Well this is it, really. Park Lane is an importer; every month we worsen the trade deficit a little bit as shipments of delicious bubbly head their way over to us from La Belle France.
All in the justification of needs must: as Churchill reminded us (seemingly of Napoleon’s quote before him) “in victory we deserve it [champagne] and in defeat we need it”. Simple. You need it so we import it to keep the supply of personalised champagne flowing.
But I am amazed. In this modern World where even the VAT returns must be filed online, the manual paperwork that accompanies each champagne import is huge with stern penalties if a single bit doesn’t get to the right place – whoever’s fault it is.
And at the coal face, this is what it looks like when Eric (on this occasion) the French haulier pulls up at Frith straight off Le Tunnel ready to discharge 8 pallets of France’s finest.
BUT, to redress the balance in part we have been delighted to send another tranche of animals across La Manche to the ever-fragrant and delicious Helena (and her hubby Patrick). This was not without tribulation as “monsieur le chauffeur” encountered animal rights first hand; while having a tacho rest after leaving us before heading to Poole, his truck was pounced on and the police called. I had to negotiate an emergency resolve (and get the woman lying down in front of the wheels in protest at the cruelty of moving animals – to move), as well as getting the Old Bill to let him on his way. Oh, and did I mention the paperwork for live animal export? No? Probably best as it is beyond belief in complexity and depth: ministry license, animal health license, BCMS cross-check, TB test (don’t mention the badgers), vet inspection, journey log, etc. Didn’t see a box for animal rights protesters, though.
Is this all a day in the life of? Maybe. Perhaps I need to have a word with new neighbour Peter Andre about getting an autobio going as I understand he has some experience in that arena?!
At least the beasts did not look too traumatised when they headed off in search of forage (or frog’s legs, or vin de table, or whatever) on arrival in France.
Bonnes vacances!
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