We were beginning to learn some of the essential differences between France and the UK: any time that you meet someone in France, friend or tax collector, you shake hands.

We were babysitting some cats. I had gone to feed them at our friend’s house when a huge man appeared. He was a farmer neighbour, who owned the mill. He approached me in an aggressive manner and was obviously upset about something. The first thing that he did was to put out his hand to shake. He then complained furiously about water that was flooding his meadow. I was able to assure him that it was not our friend’s fault.

If the person you are meeting has been doing manual or dirty work they will offer their wrist or even their finger to shake. The only exception to the etiquette of the handshake, that I know of, is the fosse emptying man. He keeps his hands behind his back and inclines his head in a curt bow of acknowledgement.

I have been told that in recent memory, when the fosse needed emptying the local farmer would come along, remove the contents and spread them on his land. This was recycling at its best and most basic. Ultimately you could buy the farmer’s produce, eat it, and – a day of two later – begin the process again.

But this is no longer legal. You have to call out a specialised firm who come along, do the same job as the farmer used to, and charge twice as much. That’s progress.

As there was also no possible DIY option we telephoned a specialist and the next day along came a man in a truck with a large tank and a pipe. The principle is pretty much the reverse of filling your gas tank. The main difference being that whilst propane is odourless, methane is not. Tanks are installed to match the ‘output’ of the property according to its size. Ours was large capacity – around 3,000 litres.

We had discovered that large septic tanks are a status symbol – rather like Range Rovers in Surrey that are suburbanly scrubbed on Saturday mornings before the weekly expedition to the outback of Sainsbury’s.

‘Trois milles litres, Monsieur, c’est exceptionelle. Je pense, peut-être que vous avez la plus grande fosse...’

But the size of your tank is not a licence to lord it over those who are not similarly endowed, as that would be bad form.

‘C’est necessaire, Monsieur, c’est necessaire,’ you say.

As the cost of the pump-out is partly determined by the amount of effluent pumped, the first task is to check that the fosse is full which is achieved by lifting the concrete lid and peering into the abyss below. I was prepared to take it as read that our cup floweth over, but the pump-out man insisted that I peered alongside him. His Gallic shrug and scratch of the head indicated that the fosse had almost reached the point where neighbourhood evacuation notices would have to be posted.

‘C’est tout plein, Monsieur.’

‘Mais oui, c’est tout plein,’ I agreed without hesitation.

He left the tank lid on the ground and returned to the truck for the clipboard with the necessary triplicate paperwork. I signed the forms and was about to retreat when he began to talk football. He asked me who the best footballer in England was.

I told him that I didn’t really have an opinion. In fact my only rational opinion, at this stage, was that the man had absolutely no sense of smell – perhaps a necessary qualification for his occupation.

Again he insisted I deliver a name for discussion.

‘Michael Owen,’ I ventured.

He nodded twice as if he had just encountered an eternal and undeniable truth. He smiled slowly, sucked his teeth, and then responded in impeccable English.

‘Then it is not surprising,’ he said, ‘that the English football team stinks almost as much as your fosse, Monsieur.’