Postcard from... Normandy

After 18 years, we have moved home. We have not moved very far - perhaps 600 metres. Many of the important things in life – favourite restaurants, metro station, bread shop - remain the same.

Since the move was local, we decided to do it ourselves. We hired a large van. We hired a man with a “monte-meubles” – an escalator for furniture.

We applied to the police for permission for the “monte-meubles” and the van to stand in the street for half a day. We heard nothing. I rang the local police station.

Yes, the man said, your permission has been granted. No, of course we don’t tell you it’s been granted. No, of course we don’t give you an official document or erect a sign. It is up to you, monsieur, to “defend your space”.

With the help of a battered orange cone and some official-looking notices taped to the pavement, we defended our space. A motorcyclist parked in the centre of it. We shifted the bike to an illegal spot on the other side of the street.

When the grumpy man with the monte-meubles saw how much there was to move, he said there was “no hope” we’d finish in time as 18 years of memories came down his flimsy escalator.

But we did it with 20 minutes to spare. Maybe I should take up a new trade.