Temporarily weaned from this column, I found myself in south-west France, and - a little early in the season for my delicate constitution - nervously contemplating the idea of entering an outdoor swimming pool.

At that moment the attendant rose to his feet, waved his hands forbiddingly and pointed towards my crotch. Or to be exact at my swimming trunks: navy and white oak-leaf design, rather fetching actually, and not wholly unfashionable. Then he pointed to the sign: calecons interdit. My dictionary translates calecon as underpants - but in this case it evidently meant boxer shorts, or specifically my boxer-short-style swimming trunks.