The surgeon who visits me every morning is as French as they come. His thin lips compress his words, which spit out at a speed that often has me saying: "Doucement. Doucement." Slowly, slowly.

He has the Southern twang that crunches the end of words or flattens them into ‘engs’ and ‘angs.’ Understanding is made harder by the fact he barely opens his mouth when he speaks.

At first he looked at me with a puzzled curiosity, and frankly, then, I had little desire to ask much beyond the basics of what was ahead of me.

He used to accompany the senior surgeon and stand back as his more sophisticated senior colleague expressed a certain pride at the six-inch scar that snakes down my permanently swollen limb.

But two, or was it three, weeks ago, the main man disappeared en vacances like half of France in this month, and so he came alone, day after day before surgery.

Last Sunday, as once again he studied my leg and made me bend and straighten it, I said to him: "Don’t you ever have a day off?

"You must be exhausted."

His head shot back in amazement. "No," he said. "Not during the holidays."

Then he laughed, looked at the nurse, then back at me and said: "You know, you’re the only person who has said that to me.

"The French never would. They don’t bother, don’t care. Thank you."

Since then it’s as if the veil of careful non-involvement has been swept aside. He sees me properly now as both my morale and temperament improve as progress is made and we have some form of chat beyond the break.

I consider this a success.

For being quite craven in my desperation to be liked and therefore coddled by the nursing staff, I have used every bit of my armoury from my trapped position.

I have even smiled sweetly at the bitches from hell one finds in every establishment where the vulnerable are gathered, and used my anger only as a last resort.

Again, and I should know by now having lived here for some time, the fury and coldness have had a far greater effect than large eyes pleading ‘pity me.’

There is something in the French psyche that prefers the lash of the tongue to the pathetic cooing of the defenceless.

Indeed, smile too often for no reason and at best one is viewed with deep suspicion or at worst as away with the fairies.

And of course – all bases covered – I have made them aware that I’m a journalist who writes and reports on life in their country.

Admittedly it has taken a while to penetrate, although as they drag the table with my Mac, my dongle and the wires attached to batteries for mobile and headphones, they are realising that I have a command module here.

Actually, again being French, they couldn’t give a merde what anybody may write about them in a foreign paper. Their extraordinary self-possession (I prefer that to arrogance which is true but harsh) means they simply feel sorry for those not born French.

That doesn’t mean they don’t tear into the many problems and stupidities that hold this country and its people back from real participation in the 21st century.

They do – with lengthy, often volatile debates on prime time television and amongst themselves.

But such openness would not necessarily be welcomed from non-born French and it is wise, and actually only polite, to be careful when engaging in arguments.

So today when the surgeon suddenly said: "So you’re a journalist? Have you written about us? Are you writing about your time here?" I chose my words carefully.

No – let’s be honest here – I simpered sycophantically and said: "But of course.

"This is the finest health service in the world. Second to none. And there are many who envy us this and with good reason."

I told him, genuinely, that I never cease to be impressed at the speed of service, the access to diagnostic equipment, the ease and simplicity of specialist appointments and the range of ancillary help once home.

Once again he exchanged a private smile with the nurse before telling me: "It is only the English (I let that one go) who say these things. Always you thank us and are polite.

"You are forever apologising when you have to call an aide for help or if you’re in pain.

"And you seem concerned, like you were the other day, that we’re not overworked."

Then he laughed and continued: "The French just grumble and complain non-stop.

"You tell me you’re amazed to get an MRI for a normal appointment within two days – they protest it’s disgraceful to wait so long.

"Few would ever say thank you."

He stops. I give what I think is a wise and understanding smile.

"Ah, but that’s you French. Moaning is your national sport. You’re not happy otherwise.

‘But that’s why we love you."

God forgive me.

You can say these things in French. It’s not as sickly as it sounds.

Well, it is but his wide smile tells me he likes it. And that's all that matters.