Why I need to become a French citizen

After weeks of living in the 18th century, going everywhere on foot and encountering few other souls, I drove to Marseille for a hospital appointment and got stuck in a crazy traffic jam. As a reintroduction to the human race, it was a brutal shock. Hooting, shouting, sirens, blue lights, motorcyclists doing wheelies, cars mounting pavements and grass verges, cars forcing a path through the stationary traffic using their bumpers as buffers: utter chaos. In an hour and a half the three-lane queue moved forward 80 yards.

The chaos reminded me of a taxi ride I once took from Palermo airport. On the half-hour drive into the city we had two minor collisions and clipped a pedestrian. It was a middle-aged chap, fortunately agile. He rolled off the bumper, landed on his feet and continued on his way without a backward glance. In Palermo I visited the catacombs of a Capuchin monastery in which centuries-old cadavers had been perfectly preserved by the dry air, dressed in their Sunday best and arranged in scenes of contented domesticity. Why they had been preserved and exhibited like this, I never found out. Perhaps they had all been run over in the early days of Sicilian motoring and it was an infant form of environmental protest practised by the monks.

Amid the angry chaos of the Marseille traffic jam, I remained reasonably tranquil for a stationary hour, absorbed by sound recordings of interviews with famous English writers, published by the British Library. It felt faintly incredible to be listening to these famous authors’ clipped English voices while stuck in honking French traffic. Ian Fleming was suave; J.B. Priestley petulant; Graham Greene slippery; William Golding mystical; Daphne du Maurier blithe; C.P.