At the collège for a parent-teacher interview, I met my daughter
outside in the courtyard and she showed me up to her
classroom. Her teacher was busy chatting, so we waited
patiently in the corridor. When he did come out, he indicated
that the meeting would take place downstairs and headed off
with us in tow.

Before sitting down, I introduced myself using my first name,
and put out my hand to be shaken. He mumbled back his full
name as he took my hand, although I suspect he would have
been shocked if I had actually dared use it. By this stage, I had
already understood that teachers did not expect to be
questioned about their practices. Of course, I did—question
him, that is; politely and almost deferentially. There was a
slight pause, as he dipped his head to better digest what he had
heard. Then, with the assurance of a perfect, unarguable
answer, he replied, “But you are in France, Madame”.

Some months before, my husband, three children and I had
casually unzipped and discarded our comfortable Australian
lifestyle and slipped on life in the country of haute couture. On
arrival, there was no celebrity designer waiting for us, ready to
pin and fit our new life to us; so we threw it on and wore it
loosely, tightly, uncomfortably, any old how—until we learned
for ourselves how to trim, hem and stitch à la française. This
book is testament to the joyous, but not always easy, journey
that we took along the way.