Citroen C3P.O.

Monsieur. G and I wandered into the dim Portakabin which was the National Car rental office at Beauvais airport. A spinny fan hummed overhead and I swear the room went black and white at this point. If I had been feeling less tired and more butch I could have been Lauren Bacall at this moment. All of a sudden from an open door a spanner was thrown, clattering onto the floor. A door in the back office was slammed and then two men came out shrieking in each others’ faces. One was really tall and thin with the worse blond highlights I’d seen on a man this side of 1986, the light bouncing off them more than it did the diamond in his ear. A queeny hissy fit worthy of back stage at a drag show was being launched at a short, rotund colleague with the most amazing comb over I had ever seen. The men were in each others faces, shouting, screaming, gesticulating all at once. The French was flying back and forth so fast I truly wish I was able to report what the cause of this disagreement was. I had no clue. I stood stock-still and stared wide eyed as the floor show continued. Monsieur G seemed to be nonchalantly picking car detritus from his finger nails with a matchstick he’d been chewing on. I felt the need to intervene partly out of civic duty but also because I really didn’t have time for this and I could hear the clock ticking. I should have been trying to remember the words to one of Olivia’s less successful albums of the late 1990s.

I don’t know where the words came from. They were a mix of things which had been buried in the back of my mind since 1986 mixed with words I’d learned especially for my trip in case I needed them. In passable French I shouted,

“Stop it! Stop it! I’ve been awake since 2.30 this morning, I smell of diesel, I have only eaten childrens sweets since Calais and I need to get me and my petrol strimmer to Correze before midnight, please can I have a very small Citroen” The End.

Even Monsieur G stood to attention at this point. The fighting instantly stopped. The French one half of Air Supply stormed out the room, the stricken comb over was re-applied,

“Monsieur, can I help you?”

“Yes I have broken down, my insurance will pay for a hire car. I believe you have one car left”

I handed him the papers from the AA. In theory the good old AA should be a passport to anything but sadly not here at the National Car rental office in Beauvais,

“Monsieur! Your insurance company do not have an agreement with us! We will not give you a car!”

At this point Monsieur G woke up, stood up, straightened is cap and said,

“Excuse me? You said on the phone you have a car? It’s the last one in Beauvais… look at this poor English man! We have to help him and his gardening equipment! It’s the French thing to do!!”

I was past caring about insurance at this point so to dissipate the rising tension, I coolly said,

“Please don’t worry, I am happy to pay for the car myself”

Comb over had had a bad day. He was indignant and unfortunately the Great British Institution which is the AA had offended his sensibilities. Or finished them off after John Non Jovial had trampled on them.

“I am sorry Monsieur! But! If my cars are not good enough for your insurance company then they are not good enough for you! You will not have the red Citroen C3 with air conditioning! NO! You will not!”

The Haribo effect had worn off a while ago because there was no come back to that. The gap however was filled with my oil covered Sir Galahad,

“How dare you speak to a visitor of our republic like that! You are an embarrassment to France! Look at this poor Englishman!” Was I really looking that pathetic??? I also thought my outfit had international tones to it “He is in need! And we should show him that France cares!”

This was now clearly becoming an issue of national pride for Monsieur G but comb over wasn’t feeling patriotic, in fact he was a pill shy of a breakdown of some sort and I was tipping him towards it with my need for a small French car. He rose up, chest plumped up, the second strand from the left getting dangerously close to sliding behind his glasses,

“I will not be insulted! My cars are as good as Hertz and Avis! He can tell his insurance company that as well!!!”

I don’t know why I didn’t see it coming. Haribo haze? Or maybe the intoxication due to diesel fumes? Or maybe sheer exhaustion. Monsieur G was not standing for this. The honour of France was at stake. As I stood there flummoxed he simply catapulted himself forward. Within seconds its was man on man chest stabbing with fingers, seconds after that faces were bearing down on faces and the only word I understood was an international one which cannot be repeated. But I wasn’t going to see either of them next Tuesday. I had to stop this here and now. Two firsts were achieved simultaneously. I’ve never had two men fight over me and I’ve never had to break up a fight let alone by stepping inbetween to scrapping Frenchmen. With a deft swing of the man bag I thrust myself between them, I had comb over by the tie and a more friendly but equally restraining hand on my mechanic hero,

“Please! I only want a hire car. I am not asking for much. I am so sorry my insurance company have insulted you. I will write to them. Please can I have the small red Citroen with air conditioning?”

Well, it was heartfelt but it didn’t work. After a pause, comb over looked at me and in a voice which was more akin to telling me he was leaving me and taking the Celine Dion CD’s with him simply and quietly said,

“I’m sorry”

With that he walked  out the back door, Monsieur G left by the front slamming it after him. I was left with the hum of the ceiling fan and an increasing sense of desperation. At that moment the phone rang.  It was Emily from the AA……