It's a beautiful day.

It's 25 degrees outside, there is the slightest breeze and the skies are the exact shade of the blue stripe in the tricoleur. I found a new cafe with an unorthodox menu, pleasant patient staff and Wellington ambience.

We are at war with the French, as usual. Among our Monday complaints is the run-in Josie had this morning with the directrice at Maria's school . The witch stands in her 'overweight Labour woman MP' flowing outfit at the front door each day and confronts parents as they enter. Today she wanted to know, loudly, aggressively, why we hadn't paid Maria's dance class fees we didn't know we had to pay. Aggressive, confrontational, 'you must go home and get a cheque now.' It was due on Friday, see. Josie has taken to abusing them in English. I did it all along, because of the absence of alternatives, and to be honest they leave you alone.

This is such a class-ridden society, half the community seems to be competing to out haughty-tauty their neighbour. The other half simply ignores them, and ignores the rules.

Immigrants can't ever compete. We will never be able to trace our ancestry far enough back. The only way to survive is to give it back much harder than they dish it out, every time. They respect that. They have to, don't they.

So that's the rule really. Hit harder than they hit you.

Works fine.