I’ve been messing around in France for nigh on twenty years. In that time I’ve bought, restored and sold several properties (invariably to my cost, but that’s another story). I’ve learned to adapt and adopt, to go with the flow and eventually managed -most of the time- to avoid making grown men and women cry with my mangling of their language. I have even learned to put up with the Gallic version of baked beans.

But there is one aspect of everyday French activity into which I had failed to integrate until recently. Up until last month I had never owned a French car. I had happily driven the equivalent distance to the moon and halfway back on the roads of every region of the country, and always with the steering wheel on the right-hand side. Which of course to me is the right side. Then, my ancient British-registered Volvo died, and I decided it was time to go completely native.

It seemed to me the advantages would include cheaper insurance and no more road fund tax to fork out for my occasional visits to Blighty. Another plus would be that the French version of the MOT lasts two years, and I would not be forever fiddling around with sticky-back tape to try and align the headlights properly. Not only would I at last be sitting in the driving seat on the middle of the road, but I would instantly cease being a target for French motorists with a grudge against foreign invaders or wishing to show off their superior driving skills. I would also avoid being the victim of any Anglophobe cops looking for an excuse to earn a few hundred extra euros for the national pot.

Given the normal pace and complexity of French bureaucracy, the process of buying a new second-hand car was actually much simpler than I had anticipated. The garage took care of all the paperwork and paid the several hundred euros for the ‘grey card’ change of ownership registration. Although the price of my five-year-old Renault was about a third dearer than I would have expected to pay in Britain, the deal also included a full service, replacement of any dodgy parts, two new tyres… and the cost of taking away and dumping my old Volvo. Then there was the superb year-long warranty covering all moving parts, and a free 24/7 recovery service. This deal included the use of a hire car while mine was in dock, and healthy compensation if it was stolen. Obviously, the Fourth Republic is very much on the side of the motorist. Overall, I reckon the exercise worked out much better and cheaper than I had anticipated.

But there has been a startling revelation since I started driving a car with a local number plate. For a couple of decades I thought that all that overtaking on blind bends and hump back bridges, tailgating and generally aggressive treatment from French drivers was because I was a foreigner. Since I have begun posing as one of them, I have been in much greater peril. I now realise that rather than picking on me, my fellow road-users were actually making allowances for my being a stranger to their roads, and were treating me with their idea of due care and consideration…

POT POINT

The final proof of our common perception that most French drivers are either mad, bad or completely incompetent comes with the official statistics. France is approximately seven times the size of England and with about the same number of motorists travelling the same mileage each year. Ergo there is much more room on the roads, yet France suffers double the amount of fatal road traffic accidents.

So if you are thinking of buying a French-registered car, it might help to put a GB plate or union jack on the bumper, or even wear a bowler hat when driving to declare your true country of origin. Or you could follow Mike Kingdom-Hockings’ example and re- register your RHD British car in France. Not only does the combination of French plates and steering wheel on the wrong side confuse other road users, but Mike loves approaching an oncoming police car with his hands on the bottom of the steering wheel – and his wife Phyllis at his side, casually reading a copy of Paris Soir in what les flics (and other motorists) assume is the driving seat…

On other occasions, a large dog takes Phyll’s place in the front passenger seat. Mike is toying with the idea of buying one of those plastic dummy steering wheels.