'Non, non, non!' she tutted as she wrenched the fitted sheet from my hands. She located two of the corner seams, pinched them between her thumbs, then nodded to me to grab the other end likewise.

I wasn't quick enough and suffered a further tirade of 'non, non's until my seamsmanship was perceived to be up to scratch. 'Voila!' she announced, and we danced the dance of the fold: coming together, stepping back, swinging arms, coming together. All that was missing was an accordion player in the corner, but you don't usually see them in laundrettes.

So, courtesy of Madame Laverie I was given a stern lesson in how to fold a fitted sheet. I'd been first in the self-service launderette in Migennes that morning, arriving not long after 7am when they opened, aiming to bag a washer and a drier before the place got busy.

La Patronne, the owner, had arrived, sweeping in through the door like a tornado, checking this, checking that, and giving me a hearty bonjour and even a fierce handshake. I'd expected a greeting but not the handshake, and was quite touched. Well, gripped. But then, everyone we've ever met in a laverie has been courteous - they may not have engaged in conversation (being mostly mothers who were preoccupied with telling their small children to 'tais-toi!' because they were making too much noise, but we would always get a bonjour on arrival and an au revoir on departure. Even the kids would politely say goodbye as they left.

Somewhere in French culture young people seem to be brought up to 'do the right thing.' Obviously not all of them - there will always be exceptions - but we are speaking in the general here. Generally, of the French. Sort of general de Gaul.

Anyway, later that same day I was at the fish counter in the supermarche, and couldn't see what I wanted so had to ask the lovely young thing behind the counter - think Catherine Zeta-Jones at the age of 19 - if she had any whole trout. Her face broke into a big grin as soon as the mangled French came out of my mouth but she listened politely, repeated back what she thought I wanted and then grinned her way over to where the trout were.

More beams when she weighed them and asked if the price was okay - I told them it was parfait and that that was all I wanted, merci. She sealed them up, slapped a price sticker on them, and handed them to me with a perfect 'have a lovely weekend' in English, followed by a giggle. I melted. I wanted to buy a whole shoal, but didn't know the French collective noun.

Back at the boat, which by this time was now moored along the quai in the Migennes basin, I settled in for a quiet evening. It was beautifully warm and calm, perfect for sitting on the aft deck with a glass of wine.

However, I was moored adjacent to a public area - semi-park, semi-car park, semi-boules court (which, given three semis would make it a curious shape, but you know what I mean...). It's quite pleasant though, with trees for shade, and grassed areas, but obviously the spot where I had chosen to moor was also the fave spot of the Migennes Massives, the young men of the local town - a great place to park up, have a smoke, a drink and listen to music. Loud music. Very loud music.

Actually the beats weren't bad, but the problem with the young people today (I know, I sound curmudgeonly, get used to it) is that they have short attention spans, so no song was allowed to go on for more than about 60 seconds before someone else's audio system was turned up, the cars themselves becoming DJ turntable equivalents as one song merged seamlessly into another.

There may have been awful, filthy bad language too, but my French doesn't run to that so I have no idea what the guys were talking about, but it all seemed amiable enough, with much laughter and joshing.

I was beginning to despair about my lovely evening going down the drain, but there was hope yet. Two of the guys had been in the park earlier in the day - one tall, gaunt and Gothic, the other short, almost toothless and wan - and they had tried to engage me in conversation as I was washing the boat down. They did this very politely with an 'Excuse-moi Monsieur,' and a genuine enquiringly demeanour rather than anything aggressive.

The shorter one wanted to know where the boat was from so I explained as best I could that it was Dutch-built but that the flag was the New Zealand flag. He then asked if it could go on the sea. His Van Helsen friend butted in and said, in broken English, 'This go to America?'

'America?' I checked. 'Er, well...' and before I could say anything more he butted in again. 'Yes, for me...you take me to America?'

Anyway, after telling them that yes the boat was designed to go to sea but not to cross oceans they both looked a bit disappointed, but thanked me and bid me au revoir.

And now here the same two were back, as part of the larger gathering. They ignored me completely - now that I wasn't likely to be their passage to Trumpdom - and so did their friends; they all just seemed intent on smoking, drinking and chatting, but - and here is a big difference with some other cultures I could mention - whenever anyone had finished a bottle, a can, or a packet of ciggies, they walked over to the rubbish bin and put them in. Hearing bottles crash into that bin was the real music to my ears.

At the end of their night, which was respectably around midnight, all I could see of their visit was a full rubbish bin and some neatly stacked bags of bottles and cans around the bin itself. The actual area where they'd gathered was spotless.

Maybe they'd all had mothers who, when they were young, had regularly berated them with, 'non, non, non!' If they weren't doing things right. Maybe they'd all been brought up by the woman in the launderette. If so, she's done a bloody good job.