If I were making this up, my lies would be more convincing

You'll recall that the last time I went to France, we got onto the plane on time, taxied to the runway, and then there was a "technical fault" that delayed us and set off a great odyssey, wherein I took 24 hours to get to Rennes. Well...

On Sunday, I awaoke at 20 minutes past nine, and began my day. It was a usual Sunday, with a trip to my parents for Sunday dinner interspersed with trips to Church. And not much in between. But things took an odd turn just before ten in the evening, for instead of preparing for the week ahead by making sandwiches, maybe watching a bit of TV, and gradually sliding towards bed, I instead put a DVD in the player, and settled down for a more eventful night.

See, my flight was due to take off at 6 in the morning. Being an international flight, they now specify a two-hour check-in. And, with the constant and imminent threat of terrorism (at least, that's what the government says), I'm disinclined not to follow that recommendation. But, an arrival at the airport at 4 means getting up at 2:30, by which point it just isn't worth going to bed at all.

So, I didn't. Instead, I put Hamlet on - the four hour Kenneth Brannagh version. And what a film it is! In addition to having the very best script, it was filmed on 70mm film, which means it looks simply glorious, far better than normal films. And the cast is simply astonishing. Good times.

And then, tired but ready for the day ahead, I started Monday with an early breakfast, a shower, a change of clothes, and then to the car. Driving to the airport at that time in the morning is fascinating. There isn't a soul about, and so it is almost as if the roads were made for you alone. Which is nice. (My favourite is the "Keep a Safe Distance" sign they were showing just for me.)

I got to the airport at four o'clock exactly... and found that check-in hadn't even opened! Rage! Still, no matter. I waiting, checked in, passed through security with absurd ease, and made my way to the departure lounge, where I passed the time reading some Poe. Then, to the plane!

We taxied to the runway on time, and things were looking good. The engines spun up, and we were about to launch ourselves into the darkened skies, and...

"I'm terribly sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but we've had a technical fault, and we're going to have to return to the terminal building to get it sorted out."

I suspect the gentleman sitting next to me might have been a bit unnerved by the sight of me battering my head against the wall at this point. He didn't say anything, though.

(Incidentally, this is how I know I'm not secretly trapped in a romantic comedy: in a RomCom, last time I was delayed, I would have struck up a conversation with a cute but distracted girl, with whom I would form an instant rapport, but be blocked from taking action by the fact of her boyfriend. Then, on the second instance, I would just happen to meet the same girl, now unfettered by aforesaid boyfriend. Instead, I was forced to establish an instant rapport with a packet of Cadbury Buttons. But, giant ones, so that's okay.)

But better was to come: when they got back to the terminal, they found the problem had sorted itself out, but they couldn't take off until the proper paperwork was filled out. So, I missed my connection because some guy had to have a form stamped. Huzzah!

Fortunately, my route on Monday took me via Paris Charles de Gaulle, so I knew I would get there that day, provided the French trains were running. And, in fact, when we did reach CdG, they simply booked me on the next flight to Rennes, and I arrived a mere four hours after the expected time.

Thus far, things were reasonably okay, but there was a further twist in the tale. See, my trip was set up at short ni=otice on Friday, with my boss booking the flights, his French counterpart arranging a hotel, and me quickly gathering laptop and assorted kit for the trip. So, I reached Rennes, laptop in hand... and found that the details of my hotel were conspicuously absent from my Inbox.

It turned out there was no hotel. Uh-oh. Fortunately, or so I was told, there is a bed tucked away in one corner of the office in Bruz. If all else failed, I could sleep there. Of course, breakfast would consist of a sugar cube and a cup of coffee. Oh, and the heating is switched off at night, so it might be a touch froid.

However, all was not lost. There remained time to resolve this small problem, and so a hotel was found. Our hero was saved!

I don't remember anything more from work that day. The emails I sent suggest we made some progress was made, but my mind is blank. In my defense, I had been up for thirty hours by that point, so it's no surprise that things were odd. At least I didn't start hallucinating.

You'd think that that was quite enough for any one trip to France. After all, what more could there be? How about this: I had carried plenty of spare clothes with me, in case of an extension to the trip being required. I had also carried four cans of Irn Bru with me, in case of a desire to feel a bit human during the trip. Unfortunately, my bag had obviously suffered a knock, and one of the cans had proven less than robust. There was Irn Bru all through my bag, Irn Bru all over one of the books I had brought, Irn Bru staining both of my white Magical Trevor t-shirts, Irn Bru everywhere. Suddenly, I had no spare clothes at all, except for two sets of socks and underwear that had miraculously survived the orange explosion.

It was an interesting trip. So, how has your week been?