The murderous Westminster attack happened the day before I flew back to London for a week.
The threat of terrorist atrocities has been a feature of life in the capital for most of the time I have spent here since moving down from the North East in 1973 so I am hardly going to start fretting about it now.
Everyone should take appropriate precautions but the sad reality is that this is a random phenomenon; never forget the poor man who texted "I'm safe" from Brussels airport only to be killed in the next bomb blast, on the Metro.
In a more general sense, I loathe being in Britain these days. Brexit is the main reason; the place has become noticeably nastier. So despite this being a short visit, I miss even the parts of France to which I do not always feel any great affection. Antibes, above, is a good example.
Then there is Saint-Tropez. A harbour front of staggering beauty, delightful narrow lanes behind the port and, nearly everywhere, prices that are frankly obscene, as I noted recently.
A great meal on arrival in Ealing, at the Mustang Nepalese restaurant, reminded me that France still lags far behind the UK for the cuisine of India and its neighbours, as refined in the Anglo-Indian tradition. But the Gandhi at St Trop has its compensations, beyond just being the only Indian restaurant for miles, and is an exception to the rip-off culture. I shall be back.
Back to Britain. I respect the democratic will so accept the Brexit outcome, catastrophic as I still believe it to be, economically and socially. And when I look around at the support base for withdrawal, I feel vindicated.
Yes, I admire the Daily Mail. It employs some of the best writers in what we once called Fleet Street and is a fabulously professional publication. But its approach to Brexit, and its outlook on so many other aspects of life, shake my often expressed wish that the left had an equivalent.
What I do not miss about France, of course, is this ...