“I feel so proud – it was a painful birth but worth it” beamed my blubbery colleague.

“You don’t think this is a tiny bit odd, Ian Devine?” I asked.

“Odd, Dennis Brent? That the world should have another Ian Devine? I should think you will all be grateful. Mr Wetfinger has already named his first daughter Iandevina Wetfinger in tribute to me – imagine if Mrs Wetfinger has a second, they could call it Pastydevino or Pastydevina depending on the g-e-n-d-e-r.”

“I feel you may have mislaid your priorities” I warned. “We are in a mysterious German scientist’s laboratory and have discovered large amounts of experimental cloning equipment and you are thinking about the owner of the pie shop’s unborn child.”

“You may have a slight point there” he admitted, “but you are only jealous because no one has ever named anything after you.”

“Au contraire” I said with pride, “Dr Flapjack says he has applied to the British Medical Council to name my a-n-u-s trouble ‘Dennis Brent’s Condition’.”

“Words” scoffed Ian Devine.

“And Mr Burpentrump of the hippy art commune named a statue he’d constructed entirely out of faecal matter after me.”

“That still doesn’t compare with an actual human life” said Ian Devine smugly.

“Be that as it may” I told him, suppressing the desire to continue an argument I was obviously going to win, “that doesn’t help us here.”

“Can I create a mini Grantham?” asked Grantham.

“Oooh – I’d love a little Wicks” added Wicks.

“No one is going to clone themselves – we are Brent’s Seven not ‘Brent’s More than Seven’” I said wittily.

“But there are only five of us in Brent’s Seven” quibbled Grantham.

“Hush you” I said without thinking. “I mean be quiet. There is a time for sensible discussion and this is not it.”

“Good point, Dennis Brent” said Ian Devine. “It must be lunch time.”

“True” we agreed. I made a leadership decision that we should leave investigation of the laboratory until later and shouted these instructions to Wicks, Grantham and Ian Devine (who were already half way up the stairs). We retired to ‘The Dalek Café’ an eatery with a fascinating television theme.

“Would you like a jelly baby?” asked our rather bored looking waiter. “Or would you prefer a meal? Sorry but we have to say that.” He handed us menus and showed us to a small table near the lavatories.

“This is nice” I said in that way that everyone does when sitting between a toilet and an autographed photograph of Tony Selby.

“Does anyone want any starters?” asked the waiter (‘Toby’ according to his name badge). We studied the proffered menus.

“I’ll have a ‘swarm cocktail’ please” said Wicks.

“I’d rather like a dish of ‘Melanie balls’” added Grantham.

“I would like the soup of the day” I said.

“You have to order properly, Dennis Brent” nudged Ian Devine.

“Oh very well – I’ll have the ‘soup of the day of the Daleks’” I repeated grumpily.

“I will have the ‘horns of pie-mon’” concluded Ian Devine.

“Right” sniffed the waiter and he left us in peace.

“So what do we know?” I asked, hoping we could shed new light on our affair by exchanging information.

“Um” said Wicks.

“Well” added Grantham.

“I forgot to order anything for Pasty” gasped Ian Devine. “Come to think of it, where is little Pasty?”

“I think we might have left him in the taxi” I told him.

“Oh dear” sighed Ian Devine. “Does this mean we have to go back to Tom Baker’s and clone me again?”

“Or telephone the taxi company” offered Wicks. Fortunately, at that moment little Pasty Devine padded into the Dalek Café and clambered up onto Ian Devine’s knee.

“I knew my big brave boy would be ok” he beamed paternally. “Waiter – my little friend will have a slightly smaller portion of ‘the horns of pie-mon’.” Pasty kicked him in the stomach and made Ian Devine clarify that the two portions were to be the same size.

“That’s my boy” smiled Ian Devine.

The starters came and went without any intelligent discussion. In due course the main dishes arrived.

“What are we going to do about Tom Baker?” I asked, tucking into my ‘Karn-tucky style chicken’.

“Do we need to do anything?” asked Grantham, taking a mouthful of his ‘fish and Glitz’.

“He is a dangerous megalomaniac” I reminded him.

“We’ve never done anything about that before.”

“But this time he has a mysterious German scientist and a laboratory” I added.

“And a midget – don’t forget his midget” said Wicks.

“Don’t use the M word around Pasty Devine” chided Ian Devine. “He is very sensitive – just like his daddy.”

Apologies were offered to Ian Devine and Pasty.

He was disinclined to accept the apologies so we instead bought him an enormous slice of ‘Genuine American Kapel Pie’ for pudding. He swallowed it whole, insisted on a second one and consented to forgive us our trespasses. All this pie related banter had quite distracted us from the subject of Tom Baker and his web of mayhem and intrigue. The waiter brought us our bill. We each took our note pads out of our sensible satchels and began to work out everyone’s share of the reckoning. Two hours later, and a minor brawl over whether Grantham should pay full price for the bread roll he only half consumed or only pay half price and the rest of the cost be absorbed into the 0.75% tip that we agreed we would be leaving, and we were ready to pay.

“Oh no” I gasped. “I appear to have mislaid my wallet.”

“Not that old trick, Dennis Brent” scoffed Wicks.

“A very h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l ploy, Dennis Brent” added Ian Devine.

“It must’ve happened during one of my scuffles. I have scuffled an awful lot today you must admit.”

“What are you going to do? I’d offer to pay your share but that might be misconstrued” said Grantham. “I wouldn’t want this to come between our friendship.”

“Lending money without a suitable rate of interest isn’t a very sensible option” agreed Wicks.

“Then I’m in trouble” I gasped. The waiter approached our table with his pad. “This time I really think it could be the end…”