I am so uninterested in media coverage of the British elections that I began to think I was finally becoming a French person. After all, on the 11th of May, I will have lived here for exactly ten years. But it turned out to be nonsense. I may consider steak-frites and a glass of red wine my favourite meal, but in other ways I am still British through and through.
For instance, I felt a swelling of patriotism the other day when – during the volcano chaos – I read that the British navy had sent ships to rescue tourists stranded on the Spanish coast. A disaster occurs and the Brits send in the fleet. That's pretty cool. Meanwhile, the SNCF went on strike.
More recently, I went to see an exhibition about the history of fashion at Les Arts décoratifs. I drifted through the glorious clothes in a daze, until something started bothering me. Then it suddenly occurred to me: where were the British designers? Or the Americans, come to think of it? Even the Italians barely scraped in, although Armani was missing. I know Paris is the capital of la mode, but we've made the occasional contribution. In what other respects am I typically English? Let us count the ways. I know how to queue. I do not mind the rain. I require films to have plenty of action and a happy ending. I am relentlessly optimistic. And I can drink most of you under the table.
