It's every student's nightmare. No, not a price rise in the union bar. When money is tight, coming home to find that you have been burgled is a nasty surprise you just don't need. Having to call the police, the locksmith and the insurance company is traumatic enough without the stress of doing it in a foreign language. Even the basics are frighteningly unfamiliar, so upon discovering that someone had broken into our apartment, I felt like a prize fool having to ask a neighbour what the French equivalent of '999' is. Luckily, it turned out I wasn't being too idiotic, as the person I asked didn't know either. "I think it's written on the residents' notice board downstairs," was his best offer. Suddenly the £100 insurance premium that felt so expensive at the time seems to be the best investment I'd made in years. However, claiming on the insurance requires an official police report. Piece of cake, I thought. We call them, they come to the apartment, they compile a report right? Not so simple. Firstly, upon calling the police I got the following, slightly alarming message, "In case of emergency, please hold. Otherwise, please press 1." Once I got through to an operator, she just gave me the number of our local police station and told me to get in touch with them. Two hours later, three police officers strolled nonchalantly into our apartment, shone their torches around randomly and then announced that there was nothing they could do and that we should try not to touch anything until the next day when the forensic investigator would pay us a visit. As they rushed out of the door I tried to find out how I was supposed to not touch anything for another 12 hours given that the intruders had left my things all over my bed, but my French wasn't quick enough for their speedy exit. After the forensics investigator had been round the next day, my flatmate and I headed down to the police station to make a statement, which is what we had been advised to do in order to get a report. Clearly, calling the police and giving all the details of the crime to the officers that saw the scene of the crime is not enough. As we approached the front desk it suddenly struck me that I had no idea what to say
I'd never had to report a crime before, not even at home, let alone in France. After sitting in the waiting room for the best part of an hour trying not to make eye-contact with a scruffy-looking drunkard and watching various police officers carry around inexplicably large buckets of crème fraiche (no, I had no idea either), we were eventually seen by a young policeman who seemed a little wet behind the ears. Twenty questions later he provided us with a report. It turned out that my student insurance didn't include the repair of broken locks, and since the value of the stolen items barely equalled the excess waiver, you might say that the entire ordeal with the police was just a waste of time. However, I now feel slightly closer to the French as a nation as I have managed to seep myself in an integral aspect of their culture, red tape. Plus, now I know where to go when I run of out sour cream.
Jennifer Could you be a student diarist?
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