I HAVE finally been reduced to noting things in my online calendar, or writing lists and aide-memoires on a notebook in front of me. When I remember.

The problem, though, is that having had an exceptional memory for so long, I still write down a nameless phone number then return to it a day or two later and stare at the meaningless numbers wondering why it was important enough to write down but not to name.

Or there’s one word such as "Remember!" next to an unreadable squiggle otherwise once known as short-hand.

The exclamation mark shows it was something very important but I’m buggered if I know what.

Therefore, having almost decided to give up and live in a constant fog of uncertainty and unwanted surprise, it was a joy when the police fine came through to be able to pinpoint the scene of the crime by checking the calendar. Fancy.

My car had been identified in Lavit’s Boulevard Jean Sabathe at 18.31, parked in a way that risked provoking an accident in the absence of the driver.

What? Where? The doctors’ amazing new surgery: Which not only now has a physiotherapy pool in it but parking bays outside. My car was left in a parking bay when I called in for a repeat prescription.

Now, I could appeal the fine by contacting Le Tribunal de Police de Montauban but one learns very quickly in France to avoid the police, officials, courts, at all costs. Never draw attention to yourself is the wise mantra of all – immigrants as well as natives.

Or I could simply pay it online. I’ll take that. Paid. Eleven euros.

Seriously? What sort of a fine is that? Once I would have got on the phone and ridiculed whoever answered, but that was another country.

Here, it’s thank you, sir; honoured you chose my car; you sure that’s all you want – 11 euros? Donation to the police fund?

The reality is that I know my car has two almost, almost, dodgy tyres and I have no driving licence.

I have had no driving licence since the end of June when I discovered my UK/International licence was due to run out in a couple of weeks.

That’s a lie. I knew it was due to run out a month or so earlier but these days I have an aversion to being photographed unless hair and make-up are perfect. They never are anymore.

So anyway, I finally had no choice but to go into Le Clerc’s photo booth. Smiling to mitigate the effects of gravity is not permitted; no cheeky pearl studs; hair must be swept back; no winsome upward eyes. Six attempts and many euros later, I gave up and accepted the results.

You’ve all seen the US before and after mug-shots? The ones of a happy smiling woman and the next one captioned: This is X after just a year on meth/crack cocaine? C’est moi.

I downloaded the application for an exchange of driving licence to a French one. Only because I was about to run out was it accepted. The Department in Nantes, charged with it all, has been overwhelmed by applications from Brexit Britons warned that their licences may no longer be valid. So, in the French way, the Dept. just sent their paperwork back and pulled down the grilles. Tough.

I sent everything requested, including several documents showing my earnings, my tax, my social charges, proof of residence including electricity bills and local taxes, by registered post.

No, of course, I didn’t have them to hand and had to make numerous calls for copies. Every French person would have. Emilie and Miriam find it extraordinary that I do not have a filing cabinet filled with statements, x-rays, medical information, official letters going back almost to birth. They shake their heads in admiration and wonderment at such, such….anarchism.

It is a well-known fact/myth that if any applications to any official department arrive close to knock-off time on a Friday (or a Wednesday, a Monday etc etc) …they get binned if not signed for.

Fortunately/unfortunately I was otherwise engaged or rather disengaged all of the summer but after weeks Miriam brought me proof that my documents had been received and, hopefully, were not being returned.

So, I waited with hope in my heart and "proof of reception" in my car in case I was stopped once I could drive again.

Hope withered and then, my documents were returned. Four times they were returned with minor, really minor queries but at least an "attestation" was given that they were receiving attention. Gold.

The last time I got Emilie to check and double check. All fine. Only one item I hadn’t checked and bought: the "timbre fiscal euros 25". Another form of tax.

"They haven’t underlined it," said Emilie. "And it’s only for theft – they’ve acknowledged your documents. Not necessary."

So off they went again, this time with the asked-for old driving licence. Registered. Nearly there.

They returned last week. The timbre fiscal was scored with a purple marker and required. Emilie just shrugged and said: "Les Français, eh?"

Bought. Re-sent. Registered. Now waiting.

An 11 euro fine? Rien.