My weekend was mostly spent on the French side of border country, experiencing serial incidents of Englishness.

On Saturday we went to a lake and swam. There was a French guy who seemed to be staring at me while I changed out of my swimming trunks. I was doing this under a towel, a manoeuvre which feels very English and always makes me think of cheeky Blackpool seaside postcards. (The French have no word for manoeuvre, of course¹.)

