“That isn’t good enough Miss Lick – you’re fired. Send the head of features to me – he’s fired too. In fact I’m going to fire everyone if we don’t get a damn scoop for the front page” came a booming voice. It was Mr Cockgrip – the editor of the Bendaton Bugle. He was coming towards me at speed and was clearly in a bad mood.

“Hello? What’s all this then?” he said pleasantly when he saw me.

“Who were you talking to?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Oh no one – just living out a power mad fantasy. Everyone does it.”

“I don’t.”

“Everyone ELSE does” he corrected, implicitly admitting that I was better than everyone else. “So, anyway, how can I help you?”

“I…er… was… er… just wondering… er…”

“Coffee?”

“That’s it – I was wondering if I could have some coffee.”

“Actually I was hoping you would’ve brought some. Candice – my secretary – is off today and I don’t even know what a kettle is.”

“Shame.”

“Yes. I hope you weren’t looking at next week’s issue of the Bugle” he said suddenly suspicious.

“Oh… erm… no.”

“Good – it’s top secret.”

“It was lying on your desk” I observed.

“Ha!” he cried. “So you have been looking.”

“Dash it” I mumbled. “Only a peak at the front page.”

“But that’s the best bit – we put all the interesting stuff on the front page so people who can’t afford the paper can still keep themselves informed.”

“That’s very generous.”

“You won’t tell anyone about the singing goldfish found in Mr Slime’s pond will you – he begged me to allow him to have a quiet Christmas before breaking the story.”

“Singing goldfish? I didn’t see that bit.”

“Good – forget I spoke.”

“Consider it forgotten” I assured him, filing the information away for sharing later with Wicks, Grantham and Ian Devine. “The only thing I saw was the rather unusual decision to have you hand write the entire newspaper.”

“Ah but I didn’t” he said.

“You did” I retorted wittily.

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did” I screamed, holding up the front page and pointing purposely.

“It’s very good isn’t it.” He said cryptically.

“What is?”

“Do you know Nigel Gusset of the sixth form?”

“I don’t consort with school children. That was a vicious rumour put about by old Mrs Knitting after I reported her husband to the police because I noticed his car tax disc was six and a half hours out of date.”

“Nigel is rather a computer ‘whiz’ and has a neat sideline in producing type faces based in handwriting. He showed me how he could convert a small sample of my writing into what I believe the ‘tech-heads’ call a ‘font’. Thus the entire edition of the Bugle merely looks as if I wrote it by hand. It’s a new gimmick. Next year will be the Year of the Gimmick – to boost sales we’ll have a different selling point each and every week. My hand writing is week one, week two will have an entire paper without the letter J, week three will (contracts permitting) feature nude photos of local nudist Gerarrd, week four will contain a previously unpublished jam recipe…”

“Fonts” I gasped.

“Have you run mad, Dennis Brent?” asked Mr Cockgrip.

“Fonts” I repeated in what I must confess was a rather mad tone. “Fonts fonts FONTS”.

“Explain, Dennis Brent, as the madness of so sensible a villager as yourself would be well worthy of a prominent place on page six.”

“I’ve just solved a rather sticky problem” I said mysteriously. “Do you know where Nigel Gusset lives?”

“I believe he and his parents – Mr and Mrs Gusset – live at Nylon Cottage.”

“Nylon Cottage?” I asked.

“You turn right at the Stoat and Handbag and it’s opposite Mrs Meep’s needle shop.”

“Ah yes – I am aware of the locale.”

“You can’t really miss it – they’ve got a pink front door.”

“How very grotesque” I opined. “I shall pack some darkened spectacles".

“A witty remark, Dennis Brent.”

“Thank you” and I took my leave of the Bugle. I left Mr Cockgrip in the photo archive doing what he called “special research” on some project or other. I could hear the sound of filing cabinets vibrating as I walked out of the Bugle’s offices. It was a familiar sound in Brent Towers as Ian Devine often causes my records room to shake.

I made a mental note to bicycle to Nylon Cottage and have a word with young Nigel Gusset. If he wasn’t the answer to my prayers then my name isn’t Dennis Brent.

“Your name IS Dennis Brent” said Mr Grade “and this is your half way call.”

11:59:58

11:59:59