Had to do some stuff at the Post Office this morning, where I discovered it's 44 euros to send a letter to the UK to arrive the following day, 4 euros 50-something for a 3-day delivery without signature, and 6 euros odd - and 5 days - if you want someone to sign for it at the other end.
Two days longer for someone to scrawl Mickey Mouse on a piece of paper???
Welcome to France.
Called in at Intermarche on the way back. Wishing I hadn't.
I'd just bought a lettuce at my local street market. The nice lady had taken my money and placed it into a plastic bag, which I then put into my large, soft-leather shoulder bag. Walked around the supermaket, picked up a few items - eggs, a couple of pork steaks, a packet of fresh anchovies - and went over to the self-service payment tills.
After I'd paid I took out my Monoprix nylon shopping bag (we all have them in assorted colours. Some of us swap them with each other on rainy days; such is the glamour of life on the Med) to carry home my spoils. I also took out of my leather bag my newly-purchased market lettuce, and placed that, too, into the nylon bag with the other foodstuffs.
I attempted to leave the building. The security guard called for me to stop. He insisted on looking into my leather bag to see how many other vegetables I'd bought at the market without having secured his permission so to do.
He told me I was not to put a lettuce into my shoulder bag. Or something. I told him I'd bought it at the market, it was nothing to do with Intermarche, or him. He (rudely) told me in future I should take my previously-purchased lettuces and leave them with the woman at reception. (Is she particularly partial to salad?) I smiled sweetly and told him to f*ck off. No, didn't think he spoke any English.
But he's right. On the way back to my apartment I thought of an even better place to keep my lettuce.
That's right. England.