I can understand why Tony Blair wants the French involved in the peace process in Iraq even though they were vehemently against the idea of war but I have just come back from Paris and it seemed to me that the French and the English will never be comfortable allies.

I went with my daughter, Katy, on Eurostar, leaving - aptly - from Waterloo. Paris was freezing and so were the people. I wasn't sure whether it was differing attitudes towards the war or just that being such close neighbours, rather like siblings, we cannot help hating one another.

At the elegant cafe by the Louvre where we went for lunch the girl on the desk looked down her nose at our attempts to speak French. They say that English people let themselves down by speaking English slowly and loudly when they are in other countries but I soon discovered that many were rude when I tried French and much more polite when I did a Hyacinth Bucket sort of English.

Katy is a vegetarian and everywhere she went she was offered a plat de legumes and a lot of cold cheese. A plate of vegetables wasn't quite what we had in mind. And the prices. We named one little caf Rip-off Ronnie's after we were charged eight euros for a pot of tea and a cup of coffee.

We rescued ourselves by going to Angelina's on the Rue de Rivoli, which serves the best hot chocolates in Paris to its chic clientele.

The Louvre was full of fat ladies - Rubens - and Greek statues. Katy, who studied classics for several years, told me they were wonderful but they didn't do anything for me. There were great long queues to see the Mona Lisa and several people wearing face masks as though they were in Hong Kong.

Notre Dame had just been cleaned and was the colour of homemade vanilla icecream but when we got to the Musee d'Orsay I remembered what the French do best: room after room of Degas, Monet and Van Gogh. Can life hold anything more than Monet's poppyfields, Van Gogh's hatstacks or Degas's blue dancers?

That evening we found a superb restaurant down a side street, only a dozen tables, a large chef - I distrust thin chefs, if they don't eat their own food why should anybody else - a lovely lady waiting on. Every restaurant in Paris has its resident dog. This one had a friendly apricot-coloured miniature poodle. We had good wine, smoked salmon, excellent cheese and it didn't matter whether we spoke French or they spoke English. It was perfect. We went back on our last night and they gave us champagne.

That's what I remember best about Paris: sharing a bottle of wine with my daughter and the joy which the people in the little restaurant provided for us. Perhaps the French aren't so different from us after all or could it be that, like brother and sister, we have too much history to get on and so, taking opposite sides, we make completion.

* Harry Mead is on holiday