The French don't really see the funny side of things In my more vulnerable moments, it weighs heavily on my mind that you may think you're dealing with some numpty or bumpkin here, whose view of life is as through the wrong end of a telescope, who knows nothing of the finer things, the broader view of what Marcus Aurelius called "the great web." Well, let me tell you that I was in Paris last week, so there. A friend of mine was "varnishing" his paintings, whatever that may mean. There was no smell of varnish in the room where he was exhibiting, and I know varnish when I smell it; both my Aunt Kitty and my great-aunt Maggie were French polishers to Dublin's toffs and gentry. Varnish and rashers frying were the dominant smells of my youth. But I see that I've already allowed you to lead me down a narrow blind alley, deviating from the sunlit uplands, the wider boulevards of life, and more particularly, those of the City of Light, its shimmering river, its magnificent architecture, its sheer romance. I let the train take the strain, a phrase we used to quote with impunity, before "train" became a word you could no longer use in polite society. The French police checked my passport at St Pancras station, which furrowed the brow a bit, but everything turned out all right when the British police gave me the once-over in the Gare du Nord as I left France. I'm sure that there's a perfectly good reason: ours but to do or die, you know. The Eurostar was a delight: helpful platform staff, charming French service, under the Channel before we knew it, off the train and straight into the less-than-welcoming arms of the Parisian taxi driver. The personalities of these winsome fellows run the gamut from morose to psychotic, and a 15-minute run can cost you anything from a tenner to 20 quid. Use the Metro. On Friday evening, eager to be overcharged at some famous brasserie (there's one where you can pay £68 for a roast chicken), we decided to avoid the expense of a taxi, and five crowded into a smallish town car, one of us in the boot. It seemed sensible at the time, but not when we were pulled over by a van full of gendarmes, who, as luck would have it, passed us as we swung around the Place de la Concorde, and spotted our booted fellow passenger through the hatchback window. In a trice, we were surrounded by half a dozen riot police armed to the teeth, convinced they'd caught a gang of people smugglers. It's a good job they closed the Bastille, because the French don't really see the funny side of things the way we do, but after some stern words they sent us on our way. Our friend in the boot had to walk. He was late for dinner, but we kept a cold chicken leg for him. At the price of the chicken it was a sacrifice, but what are friends for?