The France is still there..

 As I was wandering up the path to my post-box - strategically situated on the main road between Tocane St Apre and St Astier, almost equally between the the two. ... I stopped and looked - as a good Dutch girl I can recognise St Nicolas anywhere, the long white beard was perfect...But this was a little odd - he was coming from the Tocane end and it was not nearly official postal delivery time 

Now, take a breath every dear reader - France is no longer a casual, almost Latin like, form of administration. There are rules about what can delivered where - and when - There are rules about the delivery of bills - say electricity - and the date limit by which it they should be paid, with possible penalties. Demands are made for the customer to permit direct debits from their bank accounts.   My instinct says ' no way, not ever' - never mind the possible discounts.

Then the wood delivery man arrived just before lunch - trailing a large cart with chunks of coursely cut but very dry wood.    My own wood is not yet dry enough to use for heating and cooking - it  takes over two years at least.  We greeted each other as old friends - I buy from him regularly as my own wood dries.  

From behind his ear he drew a rather battered receipts book, thumbed over the pages until he found a blank one.   He then quoted me two rates;   one would be handwritten on dublicated paper and would include a charge for local tax, to be paid by cheque.  The other book would produce a different total - one without tax  - to be paid in cash.

We looked through my cash wallet and decided on the latter.  The real France is there somewhere....