Everyone was back...

The French Secret Servicemen, following an anonymous tip-off from me (I put a bag on my head, they had no idea who I was) had gone to Peru to search for Max. Mr Potato had gone with them to shout at the locals. My mother was still gone, and Max - free from pursuit for the moment - was at my place, drinking tea. For a man pursued by Secret chaps in suits, he was remarkably calm, although he refused to tell me what he'd done that had so offended France, and I thought it better not to push the point, as there are some things man is better not knowing.
 The orphan-children were also back, running 'round the place, smashing my many priceless vases I'd foolishly balanced on small tables and the like.
 "What I don't get," I began, "Is where they all came from."
 "Well, I can help you there!" Max said, "You see, over the time we've know each other, I've been secretly replacing your birth control pills with tiny mints!"
I sighed, as one is often compelled to do in Max's company. I considered a long, structured list of the many flaws of this explanation. Instead, I got up and fetched a broom.

Chasing Max from the house, waving the broom manically, I wondered what the neighbours thought of me. At least I was dressed this time. If they were to pull back their curtains, watch and listen, they may have heard Max's parting message:
 "You might not thank me for the kids," he yelled, "But you'll thank me for the fresh breath!"

Back to non-reality.

So, I'm back home. You know, with my mother, and the French Secret Service - who are still looking for Max. And Mr. Potato and Bigfoot, for some inexplicable reason.
 Actually, I have no idea where this is going. Could Bigfoot be Peruvian on his mother's side? Let's just scrap this entire storyline, start something new... But wait, you people crave continuity. You're always telling me that... Well, ok then.

 The house was on fire. No two ways about it - flames licked my my veranda, hot embers filled my bath, tongues of fire hotter than the whores of hell ascended my staircase. My mother, unimpressed, got out of the boot and left town. I'll probably never hear from her again. No loss, she was a useless literary tool. The French Secret Servicemen, smug looks on their faces, stood ankle-deep in my duck pond.
 "Ha, monsieur. We warned you zis woul 'appen!" They shouted happily, "Where iz 'ee?"
To be honest, they hadn't warned me about this at all. And I still wasn't giving them Max. Sure, I wanted revenge on them for destroying my home, but I didn't hate the French enough to unleash Max on them again.

I thought trainstation and carpark were words, but my spellcheck begs to differ...

The train drew to a stop. As such, I also stopped moving. Because I was on the train. There, I've said it.
 Bigfoot had long since departed, leaving me to sit next to an elderly woman who bore more than a passing resemblance to Don King. I was going to pick up my mother, you see. After Le French Secret Service started squatting in my house, I'd managed to phone my mother and convince her to put off her visit for a few days, which she'd spent living out of bins and hunting elk.
 To continue my longstanding lie that I was successful, I stole a BMW from the train-station car-park, setting off to pick her up from her hotel... Alley... Whatever. Bundling her in the boot, I began the journey home.
 Sorry, this blog doesn't have a real beginning or end, it's kind of a filler in the long-running narrative that is my insanity. And I'm still not sure what Mr. Potato the racist potato had to do with anything...

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.

Unavoidable differences?

Today, i tried to introduce the French to the Klingon Empire.
As you may expect, it didn't go well.
The cheese did not agree with the Klingons' weak, womanly stomachs, and the French couldn't manage the guttural Klingon Language.
However, i have decided not to let this put me off: Next week, i plan to bring about a lasting peace for Israel and Palestine.