06:00 – 07:00
I was going to the lavatory 1.4 times more often than my average for the
previous three years due to my consumption of no less than five whole or
partial small pots of tea during the night. We had reached the point where
I would normally have been woken by my sensible alarm clock, put my
slippers and dressing gown on and visited the facilities for business that
needn’t trouble you. I tried to call Felicity Bobbins but had to leave a
message on her “answer telephone”.
“Dear Miss Bobbins, This is Dennis Brent. Tall chap with a moustache.
Fascinating technical writer and Britain’s leading telehistorian. I need
to speak to you rather keenly about a festive matter. Please telephone me
as soon as possible, assuming you haven’t burnt my business card. I
believe it’s terribly easy to do. I must speak to Mr Handshandy at the
stationers about getting some more resilient ones. Hopefully they won’t
cost a lot more, I’m not made of money. Anyway, if you have a moment I’d
rather like to speak to you about the previously mentioned festive matter.
Yours sincerely, Dennis Brent.”
I was fortunate in that I was able to keep it brief and to the point – I
often find myself “blathering” when speaking to answer telephones. As you
know I have a creative mind and it’s hard to harness that inventive
energy.
I had a sensible breakfast of Bargainsave Bran Flecks and a small glass of
orange juice as I pondered the problem before me.
“Good morning Mister Brent” said a voice in my ear.
“Good morning” I replied cagily.
“I must say I’ve had a really good nap – how was your night?”
“Frantic, Mr…”
“Just call me Mr Grade.”
“I’ve had a most perturbing night, Mr Grade” I told him firmly.
“Are you making much progress? The clock is ticking you know.”
“I have made commendable progress actually” I told him sharply.
“No no, really, how have you been getting on?”
“Very well – I already have Ian Devine’s present – something he actually
wants. I have spoken to my father, to Wicks and to Grantham, I’ve left a
message for Miss Bobbins and I am about to telephone my brother Donald
Brent. He is a sensible man and will currently be enjoying a breakfast of
Cheapstore Bran Shavings and a small glass of apple juice.”
“Who are you talking to, Dennis Brent?” said Ian Devine as he squeezed
himself into the kitchen.
“Just talking to myself, Ian Devine” I replied.
“That’s the second sign of madness you know” he quipped wittily.
“What is the first sign of madness?” I asked, sensing I was falling into a
trap he had laid but hoping against hope that it would be a convention
calibre repost.
“I believe it is killing lots of people and eating their genitals.”
“Ah.”
“I fancy a large cooked breakfast” announced Ian Devine.
“Shall I prepare it for you?” I asked, adding “I hope this will earn me
bonus marks” in an undertone aimed at Mister Grade.
“That would be very pleasant of you, Dennis Brent, but I fear you and I
differ on the fundamental meaning of the word ‘portion’” he explained.
“I take your point.”
“Would you mind awfully if I asked you to vacate the kitchen – I might
need the space for storage.”
“A perfectly reasonable request, Ian Devine” I agreed. I left him to my
kitchen, fat already bubbling on the stove, and went in search of mother.
She has a gadget that displays telephone numbers and this has a built in
malfunction that makes it stop the telephone from ringing when it
registers my number. I put on my sensible driving gloves (which are warm
and surprisingly stylish considering they were a gift from Ian Devine) and
scarf and walked round to mother’s mansion at the other end of Bendaton.
I gave a manly knock on the door and waited for Slurps (mother’s butler)
to open the door.
“Yes?” said Slurps gravely.
“Dennis Brent.”
“There is no one of that name here” and he closed the door on my face. Not
in my face but literally on it. I rubbed my nose and knocked again.
“Yes?” said Slurps.
“I am called Dennis Brent and I am here to see my mother.”
“Are you her son?”
“Yes. Dennis Brent.”
“I only have two people listed on her sons list – Donald Brent and Brad
Pitt. I am ordered to show those two gentlemen into her private suite and
those two gentlemen only.”
“I am her son – I came from her l-o-i-n-s a sensible period of time ago.”
“You are not on the list so I must refuse you entry.”
“MOTHER” I called.
“Donald? Is that you Donald?”
“No mother – it’s Dennis.”
“Healy?”
“No.”
“Taylor?”
“No.”
“The Menace?”
“No.”
“Denis Denis?”
“No.”
“Slurps – bundle this stranger off the estate and set the cat on him.”
“Yes M’lady.”
I was bundled out of the gates by the surprisingly powerful butler and
then a rather elderly p-u-s-s-y cat was thrown at me. It purred for a
moment, urinated on my foot and then curled up to sleep under a nearby
Ford Tebbit. I glanced down at my watch to note the time of my first true
failure since commencing this operation.
06:59:58
06:59:59
07:00:00
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