Ten days later, we returned, three children, one dog and nine enormous suitcases in tow. It was 9pm on the New Year’s Eve weekend and the children were exhausted. As our taxi pulled up outside our house, we noticed light blazing from the living room. We turned the key in the lock to hear French conversation coming from the kitchen. Sitting at our table, forks poised over steaming lamb chops, were a family with four children. We felt like Goldilocks’ bears, only far less forgiving. My husband, already nervous of the whole home-rental concept, had a meltdown and threatened to call the police. The French father leapt to his feet. I could feel a duel in the offing and took my husband by the elbow, explaining in broken French that the agency had made a terrible cock-up and we had had no idea they were staying. Zut alors! I ran outside to ring the agency.