As the wind whistles around my naked body, I groggily realise that the traffic is going the wrong way around this particular roundabout.  One female driver even seems to be taking several trips round before deciding which exit to take.

But I’m not worried.  I’ve been here before.  On this roundabout even.  But I’ve got other things on my mind.  My nose is running.  Not much but enough to tickle those small hairs that grow in each nostril.  Sniffing makes it worse.  The drip embellishes, tickling additional hairs and making my eyes water more.  It’s no good I’m going to have to wipe it to relieve the agony.  Bending my head down, ready for my nose to join in ecstasy with my arm, I realise something’s wrong.  Pulling with more force I realise that one arm is inextricably linked to the other behind my back.  I should have remembered.

As I said, I’ve been here before.  The first time I was tied to this roundabout was forty years ago.  Forty years to the day.  My wedding day.  Forty blissful years married to the most beautiful woman I know.  Being a French wedding, both the Stag and Hen parties were in France too.  My so-called mates whisked me off to a small French town where we carried out a very British pub-crawl.  Naturally, with the quantities we drunk it was only several hours later, that I discovered myself tied to a roundabout.  This time I wanted things to be different.

Forty years ago, a few hours after dawn, a couple of local people walked by, and completely ignored me.  Eventually I heard a horse and cart approach from behind.  A kindly saviour released me but then, blindfolded me and forced me to climb into the straw laden cart.  Whoever it was, they never mentioned a word.  We travelled for some time before I was released near to the hotel where I was staying.  Thanks to my liberator, I’d had a couple of hours to sober up, clean up and dress up for my wedding.  It was the happiest day of my life.  Today though, I’m determined to find out who my liberator was.

My nose is streaming now.  Wriggling again reminds me that both hands are also fixed to a road sign in the centre of this traffic island.  Blast!   There was only one thing to do.  Take one almighty sniff and mop up the excess with my tongue.

            Whilst snorting like a truffle seeking pig, and crossing both eyes in an effort to see the tip of my tongue attempt to enter each nostril, I’m aware of another presence.  Despite this major interchange being far busier than it was forty years ago, I’m no longer alone.  Looking up through heavily watering eyes, I see a member of the Gendarme.  He’s smiling. Just smiling.  No, he’s grinning. Or is it a smirk?      

“Bonjour, Je Suis Anglais.”

            As the word ‘Anglais’ falls from my lips and a globule of mucus from my nose, the Policeman collapses into fits of laughter.  For several minutes he stands in front of me, desperately trying to regain himself.  When the hysteria wanes, he turns and walks away.  My eyes blink the tears away as I try to focus on this man returning to his vehicle.   A wriggling frenzy persuades me that whatever material is clasping my wrists together, it isn’t going to loosen.  But it isn’t supposed to.  I’m not supposed to escape yet.

            The Policeman shuts the door to his patrol car and starts his engine.  Lowering the window, he shouts ‘Anglais’ before laughing again.  With no consideration to other traffic, he speeds off leaving me alone.  Humiliated.  I didn’t have a brush with the law last time.  

            The traffic has been circumnavigating me for some while now because the volume appears to have dropped.  It’s not the rush hour, this is now shopper and day-tripper time. 

Suddenly an old Citroen 2CV drives past me, the driver concealed in an old raincoat, a trilby hat and some very dark sunglasses.  This is it!  At last I am going to find out who my saviour was forty years ago.  The car bumps up onto the roundabout behind me.  The engine dies and someone climbs out.

            “Help me.  Please help me.”  (Well it’s part of the act isn’t it?)  But immediately my nose is twitching again.  It’s not running.  There is a foul smell attacking my senses.  Urgh!  What is it?  It certainly hasn’t come from a bottle produced by Yves St Laurent.

            Before I can be sick, a blindfold is gently placed over my eyes and tightened.  I sense my visitor standing in front of me.  I hear a movement, and feel the raincoat covering me.  My stomach is heaving and retching.  That smell!  Suddenly my hands are free, and the blood flows into my fingers.

            Two hands grab me and drag me to my feet.  The coat falls to the ground, but is rescued, and this time, I’m allowed to wear it properly.  I smell nauseatingly sick.  Each arm is pulled on for me and around the front the buttons are tied and the waist belt tightened.  The driver guides me a few steps before I hear a car door open.  A hand is on top of my head encouraging me to enter, whilst protecting me from the doorframe.  I draw my feet in and the door slams shut.  My rescuer gets in and the suspension compensates.

            A thought strikes me.  Why not remove the blindfold?  Do this and I shall see my saviour, solving this forty year mystery.  I raise my arms to my head, but immediately a hand smacks my left arm and reinforces this with a deep, firm ‘Non!” 

The engine starts, handbrake releases and we jolt forward.  We drop onto the road and I physically flinch as a car horn blares continuously from behind, and then drives past.  When the fear subsides, so the repulsive smell returns with avengeance.  The car turns right and I realise we are leaving the roundabout.  I sigh.

I’m going to have to open the window.  Fumbling with the car door, I desperately seek for the catch that opens it.  The smell is ghastly.  My fingers find one and pull, and the sudden surge of wind and noise panics me, realising that I’ve opened the door.  My saviour grabs my arm, stopping me fall and apprehensively I pull the door shut.  Phew!  The fresh air was lovely, but the fear wasn’t.

From the sound of the gearshifts, engine noise and vibrations of the car, I sense we are travelling along a major road.  I can’t carry on with the smell.  Even my saviour is now choking.  Hearing a blast of wind roar, seconds later I feel the freshness on my face and relief up my nose.  The driver has opened their window.

The car journey continues in silence but for the incessant whining of the engine tiring my ears and the wind through the window.  I’m trying to work out how this will all end.  I desperately want to know who my saviour is and thank them.  Thank them for getting me to the Church on time.  Thank them for allowing me to have forty glorious years with my wife.  But I wanted to see my saviour, face to face. 

Within moments the car slows and turns right.  The loose ground underneath ricochets off the chassis as we bumble about from pothole to pothole.  The car halts and the passenger door behind me opens.  Someone climbs in.

“Well fancy meeting you here Jimmy,” says the unmistakable voice of my so-called Best Man.

“Hmmm, fancy” I reply.

 “I like your rain coat.”

“Where the blazes did you get it from, it smells disgusting!”  Already the air is congealing with the odour.

“Yeah, we had a bit of a problem there.  We couldn’t find the raincoat used forty years ago, but it’s amazing what these French farmers will dress their scarecrows in.”

“Oh you’re joking!  That’s disgusting.  Get it off of me.  And while you’re doing that take this blindfold off.”

“Just one thing before we do Jimmy.  I hope you enjoyed our trip down memory lane.  It’s been a nightmare to organise.  Not only did I arrange for all the lads to get across, but I also had to book the same hotels, and even check that the same roundabout where we tied you to forty years ago still existed.  Forty years is a long time to be married.  Thank heavens that good Samaritan helped you out.  That was my real challenge for this trip.  Trying to find them.  Forty years on we’re still trying to find why they did it.

Suddenly the driver spoke.  “I had an ulterior motive though.”

I know immediately who it is.  As the blindfold falls and I open my eyes, there she is.  My saviour.  My liberator.  My wife.