Three days have passed and my washing machine remains locked, my linen strangled in its jammed bowels, water mockingly visible through the porthole.

It ceased to work in a cacophony of sounds and flashing lights, but I couldn't deal with it straight away as I had another problem to sort out in my field.

The pipes in the house leading to the septic tank had blocked yet again. I noticed this when the water from a bath, emptied at one end of the house, re-emerged into a bath at the other end. At the same time every sink filled in sympathy.

Reluctant to call on the willing Pierrot yet again, I'd decided to go for the €207 option of unblocking and emptying the tank.

When the tanker arrived, it couldn't pass under one of the overhanging chestnut trees and reversed, taking out three lights in the driveway as it went.

I pointed to the side road, signalling that the two workmen could run the pipes from there over the ditch and into the tank, and turned away.

In the seconds I did so, they opted for an easier – or lazier – way. Ten tonnes of machine crossed my newly mown field, gouging tracks in the heavily sodden earth.

I caught up with them as they whirled up to the covers of the tank, then got out and blanked me as I asked what the hell they were doing, pointing to the trail of destruction behind them.

Finally, the shrug, then the helpful information that there would be another three tonnes on the tanker after the process and it would be worse going out.

Reduced to much pointing at the road and "non, non, non", they refused to budge until Ian, rendering the back of the house, appeared like Asterix, heavy-metal hair flowing over his formidable frame.

He pointed at the churned-up land, pointed at the road, put his hands on his hips and waited (they couldn't know that his menacing figure hides a gentle giant until really aroused).

If a tanker could retrace its tracks in fairy footsteps this one did, and the workmen did all they needed to do from the side road as I'd told them from the start.

Still furious, I phoned the company to complain about the field, but was met by an initial silence, followed by the equivalent of: "And your point, caller?"

"The gouges will need topsoil and re-seeding is the expensive point," I replied. "What are you going to do about it?"

Another pause interspersed with a sigh. "Rien."

"Nothing?"

"Rien."

As if explaining to a child, the man said: "You needed your tank emptying. It's empty. End. Have a good day, Madame Cook." Dismissed.

He'd hung up first so I hadn't even had the satisfaction of doing that. I fought the urge to phone back just to hang up on him.

No point.

Customer service in France is an oxymoron. I know that, the French know that. So, in the end, we all just wearily give in and accept that, in every walk of commerce, the customer is always wrong.

So it was with a heavy heart that I addressed my next problem: the washing machine was still under guarantee from the online company who delivered it 18 months ago.

I visited the site, found the order details plus guarantee and scrolled through the formidable range of options, none of which included a phone number.

I clicked on the contact button but it told me no-one was available and, after one day trying, I realised they never would be. I could, though, send an email.

As you know, emails are never answered here on principle. I sent one anyway.

One day later: nothing. I went on the site again and eventually found a representative available, but only live online in a question-and-answer session.

Eventually, I was curtly "told" that I'd possibly hear from them in 48 hours or so.

Tentatively suggesting that it was now three days and perhaps a bit long to wait, I got a swift reply: "That's how it is. We'll be in touch. Goodbye, Madame Cook."

So this morning I tackled the insurance company which, having initially opened a dossier on my storm damage at the beginning of March, has ignored every email sent to them since.

Polite, apologetic that my French wasn't up to scratch, I asked them what was happening: was there a problem, should I have filled in something, and, oh, did you not get my emails?

The sigh whooshed in my ear. The sigh that was really shouting: just bloody go away. I don't need this. Don't you get how life is here yet?

Then, the response: "Yes, we got your emails. There was nothing to say to you. We're a bit behind at the moment. Your dossier is open and we'll be in touch – by letter."

"Well, can you give me an idea of when?" I asked, a touch testily.

Intake of breath – I really cannot use "sigh" again, but that's what it was.

"No. I can't. You'll know when you know. Have a nice day, Madame Cook."

Click. At least I know none of it is personal. Again, c'est la vie francaise.

cookfidelma@hotmail.com