A 22 year old Glasgow based daughter called me last week to recount an amusing incident.
To escape the horrors of the 30,000 blowhards despoiling the city she’d popped over to my Parisian apartment and had gone downstairs that evening to a very good small café for an early dinner. The only other diner was President Macron who’s private residence is a few doors along. He was accompanied by an associate while outside lingered his security heavies.
The waiter tried to charge her for Macron’s dinner. She complained and the bill was begrudgingly amended but she formed the distinct impression this was bad form and she was expected to be honoured by paying his tab.
I have a French grandson currently learning the ropes in our Wellington office and will keep an eye on him for fear of a similar larceny try-on.