I was living in the south of France and had bought a brand-new racing bicycle in the nearby town, but never having learned to ride, arrived home a little later via the ‘school of very hard tumbles’, in the ditch.

In the backwoods of history, electricity was a tad erratic, and power to the farmhouse had failed yet again. Brought up to deal with things head on, I sallied forth into the backyard. The main electrical junction box, a battered old thing, lived nailed to a pole close to the rise of the embankment next to the railway line. The swift sunset of those latitudes left a golden blush on the horizon, and in the twilight my torch illuminated chaos inside the dusty box. The interior had been wired by a contingent of drunken leprechauns on a spree. The problem was, which of the nightmare of crazily twisted wires related to our house, or the gentleman next door who sometimes thought he was a wolf. That is a tale for another full moon.

Equipped with a screwdriver I had found under the sink; I had the full force of modern science and a belief In the laws of chance at my command. I began to poke about. “How’s that?” I shouted to my wife without turning round. “Nothing yet. “Came the hopeful reply. I resumed poking. There are few things more terrible than movement where there should be none. Suddenly the wiring reached out towards me! Staring at me hungrily was the largest hairy, bird-eating monster of a spider that ever jumped out of a nightmare. I tried to push the ageing wires aside. There was an almighty violet flash followed by an interesting combination of breaking glass, and a lot of swearing (in French). I was lucky in the sense that I escaped with most of my life intact, hair curlier than before and the smell of something singed. “That it now?” I stuttered inaudibly. No answer came the sullen, silent reply.

Next morning, I sallied off to the village aboard my shining bicycle to buy bread. settling myself with a coffee and croissant, and a chat in broken French. The owner Madame Jeanette had been in ‘le resistance.’ Last week she had offered to hide me from the police due to the French for ‘thief’ and ‘bicycle’ being somewhat similar. She thought I had been stealing bicycles. and was very loyal to her customers. Her husband, known as ‘the thing’, stared at a pigeon on the pavement. ’Monsieur Eduard,” she favoured me with the knowing smile of Mediterranean matrons talking to young men. “You hear what happen in the dark of last night?”

The thing rose from his chair. The plump pigeon looked up at him respectfully.

“<i>The whole railway signalling system between here and Montpellier, kaput, destroyed. Just like the war again.</i>”

Madame nodded keeping, her eyes on mine.

“<i>Must have been the communists,</i>” I nodded vigorously. "<i>Yes, yes, a spider’s web of intrigue. The WHOLE signalling system...?</i>”