07:00 – 08:00
I was walking back from mothers with a thoughtful look upon my face.
“Oh dear – is your anus troubling you?” asked Doctor Flapjack.
“Thank you, no” I replied. “My a-n-u-s is responding very nicely to your
treatment.”
“Splendid. Isn’t it a lovely morning?”
“It certainly is” I lied. My troubles were playing on my mind but I didn’t
want Doctor Flapjack to know that in case he tried to blame my a-n-u-s
trouble on “stress” as quacks are prone to do.
“Have you a busy day planned?” he asked.
“I have a number of arrangements to make” I replied generally.
“I’m seeing the Bishop of Firkinside later about his syphilis. But don’t
tell anyone – it’s confidential. Professional ethics and all that.”
“We telehistorians are just the same as doctors” I told him proudly. “We
have a considerable amount of secret information to protect.”
“Exactly – it would be grossly unethical of me to tell you about Mrs
Mudflap’s enlarged clitoris or the gerbil corpse which has been residing
in Mr Sperm’s belly for the past three summers.”
“It would indeed be wrong to spread such filth around Bendaton” I agreed.
“Have you heard about the honourable Mr Urine?”
“Mayor of Bendaton?”
“The very same. Did you know that he once sneezed faecal matter all over
my desk?”
“That’s a real eye opener” I told him.
“But I can’t stand here gossiping all day – I’ve got to go and poke Mr
Wankem’s boil.”
“Merry Yuletide” I said pleasantly, hoping for more bonus marks from Mr
Grade.
“Happy Christmas to you too, Dennis Brent.”
I’ve always found Doctor Flapjack to be a very sound fellow. If he had
concentrated on sensible technical matters rather than wasting his talents
on medicine he could’ve been a valuable addition to my inner circle. Sadly
(for him rather than me) the closest he gets to my inner circle is his
weekly examination of my a-n-u-s. He takes photographs to chart my
progress and everything.
I got back and found that Ian Devine had almost finished his breakfast. He
had managed (as is his want) to use my entire stock of plates.
“I’ll nip out later and buy some more eggs” said Ian Devine. “I’m afraid I
ate all the ones in the refrigerator.”
“You appear to have eaten the golf balls I was keeping in there in case
Gary Russell ever invites me to play a round with him.”
Ian Devine burped volcanically.
“I hope those golf balls aren’t high in saturated fats – I’m on a
controlled diet.”
“Have you tried the see-food diet?” I asked, remembering a joke I’d heard
in the Elk and Bush.
“Yes – I find whale meat is rather overrated as the portions are too
small.”
“Were there any messages for me?” I asked.
“Yes – the telephone rang on two occasions.”
“Who was it?”
“I was unable to ascertain their identities owing to a mountain of toast
between myself and the receiver.”
“Ian Devine” I chided. “You try my patience.”
“Apologies, Dennis Brent. It will not occur again.”
“Now I will have to telephone everyone I know to discover who it was
telephoning me.”
“That won’t take long” said Ian Devine in a supposedly humorous manner.
“That is two negative marks you have earned this morning alone” I warned.
“One more and I will be forced to inform Wicks that it was you who
borrowed his copy of the William Hartnell voice over outtakes.”
“A classic audio file” commented Ian Devine, changing the subject
shamelessly.
“You’re not wrong, Ian Devine.”
I left him to do the washing up while I telephoned Miss Bobbins.
“Woooooooo is that?” she wailed.
“It’s Dennis Brent.”
“Hooray Dennis Brent – I feared you were no longer of this Earth when your
phone was dis-answered minutes ago. I am good to find that you are once
more with life upon this beautifully spinny globe.”
“I was wondering if there was anything you’d like.”
“World peace.”
“That would be beyond even Dennis Brent.”
“A cure for baldness.”
“I had no idea you suffered from it.”
“Not Flicky – Flicky’s daddy is with shining head.”
“That too would be beyond even Dennis Brent.”
“An end to poverty?”
“No.”
“A manned mission to Mars?”
“No.”
“A pretty name for female homosexuals?”
“No.”
“A dentist with nice breath?”
“No.”
“A Dickens novel that won’t depress Flicky?”
“No.”
“You’re not being very helpful Dennis Brent.”
“I want to do something nice.”
“Were you visited by ghosts last night?”
“No – why do people keep thinking I have been visited by ghosts?”
“If you really want to get Flicky something nice then you could go into
Shagford and get me a couple of tabs of Jiggle from Dodgy Barry.”
“Jiggle? Dodgy Barry?”
“You are sweet, Dennisy Brenty. I would go myself but I’ve somehow become
glued to my extra fluffy bath towel and that would look rather too
conspicuous for Dodgy Barry. I’ll have a super dooper Christmas Day if you
get me my lovely pills, Dennis Brent.”
“But…” I began but she hung up. Who or what was a “Dodgy Barry”? What was
“jiggle”? I made a mental note to ask Ian Devine – he’s a rather low and
unsavoury fellow at times and if anyone from my club would know it would
be him. I hoped it wouldn’t turn out to be something naughty.
07:59:58
07:59:59
08:00:00
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