Today, I awoke to rain.

Yesterday, I caught up on life post-Paris. Jobs to do; that meant saying NO to a lot of things I would have preferred to do. I would have loved to have had a swim. Wash away the cobwebs of travel. It was not to be.

A few years back, Geoff was on a conference in Paris, in the Opera quarter. It was a hop and a skip from the Cercle de l’Union Interalliee, the club I visited in Paris this past weekend. We had the children with us, then in their teens. Off we set, excitedly, to enjoy its reciprocal hospitality, which the Hurlingham offers to their members, when they are in London.

In we walked, through the enormous gates to a majestic building, right next to the President’s palace.

Geoff speaks pretty good French. He studied it along with German at Durham Uni. He explained that we had a letter of introduction from the Hurlingham Club in London, and we would like to have lunch and a swim. The concierge looked downcast. As if Geoff had slapped him across the face or insulted him.

He gravely said, “I cannot let you in without the secretary’s permission.”

Geoff said, “That is fine. We can speak to the secretary.”

He said, with a very stern face, “She is not here until tomorrow.”

Fine, we thought; we will come back tomorrow, and go to the Marais region today; the Place des Voges and Notre Dame.

Off we went, a bit irritated, but there was always tomorrow.

Fast forward to the next day; tomorrow had arrived.

We were shown into the secretary’s office. We showed her the letter of introduction from the Hurlingham Club. Madame Secretary acted as if we had committed a heinous crime, that warranted an imminent beheading at the Place de la Concorde.

She was a large woman, shall we say, with enormous bosoms, which she rested her crossed arms upon, like a shelf.

Geoff started again: “We are from the Hurlingham Club, and we would like to take the children for a swim in the pool and have some lunch.”

Her considered answer: “NON.” Finito. No. Final. Forget it.

Geoff, ever the gentleman, politely asked: “So when can we come and use the club.”

Her considered answer: “You could have used the pool yesterday (when we had originally come) and on Thursday.”

We were leaving on Wednesday. I had steam coming out of my ears.

Fast forward a few years later to our next visit to Paris. It is now May 2013. I am determined to swim in that pool and to eat at the Interalliee at all costs.

Reverse back to when we had returned from our unsuccessful attempt to visit the Interalliee. I immediately checked with the Hurlingham Club membership office, and we had been entitled to used the club any day of the week. Mrs Madame Secretary obviously didn’t like Anglais bodies, plus one Aussie, in their over-chlorinated pool.

I was determined on the next trip to use that pool and eat their food. Fast forward back to May 2013 to the next trip to Paris. We are this time, given access to the Interalliee.

So Geoff and I have a nice bite to eat, and then it is time for our dip, just before we have to catch the Eurostar back to London. I lock my suitcase and passport etc in a locker and head for some laps. When I go to unlock the locker after the swim, I have, moronically, forgotten which locker my possessions are in.

Just remember, at this point I am dripping wet, and Geoff by now is waiting anxiously in the reception of the club for me. I see a woman in a nice black dress and black court shoes.

I ask her, “Can you help me? Do you work here?” She looked at me with disgust and uttered, “Do I look like I work here!” as she pointed to her svelte body. She marched away without a second glance at the desperate, drenched, dripping woman, who did not speak French.

I ran and found the lifeguard. She is paid to help. She explained to me that we had two chances to put my code into the correct locker, and after that, the they all locked for ten minutes. She is obviously thinking to herself, “What a plonker.” In French, of course.

I entered my code into the first locker. I am unsuccessful. I try the next locker. I am unsuccessful. We wait it out another ten minutes, until I can try two more times. I get it on the third. I change at speed. Forget the blow dry.

I find Geoff pacing in one of the salons. I don’t explain. We have to dash for our train. I look like a drowned rat. The Parisian women on Rue Fabourg, the equivalent of Mayfair, look at me in horror as we run to find a taxi.

Today, I can go and enjoy the Hurlingham Club and play some tennis. If I hear a French voice, well, I shall just smile. No need to be rude!