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overalls and a 'spit and polish' chief with a farcical pointy waxed moustache, shiny black knee-high boots and an immaculate blue uniform. They found the situation amusing for some reason.
    Â Â 'What were you doing, watching the birds?' said the chief. 'Eh alors, vous êtes tombé dans le ruisseau .'(You've fallen in the stream.)
    Â Â The hilarity of this escaped me, but I believe there is a French proverb that goes somewhere along the same lines.
    Â Â One of the assistants rolled his eyes heavenward to indicate that I wasn't to take what the chief said too much to heart. I recognised the chap from our local village. All three of them were unpaid part-timers, supported in the main by donations paid out by locals for the annual pompiers ' calendar. I always feel obliged to fork out as much as I can possibly afford for my copy, as they keep a list; I imagine our house catching fire and the pompiers checking to see how much we've donated towards their calendar before they decide whether to rush to our aid or not. Call me paranoid if you like, but you never know with these things.
    Â Â The chief got down in the stream, fearlessly wetting his clean boots, and pronounced that we were going to have to drag the van out. This seemed self-evident to me, but I kept my mouth shut.
    Â Â They attached a tow rope and after much pulling and shoving the van rose gracefully up out of the ruisseau back onto the road. There were now a couple of dents in the side panels and I observed that, with its embryo rust spots and battered bodywork, it was beginning to look like every other brocanteur's white van. I also noted when I looked in the mirror at home that I'd grazed my nose in the accident and now looked exactly like Serge Bastarde did some mornings, as if he'd been in the wars. But it could have been worse. At least the van was perfectly serviceable and none of our stock appeared to have been damaged.
    Â Â I didn't mention the little wooden devil to Helen but as I lay in bed that night I couldn't stop imagining that the fiendish little object was the root cause of my recent bad luck. I was going to have to get rid of it at all costs.

    The next morning I was at my local market bright and early to set up my stand. I spent the first half-hour making the rounds, chatting to the other brocanteurs , trying to spot if there were any bargains going from recent house clearances. Then I set up my table and sat waiting for the punters to arrive.
    Â Â As the morning wore on and the market filled up with eager chineurs (bargain hunters) everyone seemed to be selling apart from myself. I had placed the little devil in a prominent position on my table, but although a few curious people picked him up and examined him, no one appeared interested in buying, even though I'd ticketed him at a giveaway price.
    Â Â As lunchtime drew near, I decided to try a psychologically different approach and hid him down behind an art deco clock garniture. Sometimes when people spot an item tucked away out of sight they feel they might be discovering an overlooked bargain. But no one did.
    Â Â I covered up my wares, strolled over to the local bistro to grab a bite to eat and found Serge in there, propping up the bar, fortifying himself with a glass of Beaujolais and a couple of plates of tapas.
    Â Â 'Eh, Johnny, how's it going? Had a good morning, have you?' He forked in a mouthful of calmar (squid) and washed it down with the wine. He had a graze on his nose exactly like mine. We were blood brothers!
    Â Â 'Not too good, no, Serge,' I said. 'I can't understand it.'
    Â Â 'Don't worry, Johnny. It gets like that sometimes. Maybe this afternoon, eh?'
    Â Â We carried our coffees out and drank them together in the sunshine, watching our tables.
    Â Â 'I don't know why you haven't sold anything, Johnny, you've got some good stuff.'
    Â Â I watched with trepidation as he picked up an ornate vase and waved it in the air. I