18 March

Memories are washed away in the heavy rain … they will wash up on a shore somewhere.

In the meantime, I throw my setbacks in a brand new bag and head post-haste to France, where my defeatism will go down well with the locals (I hope).

White lines take me there, along with matrix signs which keep me under control and in the right lane.

Across perfectly flat countryside to Saint-Omer, where my landlady Fabienne is not waiting for me. I’ve missed my half-hour timeslot to access the premises.

So I fall back into line and into the centre-ville, and back out again; to the ruins by the lycée on the other side.

Where a suave Frenchman is busy being photographed in a variety of catalogue poses around the back … and I wonder how I stumble into these improbable scenes.

Out front here comes the blue-rinse-brigade coach party and their nearly-full memory cards.

A white statue of someone who may or may not have been famous, but is now shit upon incessantly, looks down on the scene disapprovingly.

Through the cobbled streets to the cobbled square, to meet the cathedral – busy throwing ecclesiastical shapes under fading light.

Solemn statues of saints grace the upper walls, hovering above the flying buttresses, yearning to break out into medieval dance moves.

Inside, a grey boredom dressed up in beliefs, smothered in incense.

The usual selection of Very Big Crosses, hanging in mid-air, surrounded by centuries-old thoughts and assorted prayers attached to the slab stone walls.

How far we have come since then … we now drink at tables, often in licensed premises.

I pay just to leave the joint, as I figure all good sinners do.

Back at my overnight digs, Fabienne greets me at the door in black leather jacket and oversized biker boots – something I didn’t ask for and I hope I haven’t paid for.

The locals are hanging around smoking their thoughts, as a steady stream of pallid people come and go from the pharmacy next door.

We head inside along a dark corridor and up narrow stairs, where I’m surprised to find the brightest of open-plan apartments, overlooking the municipal car park.

As Fabienne shows me around, we insist on talking in each other’s language … which is amusing up to the point where we suddenly realise that we’re having a different conversation, and neither of us has the slighest idea what the other is talking about.

Between us, we invent many new words.

The sad thing is, they’ll never be heard again.

We part on good terms (I think), and I take in the gallic scene from out of the tall apartment windows with a steaming cup of sweet tea, stroking my chin and wondering where my GCSE French language skills went.

When dusk approaches, tourist intuition kicks in and I follow the herd to the Grand Place.

The Queen Vic is the main pub, and I go there to stand in a dark place while workers around me celebrate surviving another day of sweat and toil by throwing arrows at a dart board.

As I start to doubt whether I’ve really journeyed to a foreign country, a bartender throws a look in my general direction and, suddenly panicked, I attempt to order a glass of beer with many made-up words.

Luckily, one is placed in front of me … but only after I’ve placed a note on the counter and pointed at things to verify my intentions.

Beyond the games area, on the other side of the central bar, I park myself on a low stool and try to eavesdrop on all of the conversations being had around me.

Not understanding a word of what I’m hearing, instead I invent these conversations and inevitably it’s all high philosophy, modern art, the negative impact of social media, and what people are having for tea tonight.

Suddenly the gallic scene is punctured by the arrival of a small crowd of boisterous Brits, and I literally put my head in my hands, finish my drink, phone through my apologies and exit through the double-doors … one of which swings back, boots me up the arse and sends me on my way into the square.

Through the narrow streets I find an empty restaurant, where I’m placed on a high chair and promptly served a lukewarm meal in a bowl along with some gingerbread. Is this regression, I wonder; I order another beer to ponder the thought.

When I climb down from my perch, I exit through the double-doors … one of which swings back, boots me up the arse and sends me on my way into the dark of the night.

Past the back-end of Thomas Cook and the shut-up tabac, back to my expansive flat to gaze out of my tristesse windows and down onto the impressionist scene below.

Street sweepers are out in force, washing away the memories of the day.

At 10pm, cinema crowds stroll home.

I am in France.