It is a grubby cellar, the room is full of the usual suspect types, the man with a beret pulled down over one eyebrow, the young man surreptitiously smoking Gauloises, the Edith Piaf look-alike with, I think, a poodle secreted in her coat.
The facilitator looks directly at me.
I realise I am the one to begin.
Trembling slightly I stand up.
“Hello” I say in a trembling voice “My name is Martin and I am a Francoholic”

There is a murmur of assent (and two whispered D’accords)

“I should have seen it coming” I went on “For many years I was a Francophile, no more than one holiday there a year, a glass or two of French wine, some Piaf records”

A harsh voice from the back asked “Do you know the words of any Brassens Songs?”
I bowed my head “Two” I whispered
“Have You seen Claire’s Knee?” my answer was barely audible “Three times”

The voice from the back was now firm.
“You know what you must do”

I was escorted into The Room..

There a light mist sprinkled down perpetually down from the ceiling.
On the table was a plate with a pizza with orange cheese and pineapple on it.
Through a microphone came the sound of Ryan Tubridy.
The room was suffused with a damp grey light.

My brain washing began.
“I love living here” I said, “I love living here” “I love living………