I might’ve previously inferred a preoccupation with my feet. Just days before I arrived in France, the lovely Helen painted my toes a delightful shade of cornflower blue, albeit faded cornflowers, but I loved it. It was my first experience of shellac. You’ll never have anything else now, she said. They won’t chip. Too true: ever tried removing the stuff? I don’t know whether it’s something to do with the sun, but out here there’s no stopping nail growth. Before long, they were like two-tone talons: not a good look.

In our village, out the back of the little clothes shop, I discovered a beauty salon. Can you do something with my toes I asked? It’s shellac and I don’t like it. Shellac, said Madame, it’s semi-permanent, she continued screwing up her nose in distaste. Can you replace it with something less hardy, I enquired? You want a pedicure classique. It wasn’t a question, more of an order really. Camille, called Madame, the Englishwoman needs a pedicure classique. Camille inspected my toes: meh bah, says Camille also with the nose business, c’est semi-permanent! She needs a pedicure classique. I got the distinct impression that, politically, I’d made a bit of a feet faux pas; one that said a lot about the English – neither one thing or another, just a pathetic compromise. Bit like Brexit.

Yesterday, I returned equipped with a new vocabulary and was invited into a small back room to sit on a throne comprised of a number of wooden crates. Up there, I asked with some incredulity? Mais oui, they said hoisting me upwards.

Camille was down below, ready to rock. Are you going to be comfortable, I asked with concern, although, in truth, I felt this was something they should be asking me. What about your back, I continued? She looked at me as though I’d just come down in the last shower before pulling on some black latex gloves and choosing a suspicious looking electrical implement from her selection of tools previously owned by the Marquis de Sade and probably purchased the week before from a local boot sale. Camille proceeded to drill the cornflower blue from my toes prior to giving my feet the once over with a stiff brush. I must confess, it wasn’t unpleasant.

There followed an exfoliation which was pretty effective – feet felt like those of a new-born. But, I thought, pretty damn speedy. Helen would be massaging my legs by now. But, Helen wouldn’t then have produced a roll of cling film. Camille unwrapped some of those hydrating sheets, normally worn on the face, and wrapped them around my soles and toes before encasing my feet in the cling film. And before disappearing. I sat alone on my throne wondering what was happening.

Looked at my phone for a bit. Madame passed by. Excusez moi, I asked. Any idea what’s occurring here? We are preparing you for the rapee, she replied. Well, when considering cheese, rapee means grated so I knew what was coming. Helen, if I ever see you again, I’ll explain what happened next.

Eventually, Camille returned, possibly from a rendezvous with her boyfriend. Washed and creamed my feet and applied the chosen colour.

Et voila, she exclaimed. And I have to say, after yet another foray into the French unknown, feet felt and looked entirely acceptable