Blessed silence

One thing I will really miss about France is the blessed silence.

It’s been several months since I had to overhear other people’s conversations. The last time this happened we were on a train between Derby and Sheffield when an obese office admin from Brighton regaled the entire carriage with a one-sided phone conversation about the horrors of her desk job. Oh, how we sniggered when the train went through a tunnel and she got cut off.

We’re on a plane. Behind us is an incredibly ignorant woman with a pseudo-posh southern accent, patronising her elderly mother at the top of her voice. She’s reading the complimentary copy of the Daily Mail and informing her mother about “asylum seekers” (those “fakers” and “scroungers”) who supposedly receive priority council housing. Oh, and now the children of single parents who get priority playschool places.

“Oh…” says her mother. “Mmm,” in the kind of bored voice one reserves for one’s children when they are being humoured. This lady survived the second world war and undoubtedly remembers the poverty of the 1930′s when the welfare state didn’t exist. There is one thing worse than teaching your grandmother to suck eggs: teaching your mother to suck eggs.