We even surprised ourselves when we signed up for the mediterranean cruise. However, this was a cruise with a difference. The small wooden boat was so packed that we fought for sleeping space at night, and most of the other passengers resembled refugees rather than holiday makers. The purpose of their trip was a means to travel from A to B. It was certainly not for pleasure. Since few were interested in the visits to islands en route, TPR and I took full advantage of the expert guides who led us to the ancient sites. The highlight of our holiday was hunting for fossilised fruit deep underground beneath the remains of a lost civilisation. This prehistoric people had buried hundreds of apples, bananas, pears and plums as offerings to the gods. Centuries later we took enormous pleasure in pulling their solid forms back out of the rubble.

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I’d forgotten just how officious the French could be. I’d last experienced the lengthy queues, multi-page forms, barked instructions, and rude staff wielding rubber stamps as weapons of officialdom in 1984. It all came back to me as we waited in line until midnight just to collect documentary authorisation for a short visit to the country. My university friend KH (now KN) complained that they had exactly the same problems each year when recruiting French teaching assistants to her school. I added this to the list of reasons why I was grateful not to be a school teacher.