My companion casts his eye over the posters dominating the walls. ‘You’d have thought they’d be over the whole Charles de Gaulle thing by now.’
‘I guess, until something better comes along….’
To say I’m on dangerous ground would be an understatement. I change the subject.
A week later, I’m having lunch with a French friend. She has stood by me through thick (‘Simone de Beauvoir? Was he gay?’) and thin. I clear my throat.
‘So, err, Charles de Gaulle…?’