I just
don’t seem to be able to get it through our English alter’s thicker part
of my skull that life is too short not to take advantage of every single
moment, and that precious time can be wasted blindly following the rule. During
the time we were together, Priscille lived with her parents in a small mountain
village some five kilomètres from the town where we lived and which could only
be reached by a twisting road. Journey time could, however, be reduced by
turning left off this road and following another route - a steep, narrow,
but relatively straight lane leading directly into the village centre. So
narrow was this lane that a one-way system had always operated to the advantage
of the coming-downers, the going-uppers being officially informed they must
take the longer route by a large No Entry sign located at the
intersection. It goes without saying that when our Englishman was at the wheel
the words 'No Entry' constituted a barrier as impenetrable as
Priscille’s virtue and, as I never failed to remind him, we stupidly lost up to
five minutes following the longer main road to the village instead of taking
the short-cut.
Things really came to a head,
however, when a section of the main road between the short-cut intersection and
the village was partially blocked by a landslide, and a one-way system,
regulated by temporary traffic lights, was put into operation. When our English part was at
the wheel, not only did he continue to take the same route, but
he actually waited when the lights were red, frequently wasting precious time.
What I could never get into his bird-sized part of our brain was that, even if we
took the short-cut, the limited number of inhabitants, the remote location of
the village, as well as the time of day (usually we called on Priscille and her
parents in the evening after dinner) weighed the law of probability heavily in
favour of us not meeting a going-downer on our way up.
Of course, much to our Englishman’s
extreme discomfort, whenever our Frenchman was in control, we always took the shorter way
up. This choice always turned out to be right, except on one occasion when
we had to stop and pull in to one side to let a coming-downer through. He, of
course, in true French fashion, left us in no doubt of his opinion on the
matter by lowering his window, sticking his head out and bellowing, ‘Ca ne va
pas la tête, non?’ However, this allusion to the softness of our brains was due
less to the fact that we’d infringed the rule than the slight personal
inconvenience he’d been caused: for this certainly didn’t prevent him from
taking the same short-cut himself when he became a going-upper on his way back.
Sooner or later, of course,
life’s journey leads us on a collision course with those officially appointed
to make sure rules and regulations are respected. It must not be imagined,
however, that because a French policeman is clad in blue, a heart of gold
doesn’t beat beneath. What I don’t seem to be able to get through to our rosbif is that, with the help of le
Système D, this type of encounter is far from obliging you to resign
yourself to the worst. During the short time Priscille and ourself were
together (the poor girl soon realized she couldn’t cope with an English and Frenchman rolled
into one), whenever my Frenchy was driving and we were stopped by les flics for exceeding
the speed limit, he’d given her strict instructions to pretend to give us a
resounding telling-off (towards the end I suspected she wasn’t acting at all).
At the same time, our Anglo didn’t have to force himself to impart a typically
English, sheepish expression to our face. In nine cases out of ten the
policeman was unable to conceal his amusement and let us off with just a
warning! C’est ça, le Système D!
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