I was nodding off while gazing at a palm tree swaying in a brisk Atlantic breeze, but fretting about our car sitting all alone back home in Scotland.
Why on earth did I leave the tank virtually empty before flying away on holiday?
It now seemed so stupid with a fuel crisis about to explode at the time. I had about 10 miles available to find a working pump on my return.
It’s extraordinary how rumours spread so fast: before you know it, there is no petrol or diesel, no turkeys or toys for Christmas – it’ll be loo rolls all over again next.
Of course, there is nothing new in this. That’s the way we humans are wired: you can’t reason with something as volatile as basic survival instinct.
Rumours lead to panic
During the 18th century, Londoners were obsessed by fear of earthquakes and tried to flee the city en masse at various times. It happened on one occasion when runaway cattle caused a human stampede.
In those days, hundreds of beasts for slaughter were herded through the heart of the city in crammed, dung-filled streets. One escaped, leaving a trail of mayhem and terror in its wake.
By the time the fleeing crowd turned a corner, rumours were flying that a full-blown earthquake had taken hold.
“People were throwing themselves on the ground to be swallowed up,” The Gentleman’s Magazine reported at the time.
But, as Corporal Jones discovered in Dad’s Army, shouting “don’t panic” at the top of your voice tends to have the opposite effect. The words are usually drowned out by a deafening stampede.
What supposedly began as a petrol leak in high places quickly pulled the plug on our normally free-flowing fuel supplies. Suddenly a simmering HGV-driver shortage accelerated to the point of closing the country down.
Bringing the army in is never a good look for a government repeatedly accused of losing its grip. And especially when ministers appear to be auditioning for the part of the aforementioned Corporal Jones.
Telling frazzled drivers to stop worrying because there was plenty of petrol and diesel – but they just couldn’t have it yet – sounded farcical.
Becoming part of the rumour mill
Yes, it’s funny how rumours run fast and furious.
Little did I know as I dozed in the sun, but we were about to be plunged into our very own rumour mill.
My wife, who had also been gazing at the big thick palm tree towering above the villa we were staying in, shot bolt upright and shouted: “Look at that. It’s swaying.”
Shock, horror – aren’t palm trees supposed to sway? That’s how they survive hurricanes, after all.
But she meant the base of its trunk; a large crack had appeared and it was slightly oscillating around as the wind wrenched it this way and that. With a few tons weighing down from above, we feared it might snap like a pencil.
After much arm-waving by gardeners and a personal visit from the resort director, none other than Señor Mendez himself, we were invited to evacuate the villa pronto for the night. It was taped off like a crime scene.
“I think there’s been a murder over there,” someone said to a group gathered on the other side of the bar.
All heads swivelled in the direction in which she pointed, including ours. It was our taped-off villa, which looked ominous in the dark, like something out of Line of Duty.
“No, no, no,” someone else chipped in. “I heard a poor couple in there have been quarantined with Covid.”
Avoiding disaster
It was time to intervene to stop things getting out of hand.
“It’s us, we are staying there,” I blurted. “We were almost crushed to death by that palm tree.”
That was a bit of an embellishment, I have to admit, but I felt compelled to match their level of high drama. All I’d done was feed the rumour machine: people were now turning up at all times of day and night to peer over the wall and view the “killer tree”.
Next morning, a small crowd gathered to watch workmen cutting this impressive 30-foot specimen down to size. Off came giant fronds and its huge pineapple-shaped crown.
Crash, bang, wallop. They managed to partly demolish our patio pergola and smash a wall in the process, but better than the whole villa disappearing. We were quite the celebs, giving news updates to fellow residents throughout the day.
By the time we re-entered our villa, a sympathetic ripple of applause broke out from imbibers at the bar.
We slept easier in our beds that night. But I don’t think I had done a very good job of putting the rumours to bed.
David Knight is the long-serving former deputy editor of The Press and Journal
