Closing the curtains against a chill November evening and denying yourself yet more comfort chocolate, you dislodge the cat from the sofa and grab the remote. Zapping through all the regular TV channels and despairing of weekend scheduling – crammed as it is with C list celebrities prancing around in sequined gowns and tone deaf teenagers screeching before an audience overloaded with Sunny D – you scroll down and chance upon Agatha Christie’s finest creation. And if there’s something familiar about the genteel late 50’s village she inhabits, then it’s probably because you live here.

Using any excuse that springs to mind - work, prior commitments, beri-beri – frankly, whatever achieves the desired end - you may escape being dragged to the pre Christmas sales. However, undaunted by your lack of enthusiasm, your (much) better half, bright eyed and purse in hand will inexorably be drawn towards the nearest retail park. If you’re used to shopping elsewhere in Europe, then sales discounts won’t seem a big deal, but nos amis Francais – favouring as they do the ‘buy one get none free’ mantra, have a rather more old fashioned approach to their soldes -the nett effect being that all stores are obliged to hold their sales at the same time and then only for a handful of weeks a year.

The tingle of Moneycentime’s kiss still soft on his cheek, Hollande strode purposefully into M’s office. ‘Late as usual, cent moins quatre - vingt treize’ said the grizzled spy chief, looking up and pushing a thick manila file across the desk in front of him. Hollande thought briefly of mentioning the pre dawn roof top chase and exploding helicopter on the Peripherique, but instead slit open the ‘Top Secret’ band with an immaculately manicured thumbnail.