Having discovered a secret tunnel under the sea, I passed quietly across the border into France undetected, arriving in their capital city, “Paris”, in the early afternoon. I took an apartment in the 16th arrondissement and started my new life cycling around parks and examining museums for clues. Nothing. Then one day, in the lift, someone else rode all the way up to the 8th floor with me. An enemy agent? One of their informers? I couldn’t be sure.

I packed my bags and left early the next morning, covering my trail with stories of a poorly relative in Geneva. It was a bittersweet departure; my apartment had the finest coffee machine I’ve experienced in recent years and I couldn’t fit it into my suitcase. I will remember it always.

I took a train somewhere, anywhere, ending up in the far west of the country where I spent the last two weeks hiding in a barn before negotiating my return to Plymouth on a fishing smack, hidden under a pile of nets and fish.

I’m never leaving England again. I am a scarred man. I still smell a bit like fish. So much for France.