One afternoon some years ago when I lived in the French Alps, I was driving home with my friend Joan, a Liverpudlian (or ‘Scouser’ as she proudly called herself) who lived in the hamlet below my house, which was farther up the mountain.  We had been for lunch in nearby Annecy, a medieval town of canals and breathtaking views. Joan, a middle-aged chatterbox and ex-hell raiser, had recently moved to the hamlet from Geneva and her car still had Swiss plates, which may have been one of the contributing factors to what happened that afternoon.