Just as before (this is Dennis speaking by the way), it is fortunate that my friend Wicks is a deeply and admirably sensible man. His copious notes (taken at the time with a special, dedicated pencil) offer a special insight into the mission he undertook with Miss Bobbins.

I (Dennis Brent) am handing over the narrative now.

The Town Hall was our destination – Miss Bobbins and myself – we were charged with finding out what on earth was going on. Glad to be free from the mill stone that is Grantham, I and my new partner in crime, found a nearby bush and observed our target.

“How are we going to get in?” I asked. Naturally I already had a plan in mind but I thought I’d at least pretend to listen to her female opinion.

“Woooooooo” she cackled. “I think Flicky and Wicksy should wear the disguises. Washer women, washer women. Like that man in the serial. Wooooooooo.”

She was obviously referring to The Green Death (which Barry and I practically wrote ourselves). I thought this was almost as good a plan as my own but, being a chivalrous fellow, I agreed we should pursue her scheme. We’d probably get captured (which wouldn’t happen if I were in charge) but I thought that didn’t merit thinking too much about. Having taken a few moments to eat a sandwich, we donned our disguises and approached the main entrance.

“Cor blimey ducks” I said convincingly. “My apples and pears are killing me something rotten.”

“What?” said the doorman, obviously retarded and employed as part of a quota.

“Cor blimey guv’nor – I could murder a cup of jimmy riddle.”

“Excuse me but is there something wrong with you ?” he asked.

“I’m the cleaning woman” I explained slowly. “I’m here to polish the dog and bone don’t you know, ducks.”

“You’d better come in” he conceded. I patted my curlers and waved Miss Bobbins (staying silent like a good female) in front of me. He led us to a waiting room and told us to sit down.

“Cor blimey – it ain’t half good to get the weight off me ginger beers” I said, smiling endearingly at the doorman. I was so into character that it took a couple of minutes to throw off the disguise and become Wicks again. I threw off my costume and moved towards the open door.

“I thought you were a cleaner” said the doorman. Dash it – in sensible television programmes, the guards never come back once the hero has removed his disguise.

“Um” I prevaricated. “Look behind you”. The simple poltroons fell for my inspired distraction and Miss Bobbins and I snuck away.

“Damn you” bellowed the guard when he realised he’d been tricked. Luckily he didn’t think of running after us. We rushed down some stairs (two at a time) and reached the basement. Miss Bobbins was out of breath but my fitness has always been excellent.

“What… shall… we… do… next?” I wheezed, the dust setting off one of my fascinating allergies.

“Woooooooo – look at all the lovely darkness. I could put it in my pocket and say hello to it all day” she blathered. I struck a match and used it to find the light switch. Imagine my surprise when I found that we were surrounded by filing cabinets.

“Ooooooh” I moaned, enjoying a private moment of recognition. “Look at those”.

“Woooo – nice cabinets. Stuffed full of wisdom I bet” commented Miss Bobbins. I made a note that she'd actually said something vaguely sensible. I prised open the first draw and found it contained a mouse (deceased) and an adult magazine. I left the mouse in peace but took the magazine as I had a feeling it was some kind of vital clue. Later inspection of the periodical found it lacking in any technical merit as it merely featured n---d pictures of women (or pictures of n---d women, depending on your level of pedantry).

“Woooo – look over here, Wicks” said Miss Bobbins. I hurried over. She had sensibly uncovered invoices from around the world.

“These papers show that Bendaton’s Exotic Meat Factory is at the centre of the worldwide exotic meat industry and – more importantly – the whole operation is being run from Bendaton Town Hall.”

“Wooooo - some of these invoices are pretty colours.”

“Do you realise what this means?” I asked of her.

“They must’ve used pretty coloured trees?”

“Piffle, Miss Bobbins, piffle. It means we have stumbled across a major conspiracy. The sort of thing that is popular in well made but dreadfully unfascinating American television programmes. The sort of shows that are made by people who would instigate legal action if you publish a photograph you shouldn’t, let alone remove technical documents for your own personal use and the use of your sensible colleagues. Not that I would ever…” I clarified.

“What are we going to wooooo?” she asked. The last word might have been ‘do’ (which would’ve been more reasonable) but it certainly metamorphosed into a ‘woooooo’ quite early in the syllable.

“I’ll tell you what we’re going to w… do – we’re going to take these invoices and go and meet Dennis Brent – he’s our leader, he will know what to do.”

“But how are we going to remove these papers without them seeing us?”

“Pah! You really are a rank amateur” I scoffed. I bet Ian Devine, Grantham and Dennis Brent weren’t having similar problems with their colleagues. Oh wait, Ian Devine wasn’t allowed a colleague <smile>.

I stuffed a sheaf of papers into the secret compartment in my long-johns and we headed for the way out. We had travelled deep into the complex but eventually we found a door marked ‘Exit’ and, forty years as a professional wordsmith under my belt, I felt qualified to back a ‘hunch’ (as Peri would say). We were about to turn the final corner but could hear voices ahead.

“Woooo – baddies around the corner” wailed Miss Bobbins. I was rather afraid she was right.