“Don’t be absurd” I snapped. “I am your brother Dennis Brent.”

“You must be burglars – you’re here to steal my valuable merchandise archive.”

“You have valuable merchandise ?” slobbered Ian Devine. “Where is it ? Where is it ? Would you like me to look after it for you ?”

“I am strongly tempted to lock you all in an uncomfortable room. The room you are in – The Mike Holloway Suite – is much too good for you” said Donald.

“What madness is this ? This is the Frazer Hines Suite” I snapped. A joke was a joke but this was simply not funny.

“Frazer Hines ? From Emmerdale Farm ? Why would I name a room after him ? You are the most bizarre people. You haven't even formally introduced yourselves.”

“I am Wicks” said Wicks.

“I am Grantham” said Grantham.

“I am Ian Devine” said Ian Devine.

“Wooooooooo” said Felicity Bobbins. “This place doesn’t feel right. It’s like everything has been moved three degrees to the lef… four degrees to the left. Much more like the four degrees left. Wooooooooo.”

“I think I should leave you in the hands of my wife – she’ll deal with you.”

“Wife, Donald Brent ?” I gasped. He, like I, had always been a bachelor.

“My wife – Mrs Clitlique-Brent – will know what to do with you. I have a previous engagement. Tonight is the big night.”

“Big night ?”

“The one thousandth episode of the Tomorrow People. The entire country is going to grind to a halt – the tabloids have been trying to hack into the Thames computers and find out the details but TIM has defeated them at every turn.”

“The Tomorrow People ?” I gasped. I was doing a lot of gasping. A less sensible person might have concluded I had forgotten how to breathe out.

“Of course the Tomorrow People. As Britain’s leading telehistorian I naturally have the finest archive of Tomorrow People materials known to man. I have the white polo neck jumper worn by…”

“But the Tomorrow people only lasted 68 episodes – every school child knows that” protested Ian Devine.

“I’ve had enough of this. Get out of my house now – you can insult my person, you can insult my wife but you will not insult the h-o-m-o superiors.”

“We haven’t said anything insulting about your wife” I mumbled.

“You can if you like. Ghastly woman. I only married her because she claimed she knew Nicholas Young."

“Donald, there must be some mistake…” I pleaded.

“No mistake – you are obviously dangerous lunatics and / or thieves and I hereby banish you from Brent Towers.” He pulled out an obviously plastic gun and motioned for us to leave. We complied as we had not yet formed ourselves into a finely honed fighting force. That would come later.

We wandered the streets of Bendaton and couldn’t help notice that there were a lot of people about. Strangers. Brightly dressed people with cameras. This wasn’t the Bendaton I knew and loved.

“Excuse me” said an American man. “Where is number two’s house ?”

“I beg your pardon” I snapped.

“Where is the house that was used for Number Two ?”

“Is this a poor attempt to trick me into toilet humour ?” I demanded.

“Number two – from The Prisoner” he explained. I thought being arrested for covertly cataloguing Lorraine Kelly’s shoes was my lowest moment but being patronised by an American easily beat that.

“The Prisoner was filmed in Port Merion you ignorant colonial”.

“Now look here, I don’t know who you are…”

“I am Dennis Brent and I demand some respect.”

“Is there a problem here ?” asked a voice from behind me. I turned round and saw Mr Dicksniff from the chemists dressed as a vicar.”

“I’m the Reverend Dicksniff” he began. I let out an involuntary scream and we all ran away to find somewhere more sensible.

“Something very odd has happened” I said. “And we must band together to get back to normal, sensible Bendaton.”

“Mr Wetfinger’s Pie Shop is a launderette” sobbed Ian Devine.

“Focus, Ian Devine.”

“You can’t eat tumble driers” he blubbed.

“You did – last Christmas. Wicks rather amusingly covered it with pastry and you swallowed it whole” noted Grantham. We all roared at the memory. Happy times in a happy place. We wandered for a while before reaching the Town Hall. The Town Hall had sat on the same spot for two hundred years and even the madness of this parallel universe (even Wicks had to admit we had ‘done an Inferno’ and crossed over to a different reality) couldn’t change that.

“Are you coming inside ?” asked a passer by. “We’re all going to watch The Tomorrow People’s 1000th episode on a big screen. And, even better, the Mayor is going to address us beforehand.”

“The Mayor ? The Honourable Mr Urine ?”

“Who ? I’m talking about Mr Penistone – Mayor of Bendaton.”

“Mr Penistone ?” I gasped (again – what was wrong with me ?) “Mayor of Bendaton ?”

“Of course – an easily the most popular mayor we’ve ever had. Hurry inside or we’ll miss his speech.”

“We’ve got a prior engagement” I snapped and we ran (slowly to avoid killing Ian Devine). We headed back to Brent Towers and I banged on the door.

“Let me in” I demanded. The door opened and my brother Donald gave me a constipated look.

“Go away” he said.

“We have come here from a parallel universe” I explained.

“Ohhhh” he replied, realisation dawning on his face, “that explains the earlier misunderstandings. Do come in.” We went inside and sat down in the sitting room. He muted his fifty six inch television (two inches smaller than mine I was pleased to note) and asked us what our world was like.

“I am Britain’s foremost expert on Doctor Who” I said proudly.

“Good heavens” he exclaimed.

“I know – impressive isn’t it.”

“No no – I mean, how does that fill your time ? Doctor Who only ran for three years until the star got old and had to retire.”

“Three years ? What is this piffle ?” I spluttered.

“Every school child knows – Doctor Who – 1963 to 1966. One of British TV’s shortest running science fiction series.”