“How so?” asked Tom Baker.

“Because my friends and I have a fool proof plan which will enable your contestant to win. Guaranteed.” He beamed the beam of a man who can be trusted. Or who wants people to think he can be trusted. Or wants people to think they think he can be trusted. Anyway, to the rest of us it resembled a geological feature on the wall of a damp cave.

“Fool proof? Tell me, tell me” begged Tom Baker, his eyes lit up at the prospect of victory.

“If we were to do the following…” began Wicks.

And that was how Ian Devine, Wicks, Grantham and I ended up in evening gowns, plastered with make up and standing, alluringly, in Tom Baker’s living room.

“So you see, Tomsin Baker wouldn’t have any trouble winning a contest where we were the only other contestants” explained Wicks, adjusting his b-o-s-o-m-s and practicing his pout.

“Welllll you may have a point” conceded Tom Baker. “I’m pleased I decided not to vaporise you. Strut up and down for me.” We obeyed and pranced around for a good (or bad) half hour while he critiqued our femininity.

“For gods sake, Brent, do try not to look like you’ve got something shoved up you an…”

“Yes thank you, Tom Baker” I snapped. Grantham, Ian Devine and I were wobbling terribly on our high heels. Wicks on the other hand – obviously a fast learner – was scooting around on them as if he’d secretly been practicing for years. Tom Baker gave over the training session to Wicks and he taught us out to twirl, how to swing our hips and even how to make our b-o-s-o-m-s look best on camera.

“Not too good” warned Tom Baker, “I don’t want one of these pubes in the sandwich of life to win the sodding trophy.”

“But they – we – have to be convincing enough” argued Wicks. “otherwise the contest might be seen as fixed.”

“I have one question, Wicks” I began.

“Yes, Dennis Brent?”

“What is going to happen to the real contestants?”

“Ah.”

“Oh.”

“Bugger.”

“Is it second lunchtime yet?”

“We could lock the other contestants in a shed” suggested Grantham.

“Alas we are women… I mean men, without a shed” corrected Wicks.

“Do you think someone might spot the switch?” I asked with a little witty sarcasm in my tone.

“Not if you follow Mr Wicks’ very excellent training” warned Tom Baker. “Remember that you have two choices – perform or be turned into dust.”

“We remember” I told him. “Do you mind if Ian Devine and I go and powder our noses?”

“Not at all” smiled Wicks. He had fallen for my plan.

When Ian Devine and I were alone I turned to him and whispered “How are we goig to get out of this mess?”

“What mess?” he asked.

“Being forced to enter Miss Firkinside.”

“Oh that mess. Well I don’t think we need to worry too much about that – as scrapes go it’s not too unpleasant.”

“Am I the only person that doesn’t want to parade around in women’s clothing for the smutty gratification of Firkinside’s male population?” I asked rhetorically.

“It’s only a bit of fun, Dennis Brent, and it would afford an excellent opportunity for Wicks to write a first hand piece for his “Horny Nimon” article. Think of it as research.”

“I’m starting to think you like dressing up, Ian Devine” I said with hostility. “Don’t make me use the H word.”

“What piffle, Dennis Brent. I am merely trying to save our lives and enable my friend Wicks to write a fascinating technical article. Any supplementary enjoyment – whether real or imagined – is purely coincidental.”

“And there’s the matter of kidnapping – I cannot be a party to such illegalities. Well, not when it involves someone not involved with “Doctor Who” – there are justifiable imprisonments and unjustifiable imprisonments…”

“Well argued, Dennis Brent, but I don’t see how we can get out of this. Tom Baker will destroy us unless we help him win the competition. I say we should just play along with it -–possibly retaining our female identities for a few weeks afterwards to add verisimilitude – and hope for the best.”

“You are becoming dangerously camp, Ian Devine. This business could cost me my sensible moustache – it’s had a lot of care and attention lavished upon it over the years and it helps add gravitas to my face.”

“What is your moustache compared to our lives?”

“Well, weighing it up, it’s probably worth about as much as Grantham’s life, perhaps a little more than Wicks’ life and maybe five percent less than your life.”

“I am honoured. And your own life?”

“Is beyond money or facial hair. I am priceless” I said modestly. I reminded him that I was the only writer granted an exclusive interview with Pip and Jane Baker since the last interview the gave. That reminded me where I was supposed to be. “What would Pip and Jane Baker say if they could see me like this.”

“Oh but they will, Dennis Brent.”

“What do you mean?”

“Wicks was telling us – probably when you nipped off to rub cream into your a-n-u-s – that the special celebrity judges for the Miss Firkinside Beauty and Talent Contest include Pip and Jane Baker.”

I felt as if someone had just aimed me at the eye of the black hole of Tartarus.