Paris was yesterday
THE lane between the farm and the village was still half underwater, so my husband, jabbed weeks ago, insisted on driving me to the village hall in his pickup truck. We loaded up like an old couple going on a day trip to the seaside, me with a Thermos of coffee, an extra wool scarf and a stack of Robin Lane Fox’s columns from the weekend FT; my husband with Times 2 and David McCullough’s hefty life of Harry Truman. The dog jumped in the back seat.
Five minutes later, I walked straight in, handed over my form and was directed to my
