There is a knocking door. Nobody deals with it, everybody is angry. We glance left and right to see if anyone is as cross as we.
In my experience coach toilets are always full and locked their contents occult. Why this one is open I don't know.
"David Essex" shouts a woman next to us. She hasn't got a rare form of Tourette's. There is a music quiz on the radio. I can't hear the questions over the noise of the coach.
Meanwhile I am sucking Polos trying to make them as small and delicate as possible without breaking. I will never be one of those artists who can work endlessly repeating.
Too lazy? Probably, and also far too much of a depressive to face the futility of it.
We spend ten minutes trying to break in to the flat next door. It's gate is the one that came up on Google maps but although the keys fit they will not turn. We finally see LaSurprise written on a nearby gate. This opens much easier.
On leaving our apartment a man starts to remonstrate with us about La Poubelle. I manage "Je ne comprends pas" and I tell him we are English but this does not help. At this point I do an impersonation of a man revving a motorbike as there are two mopeds in the direction he is gesticulating. Thankfully Annabel remembers her GCSE. "Ah the bins", we must not use the bins, our bins are down the road. I feel suddenly at home.
We part on good terms.
Later we hear young Americans over the courtyard. They sound remarkably like seagulls.