So Sunday morning came, bright and lucid, and we found ourselves on the serpentine train down from St.Julien, benefiting from the casual generosity of the SNCF ticket collectors in the form of yet another free ride. We arrived relaxed and in good time, grabbed a couple of rubber rolls from a kiosk, and set off for the front of the station, skilfully avoiding a slight disturbance between local police and an irate gypsy.

Upon arriving at the 'front' of the station Richard seemed a little confused. He'd spent the night in some bushes at the 'front' of the building several years ago but the scene now confronting us was completely unfamiliar. It didn't take long to ascertain that there must be two entrances. Well, no problem there; two of us; two entrances. You stay here; I'll go to the other.

We wait.

'Where are you?' Grandad asks in a tone that bisects stressed and flabbergasted. I explain the principles of Exits A and B and naturally assume they must be at B. Their description confirms my suspicions; escalators�Metro stop�NOT the end by the buses�simple.See you in two minutes. I rush back to Richard and we scan the 'place'.There's a colony of sweaty businessmen taking an early lunch, a handful of shoppers, a piss-soaked tramp, but no Granny and Grandad. I try another phone call which re-affirms the buses, escalators and Metro. They are right outside the station. Surely this can't be that difficult. Unless�

We go in search of exit C.

'Don't move anywhere!' I command with forgiving authority. 'We'll come to you. It should only take a couple of minutes.'

A steep grassy slope leads up to the railway track and ultimately back to Part Dieu. It has to be easier than retracing our steps so we scramble upwards, cross a siding, and are welcomed by a beetroot-faced official who shouts animatedly at us. We reply in our best textbook we-are-very-sorry French but the message doesn't seem to be received in a very sympathetic manner. He's still screaming and rapidly ascending through the different shades of purple so we resort to silence and continue along the platform with our hysterical escort. Screaming�silence..screaming�silence. He's at us like a huge, bloated terrier. Screaming�silence. No one's breaking down. I break the stalemate.
'Just Fuck Off!'
'Qu'est-ce-que c'est fuque oeuf?' he replies indignantly. Now he's really rattled. He phones the police and looks smug.

We are frog-marched to the reception desk of the Hotel De Police where we are confronted by the topless form of an irate gypsy. He's more than irate now. He's rapidly working into a frenzy. He's a refugee from Chechnya and he shouldn't be treated like this and he's going to take off his shoes and launch them at the wall and then he's going to rip off his trousers and throw them to the floor and then he's going to chuck his big baggy Y-fronts across the room and stand stark bollock naked in front of dozens of bystanders before being dragged into a cell and beaten just to prove the point. Through the melee our official and I exchange apologies for our various insults and we're on our merry way to Perrache.

I'm straight on the phone again as we emerge from the dingy Metro tunnels. We've arrived. We've found the escalator with the big clock at the top. They should be just here�

No! We go back into the station and out the other side. There's an escalator; there's a big clock. We try another approach.Escalator, big clock. Another. Escalator, big clock. Another. Escalator. Big clock. I'm on the phone again. Granny tells me they're by the Hotel Baldylocks. I spy the Hotel Bordeaux on the next of our forays and the penny drops. We get there. Nothing. We've done five escalators now, panting under twelve-ton rucksacks, sweat streaming into eyes, lost in some Dali nightmare.

Descending our sixth I spot a white van.