MY days of wishing to be French ended abruptly when I came to Scotland aged 22. Glaswegians, then and probably now, had little time for pretentious, long-haired blondes, favouring black polo necks, trilbys, and a Burberry draped over shoulders.

They laughed at me. Openly. In the street.

Add to the mix a collection of French torch songs, several shelves of books in the language and a Tourette’s-like desire to quote Sartre at the drop of a hat…well, you’re ‘deid’ in the water.

The English accent, and my baffled incomprehension of the vernacular, caused me enough problems without being a cut-price, cut-sized, Francoise Hardy, forever clutching Paris Match.

And so, in an instant, the love affair with all things Gallic was over. It had to be, to survive.

My Institute of Linguists diplomas were put away along with the dream of living and working in Paris, and I dived into an unimagined, unexpected and very different life.

Occasionally, very occasionally, I’d use my languages when a story called for it, but I no longer zipped over to the continent; no longer needed the fix of Paris or the Swiss Alps.

Glasgow was foreign enough.

And after a while, the whole French thing, which had consumed me from the age of 10, drifted into the past; remembered only with a snatch of a song or the smell of a Gauloises Bleu cigarette.

Obviously some deep reservoir of faux-Frenchiness remained for, well, here I am.

So, it is somewhat amusing to find myself in the midst of, according to both reports and personal knowledge, a whole slew of ex-pats/immigrants desperate to become French.

And to find I have as much desire to become French as I do to cycle up Mt Ventoux in the Tour de France peloton.

I find particularly piquant, the retired Scots and English; who wave the Union flag all year in their bubbles of Empire to an accompaniment of Radio 4; now scrabbling for information on dual nationality.

(Younger, working ones and those with children in education should most definitely go for it, for I fear the UK will have little regard for them.)

Sometimes I wonder exactly what these retirees do with their brains all day. At least I add to my knowledge while welded to the Mac.

"I’ll never pass the language test," one said to me in anguish although she has lived here 18 years.

Eighteen years and she is unable to do a simple comprehension exercise with multiple choice answers to tick, and hold a conversation on several, simple levels?

"You don’t need to," I explain wearily.

"Anyone over 60 is exempt. As is anyone under that age who has a diploma showing linguistic ability.

"You just need to have lived here, permanently, for five years, go through all the hoops, produce all the documents and….wait."

"But they’ll be in French," she says.

Oh God. Yes. We’re in bloody France.

Looking at the forums it appears people are hiring translators and even notaires to help them navigate the system.

It’s understandable I suppose. It can take two or more years to be granted dual nationality and given the passport and French rights to remain in the EU.

And, the civil servants often change the requirements midway through, and the poor applicant has to start all over again with different documentation.

It’s as much a national sport as cycling or rugby.

Actually it is relatively simple in many ways. Were I a French minor civil servant I’d demand much, much more.

"Oh," I’d say. "So let me get this right. You came here to have the sunshine and a nice house…and a pool? It was cheap? You couldn’t have done it in the UK?

"You’ve been here, how many years? Oooh 20 years. But you can’t speak French? You know little about our politics; you don’t really like us that much, do you?

"Any French friends? Ah, the nice woman who does the cleaning but, of course, you don’t see her socially. Oh, and the maire, who speaks English. That’s the one you phone every time you have a problem?

"You don’t really want to be French at all, do you? You just want the continuation of service such as health, pensions paid in, just like home – only better?"

And then I’d say, with a sly Gallic smile: "Come back when you can demonstrate real commitment to La France.

"Come back when you’ve bothered to find out how we’ve been formed; how our system of government evolved; why we have been a cradle to philosophers and inspired free thought; why our writers protect and nourish our language and also, tell us why you all drink so much if you’re so happy here?

"Oh, and also, come back only when you can sing at least three Johnny Hallyday hits and all verses of Le Marsellaise."

Then, as I watched their slumped, retreating backs, I’d high five all my colleagues, drop their application into the bin, clock the time, slam shut the partition on the other waiting Anglos and head home.

Do you know, I would. No wonder I no longer want to be French. Obviously I already am. Merde.

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