What’s the point of the NHS if it doesn’t work?

We left prepared. Bottles of water, protein snacks, phone chargers, portable Scrabble (even the teenagers can look at the internet for only so long). And we left early: our crossing was at 2 p.m., and by 9 a.m. we were already on the M25. Six-hour queues, we’d been warned. Armageddon on the M2. Somewhere around Maidstone, I got a text. P&O Ferries: ‘We regret our sailings are delayed by up to 45 minutes.’ Uh-oh. But as we descended into Dover, zero sign of trouble. We sailed through check-in. ‘So sorry there’s a bit of a delay,’ said the man in the booth. No worries, said we, pathetically grateful not to be stuck in a lorry park. On to French customs. Again, not a queue in sight. ‘Bonjour,’ I said, in my best Franglais, handing over our passports. They were stamped with a Gallic flourish and returned with a smile. ‘Bon voyage, mademoiselle.’ Ooh, mademoiselle. Stop! Just goes to show, doesn’t it, that you shouldn’t always believe what you see on the tellybox. Or, as one of the teenagers put it in between posing for TikTok with seagulls: ‘I could have had another two hours in bed, Mum, and we’d still have been early.’

She’s right, of course. We Brits do love to get our knickers in a twist about things. Queues at Dover: Armageddon! Heatwave: Armageddon! Being hysterical seems to have become a national pastime. Not so the French. They take a much more horizontal approach to life. A Gallic shrug of the shoulders and another slug of wine. Everything shuts at 12.20 for lunch; as to whether it will re-open postprandially, on verra, as they say. That’s not to say they’re inefficient: I have some friends who emigrated to this part of the world a couple of years ago, and they’ve been blown away by how well things work.