My Harry Potter moment of horror

(Those of a gentle or squeamish disposition are warned that what follows is not a pretty story nor sight)

I now have a mark on the top of my head similar to the one Harry Potter has on his forehead.

But it wasn’t Voldemort who inflicted my crimson scar of distinction.

I was on my way to Nation on my bicycle a few days ago when I became aware of a sort of tickling on my head.

But I ignored the sensation and soon the endorphins were kicking in as I did battle with the Parisian traffic and I forgot about it for a while as other incidents popped up during my one and a half hour cycle ride.

I heard a sickening thud and saw a cat sent flying by a car. The cat, in fact, had foolishly sprinted across the road and the driver had no chance to stop.

The cat disappeared through some railings. I stopped alongside the car and the motorist asked if it were my cat. (“Yeah, Tibbins and I often go for a jaunt across traffic together.”) The cat was, at least, not dead and I hope it didn’t sustain more than some bad bruises.

I continued on my way vaguely aware of the strange tickling on the top of my head, but I couldn’t be bothered to stop and take off my brain bucket to scratch my head.

I was on a roundabout when a car tried to nudge me out of the way despite my position being perfectly legal. The car’s bumper almost clipped my back wheel and I had to swerve to let the bastard through the gap; I was lucky I didn’t swerve into the cars on my right.

As Mr. Bastard drove past me I hurled an Exocet of expletives at the back of the car while alternately giving the finger and shaking my fist. “You feckin’ dipstick pile of toad’s nasal droppings and, and, and you look like Gordon Brown!” And sundry phrases like that.

But what goes round comes round and Mr. Bastard might have got some distance from me but he forgot that traffic lights do change colour and I caught up with him. As I came alongside his vehicle (he must have seen me in his rear-view mirror) I heard the click of door locks being activated.

I thought about punching and kicking dents in the side of his car (25 years of karate training now suddenly seemed like time well spent) but, zen-like, contented myself with staring at him through his car window. Just staring. Staring long and hard. His fingers fiddled nervously with his radio, his tie, and his keys.

The lights turned green and, screech, he was off like a frightened rabbit and out of my life. “That’s for Tibbins, you bastard,” I thought.

I bought my newspaper at my usual newsstand in Nation. “Bonjour, jeune homme,” the geezer greeted me amiably. Bloody hell, he can’t be much older than me and he looks the wrong side of 50, I thought. The crash helmet and cycling gear obviously take years off me. Cycling might be the death of me but the kit is rejuvenating.

I then cycled back to Fontenay-sous-Bois without mishap until I went to the boulangerie. As I shoved my baguette into my backpack I managed to knock over a rather nice thick amber glass on the counter. Crash! Oh, blogging hell.

But the very nice lady behind the counter said, “C’est pas grave, pas grave,” and waved away my flurry of apologies.

And so to home and the horror began.

I took off my helmet and there nestling in an underside ridge was an earwig. How he got there I don’t know but for an hour and a half it had been stabbing and chewing and generally lacerating a not insignificant part of my chrome dome.

I dabbed my head with a hanky and it was red with blood.

I showed my son Brainbox my newly acquired fashion statement and he exclaimed, “Daddy, have you been in a crash?!”

Almost, but that’s not the story here.

I learnt later that the name of the beast was Percy O’Reilly, a French earwig of Irish extraction.

My daughter Princess Perfect asked me if I had killed the blood-thirsty warrior.

Killed it? I tore it to pieces! No, actually, I let it go. I don’t know why really. As I write my head is still sore and the scabs more vivid and pronounced.

Percy O'Reilly sues for damages

A spokesman for the Society for the Prevention of Intense Cruelty to Earwigs, or SPICE, said last night that Percy O’Reilly was the real victim of this incident.

“Percy O'Reilly has been wrenched from his home, family and friends by some bald-headed blow-hard who thinks he’s some sort of hardman hero because he endured a few pinpricks to his bonce,” the spokesman said.

“Through no fault of his own, Percy O’Reilly became entrapped in this person’s helmet and as a consequence suffered untold psychological damage.”

The spokesman said that SPICE was representing Percy O’Reilly and would seek damages and compensation from Dumdad.

“We’re seeing more and more of this sort of behaviour and it’s got to be stopped,” the spokesman said. “An earwig has as much right to live on this earth as anyone else.