Fidelma Cook: I now have an amazing collection of X-rays, and I’m thinking of a way to display them artistically

A tall, bearded, very good-looking man in his thirties, he is all part of the remarkable service from the state. I started to jokily explain that it had been a good few years since I last had my legs across a man’s lap but stuttered to a halt as it became obvious from his slightly alarmed look that I was losing, or gaining, something in the translation.

I brought myself back to earth by apologising for its dirt and need of a pedicure. These things matter to French men; trust me on this. He gave me a reassuring rub of the ankles, adding, “C’est pas grave,” before suggesting we did a tour of the world.

So early in our relationship? Oh, OK, yes please.

Sadly, only my foot went – around and around in a circular movement. Ah well. Fabien and I will be touring the world, foot-wise, three times a week for a month.

As my physiotherapist, he was called in the day after my plaster cast was sawn off.

He was pleasantly surprised at how little muscle wastage there was after almost five weeks in the cast and how mobile my foot actually was.

It didn’t surprise me. I don’t really use my leg muscles that much normally so I doubt if the left one had actually registered it was immobile, hence its perkiness.

I obviously said all that correctly as he flashed a full set of white teeth at me and praised my command of his native language.

I simpered so much he started to look alarmed again. Twenty four hours earlier I’d joined the other halt and the lame for a consultation at the Moissac hospital.

We sat in some splendour and were speedily processed through the system clutching our hospital files and X-rays.

In France you are given all your documentation, including copies of every letter sent to your GP.

I now have an amazing collection of X-rays of most bits of myself (only because Dr Smail was determined to prove my smoking was killing me)that I’m thinking of a way to display them artistically.

All in a giant collage? Individually mounted on a run? Guest bedroom, or bathroom?

Again, I digress. I want to express my amazement at this health system. So far, all this has cost me is a total of €45.28.

This in a country without a free NHS at point of source, where workers pay hefty social charges to get the 70% reimburs- ement.

Top-up insurance is vital for the rest.

But despite having no carte vitale (proof of acceptance into the system) I was fast-tracked by the hospital and given an “attestation” – a letter which confirmed my eligibility, and docked 60-70% off the normal bill. It is retrospective, so the €248 pharmacy bill for crutches, painkillers and anti-coagulant injections can now be claimed back.

The daily nurses I had to stick the syringes in my stomach are, so I’m told, only €6 a visit and I will pay just 30% of that.

The sapeurs/pompiers who took me to hospital charge nothing. All volunteers, they rely on fundraising events during the year and the sale of Christmas calendars. I will be doubling my payment this year.

Had I had a “mutuelle”, an insurance top-up, I wouldn’t have even paid the small amount for which I was asked.

I’m told such a top-up would cost me as little as €25 a month.

No wonder France is considered the best place in Europe for healthcare, although the cost, in enormous social “taxes” on all income, is an increasingly contentious issue.

It seems most treatments are possible here. I’ve noted before the friend who gets two weeks a year in Provence in a spa hotel for her arthritis; another who has acupuncture paid for; and yet another who wants only homoeopathic remedies. All on the state.

So, before Fabien returns for another world tour, I think I should check if a pedicure comes on the list of services deemed vital.

I’ll explain that if you have a handsome man playing nursery rhymes with your toes, it is humiliating not to have them in good stroking fettle.

Being French, they’ll understand.