I was still compos mentis - my arms and legs were working but there was an acrid smell of burning facial hair. I could vaguely make out Manon’s consternation through the smoke and Allegra’s wide staring eyes.
The father was dressing down his son in machine gun French;
‘Zut alors, merde tu es idiot.. hooligan.... arêtes ces farces stupides’
I sat there stunned, the stub of the Gitane splayed like a peeled banana.
I had fallen for it, hook, line and sinker - the son had offered me an exploding cigarette, proving the French can be just as perfidious as the British.