Thirty years or so ago, I worked in ‘The City’ (for the uninitiated, that’s the London financial district). As it was a requirement to get to one’s desk at an ungodly hour in the morning, like most of my fellow wage-slaves I would usually purchase my breakfast on the way into the office.

On this particular morning, I was standing in line at one of the outlets of a well-known, Seattle-based coffee purveyor. Immediately in front of me was, for a change, not another pin-striped suit but a fifty-ish working guy in dark blue overalls.

When he reached the front of the queue he asked, perfectly normally, for an espresso, and then stood to one side while I submitted my usual request for a large capuccino and a blueberry muffin. While I waited, the barista handed him his order, a standard sized cardboard espresso cup. He took it, looked at it, took the lid off and looked at it again, with a puzzled expression on his face. He leaned forward to catch the barista’s eye and said “Scuse me mate, but is that it?”

So what, you are probably thinking, is the point of that little anecdote? Let me explain.

When I resurrected these occasional despatches from la France profonde a few months ago, I let slip that Madame and I had recently acquired French nationality and that I might write about it sometime.

So here we go.

Without revealing too much too soon, the very final stage of the lengthy process took place last week. We were invited to attend the Prefecture in Limoges to turn in our titres de sejour (residence permits), which are no longer required when you have a proper Carte Nationale d’Identite (and a French passport), and collect our welcome letter from President Macron and some other bits and pieces.

We were – not unreasonably, I think – excited at the prospect. We’d heard from others who had been through this process that it was quite the ceremonial thing: a reception in a grand Salon, photographs with the Prefect and a rousing communal rendition of La Marsellaise. There had even been some mention of champagne, although as were invited to rock up at a quarter to ten in the morning, I wasn’t too optimistic on that score.

Nonetheless, we made an effort. Madame agonised for weeks about what to wear and I put on a clean shirt. We both – eventually – committed the rather bloodthirsty ‘lyrics’ of La Marseillaise to memory.

So there we were, a few minutes early, waiting to be greeted at Guichet (Counter) B of the Prefecture’s Naturalisation Department. There was nobody else about, except the family group already sitting at the said Guichet. Surely we weren’t the only invitees for the occasion? Did that mean I’d actually have to sing, rather than mime? A truly alarming prospect – especially for anyone within earshot.

The family group got up and left, our name was called and we reported, as ordered, to Guichet B. It still wanted a couple of minutes to 09:45.

By 09:47 we were back outside, taking commemorative selfies. So what happened?

Not much, obviously.

We went through the brief formalities, and then Madame, adopting a hopeful tone, asked the fonctionnaire what was to happen next. “Ah”, she replied, “unfortunately, at the moment the Grand Salon is undergoing renovation, so there is no ceremony”.

Oh well, if you want something doing, do it yourself.