Birvidik

The night threatened to be a purgatory of excruciating embarrassment and an exemplar of the cringeworthy social awkwardness for which we Brits are justly famed. Our two boats were only metres apart; we couldn't just ignore him. Equally, though, we couldn't engage him in conversation. Brits in general find the mere act of speaking to a stranger extremely stressful. Speaking to a foreigner is ten times worse and triggers hyperventilation and uncontrolled shouting. The prospect of striking up a conversation with a foreigner whom you have, through your own incompetence, caused risk, inconvenience, financial loss and ruined bœuf bourguignon is just too much to bear. It makes one yearn for the comforting British certainties of a locked library and a loaded revolver.

We warily circled the situation for a while, keeping eye contact to a minimum and spending much more time below than was really necessary. My visits below were announced and justified in an unnaturally loud voice: "Well I don't know, look at me, idling my time away in the cockpit! This won't do. That joker valve in the forward toilet isn't going to polish itself, you know. Now where's my toolbox?."

You can only keep this up for so long, though. Unstoppable, the agony escalated. Eye contact was established - brief, abashed and rapidly broken with a downward glance, but it could not be undone. Thus began the descent down the gaffe-strewn path to the prospective Hell of social interaction. The flashed eye contacts were replaced by nods en passant, which in turn were superseded by the nod with supplementary grunt. With weary inevitability, the grunt metamorphosed into a mumbled "M'sieu." This was getting frighteningly close to an actual conversation. Carry on like this and before we knew it, we'd be sharing post-prandial cognacs while bemoaning The Youth of Today and slagging off the Government.

Oh Shit! Talking of post-prandial; Dinner! I'd forgotten about that.

We had committed the mortal sin of keeping a Frenchman from his bœuf bourguignon. Amends had to be made - honour was at stake. We were duty-bound to feed him, but what the Escoffier can a couple of vegetarian English feed to a hungry Frenchman without making him reach for the hemlock in a vain attempt to take the taste away.

"Alors, dis-nous Henri, as-tu dîné sur le bateau Anglais?"

"Oui, ma Cherie, et c'était affreux. Comment ils peuvent manger ce truc, cela me dépasse. C'est almost aussi émétique que la nourriture allemande. Il doit être servi avec son propre antidote."

We searched franticly through our Jean Conil's Cuisine végétarienne Française, desperately looking for anything even halfway frenchworthy that could be knocked up from our available ingredients.

Falafal with couscous & yoghourt raita? Too hair-shirt

Coulibiac aux légumes de saison? Too fiddly

Caramelised carrot upside down mock suet pudding with grilled roquefort, sauteed tofu & capers

Too strange.

In the end we were reduced to Cheese and tinned mushroom omelette with frozen peas and oven chips. If he didn't like it, he'd have to lump it. I was practising my opening gambit :

Bonsoir, Monsieur. Je vous prie de m'excuser d'avoir bloqué votre port et d'avoir ruiné votre journée, votre bateau, votre dîner, votre soirée et votre mariage, pour tout que je know. Puis-je vous proposer un burger aux pois chiches et au quinoa (garanti sans goût) ?

To the great relief of all concerned, he was saved from the culinary torment of cuisine végétarienne anglaise by the timely arrival of his brother, who had just shot across on a jet ski, to tell him that his dinner was getting cold, and to offer him an ad hoc water taxi service. He accepted with alacrity. Relieved of our Anglo-Franc duties, we settled down with a nice bottle of Macon Villages and a bootleg copy of 'Allo, 'Allo.