The Pontrieux Report

One of the joys of having a property in a busy street is discovering the presents that have been left on your doorstep overnight. Usually they are quite mundane – a pizza box or wine bottle.

The other Sunday I was greeted by used toilet paper that was also sodden with blood, to the extent that it had soaked into the stone.

My dismay at what may be a comment on my cakes was equalled by being somewhat perplexed that your average Breton carries shitty toilet paper about their person. No doubt such activity attracts a generous handout from the State.

Today’s unusual present is a bath mat that has been draped over my back gate.

After having recently discovered that a bowl of porridge just before bedtime aids sleep, I have enjoyed greater success at being oblivious to the cacophony of sound that pollutes Pontrieux in the early hours.

Alas porridge is not so successful when it comes to persistent doorbell ringing first thing in the morning. Any attempt at hoping they would go away was dashed by my mother declaring a) he’s rather official looking, b) he’s seen me so knows there is someone in and c) he is standing on the pavement opposite looking up at the windows.

Nothing for it but to see what this rather menacing-looking individual wanted. He was from the French equivalent of the Performing Rights Society.

When you start a business in France you are swamped with various organisations demanding their pound of flesh, regardless of whether you have actually made a profit or even taken any money. The bloated French state has to pay its bills and by and large it is the small independent traders who foot the bill.

The worst offender is RAM the healthcare organisation, which I am legally obliged to join and have to make payments to regardless of my actual income and my ability to even feed myself or pay my utility bills. They have the full backing of the state and will send the bailiffs in without hesitation.

The French Performing Rights people were very quick of the mark demanding about £400 for the radio in my tearoom and the 3 radios in my B&B rooms. Naturally I took exception to this. Firstly, I know of no other chambres d’hôtes that pays for room radios. Secondly, my occupancy rate out of season is extremely modest, I object to paying for idle radios. Thirdly, the radio in my tearoom is tuned to Radio 5 Live. I do not play music. Why should Victoria Derbyshire prattling away incur a fee to be redistributed to French musicians?

So the letters arrived and I ignored them. They don’t appear to have the same powers as RAM and rely on sending letters – until today. Luckily I wasn’t having an 8am ‘Kylie Hour’ but had Radio Five on in the background as usual. In my rubbish French I was able to say to him “Listen – it’s English speech radio. It’s on all the time and as I didn’t know you were coming I haven’t changed anything.” I also offered him contact details of my regular customers who could verify my tale.

I think I have had some success. He appeared to agree that performing rights were only due for music. He then completed and asked me to sign a declaration that I don’t play music (or I have inadvertently signed up to change my electricity supply).

On this occasion it appears the early bird didn’t get the worm. I recommend porridge instead.