When I was 13 my parents decided that I should take part in my school's French exchange programme. I was a shy child but my thirst for experience must have been greater than my fear so I agreed. Several weeks later 50 of us grammar school boys stumbled from a coach into the Côte d'Amour sunshine, blinking in our blazers. The coach was mobbed by mopeds, two students on each: boys, girls, boys and girls; and all in denim and all smoking. By the following year punk would have taken a hold in the UK, and the hippy French kids would not look so cool, but in 1977 this was a remarkable spectacle of liberalism. My correspondent was named Isabelle and together with her sister, Laurence, this was to be the start of a friendship that would last into adulthood. Having been identified by my new 'famille' I was packed into a car and driven to a grand, country restaurant. In retrospect I imagine that Monsieur was suggesting items from the menu which he presumed I would never ha...