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way of activity, just a few odd cars crawling round the inner road, those at the wheel looking in much the same pessimistic state of mind as he was.
    Checking the nearest pay and display machine, the Director’s reasoning that he should arrive soon after 14.00 became clear. The list of charges showed that parking was free between the hours of 12.00 and 14.00. Before and after that it rose from a minimum of 1Fr every fifteen minutes to a maximum of l0Fr for nine hours. Clearly most people either overstayed their lunch time and risked a fine, or they paid their full whack at the start of the day.
    Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank. There had been no mention in the Director’s note about what to do in the event that he couldn’t find anywhere to leave the Twingo. Clearly such a possibility hadn’t crossed Monsieur Leclercq’s mind. Thus spoke the man who had his own personal parking space at the office.
    Driving round the perimeter of the Promenades Populle for a second time, Monsieur Pamplemousse was almost tempted to give it up as a bad job when he spotted a Renault Espace backing out from behind a building. Ignoring an arrow indicating exit only, he shot into the vacant space, just beating another driver who’d had his eyes on it too.
    Four elderly ladies seated on a concrete bench broke off from their gossiping to watch. Clearly, had there been an argument they would have been only too pleased to join in.
    Pommes Frites stirred in his sleep as the sound of the engine died away and he heard his master’s door open and shut. Not having eaten since breakfast, he had a large hole in his stomach; a hole which had featured in a particularly good dream he’d been having; a dream in which bones played a major part; bones of all shapes, sizes and from a variety of sources. A dark patch on the rear seat bore mute testimony to their combined tastiness. (Fortunately it was covered in washable velour material since, although it was available in a wide range of colours, saliva grey was not among those listed.)
    Torn between seeing what was going on outside the car and staying put for a little while longer, Pommes Frites chose the latter course and closed his eyes again.
    His bliss was short-lived, for almost at once hewas brought to his feet by the peremptory voice barking out orders again. Not once, but several times in quick succession: ‘STAND CLEAR. SYSTEM ARMED’ followed by ‘SYSTEM DISARMED’, then ‘SYSTEM ARMED’. It was all very confusing and for a few seconds he was up and down like the proverbial yo-yo.
    During the course of one of his upward leaps, he happened to glance through the rear window and caught sight of his master. For some reason best known to himself Monsieur Pamplemousse was doing almost exactly the same thing; jumping up and down like a yo-yo. The only difference between the two of them was that he, Pommes Frites, was doing his best to obey orders, whereas his master appeared to be taking the opposite line. He was sucking his fingers and shouting
merde
at the top of his voice.
    Not for the first time, Pommes Frites feared for his master’s sanity. He was certainly very red in the face.
    However, as is so often the case in life, the truth of the matter was much simpler. Monsieur Pamplemousse had discovered the hard way that the Twingo’s exhaust pipe was smaller by at least one centimetre than the sum total of its keys plus the security triggering device. And since both were encumbered by a large rubber ball on the end of achain, a ball which as far as he could see served no purpose whatsoever, what should have been a simple operation of pushing them up the exhaust pipe was rendered impossible.
    And even if he had been able to carry out the task, the end of the pipe had a bend in it so that it faced downwards; something the Director, who wasn’t noted for being mechanically minded, had clearly overlooked. (So unmechanically minded was Monsieur Leclercq, rumour had it that when his wife had