I would never go on holiday to France and come back with a pig. But I’ll admit I was tempted | Zoe Williams

The animal was no bigger than a pug and, when you scratched it, lay on its side and snorted with joy. Who could ask for more?

I went to a market recently in the Cévennes, in southern France. It was piled high with things that in principle I’m interested in, but wouldn’t want to own – giant Victorian scissors, tomatoes in the shape of a heart, 70s airline trays, carafe after carafe for the distribution of Ricard, art deco atomisers and vintage cycling tops.

It wasn’t purpose-built entertainment for the wide array of family preferences. My brother has an attention span – he can lose an hour talking about a cheese cloche and he doesn’t even speak French – and I do not. My sister likes to amass giant volumes of fonts that may be ancient, but are also available on a computer; my brother-in-law does not. My niece likes to pick up every single thing and put it back down again; my other niece does not. We were reconciled to conducting most of the expedition solo, so I was already on my own when I walked in and met a pig.