Our usual brand of brioche is “Harry’s”, last week we bought “Pasquier” instead. Most found it an ordeal to swallow even a mouthful, the only one not revolted by the taste was the four year old, J. Everyday I’d cajole him to eat as much of our brioche mountain as he could get down. I’ve now looked at the ingredients. The bizarre, medicinal flavour we hate is down to the Rum in it.
The English are teased for queuing but I’ve always thought “How else is a civilized person going to wait their turn for a bus/toilet/Neil Diamond ticket?” Now I know. I am buying some, admittedly unconfidential, stamps at the post office when a lady enters with a cheery “Bonjour!” She positions herself on my right, if not thigh to thigh, at least elbow to elbow. A second lady enters, Bonjours and slides up against my left. We stand together like books on an overfilled shelf. As the post office Madame starts to pass my change over the counter, lady number one leans forward and begins her transaction. I have to turn sideways to get out.