Living in France is a lottery. The chances of getting a losing ticket are very slim, but a chance it is all the same. Twenty four hours before the slaughter in Nice, I took my daughter to the Bastille celebrations in the southern suburb of Paris in which we live. The centrepiece of the celebration was a parade through the town centre finishing in the town square. On arrival the kids in the parade leapt up on stage and sang La Marseillaise before trooping off into the embrace of their parents.
Next up on stage was a pop band, and as they launched into their first number my 11-year-old daughter began dancing with her friends. I sat on the other side of the square, outwardly relaxed and at ease, but vigilant all the same. I know the square well, know its nooks and crannies, and the best exit routes. I sipped at my wine, chatted and laughed, but one eye never left my daughter.
Suddenly there was a loud bang and we all jumped.
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