Last week's news.

Last Thursday was meant to be a quiet night - the first time in over a week that I spent at home, with just a quick stop off at the launderette and at Monoprix for a bottle of wine and some chocolate, and then lots of time to sort out all I needed to sort out before going home. If only. On the metro on the way home I asked Susan if she wanted to join me for dinner and watching Happy Feet. She agreed and we set off to do the important wine buying stuff. Those of you who know Susan will have noticed that she has been wearing a rather attractive sling on her right arm as a result of slipping on wet stone and fracturing her elbow last Sunday. Thursday was the turn of the ankle as she again slipped, this time breaking her flip flops and making her ankle swell to the size of..well, a very, very big ankle. I went running back into Monop to ask the sleazy security guard for help (which hurt me as much as Susan's ankle was hurting her!) and he came and carried her back inside, having made sure she hadn't actually fallen IN Monoprix and might, therefore, want to sue him.
A nice, helpful man who happened to be passing offered to call the pompiers. This brings me on to something totally French and illogical which I've been wondering about since I arrived here 3 years ago. The emergency services. In England, if you have a problem you call 999, you ask for the service you want and these people come to you as quickly as possible. This system operates perfectly well in many countries around the world, the only difference being the number you call. In France, however, there is no specific number to call for help. There are several numbers and no-one seems really sure which one to call and when. The nice, helpful FRENCH passer-by, for example, was nice enough and helpful enough to stop, but he didn't know what number to call, and asked us for advice! In fact, generally people call 18 which is the pompiers (firemen) , who arrive in an ambulance (?) and, in our particular case, didn't really seem to know much first aid. Not great when called to a medical emergency. It took 3 of them ten minutes to decide which inflatable splint to put on Susan's ankle and then another 5 minutes to take it off again and exchange it for the other one. In their defence, they were very funny and kind to her, and cute, although they did make us shout "Allez les bleus!" before starting the ambulance for the 50m ride to the nearest hospital! I still don't know whether we called the right number or if we could have had an efficient paramedic appear from somewhere, it all worked out in the end - Susan's ankle turned out not to be broken, just badly sprained, and she's now resting at home for a long time. Four flights of stairs is a long way to go on your bottom with only one hand and one foot to help you!