No burnt-out wrecks disfigured the roadside in spite of our fears. Nor did a curfew interrupt the drunken staggering from the late-night bars. A pile of leaves stripped from the pollarded crowns squatted in the square under the watchful eye of the war memorial’s angel, a fresh tribute of wreaths at her feet. A gigantic flag fit carefully measured to qualify it for the Guinness Book of Records devoured the lawn in front of the Council in celebration of fifty years of the yellow stars against a blue background. The department store window displays were London-themed, plastic black cabs, old-style telephone boxes, double-decker buses and teapots, those eternal clichés of Englishness, dangled above the entrance.

For the last fortnight, it has been impossible to avoid being accosted by lobbyists eager to thrust leaflets into our reluctant hands. Initially, they took the trouble to enquire as to the status of each individual seeking entry to the premises, eventually abandoning such discretion for a scattergun approach, the importance of the chemicals directive REACH betrayed not only by their persistence, but also by being graciously granted a passing mention in the British media, famed for ignoring European affairs except where the reviled “Brussels bureaucrats” pose a threat to Prawn Cocktail-flavoured crisps or interfere with the use of isinglass in real ale. A publication discarded on a bar stool expressed its censure by dubbing the institution a “sausage-factory” of unnecessary legislation (indeed, in his speech to the House on Wednesday, Mr. Straw cited a law adopted in 1968 stipulating the maximum number of knots in wood for sale). The most eye-catching exhibit an acrylic painting on the Greenpeace stand depicting the President of the Commission cradling a naked baby in his arms whilst his German colleague tipped a test tube (duly marked with the regulation toxicity-announcing orange triangle and skull and crossbones) of noxious, luminous-green liquid towards its helpless mouth. The caption read: “Dear Mr Barroso and Mr Verheugen, how far will you go to please the chemicals industry?” What the slogan lacked in snappiness, the image more than made up for in emotional gut-punch.

The arduous monthly journey (unrelieved by even the simple pleasure of a morning coffee now that both buffet car and trolley service have long since fallen victim to cutbacks not justified by falling profit margins) often only marks the start of the kind of minor inconveniences that quickly accumulate to render the experience unnecessarily stressful, exacerbating our resentment (and the incomprehension of the general public at the squandering of taxpayers’ money the entire exercise is perceived as being) at being uprooted without rationale (the Franco-German reconciliation that the location on such a disputed territory symbolised a dim memory, whose relevance has diminished as the Union has enlarged). This week the disruption was caused by a taxi strike. Although the local authorities provide us with the sweetener of a free shuttle service between the city centre and our workplace the service is not nearly frequent enough given the swelling of our ranks (ironically, you are more likely to be pick pocketed on board one of the concertina buses supposedly accessible only to those who can prove their affiliation by showing a staff badge than on the lines open to all). Think Tokyo metro in the morning rush hour after the platform employees have squeezed in the last few briefcase-gripping businessmen and you come close to imagining the crush. Under normal circumstances the queue (three or four deep) stretches for a dispiriting distance along the pavement as we are spat out of the buildings in hungry throngs (meetings perversely timed to end simultaneously), impatient to return to the shelter of our temporary lodgings. There is never usually a cab in sight and tempers quickly fray if a single occupant selfishly commandeers such a scarce resource. A fleet of vehicles, chiefly Mercedes and Skoda, snaked along the road, ostentatiously proclaiming, by means of a printed notice on their windscreens, their involvement in industrial action, cocking a snook at us in the bitter November wind.

Sadly, like queuing, “the knowledge” has not figured in our list of exports to the Continent. The average taxi-driver in S. is gruff, his attitude problem compounded by the inexhaustible supply of clients shivering in the cold (his counterpart in Waffle Central illiterate in the art of map-reading, frantically consulting the office via his radio for directions as well as unable to navigate on the basis of restaurant names, although, to be fair there are so many of the latter in the Waffelian capital that I am charitable enough to forgive this one failing). However, in the midst of all the strife, Mary and I were pleasantly surprised one evening. Having taken the tram most of the way to the establishment with baked potatoes as its speciality, we foolishly ventured into the labyrinth of narrow winding streets around the cathedral where we quickly became disoriented. The local grocer could not help us and we were on the brink of despondency when a taxi pulled up to deposit its passenger. Undaunted by the prospect of being brushed off, Mary presented the driver with her slip of paper bearing the address. He informed us that he could not block passage (even in the two minutes taken up by the exchange several cars revved their engines behind him), so he would go ahead to the nearest junction and explain to us how to find our way. Convinced that he had merely fobbed us off (his rooftop sign having vanished from view around a faraway corner), we did not hurry, peering through misted panes to ascertain whether a viable alternative existed in the vicinity. To our utter astonishment, we spotted him waiting, in spite of having informed us that he had another fare. He showed us the location on the map, but on detecting the note of hesitation in Mary’s voice he told us to hop in, as it would probably be less time-consuming to drop us off than to convince us he knew the most efficient route. Without the slightest hint of a grumble, he sped through the thoroughfares, refusing to accept payment for such a short trip. Mary insisted and, rather than turn his nose up at her kindness, he smiled warmly as we clambered out. Ladling melted cheese from the fondue, we praised his unexpected kindness, which did its part to restore, as Mary pointed out, our faith in human nature.