Every year, I have to prove to the BBC that I am still alive and entitled to receive my pension. They send me a form to fill, which needs to be witnessed by someone in authority – a solicitor, a doctor etc. This would entail me paying a fee, but the Beeb also accepts a certificat de vie, a similar document issued by the government, which you can print out from their website and get signed and witnessed, for free, by an official at the town hall.
On Wednesday, I printed my form, filled in my details and presented myself at the reception desk at the hôtel de ville. A large, bearded man, a distant relative of Harry Potter’s friend Hagrid, eyed me with suspicion as I stated my reason for being there. He asked for my pièce d’identité and I gave him my passport. With a pencil in his enormous fist, he noted my name in a tatty exercise book . I suspect this data was not destined for any sophisticated IT system. Silently, Hagrid pointed me to a nearby door.
Here, at another desk, a middle-aged woman handed me a ticket with A23 on it and motioned me to a bench on which two young men and a young woman were sitting. All of them, it turned out, were there to collect student bus passes. One of them started grumbling about having to wait for these. I thought of telling them that when you get to my age you need a piece of paper just to prove you are still breathing, but I wasn’t sure my French was up to it.
After ten minutes, my number was called and I was ushered into a booth, where another large, bearded man, possibly Hagrid’s brother, was sitting. I told him that I wanted a certificat de vie and took my filled-in form out of my bag. While I was doing this, he had reached behind him and produced another, blank certificat de vie from a filing cabinet.
I pushed my filled-in form towards him.
He looked at me for a moment, then looked at his blank form then at my filled-in one.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘I printed it at home. From the government website.’
‘How many of these forms do you need?’
‘Just the one.’
He was silent for a moment, no doubt mentally rummaging through some book of governmental etiquette to handle a situation like this. Putting his blank form back in the filing cabinet would probably require the filling-in of a different form to explain its non-use.
Reluctantly, he picked up my form and started reading the details I had filled in. He then asked me for my passport to check that I hadn’t lied about my name and date of birth. He stamped my form, signed it and slid it across the table with a solemn ‘Voilà’.
I looked at it and saw that, in the section to be filled in by him, he had not recorded my passport number. With the most ingratiating smile I could muster, I passed the passport and form back and pointed to where he needed to do this. He looked at the form, then at me. I was clearly a troublemaker. He filled in the number and passed the form back in silence. We wished each other good day, and I left the booth feeling that I had somehow let us both down badly.
Another service provided by the council is free recycling bags. We were out of these, and as this seemed a day for administrative chores, I went to the council offices at the far end of town to pick some up. However, when I got there, the place was closed for redecoration; a notice on the door said that, for the time being, recycling bags were to be collected from the hôtel de ville.
With a heavy heart, I went back to face Hagrid, who clearly remembered me.
‘Des sacs pour le recyclage?’
He looked at me in a way that suggested that he’d been talking to Hagrid 2, then pointed me in the same direction as before. The woman gave me a ticket with A43 on it, and I sat down. After a few minutes, I was summoned. My luck was in, and instead of Hagrid 2, I got a charming young woman who gave me a large roll of recycling bags – a year’s supply.
‘Would monsieur like some ordinary refuse bags?’
‘No, thank you. We have plenty.’
‘Some toutou bags?’
‘Pour votre chien. Le poop.’
‘Non merci, pas de chien.’
On the way out, I raised my bundle of bags in a friendly salute to Hagrid, but he stared at me blankly, still trying to work out what scam I was working with bin bags and a certificat de vie.
We have cancelled our planned trip to Paris. As expected, the city was declared an area of maximum alert on Monday. Bars and cafés have to close for two weeks, and restaurants must close at ten o’clock. Fortunately, our train and hotel reservations were fully refundable – as they more or less have to be these days. Few people are going to take the risk of booking any sort of trip in advance unless they can keep their options open.
Generally speaking, the outlook here, as in the UK, continues to be bleak. The number of new cases reached a new level yesterday, with nearly 27,000 people testing positive in twenty-four hours. It’s been rising steadily for weeks now. Along with Paris and Marseille, Lille, Lyon, Grenoble and Saint-Étienne have now been declared areas of maximum alert. There are eight cities at the level of heightened alert: Bordeaux, Rennes, Rouen, Nice, Toulouse, Montpellier, Dijon and Clermont-Ferrand. The health minister, Olivier Véran, has warned that Toulouse and Montpellier are likely to be raised to maximum alert in the next few days.
The major difference between here and the UK, as far as I can see, is that in France the government’s management of the crisis is broadly endorsed by the public. I think that one of the main reasons for this is that, compared to that of the UK, the overall strategy is clear and easy to understand. The alert level system and the map that goes with it, showing areas of the country in different shades of red according to level, are easy to follow. How an area gets the level assigned to it (the number of cases and the situation in local hospitals) is also clear. The management of restrictions in an area, once its level has been assigned, is handled locally by the prefecture, which to me seems sensible.
As with any government policy, there will be dissenting voices, but there is nothing like the confusion and anger currently ‘on stark display’ in the UK, according to Andrew Rawnsley in today’s Observer: ‘Between north and south. Between young and old … Between government and opposition. Between scientist and scientist. Between Westminster and local government. Between cabinet member and cabinet member. And between prime minister and his own party.’
Still, things can only get better. There are now only eighty-two days until Brexit.