I always wanted to be French. Indeed, long ago I once even considered changing my name to Âddié Le Menton - until it was pointed out that I sounded less like a Parisian gangster and more like a character from a bedtime book for the under-5s.

On the one hand, there is nothing quite so delightful as arguing a little be-bereted philosophy over a game of chess, an unsmoked cigarillo, and a thick espresso with enough punch to take down a small horse. But then, on the other hand, that is one of the most pretentious things I've proposed since the "Rive Gauche" tattoo I nearly got on my left buttock (I was drunk: back off).

This, after all, is England. Here, when it turns grey and soggy, the most we generally manage post-work is a petulant latte at Café Zero. Hardly Truffaut territory. Yet, has anyone else noticed the growing smattering of dog-eared Economists and Art of Eatings, subtly replacing the old Stuffs and Hellos on the tube?