With just under 24,000 pharmacies in France to choose from it seems a little masochistic to stand in line. But a queue in a pharmacy in France is something to behold; it is an insight into the Gaelic personality – an anthropologist’s dream. One of the many fundamental differences between the British and the French is their approach to illness. While the British on the whole like to demonstrate a stoic ‘it’s not as bad as it looks’ attitude, the French tendency is to ensure that their problem is presented as being ‘much much worse than it looks’…

To ‘accuse’ a French person of looking healthy is tantamount to insult. It’s always best to err on the side of caution and at least say they’re looking a little run-down.

A pharmacy is the only place in France where people will actually accept the principle of ‘Waiting in Line’, and even more surprisingly, ‘Waiting their Turn’ (concepts which bizarrely become totally alien to the French anywhere else). It’s a sort of rite of passage. If they’ve just come from the doctor to pick up their prescription they will need to de-brief with the pharmacist (but with the rest of the queue vicariously involved.) This means giving intimate and sometimes horrible details of their ailment, which will then need to be debated and considered for anything from five to 20 minutes (obviously in direct proportion to the seriousness of the illness). A word of advice for the sensitive: these conversations can be extremely gory – if, as I frequently do, you start to feel faint, don’t hesitate to collapse into one of the chairs thoughtfully provided – it beats the hard tile floors…

If, on the other hand, you’ve come in for something ‘off the peg’, you can expect at least five minutes’ psychotherapy from the pharmacist. This value-added aspect explains why ‘off the shelf’ medicine in France is so much more expensive than prescription medicine. A six-pack of paracetamol is sold with the degree of reverence accorded to a Dolce & Gabbana evening gown elsewhere.

There is definitely a kind of kudos to be had from being ill here. The winter I had ‘bronchitis/sinusitis/laryngitis’ (which would probably have been dismissed as ‘a bit of a cold’ by a British GP), I gained Respect. There’s a man in our village with one kidney, recurrent jaundice and a gammy leg who practically has hero status; other villagers graze their foreheads on the pavement as he passes. And if other members of your family are suffering as well, the world’s your oyster. I actually heard a woman in our local pharmacy proudly (and loudly) proclaiming no less than 80% of her family to be asthmatic.

Whereas the British might give a brief synopsis of their ailment to solicit a bit of sympathy, the French will give a full and detailed description. And that will not be to solicit sympathy – it will be to boast! They neither expect nor need sympathy; their reassurance and satisfaction come from the feelings of superiority that accompany the suffering of such a condition in the first place.

France may have abolished the monarchy, but they found a magnificent replacement: Healthcare.