Carambolages

Visitors to France are frequently intrigued by the pitiful state of the bodywork of even new cars. The dings and dents are everywhere: front and back, sides, and sometimes even on the roof. Obsessive car polishers, of the English suburban variety, would have nightmares about their paintwork and panelling being under constant risk.

Most of the reason for the front, back and side dings and dents is a peculiarly Gallic propensity to drive at speed within inches of the car in front, or to reverse at full revs on the assumption that a parked car you hadn't yet seen will absorb the shock and tell you, very approximately, when to change the foot pressure from the accelerator to the brake.

Today, at Castorama, a kind of B&Q DIY store, one car did a spectacular carambolage, reversing with a roar out from the parking space, turning at full wheel-lock, and ramming another car (brand new) on the side. The impact had real added value in that the new car which was the victim of this tangential aggression was one of those strange ones with sliding doors. Needless to say the complicated sliding mechanism was now completely skewed, rendering it unlockable.

Later on, whilst going for a swim to recover from Castorama, we crossed the road at a pedestrian crossing. For once, the car speeding towards us braked hard and stopped. It was a large, shiny, very desirable Mercedes convertible, clearly turbocharged, as was its blonde driver. We were just about to wave in a friendly way to acknowledge this unwonted courtesy, when there was a fierce squeal of brakes and the inevitable, irritable sounding of le klaxon. Just because one car had stopped, in obedience to all the laws of the land, did not mean that this other driver couldn't just accelerate her way through. She was blonde, too, with a rictus which showed that she wished she were driving the Mercedes and not the tatty Peugeot she was actually in.

The classy blonde in the Mercedes just looked in her rear-view mirror, saw that the klaxonneuse was the motoring equivalent of white trash, and... did nothing. It was as if she had decided to park her car and admire the view of the Port Vauban. Finally, when the face of the driver behind had turned a nice shade of puce, the first driver, smiling at us, put her foot down to the floor. As the turbocharger kicked in, the Mercedes almost reared up on its hind legs and disappeared in a twinkle of the eye, leaving the Peugeot driver to stage a puttering, shamed departure from the pedestrian crossing. Her scowl was still there, held in place by her make-up, and seeing it gave us great satisfaction. Sometimes, perhaps not often, the rich indeed have their social utility.