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  THE HORROR, THE HORROR (PART ONE) There are two kinds of expat Brit in France. The first kind is retired, upper-middle-class, patrician, to be found mostly in the Dordogne or Provence, well established for 20 years or more. Public school and university education, very comfortably off thank you on their mandarin's pension or share options, they are to be found discreetly integrating into the prettier villages of rural France. Only identifiable by their UK registered cars and their Church shoes, they pass unobtrusively, speaking charming Eton-inflected French and ordering wines with an expertise that causes a Périgord sommelier to suck his teeth in admiration. Les Anglais, after all, are the greatest tastevins in the world. The men are tall, broad-shouldered, aquiline-nosed, trim silver moustaches lending them a military bearing, vaguely reminiscent of John Cleese, sporting linen jackets and Panama hats; their wives petite, thin-lipped and copper-bronzed, in Jaeger lin...