The French Connection.

I’m going through one of my Francophile phases again. I do, you know, every so often. This time it’s that damn Sophie Neveu who’s to blame – she and her burgundy hair!

(I had a thought, by the way. Dan Brown is American, right? So could it be that ‘burgundy’ is what we Brits call ‘auburn?’ That would explain a lot. I’d be happy to have the view of an American on the subject.)

Anyway, the pertinent fact of the matter is this: in all my life, I only ever met one French woman. She came from somewhere in the Languedoc and spoke English very prettily. By a strange quirk of fate, however, I met plenty of French men. I even drank absinthe with several of them in a seedy hotel room one night, then drove home in a haze of liquid aniseed.

If that isn’t an example of karmic re-balancing, I don’t know what is.