Name and shame

In an uncertain world, it’s nice to know that at least a few things will forever remain the same; a given quantity of beer will always bestow a sense of wellbeing and an inability to explain your late return home; there’s an inversely proportional relationship between how important people tell you they are and the reality and, of course, your address will stay as it now is though the millennia to come. Unless you live in a small French town, when it won’t.

Regularly turning in their graves are countless local worthies who, having dedicated their lives to goodly works, then popped their clogs and swiftly thereafter had a street, square or cobbled walkway named after them. And sometime later their countrymen (either in a fit of imperialistic pique or unavoidable retaliation) get embroiled in some domestic or far flung conflict and send a subsequent generation to lay down their lives for the mother country. And once the dust settles, the powers that be decide that (par example) Monsieur Hurlot’s dedication to helping local orphans is less important than, say, a celebration of the nation (and particularly the politicians responsible) extracting itself from the poo. Hence Monsieur H’s sign is binned in favour of a rue de la resistance, victoire, de Gaulle, 1945, armistice, indochine or the oft forgotten algerie.

Repeat the process nationwide, throw in the odd famous (by French standards) author and voila – a rich tapestry of unsung and unassuming philanthropists are consigned to perpetual obscurity. And as life continues its unpredictable course, there’ll be more changes – a chance to note some truly momentous and more recent events, set forever in freshly minted cast iron plaques.

Even a Place de Bradley Wiggins, perhaps?