La carte grise

11 juillet

Le quitus fiscal
It made sense to bring our car with us but we have to make it official soon so spent Sunday evening searching the internet for what we needed to do and finding the necessary papers.

Monday morning……………. I set off to the tax office to get a quitus fiscal, whatever that may be. I’m lucky: there is no queue and as soon as I sit down with my number ticket I’m called in. As I go, I see about ten people who’ve come in just after me. Good timing!

The woman is friendly and efficient and goes swiftly through the paperwork, completes a form, then gives it to me to sign as “read and understood.”  I’ve not done the “read” part but trust it’s all in order. As I put the papers away, she asks how I felt about Brexit. I tell her at length and five minutes later walk out to see a waiting room full of people who have probably all heard my views. Hey ho.

12 juillet
La carte grise
More papers assembled and after an early breakfast I go to the sous-prefecture for the next step in registering the car. I’m there fifteen minutes after it opens and am about twentieth in the queue outside the door. Another fifteen minutes and I’m at the desk and am told to sit and wait until called.  As I wait, there is a video playing: interesting pictures of the fine art in the museum, then public service items. One is about first aid and what to do if you find someone unconscious: call for help, do chest compressions, use a defibrillator, put on a carrot…..!” You do what??  Fortunately, I’ve misread it and it is “un garrot” which is presumably a tourniquet* and not something used to strangle someone.

Equally fortunately, before my imagination runs even more riotously, my number’s called. I get out all the papers: passport, request for registration, proof of domicile, the current log book, the quitus fiscal.  All seems ok until we reach the “surname at birth” and “married name” part. After frowning and muttering, the woman tells me there is a problem because my birth name isn’t on my passport. I whip out the marriage certificate and hand it over. She takes it out of the envelope, opens it and gasps in horror. Ohh la la!  At this my brain goes into overdrive: it’s a very big certificate but surely it could be photocopied onto two pages if necessary? Why does she seem so completely aghast? She doesn’t know Wilf – she can’t be surprised that I’ve put up with him for so long? She does know me, though – is she surprised he’s put up with me?

Eventually she says the problem is that it dates from 1974. Have I anything more recent? I tell her it’s the only one I’ve got, having only been married the once. She is being very patient and I’m probably giving her a headache so we have a short chat then she asks me if I’ve brought a blank cheque. I haven’t. We didn’t get a cheque book because it costs to get one and to write a cheque. I have a bank card but that won’t do. The amount of tax paid varies considerably according to the age of the car (we might not pay anything as it’s over ten years old), how many horse power the engine is (because of pollution) and where we live (some local tax is payable).  She disappears, returns a minute later with a piece of paper and tells me to come back on the 27^th and go straight to counter 6. I think that means it’s all fine. Fingers crossed.

It’s not even 9.30. It's an area I like: there are two attractive squares, some interesting buildings and at this time of day, it's fairly quiet. I wander around for a while, find a café that’s open and decide to have a coffee in the sun. It comes with a mini pain au chocolat. A good morning’s work.

*tourniquet can also mean a turnstile, a revolving door or a court-martial. Could be confusing.