I Smell a Rat

It’s hard sometimes not to feel persecuted. In the end if you spend as much time on your own as I do, then the safety valve ‘dreamer’ part of your subconscious inevitably turns darker and you see problems where maybe there aren’t any. You attach sinister meanings to innocent events, put yourself on a heightened sense of alert when relaxing would be far more productive.  
I’ve had bad travel weeks before but a burst petrol tank, lost boarding cards, elephants, phantom taxi drivers, double booked plane tickets and a train strike have turned me into a gibbering wreck. Seriously, Colin Jackson didn’t have as many hurdles as me.  
The plan was simple. I drove over on the Friday and because I’d read my diary wrongly was due to drive back to France again after work on the Saturday. I filled the not inconsiderable space in the Land Rover with English delicacies like crisps, crumpets, Jammie Dodger biscuits and Custard Creams and went to fill the car up with diesel in preparation for the long drive back. While the assistant was waiting for me  to make my mind up on whether to buy an original Yorkie or branch out into the more exotic ‘Raisin and Biscuit’ variety, her colleague let out an exclamation. 
“Ooh Sharon, I think we have a leak on Pump 17!” They both looked at me as a second earlier I’d said ‘Pump 17’ and then we all three turned to look at the said pump and my car sitting next to it spewing out diesel at an alarming rate.  
“LOCK DOWN!” Said a man suddenly emerging from the back office and Sharon gave me a pitying look as she handed me back my cards and receipt. “I wouldn’t start that up if I were you.” She said, as if having weighed up the evidence in the two minutes that she’d known me that that was exactly the sort of stupid thing I’d do. The garage was emptied of other customers and roped off, new customers were denied access which led to a few catcalls on seeing my car of ‘Bloody French! F**K off home!’ The Fire Brigade arrived within minutes, all massive blokes with a sense of purpose and expertise that just made me look small and inadequate in every way and, an hour later, a cheerily driven pick- up truck was heading off into the distance with my stricken crisp-laden vehicle on the back of it. 
My first thoughts at this point weren’t, how much will this cost? How do I get to work tonight? Which garage is it being taken to? No, my first thought was ‘How do I still get home tonight?’ During the week Samuel had been in tears again that I was going away so soon after being away the last time. It is heart-breaking knowing that there’s no alternative, he’s twelve and he wants me around, I think he finds the pressure on him hard when I’m not there but I’d cheered him up by promising that it was ‘only for two nights, I’ll be back before you know it.’ I was determined to make good that promise too, no matter what the cost. 
Fortunately, Eurostar cater specifically for the ‘no matter what the cost’ type travellers and I was back in the Loire Valley by mid afternoon on the Sunday. I was exhausted, certainly a bit down and quite paranoid too as the mechanic had called the evening before and suggested darkly that my car may have been the victim of foul play, someone had possibly cut the pipes to drain the fuel... 
My mind was racing to be honest, paranoia fed on a diet of exhaustion and loneliness is a dangerous mix and as Natalie drove me home from the station it was with a dull sense of surrealism that I noticed an elephant grazing in a field by the side of the road. 
“An elephant!” Said Thérence from the back of the car. Why it was there is anybody’s guess but my state of mind just viewed it and filed it, storing it away in a box marked ‘More things to worry about.’ It all felt like I was in one of those 1970’s conspiracy films, I was being targeted by some shadowy organisation who knew that the best way to bring me down was to deliver regular little blows to my fragile mental state. An elephant in a vineyard was just a cherry on the cake from some evil genius in a government office somewhere. 
Home didn’t immediately work to dispel these thoughts either. One of the out-houses was stinking morbidly and covered in flies, proof that there was something rotting in there that needed to be gotten rid of pronto. Again, the sense of cinematic suspicion was all prevailing as our ‘hero’ returns home to find a corpse. It was rats, two of them, and in fairly advanced stages of decomposition and so we spent two hours clearing everything out of the room, disposing of the maggoty carcasses and disinfecting the place. As homecomings go, it wasn’t the best. 
But the next three days were wonderful, my paranoia even subsided a little. The boys were all on great form and quality time was spent with Samuel before once again it was time to head off, “What time are you going?” He asked innocently at breakfast on the Wednesday morning. 
“There’s a train at 11, but I’ll just check.” I had checked countless times already but I always double check, re-check and check again from a different computer if possible and yes, there is normally a train at 11, only not today. Oh no, because today there was a short notice strike. I’ve said it before but strikes used to be so convivial in France, plenty of notice was given and always on a Thursday but now the bastards were playing hardball and I had to get to Poitiers airport some 200 kilometres away. I called a taxi, knowing full well that a, they wouldn’t answer or b, wouldn’t reply to the message because French taxis are a bit like the unicorn or a phoenix, mythical creatures that everyone wishes actually did exist but know full well they don’t. Natalie drove me to Tours in the end where I was able to catch one of the few trains running to Poitiers and from there made it to the airport.  
My paranoia levels were rising again as the stress of the day so far began to take its toll; I decided to treat myself to a meal at the airport restaurant and climbed the two flights of stairs to the panoramic salon. 
 “A table for one.” I said and the waiter looked at me with disdain. 
“Wait there!” He barked as I began following him into the crowded restaurant area and away from the waiting area. He came back a minute later with a small table and set me up in the corner of the waiting area like I’d behaved badly in the main restaurant or something and an example needed to be made of me. I ate my meal in there on my own as people came in and out and regarded me suspiciously. 
I was, by the time I arrived at my hotel in London, very strung out. Like I said at the start it’s easy to feel persecuted when you’re on your own so much but I was getting the distinct impression that I was playing the fall guy here, that everyone I encountered, every form of transport available was all conspiring against me. It was personal and I felt beleaguered and not at all in control; someone, in old school film noir parlance, was ‘playing me for a sap’. 
“Yes, hello, I have a reservation for tonight. The name’s Moore.” 
I swear I’m not making the next bit up. 
 “Of course, Mr Moore. Excuse me one second.” She picked up her desk phone and dialled a few numbers. “Yes,” she said, glancing quickly at me and then quietly speaking into the phone, “He’s arrived.” 
If I disappear in the next few days.... 
NB Of course if I am the victim of some powerful, shadowy organisation you'll feel terrible if you haven't bought my book. Click here to salve your future conscience.