Things weren't going well. Of course, that's a pretty redundant sentence - things rarely go well for me, and a story where everything went nice and swimmingly would probably be as interesting as a story where I went for a nice swim. So anyway, things weren't going well.
In two hours, my mother will be arriving from the airport. Not my real mother, of course, but my fictional blog-mother. This was not a problem in itself: normally, all I needed to do was tidy the place up a bit and lock Max out. I don't know why I should need to do that, he doesn't live here. Even if he has seemed like he does recently. That's not a good sentence, but I'm too lazy to retype it. Sorry. If that upsets you, send me a postcard. And cash
So my mother would arrive. No problem: Max, rescued from the embassy, had called to let me know he was hiding in the garden centre, to avoid a particularly argumentative rosebush. I hadn't understood his call much, but that was common. My home was tidy, some coffee was brewing, some biscuits arranged nicely on a plate, some letters from celebrities congratulating my on my rich and successful life fraudulently created and placed strategically around the flat. Then, about 45 minutes ago, two men arrive. Suits, trench-coats, sunglasses, berets. French Secret Service.
Rummaging through my cupboards, eating my Brie and croissants and laughing at how far my house was from a brothel, they explained that Tibet and China weren't the only countries Max's world tour had upset. Furthermore, they were convinced he was hiding something here. My French isn't good, so I didn't quite understand what they were looking for, but they kept hiding near my fridge, jumping out and opening it suddenly, as if whatever they were searching for would suddenly appear.
It was getting annoying. My mother could be here any minute, and despite being a lovely, tolerant woman, she was horribly xenophobic, and had a fear of berets ever since a mime mugged her in Edinburgh Zoo. As such, I must once again spend my day removing Frenchmen from my kitchen. Wish me luck.