I really do want to shoot the whole month down. November is hell in Paris. Every year it is the same. The mood changes, and all the petty-minded, semi-fascistic, ungenerous instincts of this strange, scared, buttoned-up people come out. November is strike time of course, with all the tedious union fanfare re-enacted on ths streets, and everyone bleating the same old cliches about how yes we're inconvenienced but after all it's their right and if I was them I'd do exactly the same etc etc instead of getting seriously angry. And then there's the weather. Foul. And this November I have two particular bugbears to shoulder (yes, you can shoulder bugbears, so don't interrupt). First, there is an old soixante-retard in an office near mine who smokes at work. He is not allowed under the law, but he does it nonetheless. When he is accosted over it by co-workers, he shouts abuse. How does he get away with it? Because he is in the unions. A union bully-boy of a type that disappeared from Britain 30 years ago. Untouchable in other words. Only in France. AAAARRGGH. Second. A notice goes up in my block of flats saying bicycles must be left on the street rather than in the courtyard. Why? Because they leave marks on the walls. Our flats -- including the courtyard -- are private property. If the bikes go on the street, they get stolen. Cars have destroyed our cities, and bikes mark the only sane and responsible response. And yet STILL, in this benighted semi-fascistic, semi-communistic country there are people who will send anonymous letters denouncing us for untidying their "parties communes". If I could swear on a blog, I would. Very loudly. Only in effin Paris.