Give us this day; 2

It’s early on a November morning, and an autumn mist has settled on the village square. The arcade on the far side is barely visible, and your rather optimistic choice of attire (T shirt, shorts and crocs) is proving a might chilly. Happily though, the lights of your favourite boulangerie are now in sight. Pushing the door open, you’re embraced by a blast of oven hot air - and the prospect of a pastry based breakfast is surely just moments away.

So far, so straightforward. But like most things worth waiting for, a wee bit of patience is required. Having taken care to say bonjour to all and sundry already within (and similarly to anyone else who arrives while you’re queuing up), there’s three old boys ahead of you, each of whom needs to discuss the weather (mauvais) and their health (ditto) with madam first. And then spend a further five minutes delving in their purses before forking out 80 cents for a denture testing baguette. Hence, a bit of a wait – made even longer by the postman who’s been at work since 5am, and is now buying up half the shop. Carrier bags groaning, he waves a cheery farewell and heads back to the local sorting office ( there to share the spread with his colleagues, who’ll wash it all down with a couple of gallons of coffee and a cheeky cabernet sauvignon - and then start their rounds).

And, at long last, it’s your turn. Swiftly you grab an armful of pain while exchanging snippets of news, then journey home, cheeks bulging with still warm croissant, the dashboard and upholstery of your car liberally plastered with greasy crumbs. And tomorrow’s market day when the cakes arrive. Excellent. Efficiency and a svelte waistline? – merci, mais non.