Keene as Mustard: An Englishwoman in Paris

ANYWAY, what to do if you're English and you find yourself in Paris and you find yourself asking how much Englishness you can get away with before being exported? Here's my short list of what to keep and what to kick under the bed for seamless integration purposes...

Whether it be Birmingham's finest or Bognor Regis' best, bring it with you. Use it in all situations where you have to speak to French authorities. Works less well at the Post Office but only because they hate all people, it's not a purely xenophobic thing. Works like a dream with RATP (public transport) staff. Unless you're American.

Anything that clips onto the body and can't be excused away with "I've just come back from holiday". One poor lass found herself at a Sunday lunch being grilled by seven Parisians on how she was so very tanned in January. The uncomfortable silence is a phenomenon that hasn't crossed the Channel yet. Silence is fine. Golden.

No, no-one here really gets it. But I get the feeling that the success of Monty Python means that the French expect us to be funny in an odd, kooky kind of way. And they really want to get it - to be 'in' on the joke. Because being British is like sharing a private joke all the time. They think I'm hilarious bordering on rude.

This includes waiting apologetically at a zebra crossing, hoping someone will feel sorry for you and slow down. They won't. You need to step out onto that road with firm intent and eyeball the man roaring towards you. If he looks like he might swerve instead of brake, stop dead in the middle and threaten dawdling. Only by gaining his reluctant respect will you be able to cross.

Apologising in general is a rare event in this city. Returning to England for the weekend, I got an unhealthy amount of pleasure out of the sorry-ritual. You bump into someone, you apologise, they apologise back out of politeness, you shake your head no-no-no I'm sorry, it's quite alright, oh that's ok then .... sorry again, no not at all, smile, bigger smile, we part ways and everyone's happy. Cuddles.

Because they relentlessly tease us about coming from a country where apparently it rains every second of every day "Oh, it's raining, fait chier. You must feel right at home, eh Emily?" honk honk honk

But the actual meteorological difference between London and Paris is usually pretty negligible. When it's cold here, it's cold there. When it rains there, it'll soon be raining here. Man up and bring a brolly.

- To the point that we put other people's rubbish in the bin without any incentive other than the dislike of mess. This is such a nice not-only-English trait that I really wish we could deposit and recycle in the French mindset.

I live in a road where there are two bin collections every day, but the street is always littered with paper, beer cans, rotting fruit and the more-than-occasional dead rat. You live in a beautiful city you idiots! Would you do that in your own home? No? Why is it fine in front of my door then? And "c'est biodégradable" is not any kind of excuse when you're talking about orange peel on concrete.

An Englishwoman in Paris

Happy Saint George's Day!