Ian McMillan: A major inconvenience for the man on the brink of disaster

That's because during the few days I was away I went from The Man in the Know to The Man on the Brink of Disaster. Like many politicians, I experienced a sudden shift in fortunes that almost, but not quite, had

far-reaching consequences.

Let me explain. For some reason during the first couple of days, a lot of people kept asking me for directions. I must have appeared to be a born-and-bred Parisian, because I was The Man in the Know, despite the fact that I look like what I am: a middle- aged bloke from Barnsley.

A party of visiting Italians asked me the way to the Latin Quarter. A woman came out of a shop and quizzed me on the whereabouts of the nearest place that sold cigarettes. A man rushing down the street looked me in the eye, pointed his finger and barked: "Metro?"

I was able to point him in the right direction, and with the others I attempted to help, with my schoolboy French and a suite of gestures borrowed from a tic-tac man and those people who guide planes in with ping pong bats. I felt proud: I've always wanted to be internationalist, always seen myself as a true citizen of Europe, and here I was delivering map-related advice in a foreign city like a

good 'un.

I got cocky. I looked forward to the next encounter with a lost tourist just so that I could pretend to be French. Then, almost imperceptibly, a subtle shift began to occur from The Man in the Know to The Man on the Brink of Disaster.

It began in a cafe on the Champs Elyses. My wife and I sat people watching and munching on some delightful Boeuf Bourguignon. I felt at ease with the world. These days, I don't drink beer but I thought, "What the heck, I'm on holiday!" and I had a glass of some lovely Belgian brew. Then I had another. Then I had a cup of delicious coffee, and The Man on The Brink of Disaster began to appear from the shadows.

As I said earlier, I'm a middle-aged bloke from Barnsley so, of course, I paid a visit, as they call it round here, before we left the caf because it was quite a long stroll back to the hotel. We set off down the Champs (as we Men in the Know call it) in a stiff breeze.

We strolled, doing a little window shopping and I began to feel, shall we say, uncomfortable. It was hard to work out why, because I'd paid a visit, but I was starting to feel a little ill at ease.

Maybe it was the second glass of beer. Maybe it was the cup of coffee. I quickened my stride and my wife was struggling to keep up, but she's known me long enough to understand the pained look on my face. To be honest, the stiff breeze wasn't helping; I was trying to think about dry things like deserts, but it wasn't helping much. I needed to go.

We turned a corner and I almost wept with happiness: there, shining like a little silver shrine, was one of those Superloos that you sometimes see on French city streets. I pressed the button on the door, almost laughing for joy, and then the smile froze on my face. Out of order. Right, let's go.

We scuttled along. I tried to distract myself by doing the 14 times table and naming all the players in the current Barnsley squad, but thoughts of waterfalls, hosepipes and cloudbursts kept elbowing their way into my mind. It was quite a long way to the hotel and I said to my wife, in a desperate voice: "We need to find a caf, now!"

Ah, Paris, city of cafs. Except now. Except when you need one. Oh, there were plenty, but they were all shut. I was sweating. I was almost weeping. I was marching like a combination of a tired marathon runner and a Chelsea Pensioner and my wife was skipping to keep up.

The hotel was getting closer, but so was a terrible moment of disaster. That second beer! That cup of coffee! We got to the hotel steps. We got into the hotel. It was one of those hotels where you had to ask for the key so I gasped for the key.

I sprinted up the stairs, or to be more accurate, I "sprinted" up the stairs. My wife brandished the key to the room and turned it in the

lock but the door wouldn't open. It simply wouldn't budge. I gazed at the ceiling and clenched my fists. I hopped from foot to foot. I danced like Jeff Chandler in Cochise. And the door opened. Just in time. Just

in time!