Blood in the Snow

On the way home, I am drawn into the covered market, bustling and at full capacity although it's only half past nine on a very cold morning. As I duck into the entrance, I notice a few tiny snowflakes have fallen onto my shoulders.

Inside, the stalls groan with produce that glistens and glows. The scent of fresh bread wafts through the crowds and mingles with salty oysters and the heady perfume of freesias and narcissi. Wandering from stall to stall - handsome cuts of meat, glowing orbs of citrus fruit, freshly pressed apple juice, fifty different kinds of olives and twice as many cheeses - I am surrounded by the comforting, transporting hum of market chatter.

Women "d'un certain age" question stallholders over the freshness of their goods, raising their eyebrows over prices, splitting hairs. A man spends an age choosing three avocados: one for today, one for tomorrow and one for the next day, gently squeezing each one for a different degree of ripeness. Fishmongers hurl jokes at each other over the clatter of shells, and small groups of men stand smoking, huddled over tiny coffees, nudging and winking.

Suddenly I am distracted from this sensory smörgåsbord by one small stall, tucked away in the corner. Lemons, limes, some fine lemongrass and perky herbs and then, piled majestically high, the treasure I have been waiting for all year; February's finest reward. Blood oranges. They are stunning, orange swirled and speckled with crimson; Arabian sunsets. I can barely steal myself from clapping my hands with glee, and rush forward to buy as many as I can carry. When it's blood orange season, I can't resist bringing bagfuls home to put in bowls around the house; aside from their beauty, they make the best, hot-pink juice, intense sorbet and alluring cakes, and they bring much-needed bright smiles and sunshine to the dreariest month of the year.

Stepping out, laden with heavy bags, I stop still. Everything is white. Within fifteen minutes, what started as a few tiny sequins of snow has become a glittering blanket over the whole town, with snow still falling softly. The striking contrast of atmosphere and especially colour is surprisingly poignant; at once sad and achingly romantic. Blood-speckled oranges; pure white snow.

Social Security

The French have many, many strengths. They make the best bread and the prettiest cakes; have perfected insouciance; and ostensibly have even made infidelity acceptable - with Monsieur le Président leading by example. France is the land of the paradox: meals are rich and abundant whilst waistlines are anything but; there are rules and laws for everything but most are fervently ignored; and although the French love paperwork like nothing else, they don't seem to know quite what to do with it.

Don't expect to get anything official done quickly here. The Holy Grail is the dossier, a weighty portfolio of personal information, and a requirement for most daily tasks. Equipped with this, indefatigable persistence and skin as thick as a rhinoceros, you are ready to take on French administration.

Nowhere is a steely resolve more vital than at Sécurité Sociale, the organisation responsible for health insurance. The system here is incomparable to the NHS, being more similar to the American arrangement whereby people have to pay up-front for any medical care, before being reimbursed by the 'sécu'. This providing that you have survived the process of joing this organisation (a term I use loosely) without a succesful suicide attempt; you see, it can be rather soul-destroying.

First, you have to skip along with your dossier, sit in line for a few hours, and explain your intentions to a disinterested receptionist. No matter how fluent your French, you will undoubtedly be asked to repeat yourself several times. Then, perhaps, you will be transferred into the hands of a dedicated officer, for whom you will need to wait a good hour at least. Staring vacantly at the neon number - the like one finds at a supermarket deli counter - it is amazing how your resolve can slip away.

Assuming you make it into the office, have the patience to repeat yourself another few times, and have a steady enough hand to fill in the relevant forms, your dossier will be checked. And provided you've paid your 50 euros to have your birth certificate translated, have photocopied everything you own, and have included the name of your mother's first pet in this personal directory, they might just shake your hand and begin the process of immatriculation.

Trudging home, any sense of triumphance is hard to muster, the fact of the matter being that none of your tenacity, charm and graciousness will pay off for at least six weeks: if you get ill before that, consider homeopathy.