BF and the Gendarmerie

Bf arrives home shaken and stirred, the car rattling as he pulls up. I need a hug he says, and hugs me. Oh my god, I think, must be bad. It turns out that BF has had an accident dans la voiture.He's pulled out, slightly and slowly, easing out, straight into a car driven fast by a stunning woman. To make matters worse, he's done it in front of a car full of three policemen who quickly make it clear that not only is it all his fault,but that he is obviously an oik who who has driven on purpose into the car of a beautiful, probably helpless, woman.

When they find that, inexplicably, we have the wrong insurance document on the screen of the car they ask if he is also a homeless oik (do you live on a boat, a bateau, on the canal, they ask) after they have finished ignoring him entirely whilst they check the well being of the lovely girl, casting more malevant looks in his direction as they do.

Things get worse when her friend turns up to help speak English, and it turns out she is more beautiful and more perfectly breasted even than car crash girl. All police eyes swivel to her as she swings out of her car, leaning on the bonnet to help them check their notes.

All of this gives us the opportunity to realise that we have neglected to make sure that the right papers are in the car. For some reason the insurance that appears on the little green document is out of date, the carte gris isn't in the glove compartment, and BF hasn't got his little bit of paper with the insurance numbers on - a bit of paper he has carried virtually every day until now. I feel a bit panicked and drama-queeny, as if we are lurching from crisis to crisis, as if it is all slightly out of control, all slightly on the edge of my lack of understanding of France and the language.

Are we insured then? (yes, according to the broker), does the car need it's French MOT? We check, going through everything feverishly - no it doesn't. All is in order, but just not in the car when BF needed it. Are you employed? the gendarmes ask, writing him every kind of ticket and fine you can think of. The copper barely comes up to his chest, and BF mainly wants to deck him, but instead practises his French instead, to no avail and no sympathy. So we've ended the day considerably lighter in the pocket, BF couldn't even get the things he was out driving for, as it's a monday, so (obviously) everythings shut, and we haven't had any fun.

At the moment it feels as if that is the life en France - the sun isn't shining, it's all grey cloud and cold drizzle, a bit like England in fact. I've had enough of France I say. Where do you want to go then, asks BF, England will do, I say, and mean it. As long as I have a horse.

May 09