JUST at the time when the world should have been focusing on Sarkozy's attempts to reform a bankrupt and outdated economy into a shining example for the whole of the Western world, the world has become distracted.

In doing so, they have been following the example of our illustrious leader, who has momentarily relinquished his role as a latter-day Union-bashing Thatcherite to adopt the role of Lothario. After a suitable period of several weeks, if not months, of mourning for his recently failed marriage, he is once more romantically involved. His latest squeeze is a former supermodel, former girlfriend of Eric Clapton, Donald Trump, and Mick Jagger to name but a few.

A less charitable person might ask what the tall, elegant and beautiful former model saw in the short, half-Hungarian, most powerful man in one of the largest countries in Europe? France remains phlegmatic about the dalliances of their leader. Politicians don't get into trouble over here for demonstrating that they have blood running through their veins. Mistresses of Prime Ministers have been tolerated and even approved of, although I'm not sure that they could ever have coped with David Mellor and the Chelsea outfit.

Much more important than all of this has been the latest victorious assault on the very cornerstone of French life. Smoking has been banned in France. Yes. Banned, in France. Somehow, nobody seems to know how. The banning of smoking in public places that has been rampaging across Europe has hit these shores. This proud country, the home of chain-smoking philosophers and louche Gaulloise puffing singers, the bithplace of café culture, has let the essence of the café be lost to the Eurocrats. They have taken away the inalienable right of a Frenchman to smoke in his local bar. To add insult to injury he faces a hefty fine if he should defiantly spark up in public. But his fine is dwarfed by the size of the bartender's should he allow any illegal smoking in his establishment.

It seems incredible that a country where doctors could until just last week be seen smoking in their consulting rooms have allowed such a law to be passed. But they did, and now they are paying the price for it. Those quaint little cafés and bars with their formica tables amongst the pinball and baby-foot machines are finally showing their true colours. Instead of that welcoming fug enveloping you in a Gaulloise and Gitanes haze, you are welcomed by something much more base. Last night's garlic laced with a heavy dose of armpit and a subtle bouquet of stale booze is what welcomes you now. No thanks, I could stay at home for that.

One man who is happily defying the smoking ban in the colour pages of Paris Match is the resident of the Elysée Palace as he lights up a big fat cigar with a huge grin on his face. Could he be celebrating the first steps towards the modernisation of France? To the victor the spoils.