by Alan Watkins

Waking in a panic, sweat streamed from my forehead: the terror only hit me after I finally left the office to work (occasionally) at home.

The fear was brought about by my new car. It’s the first one I have owned for a long time.

The KM Group provided a little runabout that took me to France a few times. It also went to Belgium and the Netherlands. It was pleasant, insured and accident-free. It was also a diesel. And the taxman took his slice.

It got me about, was reliable, black and smothered in adverts. Its replacement is my very own car. It’s a shock to find out what it’s like for the great majority of car users.

I have had a licence for 35 years. I last got into trouble in 1990 when I tried to ram a police car at the foot of the Sir John Hawkins flyover (even young Codgers will remember that ugly structure).

Some years ago – about 12 or 13 as far as I can recall – someone actually succeeded in driving into the side of me at the Four Elms roundabout. (They had decided to go right and I was the sucker in their path).

Certainly it’s more that 10 years since I had an accident. The insurance people were advised.

“It doesn’t matter – you don’t have any years accumulated,” came their helpful retort.

Well, eventually someone agreed to comprehensively insure me at a sensible price, and accept I would be able to “protect” myself from accidents in 12 months time.

Panic over? No way, Jose.

The new motor has a petrol engine. I am sure I won’t be foolish enough to put diesel in the tank – but you never can tell. And that’s which drives my early hours insanity.

I try to keep away from the pumps as long as I can. I am sure I will always pick the right one to stick in the tank when I have to do it. But still I have this horrible vision of putting thick, clogging, oily diesel in the tank of my nice new beast.

The fuelling deserves to be accompanied by a bit of Berlioz, maybe the March to the Scaffold from his Symphonie Fantastique.

Courage, mon enfant!

This week on kmfm Drivetime you could be winning a holiday to France with P&O as we play kmfm’s Celebrity Luggage.

All you have to do is identify the A lister by what they are packing and I could be sending you on a memorable getaway.

kmfm will also be getting you ready for the Kent County Show by giving you the chance to win your way to one of the big dates on the Kent summer calendar.

The whole radio team will be there from Friday to Sunday, July 13 to 15 with your chance to get interactive with us on our big kmfm unit.

Be listening to kmfm Breakfast with Rob Wills when you wake up for your chance to be there.

I hope you have been loving the music kmfm is playing you. Stooshe’s new single Black Heart has just been added to the playlist.

It’s only their second single, yet, it is their best so far. Alexandra from the group is from Chart Sutton and went to Invicta Grammer School.

With a catchy chorus and the vocal attitude of Mel B on the Spice Girls' debut No1 Wannabe, this will not go unnoticed.

Kelly Clarkson took a few years off and has come back with a couple of big sing-a-long pop tunes, such as Mr Know It All and more recently, Stronger (What Doesn’t Kill You). Now Clarkson releases Dark Side.

This is a more, well, dark tune that she opens her live shows with.

We have been playing Cheryl’s new single for about four weeks now. Finally you can download it or buy it from Monday, June 11.

This is followed a week later on Monday, June 18 by her anticipated album, A Million Lights. Expect a big sound as she has teamed up with producers who have worked Emeli Sande and Rihanna.

Okay, so French theatre is crazy. Now, I’m no stranger to non-naturalism. In fact, I’ve always thought of myself as a thespian type, often nipping up to the National with my under-25s discount card and booking myself into the most bizarre production I can find.

I’ve seen one-man monologues and homo-erotic nudity and people making music by banging kitchen sinks. I’ve seen Helen Mirren ‘consumed with an uncontrollable passion’ for her twenty-something on-stage stepson (Phèdre at the National) and The Good Person of Szechwan tripping out on drugs as the company danced around her, wearing creepily-painted smiling sacks over their heads.

I’ve even seen Waiting for Godot, a play in which literally NOTHING happens, save a few carrots being thrown around and the odd snap appearance of a luminous little boy-come-angel.

But nothing prepared me for the French performance of Insultes au Public at the Volcan, Le Havre, or indeed a second theatre extravaganza at the local Malraux Museum, a production so ‘out there’ that I left without even knowing the name of it.

Insultes au Public consisted of five actors, the audience seated on small red leather rotatable cubes actually ON the stage, frequent and unannounced blackouts and a whole lot of poetic verse that followed the format ‘nous (we).....blah blah blah’, ‘vous (you)....blah blah blah’.

The language itself was surprisingly easy to follow, however not quite so clear was the exact reason why each audience member was given a radio and headphones upon entry.

At various moments during the piece, we were all directed to put on said headphones, the idea being (or so I assumed) to give the feeling that the actors were speaking directly into their ears while fuzzy incongruous music played quietly in the background.

At the beginning, we were all required to hand over our coats and bags, which were hung on costume rails at the side of the stage, and as the actors introduced the main point of the production; namely that there was no difference between us and them, they each selected an audience member’s coat which they then wore for the duration as they circled us shouting insults at individuals.

It was here that I slightly struggled with understanding due to the various slang words used, though I did pick up a spiteful cry of ‘mouton!’ (sheep) at one point as well as the word ‘loserrrrrr’ said with a thick French accent, whilst my friend John heard a much more shocking bellow of ‘Nazi whore’. How he knows the French for this I’m still not sure....

I was under the impression that this would be the extent of France's outlandish theatrical offerings, yet the second ‘nameless’ show (previously mentioned) somehow managed to prove me wrong. I’d love to tell you what it was about, but the truth is to this day I have absolutely no idea. All I know is we, the audience, had to follow a group of actors around a museum as they posed as cleaners, performed a synchronised broom-sweeping dance, created a 3D house out of what looked like ‘Police Line Do Not Cross’ tape and contorted lengths of string into the various complex shapes.

At the end, a few audience members were given headphones (clearly the French love to incorporate technology into theatre these days) and called forward to aid with some form of bowing routine, the idea being they could hear the instructions, but for everyone else the room remained silent.

Myself and one of my friends were among these ‘lucky few’, and - having previously been reassured that it was all ‘très facile’ - headed sheepishly to the front.

Turning on our radios, we awaited the first command, and as everyone took three steps to the left and raised their right arm in complete unison (a ‘heil Hitler’ pose possibly?), I realised with growing horror that my headphones weren’t working. Typical. However, drawing on all my previous (Kentish village hall panto) expertise, I remained professional ‘dahhhhling’, and I’m fairly confident I pulled it off.

I even left the building with a free packet of ‘poussières d’art’ in my pocket (literally, ‘arty dust’, ie dust swept from the museum floor)... Your guess is as good as mine.

Speaking of headphones, I’ll leave you with my latest technology-related anecdote. In England, people on buses largely ignore each other. Whether plugged into an ipod, calming a screaming child or simply staring out of the window, there is very little interaction.

Usually, the same applies in France. Save the odd bus driver's ‘bonjour’ or exchange of sympathetic smile with an old lady, the normal etiquette is to mind one’s own business.

However, on one recent evening, this was not the case. As I bopped along to Jason Derulo’s It Girl, I felt someone tap my arm. Obviously, it was a sleazy French man, who with what he clearly thought was a flirty smile (but which I interpreted as incredibly creepy), offered me one ear of his own headphones.

At first, I played the friendly card, shaking my head with a cordial indifference. But he was insistent, and after several ‘non mercis', I dubiously accepted the earphone. Although I don’t remember the exact song lyrics, they went along the lines of ‘you’re the one I’ve waited for/now that I’ve found you I know it’s meant to be/stay with me baby’... you know the type; the crooning English love ballad.

Unfortunately (or fortunately in my case), we then reached the charmer’s bus stop and he was forced to leave this beautiful slow-motion moment with the girl of his dreams *cough*, and return to bleak reality, but not before he blew me a kiss, clarifying ‘c’est moi et toi ma chèrie’.

Only in France.

Food glorious food. I’m surprised I haven’t dedicated a blog to this before now.

As the girl whose idea of dieting is salad followed by a mid-afternoon maxi-banana split and who once ordered Chinese at 1am ‘just because’, it’s clear to see that I am victim to an ongoing (and often  excessive) passion for food.

I jest not. According to my family, my first words as a baby were ‘more-bread-and-butter’, which admittedly were in reality perhaps pronounced more like ‘morebednbutter, although I’m sure it was clear to everyone involved as I bashed on my high chair and shook my baby-fat fists that I was not referring to a quiet lie down.

You would think I’d grow out of this kind of behaviour as time goes on. Oh no. Before friends’ birthday parties from my childhood right through to my teens, I would always be subjected to the motherly (and in retrospect necessary) ‘don’t over-eat’ speech, but I’ve always remained powerless to resist the delights of a running buffet.

Even now, the phrase ‘all-you-can-eat’ summarises my ideal date, although possibly not a first date if I ever wanted to see him again...

Anyway, as a result of my bottomless stomach, poor Mumma Dove has been continually forced to endure countless impressed (possibly to the point of mildly disgusted) remarks from a selection of stunned parents. ‘Doesn’t your daughter eat well?’ ‘Ella really does like her food doesn’t she?’ ‘She was the last one left sitting at the table- even the arrival of Choo-Choo the Clown wouldn’t prise her away from those pork pies!’

So as you can imagine, the prospect of a year in France; home of the gourmet, could only prove a recipe (clever...) for disaster. Firstly, school dinners. Forget turkey twizzlers, the French do it properly.

With a hugely-subsidised four course meal every day for just 3 euros a time, it’s a wonder every school child isn’t obese! I sampled stuffed avocado, fresh king prawns and many exotic-looking salads for starter and elaborate main courses such as rabbit (which I happily tucked into much to the teachers’ amazement).

Desserts included homemade pastries, fluffy coffee mousse and triple chocolate gateau, followed of course by a variety of cheeses and (always black) coffee. Amazing.

In fact, the cheese there was so good that I forced myself to give it up for Lent, if nothing else to stop a well-established ‘camembert-a-week’ regime and attempt to shift my steadily-growing fromage baby.

I also gave up chocolate, which turned out to be okay due to the discovery of, wait for it...speculoos. Now, you’re probably wondering what this word means. No, it isn’t French for ‘slightly broken glasses’ or ‘optician needed’. Speculoos is basically Nutella, except, and here’s the beautiful thing for all you Lent giver-uppers, it isn’t chocolate. It actually tastes like crushed biscuits, and is a wonderful accompaniment to just about everything. Crepes, strawberries, porridge, even toast (apparently!). So if ever you find yourself on a Dover-Calais booze-cruise, do grab a jar of speculoos from the nearest hypermarket, I implore you. Honestly, you won’t look back.

I’d like to apologise now if I’ve made you hungry. Sitting with a bowl of carrot and coriander soup and a couple of crackers whilst a Lindt teddy looks on from my fruit bowl (where he was strategically placed amongst the oranges and apples to invoke a sense of guilt), I’m definitely torturing myself here.

Despite many previous complaints about UHT longlife milk and a serious lack of salt and vinegar crisps, France really doesn’t (often) disappoint with its nourriture (yes, that does mean food). With so many rich flavours and choices, even Café Rouge in Canterbury can’t compare. England, eat your heart out.

As The Apprentice has once again returned, I felt a relevantly linked blog title was in order. I’m sure we all remember Susan Ma and her utterance of this legendary if not ridiculous phrase (if you don’t, I’d advise you to YouTube it; heck why not even join the Facebook group while you’re there).

As for the connection between said statement and the content of today’s entry? Well. It was basically all a meticulously prepared ploy so that I can blab about the cuteness of French babies.

Despite my various child-related jobs, I wouldn’t say I’m necessarily the most broody person around. Don’t get me wrong, I love kiddies, but after three years working as a Soft Play Assistant (official title) in Larkfield Leisure Centre’s indoor play area ‘Larkabout’, the ecstatic high-pitched whoops of a little one at play do begin to take their toll.

No matter how cute the child, parent-toddler birthday screaming matches are never fun for anyone, not least the long-suffering party host (aka yours truly) desperately attempting to plaster on an enthusiastic smile as she hands out High School Musical party bags, resolves over-excited bladder incidents and stops would-be rebels (often Dads) from climbing up the slide.

However, now I’m in France, these experiences have all been forgotten for the time being, and the combined stress of teen romance, and ‘cool’ English swearing/songs (‘I’m sexy and I know it’) has served to hugely up the appeal of the primary age, where the most heinous crime would be a pulling of hair or the hiding of someone’s pencil case.

Over the past six months, I really have developed a love of lil’ Frenchies. Okay, so there is always the slight grumble that a two year old speaks better French than me and is likely to do a better job asking for bread in a bakery...but push past this minor obstacle and they really are rather loveable.

Last week on the bus for instance, I witnessed the adorable scene of a mother trying to teach her baby son the correct pronunciation of ‘bus’ (which in French is something like ‘boo-s’). Although the first syllable was managed each time with ease, there was always a slight pause of about ten seconds until the little boy then followed on with ‘sssss’, poking his tongue between his gummy lips and smiling in such a sweet manner that almost every other passenger visibly ‘awww’d’.

A similar situation occurred on a train to Paris recently, when a rosy little girl of no more than three spent the entire journey proclaiming ‘au revoir’, and waving at people with chubby fists. Now, I’m pretty sure my first reaction would be one of offence and annoyance if on the way to Maidstone some tracksuit-clad (because all Maidstone babies are, of course) kid decided to constantly shout ‘BYE’ at me, but somehow the French language makes it seem that much cuter.

So you see, in some ways, being foreign in France does have its benefits. I love it when a child of any age whispers ‘elle est anglaise’ (she is English) to a shushing parental figure as if I’m some form of rare species, and my students’ echoing corridor cries of ‘ALLO ELLA’ often make me feel I’ve achieved automatic celebrity status simply by having a different nationality.

Unfortunately, the dream is almost over. In just over two weeks time (how time has flown!), I will be returning to the Kentish homelands, where there will certainly be no more autograph-seeking style shouts as I walk down the street.

Far from an intriguingly exotic creature, I am more likely to be viewed over summer as That Girl Who Works In Larkabout Innit (and what a wonderful title to hold); perhaps a little quirky but generally a normal human being, and most importantly: Plain Old English. And you know what? I can’t wait.

‘Sorry I can’t come out tonight, I’ve got school at 8am tomorrow’ sounds like a rather strange response for a 20-year-old university student.

Yet this is my usual answer these days when turning down social gatherings, a reply which does in some ways feel like a regressive step in my journey towards ‘maturity’ (cough cough).

Whose bright idea was 8am classes in France anyway? The teachers themselves show significant reluctance in being there as they huff, tut and down large cups of black coffee in the dimly lit staff room, and more often than not I find myself with at least three students who decide that these early lessons are a good lie-in opportunity.

As a result, the back row is unofficially labelled as a form of ‘sleep zone’, where grunting, tracksuit-clad lads and girls with smudged mascara slump against the wall with hoods pulled over their faces or flop onto the desk with a textbook propped in front of them in an attempt to avoid detection.

I’ve got to admit; I usually leave them to it. After my first few weeks of desperate cajoling were met simply with blank faces and exaggerated yawns, I soon realised it was much easier to let them be than enforce their concentration.

Futile arguments with an attitude-fuelled 14-year-old at 8am on a Wednesday morning? I’d rather not, thanks.

It is moments like this that really highlight the differences between French and English schooling. When I first arrived here, my initial perception of the French education system was that rules would be 10 times stricter and more formal than my own experiences.

I think the previous example provides adequate proof of just how wrong I was. For a start, the teachers wear jeans. This may not seem a big thing in itself, but couple that with the lack of school uniform and seeming non-existence of any dress-code rules (apart from ‘no religious slogan t-shirts’ - the French schools all being completely secular), and a whole different atmosphere is immediately created.

Now, I work at two schools. One of them is in what I can only describe as a ‘Desperate Housewives’ area, whilst the other is in a district made up of blocks of flats and 2am mopeds.

The fashions of each are fascinating to me; shirts and high heels versus full-on Adidas with matching slanted caps and trainers for both the boys and the girls.

Yet in both schools, discipline is often questionable. Many teachers simply cannot control their classes, meaning every lesson becomes a game of ‘who can shout the loudest’. If the staff member in question is a mouse, they have absolutely no chance.

Luckily, I’ve derived a clever strategy for commanding silence, whereby I simply speak as quickly in English as I can, forcing even the most cocky ones to realise that actually, they are not quite as ‘trop forte’ (too good) at English as they think....works like a charm.

Even in what I’ve taken to referring to as the ‘posh school’, there are problems. The majority of students there definitely have an air of ‘Mummy and Daddy will do whatever I ask’ about them, so their issue is not so much talkativeness as a blatant refusal to listen if they happen to decide that they don’t want to.

However, this attitude (and indeed that of the other school) has yielded some incredibly amusing moments; moments which, had I been their usual class teacher, I probably would not have found half as funny.

For instance, one 14-year-old has taken rather a shine to me (no doubt just because I’m the youngest staff member and a female), and after countless attempts at discovering my phone number/address/if I had Skype, moved onto a different wooing tactic by proclaiming in the middle of his class; teacher present, that my eyes ‘sparkled like the sun’ and later, when asked about his hobbies, that he liked to ‘make the love’ (though he actually used a much ruder French equivalent).

If this had happened back in good ol’ Maidstone, I’m sure there would have been serious repercussions not to mention a significant amount of paperwork and letters to parents, but no, not in France. Instead, the teacher simply laughed, and went back to her marking. Crazy.

I have many, many more anecdotes and language faux-pas like this which I will proceed to share with you over the coming weeks, but for now, I think I’ll leave you with this. À la prochain!

Sailing away on a SeaFrance ferry the other day, I was surprised to find not a single daily newspaper on board. It was a morning departure, so I expected to see piles of them.

Thinking this must be a temporary blip, I asked the lady behind the desk what the problem was.

She said that they stopped selling newspapers some time ago. Why, I asked? She shrugged her shoulders and said she didn’t know.

Apart from an English-language weekly published in France, it was a newspaper-free zone. Lots of passengers were bowling up to buy a paper but were disappointed. Departing holidaymakers like to take a paper with them, returning holidaymakers look forward to buying one on their return.

A few people in the lounge had bought a paper with them and fellow passengers were looking over shoulders to take a sneak read. I was sitting next to a couple who were engrossed in the newspaper crossword. The business and sports supplements were left unopened. “You are welcome to look at them,” they said kindly, recognising perhaps that a newspaper addict was desperate for a morning fix.

Now I know SeaFrance is going through choppy financial waters. It has gone into administration, is laying off some 700 staff and is apparently up for sale. But surely none of this should affect whether or not it sells newspapers on board.

My colleague and I decided to call Robin Wilkins, general manager of SeaFrance in Dover. His exasperated reply suggested that he had nothing to do with it. He did not say so, but it looks like a decision made in France.

I wondered whether other cross-Channel ferry operators were doing the same.  So I rang Chris Laming, communications director at P&O. He was surprised to hear about the SeaFrance decision. “We supply newspapers free of charge in Club Lounge and sell newspapers from the shop,” he said. “We have no plans to change.” That’s good to hear.

So the moral of the story is - if you want a newspaper on a cross-Channel ferry, you won’t find one if you sail with SeaFrance. If you do, and I accept that there may be other reasons why you choose one operator over another, then buy one before you embark. Otherwise, you face a news-free voyage.

It’s a shame, because in all other respects, SeaFrance provides a good service, with improvements, including a  culinary makeover, in the offing.