The interview

Before I launch into an account of today's events,  I need to remind readers that as Cliona has an Irish/European passport, she does not need to apply for a long-stay visa in France.
So, yesterday, I went through all the paperwork over the phone with John Dislins, an expert on French bureaucracy. He was satisfied we had covered all bases.
This morning, with Cliona's daughter Emma and grandson Thomas, we set off south on the scenic drive through rolling farmland and stone villages.
We arrived at the Agen prefecture half an hour early.
The lady at reception was friendly and explained we didn't need to take a number because we had made an appointment.
At 11am we ascended the stairs to the first floor, the office of nationality and foreigners.
Twenty minutes later we were ushered into Room 3 by a young woman with a thick mane of charcoal-black hair and a warm smile. This was a positive sign. The room was small and austere, but our interviewer was congenial.
The first piece of paper she wanted was my application form. She checked through it and seemed happy. At every correct response, she tapped her pen on the paper and made a "tuck" kind of noise.
She then asked if we had joined the national social security system. I was taken aback by this question and said, "No, we hadn't." I felt uncomfortable answering no, that it was inauspicious to respond negatively so early in the interview. I expected some questions to come out of left field, but not so soon.
I explained that we had purchased private health insurance and pushed the paperwork forward. Our young fonctionnaire (public servant) was appeased, though not entirely satisfied. She said we must go to either Villeneuve sur Lot or Marmande and apply for an attestation de droits. I wasn't sure what that meant but I nodded my head obediently and said "Yes, of course".
I said it was my understanding that before we could apply for our carte vitale (national health cover) we had to be resident in France for three months.
She agreed. It was not a sticking point and we moved on. I breathed a sigh of relief.
She looked at our EDF (electricity) bill, in joint names, to prove our residency in France. She took our passports, bank statements and birth certificates and left the room to make photocopies.
She double checked my passport to confirm my application was within three months of arrival. She announced that there would be no charge for the visa.
She asked lots of seemingly innocuous questions, about family, life in Australia, how long we had known each other, where we had travelled, why I liked France etc. But there was a method to her casual friendliness. Dislins had warned me to answer succinctly. He said some of his clients had proffered too much information and got into deep water. While that hadn't cruelled their application, it had delayed it.
She seemed happy that we had a French bank account. She took our account balance print-out. She asked about my pension. I explained that it wasn't actually a pension, that we both drew down on our superannuation through a fortnightly income stream. That's when a cloud of incomprehension passed over her face. Suddenly it seemed like the whole process, which up until then was going well, had ground to a halt.
She just didn't understand Australian superannuation.
So, in my halting French, I attempted to explain the system. I was relieved when a smile returned to her face. She seemed to have grasped it. Later, I wondered why the French Consulate in Sydney hadn't sent back a one page explainer for distribution to prefectures around the country. I guess there just aren't enough retired Aussies applying to stay in France.
With the electronic recording of my finger and thumb prints, the interview came to an end.
Our fonctionnaire with the mane of black hair attached one of my four passport photos to a récépissé, valid til 5 May, and informed me the office would send me a letter when my Carte de Sejours was ready. I would have to come back to Agen to collect it.
We re-joined Emma and Thomas and found a fabulous Moroccan restaurant for lunch. I confess I had been waiting rather nervously for this day. Now, I felt relieved, bouyant even.
It felt like I'd crossed a long, shaky rope bridge strung across a bureaucratic chasm. I didn't have to sing and I didn't have to do an Inspector Clousseau impersonation.