Ah Paris ... got to confess it's a bit of a favourite. I get off the coach from the airport and walk down the road to see where it takes me. I turn a corner and up the hill at the end of the road, bathed in very welcome sunshine is the Arc de Triomphe.

I now have my bearings and head for a branch of 'Decathlon', a big French sports shop chain. 10 minutes later I am housed.

I know that there is a campsite somewhere in the Bois de Boulogne. Which is kind of like saying I know that there is a campsite somewhere in the New Forest. This could be considered by some to be a bit vague. I haven't checked that it's open, and I don't have an address. Vague, vaguer, completely hopeless.

It takes a while before I see the hole, well the pretty bloody enormous gaping chasm actually, in this, well, can we call it a plan? The Bois de
Boulogne is very popular with Bearded types who like to feel saintly by cycling and running whilst the rest of us sit sensibly on the sofa at home, sobbing through re-runs of ER.

It also has a bit of a reputation for hookers.

I have not been able to spot an Internet café to check the location of the campsite so I get off at the Boulogne metro stop and hope it is nearby and signposted. Well you can hope can't you?

I walk for miles and it is very hot, after an hour I am just beginning to see said hole in plan when a car pulls up alongside me, a friendly looking man in his twenties asks if I know the way to the lake, I assume he means the one in the Bois, I say "I am not from around here". He says "Oh! Neither am I, guess we are both lost." I say I have a map and he suggests we go together.

Fresh from the friendly folk of Cork and Ayrshire I hop in his car.

How lucky am I that just when I needed help it arrives. We exchange first names ... I don't know if in Paris there is some rule like in Vegas where that does for a wedding ceremony, but he then instantly starts squeezing my thigh and stroking my arm from shoulder to wrist, whilst driving at the same time.

"Have you ever been seduced by a handsome young man like me?" he asks. I am slightly bemused by his attraction to a red faced, sweaty footed middle aged woman wearing shorts and a rucksack and laugh politely as if he was just breaking the ice, but he is far more Jo Keen than joking. More fool me and my please and thank you British upbringing, I still try to be polite.

I say I thought he was lost and that we could help each other, he says he just said he was lost to get to know me. Oh, the penny drops, I have been suckered. I explain that I am married thinking he will get the hint; this does not deter him at all and he assures me no one but he and I will know. So I just say blankly "Mais j'ai pas envie de" meaning, I just don't want to.

He pauses for a split second hardly able to believe my response to his thoroughly marvellous offer, his confidence takes a teeny weeny dent, but just like water off ripstop nylon on a summers day in Ireland, he regroups and continues to attempt to dazzle me into sleeping with him in a public place despite being married and having known him for only 45 seconds.

He says he is obliged to try to seduce me because I have such pretty eyes. Well obviously this flattery turns my head and I throw myself into his arms without waiting to get to the lake....Oh no, sorry, I've got it wrong, that's not what happened. What did happen was that I slapped his wandering hand away with a pretty loud smack that made him wince and told him the only thing he was obliged to do was to respect me when I said no. I said I was getting out.

He pulled over the car and asked if "Perhaps we could go for a walk here". I said "No", got out and grabbed my bag from the back seat. "Perhaps we could meet up this afternoon." I couldn't quite believe his persistence. "Non" I repeated, wondering if Mashure Sarkozy has changed this to meaning yes and vice versa.

"It was nice knowing you" he called, as I slammed the car door firmly shut and gave him a cheery two fingered wave goodbye.