As expats there are things that rile us about France and the French. We've been brought up in different environments where different social and practical rules apply and so we naturally think differently. It's not realistic to assume that a people whose backgound is so different from our own anglo-saxon model is going to align themselves to our preferences. Don't even think about it because it just won't happen. Adapt or be miserable.

On the whole, if we want to be happy in our adopted country we have to live with some principles and practices that we would consider illogical and unacceptable wherever it is we came from. That's what moving to a foreign country is all about — there are annoyingly foreign aspects about the whole business. Again, if there weren't most of us would happily have just stayed in the places we were born.

From an anglo-saxon viewpoint, the FBJ (French Bureaucratic Jungle) is the one thing that gets on every expat's nerves. Mind you, I'm writing this from my summer bolthole in the UK and in many ways — from the bin police, to nanny state rules — Britain is every bit as bureaucratic as France albeit in different ways. The Brits stick their bureaucratic noses into places where the French wouldn't bother, and conversely.

The big difference between the two styles is this: if you know how to work the system, French bureaucracy can be somewhat malleable while the British version isn't very. As for the German and Swiss versions, they're set in stone.

One recent example of British bureaucratic foolishness: yesterday a coast guard crew in South Devon saved a 15 year-old girl from drowning when she was carried out to sea by the rip tide. Today they are facing disciplinary action because the boat they quickly launched had not yet had its recent repair work approved by some bureaucratic agency. The completely mad presumption is that officially they should have let the girl drown rather than put to sea in a craft which didn't have its paperwork in order.

To be honest, I can't imagine such a nonsensical situation arising in France. When the French see a good reason to bend the rules, they bend them and move on.

But their reasons can be a lot more specious than saving a child's life. I learned over 35 years ago that rather than resisting French bureaucracy (a nigh impossible task if you're not well-connected) it's better to learn how to bend it to advantage.

I've been doing that ever since and here's what set me on that course:

I was working in the Cannes' office of a Swiss import-export company. One day my sales manager, an Australian called Dave Dickson, went off to Nice airport to catch a flight to Naples. Dave wasn't an "official" resident in France, which was easier to get away with in those days (I did for a while).

Dave found he didn't have his passport with him so he called his girlfriend at their flat and she asked me to come around and take his passport to the airport in time for the flight. When I got to the flat she hadn't been able to find it so we called the local police station to see if Dave's passport had been turned in. As it happens it had been found in the street a few days previously and a rather stern sounding copper told me I could come by to pick it up, but also that he had a few questions for me. He thought I was Dave.

When I got there the first thing a triumvirate of coppers (this was turning into a big deal) noticed was that the photo in the passport wasn't mine. "You can understand m'sieur, that it is 'ABSOLUMENT IMPOSSIBLE' to give you a passport that belongs to another person!"

They'd been looking for Dave since his passport was turned in and they had a few other problems with the whole situation. Why wasn't Mr Dickson on the list of Carte de Séjour holders? Why wasn't he registered at any of the hotels (visitor registration cards were obligatory in those days)? Just what was this elusive Australian doing in their country? He seemingly wasn't residing anywhere legally (they were right).

My emerging understanding of the Gallic mind-set clicked in for the first time ever.

"You see m'sieur l'agent, Mr Dickson is a married man."

"Ah bon, et alors?"

"And he has a mistress. She is one of your beautiful countrywomen."

"Bien sûr!" (All French women are meant to be irresistibly beautiful to foreigners.)

"So while he is visiting your country, of course he stays with his beautiful French mistress rather than in a hotel."

That did it. Without another word they handed Dave's passport over to me.

I walked out of that police station with a passport that wasn't mine and that I should never have been given. I wasn't even asked for my identification. They had no idea who they'd given someone else's passport to.

There are paths through the French Bureaucratic Jungle. You just have to know where to find them.

MikeM