2004-04-21 - 4:47 p.m.

So door to door, the journey from a tiny mountainside hamlet on an island in the Indian Ocean to my house in a nondescript part of north London took 29 hours. So, yeah, I�m a little tired. A bit cranky, even. Driving down the side of a mountain in brutal tropical sunshine does give you a hell of a trucker�s arm in the tanning stakes, though.

The drive back to the airport was done under a condition that I believe is referred to in psycho-analytical circles as �completely shitting yourself�. The last thing you need after a 5am start to look at rocks is a four hour journey against the clock along steep roads with signs that in French are saying (I�m sure of it) �Insane cornering required for, like, EVER�. I had to negotiate more blind bends than Stevie Wonder on a deep sea diving course.

My one gleaming consolation was that the Air Fr@nce office in the UK had requested that I have an upgrade for the 11 hour flight back, subject to the kindness of the airport staff. As I wended my merry way up to the check in, my nerves a-tatter but with a hopeful song in my heart, it slowly dawned on me that the chances of an English journalist receiving any kind of favour from any kind of French official were about the same as getting a blow job from De Gaulle himself. And in fact, the process of proposing the idea was about as intimidating and ultimately as pleasurable. As I explained the request in my best French, which is on a par with the best French of, say, a recently parboiled artichoke, he replies with a smile on his face.

It went more or less like:

Me: Er, the office of the news for airline in London has requested me your class of the business. They ask you if this is possible?

Him: Yes! That is to say��..No!

And with that he taps away on his little keyboard. I assume that he is now placing me in the crappiest seat he can cobble together, and I curse myself for even asking in the first place, revealing in the process my inferior nationality. Damn you, God, for making me this way!

Actually I think my isolation-induced paranoia was getting bad towards the end. No meaningful conversation for 6 days, and no English being spoken (though I did manage a one hour chat in French � a personal best. Merci beaucoup) � it plays tricks on the mind. At dinner on my last night, I was alone in an unfriendly restaurant. I ordered fish in white sauce, and as I ate, I imagined some crazed Anglophobic chef in the kitchen giving it his own �special garnish� whilst cooking it as revenge for Waterloo or something. This in mind, as the waiter collected my plate, I decided to restrict myself to �thank you very much� rather than my customary �that was delicious� � the latter would have implied that I was really keen on the taste of secretly-added jizz.

Er, not that there�s anything wrong with that.

As further proof of the onset of madness, I was singing at top volume to every single English song on the radio. I�m sure anyone would be the same. You might be up a rural mountain (as opposed to what, dickhead? An urban one?) and you might find yourself shouting yourself hoarse to an old chart hit, getting strange looks from the assembled peasantry. That song might be �Total Eclipse of the Heart� by Bonny Tyler.

I said don�t laugh.

It could be you one day.