FIDELMA COOK

SO, there I was, in another world when the policeman stepped on to the roadside, pointing his gun at me and waving me down. A speed gun, of course, but you never know in France.

He and his pal were down a lane just outside a hamlet where the limit is 70kmh (44mph).

I didn’t exactly screech to a halt but let’s say the brakes were very firmly applied and I followed to where another car was already parked and another agitated woman was having her details taken.

There was no defence, as I admitted to the young officer, who showed me I’d been doing 98kmh – 28kmh over the limit.

“I was dreaming,” I said as Cesar bashed against the window in a barking fury.

“Ah,” he said. “Head in the clouds.” He didn’t smile as he said it.

Immediately, as I do when confronted by police here, I went into Uriah Heep mode, indicating that he had been totally right to stop me.

He yawned as I babbled on about having been to the dog groomer and that only gives me 20 minutes to get home before Cesar needs a pee.

“He’s peed in the car before, you know,” I confided. “It’s weeks before the smell goes …

“Sorry? Oh yes, of course, my paper. Definitely here somewhere. I’m just opening the glove compartment. Is that OK? “Right. Oh look. Voila!” Bored, he carefully wrote down the details, told me not to move and went back to his squad car and on to his radio. The other motorist who’d been stopped, a distraught-looking older woman, came to my car.

It turned out she was a Dutch estate agent racing to meet a rare potential buyer. “I’ve had it,” she admitted. “I’ve a stack of points already. They never target here. It’s always further up the road.”

I knew that but I was so far off in my other world that frankly I’d have raced through there too.

On his return the officer asked if I lived permanently in France. “I do,” I said, hoping that got me some leeway. “Then I require you to change to a French licence for the points plus it’s a €90 fine.”

Carefully, I pointed out that it was an EU licence and legal, and the points would be registered on their computer. We bandied that back and forth for a little while before I capitulated.

“You’ll get a letter telling you to go to the Prefecture in Montauban. And you go. Yes?” “Yes.” The fine came in and I paid it immediately online. No letter.

Now, I ignore virtually all calls on my landline as they’re inevitably cold callers. If the odd one gets through, I hear the first words of French, usually Madame Cook, and say firmly: “Look, just go away.”

But I do answer my new French iPhone as only those I select have the number, so of course I answered although I didn’t recognise the caller.

A torrent of rather angry French greeted me. “Whoa, whoa, slow down madame and start again.”

Frostily, I was told it was the Brigadier and I had been hanging up on her for days. I must now report, with my licence, to the Gendarmerie in Lavit. That afternoon.

“But I’ve paid my fine,” I protested. “You haven’t changed your licence though,” she replied.

“I’m waiting for a letter.”

“2.30pm. This afternoon.” And she hung up.

In the flesh she was actually very pleasant and we had a little laugh – well, I did – about me hanging up on her because I thought she was a cold caller.

She wrote out the number of the Prefecture and her number. “Phone for an appointment then phone me to tell me when it is.”

Well, the Prefecture said I didn’t need an appointment; they opened for licences in the mornings.

I downloaded the appropriate forms but needed several bills, my birth certificate and other proofs of existence plus four photos.

I put it to one side and was flung into a maelstrom of work as France came under terrorist attack.

A week later the mobile rang. It was the Brigadier. “You haven’t phoned.” I explained and said it would be another week before I could go.

She phoned me again at the end of that week. “You haven’t been.” Again I said a pathetic sorry but repeated I had to work. “I promise if nothing more happens I’ll go next week.”

She’s just phoned me again and said I have a choice. I can go before next Tuesday or she will come to my house and take me. For a second I thought it would be nice to be driven for a change, but decided against sharing the thought.

I sensed somehow our senses of humour are not on the same wavelength.

I am now upending drawers to find old bills. I do not keep old bills. God knows where my birth certificate is and I need a cut and colour before I go to the photo machine.

Idly, I wondered that if this is how they come after you for a licence, I need to hope Le Pen doesn’t get in and orders us all out.