Road rage à la francaise

It’s a la mode, at the moment, the ‘velo’. Boris bikes in London, vélibs in Paris (shame Bristol, the UK’s ‘No. 1’ cycling city has ditched its scheme). But hopping on to a free bike isn’t without its perils. The obvious challenges of the free-for-all Etoiles roundabout aside, there’s the two-wheel version of road rage to contend with: Velib vitriol, let’s call it. Queuing up outside the Hotel de Ville for the Impressionists exhibition (free, fantastic, for more, check back here), a little vignette amused me. An impeccably chic French woman in her 40s, clothed in a little black coat and sporting little lunettes, tottered in on her unwieldy vélib. Alas, no space to be seen. As she wobbled up and down the row of bikes, hoping, perhaps, that one of the parked cycles might disappear, she made the fatal mistake of not checking behind her. Et allez, hop, a cyclist zipped out of their space, et voila, another - zut, alors - someone else! - nipped in. Eagle-eyes and a killer instinct are, clearly, necessary accessories for any Parisian cyclists, ones this rider, for all her elegance, didn’t possess: ‘I’ve been waiting for ten minutes!’ she shouted, practically hitting the unchivalrous usurper with her handbag, '10 minutes!’ (All the while notching up the euros, if she was already over half an hour.) ‘I’m not scared of you,’ he flashed back (Yes, he did actually say this). ’10 minutes!’ Cue flurry of French abuse. The queue, at that point, moved on; the Velibtriol faded into the distance.