The glass should be too thick. Or possibly French péage booths are intelligent enough to identify three blokes attempting to act all suave within their M&S shirts and Burton Menswear footwear and choose to consider us lower a peg or three. The télépéage readers aren’t working. Hazards flashing, we’re reversing out. Again. Humiliation. Stress. As well as on two separate occasions, a significant quantity of angry arm-waving.
I believe we’re at Dijon before I twig when I contain the useless plastic lozenge from the window, the booth decides I’m already making a reasonable arse of myself to boost the barrier grudgingly upwards.