Francophile: I was born on Bastille Day, my favourite book is The Count of Monte Cristo and I’m currently on the French Women Don’t Get Fat diet (which has been going rather well, if you discount the South African wine I surreptitiously enjoyed with my Brie last night). I even look great in red lipstick.

I applaud the Republican principles of Liberte, Egalite and Fraternite and adore French cuisine. It’s just a pity then, that the French, as a nation, suck.

I have had several run-ins with our Gallic cousins, affronted by their unwavering refusal to admit culpability when they invariably cause offence. So it should come as no surprise when I confess that I nearly came to blows with one last night. The sneering Pierre nicked our taxi as I was trying to negotiate a fare with the driver.

“I am taking zis taxi biiieeeeetches,” he proclaimed with a flick of his cravat (faux Dior), pushing past us to get into the back seat. He refused to listen to the entreaties of his embarrassed Anglo-Saxon companion and merely reiterated his earlier sentiment.
“Back off biiieeetches, zis taxi iiiiiss mine.”

Defiant as Napoleon, he refused to budge. Alas, also like the historic Emperor, he had greatly underestimated his opponent. Enraging a Northern Irish woman? Schoolboy error, Pierre!

I thrust myself into the taxi with him, told him his economy was in tatters, he had a pervert for a President, Hell; his government couldn’t even secure an Olympic bid! I saved my trump card for last- Italian wine is far superior to French.

Of course, my rantings achieved nothing. I merely confirmed that the Irish are a nation of drunken fishwives and he sped off in his taxi, undoubtedly feeling amply entitled to retain his supposed birthright to superiority.

I went home, kicking myself for not having handled the situation in a more dignified manner. I did however, take great pleasure in throwing out a full chunk of Epoisse, making toasties with good old-fashioned Cracker Barrel instead. Hardly Waterloo, but a minor victory for me.