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Madame,’ explains the Air France man, gazing long-sufferingly at some indistinct spot beyond my right shoulder. 'The situation is this: we have a quota of eight babies per flight, and your baby would make it nine. Therefore, we have a problem.’ It’s been a blissful week’s holiday on the Côte d’Azur, a perfect antidote to LA, what with the deliciously mouldy cheeses, unashamedly pendulous bare body parts strewn across beaches – and, of course, the refreshing absence of obsequiousness from the service industry. But right now, on a Sunday evening at Toulon airport, I could do with a bit of obsequiousness. I’d even settle for a smidgen of civility. 'My daughter and I have tickets,’ I explain, handing them over to a female Air France clerk (a mother, perhaps?) in the vain hope of sisterly sympathy. 'Tickets we bought four months ago; tickets on which my daughter is clearly marked as an infant.’ 'The lady is not the problem,’ a third woman explains to her colleagues, jabbing her biro in my direction. 'She can board. But not the baby.’
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