Paris notebook | 26 July 2018

‘Problème est masculin; solution est féminine,’ says Brigitte, the adored French teacher at the British embassy in Paris. Good way to remember your ‘les’ and ‘las’. If only it were true. Theresa May has not — yet — solved Brexit. Angela Merkel has not resolved the migrant crisis. Anne Hidalgo, the city’s mayor, has not flushed out its rats. If she fails at re-election, it will be on pest control and tent cities. A sign on the Square du Temple gates asks picnickers to leave no croissant crumbs behind. It attracts the rats. Below, in black marker: ‘Et les Algériens?’ Not nice. But tempers run high in hot summers. 

The morning after the World Cup final an email went around the embassy. Regrettably, no newspapers would be delivered that day. The nearest kiosk had been burnt down the night before. Tear gas on Sunday night; triumphant Tricolore flypast on Monday. ‘Did you enjoy it?’ I asked my Foreign and Commonwealth Office fiancé Andy, who had drawn France in the work sweepstakes. ‘Up to a point,’ he said. ‘But it’s not my party.’ Trente ans de douleur. 

The Algerian Uber driver who took me home from Saint-Sulpice after the England/Sweden match in those dizzy days when football was coming chez nous, was tickled to have une Anglaise in the back of his cab. He wanted my expert take. ‘Arry Kane? Formidable! Dele Alli? Génial! Garess Soussgate? J’adore son gilet! Chelsea. Arsenal.’ Lesse-cesse-terre. Will we still export football after Brexit? Don’t let the turnstiles slam shut. Europe needs Tottenham more than we need Paris Saint-Germain. As we neared the Marais, he asked which club I supported. Queens Park Rangers. ‘Ah, oui,’ he said. A note of sympathy now.