“My life is in ruins” I moaned. “When word gets out – and with all the press attention Pip and Jane Baker get, word is bound to get out – I will be finished as a serious force in telehistorical journalism and fascinating technical writing.”

“Then you’d better do as I do and throw yourself into it. The more convincing you are as a woman, the less chance of anyone recognising you as Dennis Brent.”

“You make a reasonably sensible point, Ian Devine” I conceded. “I am going to shave off my moustache.”

“Your sacrifice will find its own reward” said Ian Devine.

“It better had – have you forgotten that I was twice voted Bendaton’s Moustache Wearer of the Year?”

“Yes indeed – I lost nearly ten pounds when the lady Mayoress defeated you last time.”

“That was a travesty of justice. I ought to have complained to the European Court of Human Rights but I decided not to after the prize turned out to be a day’s holiday in Shagford. But those days will shortly be behind us.” I carefully removed my moustache – smudging my lipstick slightly in the process.

“You look ten years younger” said Ian Devine. How could he say something so hurtful? “Do I look like a woman… man who wishes to be thought of as a mere callow youth? Dammit – now I’ve got to reapply my lipgloss.”

We returned to the drawing room where Wicks had handed out leaflets about the various contestants. I was to play Glenda Fisting, Ian Devine was Malory Poundage, Wicks was Vanessa Tossingov and Grantham was Anna Lingus.

“We must practice our parts until we are word perfect. Luckily the ladies all submitted their answers to the various insightful questions in advance so the organisers could screen out any hippies, feminists, communists, protesters, saboteurs, terrorists, undercover reporters, satirists and other undesirables. But we must hurry – the competition starts in less than 24 hours.”

The pressure was on. We slaved through the night to perfect our roles. Until you have spent the evening learning Glenda Fisting’s opinions on everything from ‘Coronation Street’ to world peace you don’t know what suffering is. But just when we thought things couldn’t get any worse, Pasty Devine crashed through the window in an ill thought out rescue attempt. Tiny Tom rushed over to him and the two tiny creatures brawled up and down the drawing room, sending beauty contestants flying. I ripped my bathing costume, Wicks’ best wig fell in the guacamole sauce dish, one of Ian Devine’s b-o-s-o-m-s became wedged up the chimney and Grantham’s high heels were forced where no one (and Dennis means no one) would’ve chosen. It was chaos but, just as soon as the midget brawl had begun, it ended. Tiny Tom picked up Ian Devine’s other b-o-s-o-m and prepared to strike Pasty Devine down for the count. Only he didn’t. Instead, Tiny Tom melted and became nothing more than a small puddle of Tom Baker’s nasal fluid.

“Oh dear” sighed the mysterious German scientist. “I was afraid that would happen. The clones are rather unstable I’m afraid.” We turned round and looked at him.

Ian Devine clutched Pasty to his chest. “I won’t let them take you away” he blubbed before adding “although we could arrange a most satisfying buffet for after your funeral. Or instead of – it doesn’t do to mope.”

“I thought you were a competent scientist” yelled Tom Baker, “but now I find you’re nothing more than a sanitary towel in the fish shop of humanity. Get out of my kingdom you quack.” He bundled the mysterious German scientist out of his house and threw him as far as the gate. He unleashed Tom Baker the Fourth who chased him all the way to the railway station. Our attention returned to Ian Devine who was clutching a bundle of blood soaked clothing where Pasty Devine (bred from Ian Devine’s blood just as Tiny Tom had come from Tom Baker’s nasal mucus) had once laid.

“Is this death?” asked Ian Devine. I slapped him. “Thank you, Dennis Brent, I needed that.”

Tom Baker made us work through the night to prepare for the next day’s contest. Time was off the essence – Tomsin Baker could turn to mush at a moments notice and we had to make sure the contest ran as smoothly – and as quickly – as possible if she was to be victorious.

Dawn rose and Tom Baker informed us it was time to go and kidnap the genuine contestants.

“I’ve made a sign – Donuts This Way – and one of you must hang it on the door to the janitor’s closet. Once the girls go inside you will lock the door and they won’t be able to get out.”

“Simple.”

“But effective.”

We nominated Ian Devine to place the sign but he got a bit confused and thought there really were donuts inside and locked himself in. Next Grantham tried but he merely ensnared a janitor who, emerging ten minutes later, hit him with his brush. Wicks fared no better and managed to place the sign on the door of the gentlemen’s lavatories with the result that several mentally negligible people mistook the cakes of soap for something more sugary. It fell to sensible Dennis to save the day. I placed the sign on the door and waited for the four unsuspecting young ladies to see it and go into the cupboard. Once inside I locked the door and moved from moral grey area to legal black zone. I was now officially a criminal. A lady abducting felon. And all this within range of Pip and Jane Baker.

If found guilty they may strongly suggest the termination of my life.