Intelligence and Manners

France has the only two things towards which we drift as we grow older – intelligence and manners.

Some might disagree with that assessment by F. Scott Fitzgerald. There's not much of either in evidence when you drive from Aix to Marseille, or (theoretically) queue to wait for the bus. But on the whole, he got it about right - France, despite its pretentiousness and posturing, is a civilised place to be. A place where it's still possible to aspire to a certain quality of life.

The same can't be said for Britain, at least not now. Unless you're very rich, quality of life is about as hard to find as the Scarlet Pimpernel. Nor, for different reasons, was there much to be found in 1976, the year I left. The country was almost bankrupt then, and went cap in hand to the IMF to ask for a loan.

On a fine September day ten years leter, I was summoned to the Préfecture in Nantes and a bright-eyed, crisply dressed official handed me a certificate and said, ‘Félicitations!. Vous êtes français.’ He shook my hand and I mumbled ‘Merci.’ He looked a bit disappointed I didn’t salute and sing the Marseillaise.

Considering this was the result of a three year wait, during which they conducted a ‘moral investigation’ to see if I was worthy, the moment lacked ceremony. No fanfare. No medal pinned to my chest. The certificate was flimsy, signed not by the President of the Republic but by some obscure pen-pusher who couldn’t give a toss. I walked out, stood on the pavement, looked around. Was the world brighter? A more hopeful place to be? Well, call me a cynical bastard, but no. My DNA, no doubt - a little short on intelligence and manners - but becoming French had no more effect on me than blowing my nose.

The deal’s this. I have both passports, but when I’m in France, I can’t claim to be British and vice versa. When I’m in Kazakhstan, I can be either. Might sound a boon, but basically it means if I’m taken hostage, I’m screwed. ‘Nothing to do with us. He’s one of yours.’ ‘Mais non! Il est à vous. Sacrebleu!’

Of course, having a passport is one thing. Being patriotic is quite another, because as Roger McGough pointed out, patriots are a bit nuts in the head. Right now I'm a bit nuts in the head because it's the Six Nations, so I get all excited and Welsh. That's because my Mum was all Welsh (but would have preferred to be anything but) and my Dad was half Welsh (but didn’t seem to mind what he was), which makes me 3/4. But then, shortly after becoming French, I annexed the remaining quarter. Think of it as a form of compensation.

Strictly speaking, it was probably more than a quarter. We lived in Powys, then called Radnorshire, a stone’s throw from the border. Practically on top of Offa’s Dyke. I went to school in England. Never spoke Welsh in my life. Still don’t know the words to Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau. Never been to an eisteddfod. Don’t like leeks. Got an accent as RP as they come. People say to me, ‘Welsh? You haven’t got an accent.’ And I answer, ‘No, I’ve lost it.’ Truth is, I never had it.

But as Tom Waits put it, ‘I never saw my home town till I stayed away too long.’ Or in my case, ‘Never found my Welshness till the French got it all wrong.’ Because after the millionth time you’ve heard all Brits referred to as ‘les anglais’, you start to feel the tug of those non-English roots, drawing you back where you came from. A windswept hill with clumps of fern and grass grazed bare by sheep. Might not be everyone’s bowl of broth but hey, to me it was home. Cymru am byth!

All of which brings me to another joy of writing - inventing characters who can be the things you're not. Magali Rousseau, for instance, can paint, run a half marathon, and catch murderers. But most of all, she's truly French - intelligence and manners are in her genes.