If anyone ever wanted to make a film about me, they wouldn’t be short of material. This is what happened to me this morning. At 9am I was rudely awakened from my sleep by three armed men banging at the door. They were gendarmes (policemen) and they wanted to talk to me about a very delicate situation. I had already had an argument with one of them over the phone on Sunday morning, and because of my refusal to comply with his ridiculous demands, he had brought his friends round (safety in numbers – I must have sounded very scary on the phone) to pay me a little visit.
After pulling on a bizarre assortment of clothes (no girl wants to be arrested in her dressing gown after all – I have already seen one of my neighbours, hands cuffed behind her back, being carted away in hers), I ran downstairs, opened the door and invited them in for a coffee, guns and all. As they arranged themselves around my small, kitchen table, I poured the coffee and prepared myself for what I knew would be a difficult conversation.
To be continued…
Tarte Tartan 