Wednesday, 9 January 2008

The Call

I’ve been thinking about the film Running Scared as I prepare for the flight next week.

In it two cops from Chicago try to bring down a drugs baron before they quit and open up a bar in Florida.

They get so consumed by the future and the easier life they envisage that they can’t operate effectively as policemen. They stop doing the things they would instinctively do.

I’m so close to an important moment that I’m not functioning properly. I played tennis yesterday but thought I wouldn’t go for my shots in the normal way just in case I ended up in traction.

The fact that the court was a bit slippery may have helped me rein in my all action tendencies.

I said to my tennis partner at the end of our hour that I didn’t want to do myself a mischief.

I don’t want to do that at the best of times let alone nine days before flying to Accra.

Quite why I’ve signed up for football on Saturday beats me. Perhaps it’s because I’d like to contribute something before leaving for a month.

But if all I produce is an injury to myself then I’m going to feel a real chump.

There would be a gruesome irony about not being able to go and cover a football tournament in Africa because of an injury from football sustained on pitch in eastern Paris.

Or would that be delicious congruence?

I’m starting to make headway in the guidebook. The hotel where I’m staying in Accra is in the book and it receives a fair review.

As I plan to spend a week of downtime after the tournament finishes on February 10, I thought it wise to call up and reserve a room for February 16 as I fly back to Europe on the 17th.

But the number on the list provided by the trip co-ordinator didn’t actually work. Fortunately a number was in the guidebook.

I called and duly reserved a room. So at least the night before take-off is sorted.

I rang the number again today and it is in fact someone’s mobile. The chap said he was connected with the hotel.

I feel reassured. If the number from the list had been wrong I would have started to doubt the accuracy of everything else.

By which time I would have been sprinting scared.