We found ourselves in the centre of Lille, having disembarked and left the station without a ticket check or, more to the point since Clare's was out of date, passport inspection.

After all the anxiety the night before, wondering whether she'd be able to join the girls' night out - en la belle France - or whether she'd be turned back by a passport gendarme, it seemed that you can forget your passport quite easily (despite what the "n'oubliez pas votres passports" adverts for Eurostar tell us) and still enter Europe.

We all began to relax, except Sue who was extremely agitated by the prospect that we might actually have to walk to our hotel. Lille has a Metro but we hadn't quite worked it out yet and, since the hotel was only "ten minutes walk" from the station, it seemed like a good idea to have a little stroll through the rues and squares, get our bearings and soak up the atmosphere.

It did not seem like a good idea to Sue though - she never walks anywhere and never travels by public transport either (Eurostar being the one exception). So she went in search of a taxi with Clare who was understandably exhausted by the mental strain of knowing she was here on an out-of-date passport.

The rest of us walked, pausing only to browse in the windows of shoe shops; "Mmm nice shoes," and patisseries "Mmmmmmm nice cakes - must come back here later," and arrived at our hotel within the stipulated ten minutes.

Sue and Clare, however, were nowhere to be seen. We had a drink. They arrived about half an hour later, looking a little hot and bothered and claiming to have stopped in a cafe and had a little aperitif and been chatting avec les hommes francais. This turned out not to be entirely true.

What really happened was that they had gone to the taxi rank outside le gare, queued in orderly British fashion for about the ten minutes it took us to say "Mmmm" at cake shops and get to the hotel, got in a waiting taxi and told the driver where they wanted to go. At which point he told them: "It's not really worth it - it's only ten minutes away - you'd be better off walking."

"Non, je n'aime pas le marcher . . ." Sue tried to explain, but the cabbie was adamant and showed them le port.

"I can't believe he wouldn't take us there," Sue seethed as they arrived, having got a little perdu en route. "It's not that close. Do you think he thought we were overweight English girls who needed a walk?"

A couple of carafes of vin blanc soon calmed her down and the rest of the weekend etait tres bon.

So tres bon, in fact, we forgot all about Clare's passport until we were checking in to go home and noticed the heavily-uniformed passport officers checking passports.

And by checking they were not just giving the cursory glance which goes for checking at home. Mais non! They were studying the photos and looking up to study the face of the holder of the passport and pointing out discrepancies such as the fact that my hair was longer six years ago.

Clare tried the fumbling in her bag for her passport, hoping they would simply wave her through, routine but they didn't fall for it and immediately noticed, "Votre passport est expire . . ." Clare's French, which up to that point had been pretty good, then went completely to pot; "Oh mon dieu! Mais apres c'est ok, n'est pas? Je ne sais pas si ca se happened . . . Je suis tres sorry," etc, etc.

"Never mind," said the inspector in his perfect English. "Remember to get it renewed before you travel again. Have a good trip."