My sister-in-law, quite rightly, has chastised me for praising France constantly and giving only a one sided (the pink spectacle side) view of living out here.

Fair is fair so here are a couple of the down sides;

It is nearly impossible to get a decent Café Créme here due to the French propensity for UHT milk which tastes rather like chalky magnesia but for some reason they don’t mind.

On the same lines my wife, a tea drinker, says that they don’t know how to boil water to make tea.

The French are not as clean as we thought they were, and, although less likely to discard cigarette wrappers and butts about than the Irish, they have a shockingly high proportion of dogs who pollute the streets with abandon.

Size is difficult here. The French idea of Extra Large is somewhat like the Irish medium and I couldn’t fasten the waistband of same over my thigh.
I have however discovered a mens shop called Quinze (Fifteen) who specialise in dressing rugby players into whose clothes I fit.

On the same lines again they must have come shocking short in stature out here when our house was put together and my scalp is lacerated with scars obtained from low door jambs.

The potatoes are strangely causing me some distress.
Having cribbed for years about the Irish preference for floury spuds and the difficulty of making dishes like sauté potatoes and Dauphinoise with them, I now crib about the French preference for waxy pommes de terre and the difficulty of making a fluffy mash or crisp and tender roast spuds with them.

Oh and, the downside of going feral; my heels, having been deprived of shoes and socks, need constant anointing with Shea Butter or they crack.