Some years ago, when I was about 55, we visited friends in Hungary and were taken on a train. George bought four 'senior tickets' and I was worried that they might ask to see my passport.

The inspector came along, glanced at the tickets, looked us over and went on his way. I felt a mixture of relief and anxiety. Did I really look over 60?

Last Sunday, for the first time, I was asked to show my 'Carte Senior'. Fortunately I knew it was in my bag, even if it took a bit of finding. The conversation went a bit like this:

Me (hopefully): "Does this mean you don't believe I'm over 60?"

Inspector (seriously): "Madame, I don't think anything of the sort."

Me (with rueful smile): "Oh, I am disappointed then."

He went off grinning.

The election of deputés (MPs) in France is now timed to coincide with the presidential term and is run on similar lines. Any number of candidates can seek to stand for the first round and if anyone gets more than 50% of the vote (provided there is a big enough turnout) he/she is through without further ado.

However, what usually happens is that there is a second ballot a week later for the candidates who had the most support. Sometimes its a straight fight between the best two, or there can be three or four in the 'second tour'.

The first vote took place on Sunday and the Mayor of Charleville was standing for the Parti Socialist. We asked her husband when we met him on the station platform whether he thought her chances were good.

He shook his head. "You must have noticed. There's a big swing to the right. We're not very hopeful".

In the local paper, a chap who writes a satirical column had said that although the candidates were ostensibly celebrating the start of the TGV service they would really be wondering whether they would be travelling to Paris for free (First Class) as MPs or whether they would have to pay for their tickets in the future.

The first round results did, as predicted, indicate a massive majority for Nicholas Sarkozy but our Mayor, with 28%, is through to a second round fight with the Right wing candidate (40%). Last week the turnout was low. We'll have to wait and see if more people make the effort next Sunday.

Unfortunately, we don't have the right to vote.

Getting a taxi at Gare de l'Est on a Sunday was easy - no queues and hardly any traffic en route to our destination - Place St Michel.

First stop was a café as neither of us had had breakfast. We shared a Petit Dejeuner Classique, consisting of freshly squeezed orange juice, toasted baguette, croissant, butter and jam - just enough to keep us going till lunch, as it was already nearly 11 o'clock..

Then we went for a trip on the river. It was hot and pretty crowded but most interesting. The guide pointed out the sights; some familiar and some we'd never heard of; like 'the smallest house in Paris' just one window wide, tucked  between two much grander residences, and the oldest house with its half-timbered first floor (painted yellow) looking decidedly uncomfortable above a much modernised ground floor.

She gave explanations of all the bridges we passed under and we saw a different view of Notre Dame as the boat did a u-turn round the Ile de la Cité. The tour lasted an hour and so it was half past one and rather difficult to find an occupied table out of the heat of the sun to have lunch.

Our chosen brasserie was called Peres et Filles and although it cost three times as much as at La Fontaine we thoroughly enjoyed a long, leisurely meal until mid afternoon.

Bear was in the mood to walk again and was determined to explore as much as possible. We walked round the courtyard of the Louvre and then wandered aimlessly until we came across directions to St. Sulpice. We found it and went inside where he admired the organs and bought a guide book (which I subsequently lost).

After a browse round the Antiques Fair by the church we found ourselves by a gate to the Luxembourg gardens and went in. It opened up into a huge park where we became thoroughly lost and had to ask a policeman how to get out.

It was then that Bear decided he wanted to walk to Notre Dame.

He used to have a good sense of direction but I reckon it has worn out with age because he took the most roundabout route imaginable and it began to tell on his legs.

He had virtually seized up by the time we reached the bridge and then we found a long queue to visit the Cathedral. There wouldn't be time to go in. We had to find a taxi for the station.

There was a taxi stand nearby with lots of hopeful passengers but no cabs. We stood there for about 10 minutes and not one taxi came by so we decided to walk to the next taxi point as standing still was worse than moving.

Bear became rather miserable as the pain got worse and he wasn't in the mood to respond to any of my suggestions like 'have a coffee' or 'sit down on a bench'. Eventually we found ourselves at the Pompidou centre and he decided he could walk the rest of the way! By the time we reached Rue Sebastopol he had had enough but trying to hail a taxi was useless. They were all occupied.

In desperation I askd three policemen if they knew a phone number to call a taxi. They were polite and helpful but could only suggest we make it to the next bus stop and see which came along first - an empty cab or a bus.

Bear limped to the bus stop but I was quite worried about him by then. A bus came quite quickly but it was packed. We got on but it was standing room only and we were squashed beside the driver. Nevertheless, he still allowed more passengers to squeeze in.

What a relief when Gare de l'Est came into view and we were able to get out of that tin of sardines.

The station was absolutely heaving. Bear desperately needed to sit down but there wasn't a seat anywhere. I felt I was holding him up as he was swaying a bit. Then I saw a sign proclaiming 'help for handicapped travellers'. They had vacant chairs inside so I pushed Bear forward and said ,

"He's not handicapped but he's 80 and can't walk any further. Please may he wait here?"

They were very kind and he collapsed into a seat. I went to get some water and wiped his head and neck with a cold tissue as well as making him drink. He pulled out a soggy envelope from his shirt pocket. The tickets - it looked as though a cat had peed on them.

"They're all wet with sweat." he said, "You'd better go and stamp them."

Yuk; first I had to wave them about to dry  for 10 minutes or so and even then the machine wasn't happy. It kept telling me to turn the ticket round but eventually, with lots of clicking and grinding noises it printed the necessary time and date.

At last the TGV drew into platform 25 and we were able to find carriage 12 - they were labelled this time - and negotiate the eccentric seat numbering to find our places; 15 and 16 (which were in front of 71 and 72!).

On the way home Bear said how much he had enjoyed the day, despite his aches and pains, and how we ought to do this more often.

Yes, I'm all for it. Paris is so much more relaxed than London. It's a real pleasure to explore this lovely capital. If ever I had to choose a city to live in it would be Paris but we'd have to win the lottery first.

June 10th saw the opening of the new TGV service to Paris and we had booked our places  in advance - two first class returns for 80 euros. It was Bear's birthday treat.

The flags were out at Charleville station and the Mayor was there to wave the train off. (There had been celebrations until late into the night on Saturday with live music and dancing but we hadn't taken part in that.) By the time the train was due the platform was full of travellers, officials, press and onlookers.

It was difficult to find our carriage because they didn't seem to be numbered so we kind of guessed and found seats 43 and 44. Even the seat numbering was illogical with 71 and 72 being behind 33 and 34 - nothing like chronological.

The departure was two minutes late and everyone waved as the train nosed gently out of the staion. It didn't seem to be going very fast and we couldn't enjoy the scenery because there wasn't much window by our seats and, anyway there was a thick fog. it was disappointing that the carriages were past their best and everyone round us was having trouble making the seats stay locked in position. At first there was a lot of shuffling and banging but then we all gave up and discovered that, by putting a little pressure on the footrests we could hold the seats still. The ride was very smooth so it wasn't uncomfortable.

We stopped at Rethel and a few more people came on board but when we pulled into Reims the platform was even more crowded than at Charleville and nearly everyone got on. it was then that a chap tapped me on the shoulder and said.

"Excuse me Madame but I think you have our seats."

We pulled out our tickets and showed him the numbers.

"Ah yes, but you should be in carriage 11. This is carriage 13."

Oh dear, we had to gather up our books and papers and push past the passengers coming  in the opposite direction and tutting about the strange seat numbering system. We were not alone, though, a couple of other people were similarly turfed out of their places - so we weren't the only ones who couldn't read the carriage numbers then.

We were a few minutes late leaving Reims but, at last the TGV was able to show what it could do. We felt it pick up speed and the driver announced we were doing 320 kmh. But it was still a very smooth and comfortable ride. During the journey a talkative woman near us was making a fuss about it coinciding with her 50th birthday and another man called over a journalist who then called his photographer. I half wondered whether to say it was Bear's 80th but it would have been  impossible to get a word in edgeways.

The train pulled gently into Gare de L'Est about five minutes late and we were offered flowers as we stepped onto the platform while a jazz band played lively music.

We emerged into bright sunshine to find a taxi.

Since Elisabeth gave up her market stall she has been thinking about selling her products at home - as in Tupperware parties -  and yesterday she held the first one chez-moi.

Unfortunately I couldn't muster much support and could only count on my neighbour and 'French teacher Catherine' but Elisabeth said she had invited four or five ladies.

She turned up at about 4 with a friend, also called Elisabeth. We unloaded her car and set out biscuits, tea, jam, sweets and various tins and bottles on the dining room table and I found our teapot (a crap French one which we never use) and some cups.

By 5.30 the house was full with about a dozen ladies going through the goods like bees round a honeypot. I provided secondhand carrier bags and they were soon filled before we had even made any tea.

Elisabeth got busy adding up the bills and I was left to make the tea. They say that people who don't like tea are no good at making it and that certainly applies to me. I hate and detest tea and always worry about making it for people who do. There are so many ways you can spoil it - too weak, too strong, for starters and I didn't do a good job with the Earl Grey. OK, I remembered to warm the pot and use boilng water but I must have used too much tea because it was far too dark and Elisabeth asked if I could add some more water. Our kettle takes ages to boil but eventually I watered it down.

As I was looking for the tea strainer Elisabeth started to pour and, of course, all the tealeaves went into the cups.

"Never mind" she said, "they'll sink to the bottom".

"And then we can tell fortunes" piped up Catherine, who had spent several years in England in her youth and had come across this strange custom.

I didn't taste the tea but several people joined me for coffee and one or two had orange juice. I overheard gasps of "Une anglaise qui ne sais pas faire le thé!" (An English woman who can't make tea).

The party was going well when there was another ring at the doorbell. It was Pascal, a friend and handyman from the next road. He had called at an inconvenient time twice this week and been refused admission, so I felt I had to give him the option of coming in this time.

"The house is full of ladies and Bear has gone out, but you can join us if you like."

Pascal didn't hesitate; a house full of women, what could be more inviting? However, even he was a bit overwhelmed and just sat in the backgound with a beer.

On the positive side, sales went very well. I don't know what the takings totalled but Elisabeth said it was much better than a day at the market - and far more convivial.

After everyone had gone we packed up the remaining goods. Bear had come home by then and was in an excellent mood. He had been trainspotting, followed by a few beers a the local bar. Two more beers made him even more jovial and Pascal said he had never seen him so talkative.

When everything was tidy again we opened a bottle of champagne to drink to Elisabeth's new venture. Much better than tea.