And What Do You Do? [antikvár]

One 'What time is it, Mum? Oh no, I know we're going to be late. If we're late I'm not going to school. It's all your fault.' Charles-Edouard slumped back into his seat while Laura attempted to carve a route through the anarchic traffic that criss-crossed the Trocadero. It was rather depressing, she thought, that at the age of seven, Charles-Edouard had already developed some of the more disagreeable French traits: hysteria, a filthy temper and a tendency to blame. 'It's 8.42, we've got plenty of time, and it's not my fault if some arsehole is blocking the road,' she replied, honking the horn of the Renault Espace at the driver of the car in front, who had considered it quite normal to hold up rush-hour traffic for five minutes while he double-parked in front of a tahac to get his daily fix of cigarettes. 'You said a rude word, Mum,' remarked her other son, helpfully, 'Arsehole, that's where your poo comes out.' 'It's not that rude,' said Laura. 'I can think of plenty that are ruder.'