No-one is French.

We're house hunting. Yes, I know you know, but I still need to introduce this post. Yesterday, we went off to get registered with a few agencies in areas we wouldn't say no to, despite the fact that French cities are basically open sewers. In the end, you just choose the least appalling pile of detritus to live with. We chin-wagged long and hard with an agent called José Perez, a child, just like my dear Mrs. Fingers, of Spanish immigrants. Toulouse is full of them. As we were leaving, he gave me his card, so I cracked the obvious joke about him being of Norwegian origin. Haha, yes, that's right, bonne journée, you sad, fucked-up Brit he could have added, but didn't. Anyhow, we popped over the road to Century 21, and gave our details to the lady behind the desk who then informed us that a certain Sven Strom would be contacting us. "He's Norwegian", she added, somewhat superfluously. Funny how contrived, unfunny remarks can come and bite you on the backside, isn't it? I'm always intrigued how people end up in places, even if their story is as anodine as their parents escaping Franco's Spain and living in a one-bed flat in Toulouse while señor built roads and señora trawled the market for bargains. Our world has become so fluid you see Frequent Flyers with cages of carry-on live chickens and fourth-hand nylon anoraks. There's no magic in moving, any more, but we're still going to do it, even if it's just to another building. With a different pile of dog shit in front of the door.