“My diet is perfectly balanced” he explained as he teetered on an unsteady stool so as to reach the very back of the fat cupboard. “I spend so much time cooking that I must burn off as many calories as I ingest.”

“That’s an interesting theory, Ian Devine” I said patronisingly. I dashed out to my bicycle and heard an almighty crash as Ian Devine did his Humpty Dumpty impression. I feared for my kitchen but there was more at stake than my kitchen.

I rode to Nylon Cottage with a friendly whistle upon my lips. I practised my warm and friendly smile as I knew that children reacted well to warm and friendly smiles. I was stopped at some traffic lights and took the chance to beam warmly at a child on the pavement. The childish little prole burst into tears and his mother hit me with her bag of shopping. A 400g tin of Bargainsave baked beans clocked me in the temple and caused me to lose my balance. I toppled to the left and landed on the little brat.

“Paedophile!” screamed the childish woman. Couldn’t she see I was in pain? The child wasn’t making a lot of noise (for once) as my satchel was more than adequately covering its face. The driver behind me pipped his horn as the traffic light had turned to green. I tried my warm smile on him but he just got out of his automobile and punched me in the stomach.

“Have you proles run mad?” I demanded. “I am Dennis Brent.” At this point passers by decided to join in and assist me with their fists. At least I like to think they were assisting me. It felt rather too violent to be assistance but logic insists that they couldn’t possibly have any enmity towards Dennis.

I finally reached Nylon Cottage, my frame bent and my ribs aching slightly (luckily I had my extra thick December vest on and that protected me from the worst of the blows). I knocked on the door and it was answered by what I took for Mrs Gusset.

“Hello” I said, beaming a well-practised smile.

“Do you want to borrow the lavatory?” she asked, obviously mistaking my complicated facial expression for one of constipation.

“No, thank you, I am Dennis Brent and I am here to see your Nigel.”

“You want to borrow Nigel?”

“Not borrow, merely speak to” I clarified. The woman seemed to have a lending fixation.

“I’m afraid I cannot let you borrow Nigel today – it is Christmas Eve and he is wrapping his Christmas borrowings. I leant him some paper and everything.”

“It will only take a moment I assure you” and I gave her another warm smile.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to lend you a lavatory?”

“Quite sure, thank you. I evacuate my bowels regularly at ten minutes past seven each morning and have done every day since nineteen seventy one, barring the week I spent in a coma after meeting Patrick Mower.”

“Would you like me to ask Nigel if he could lend you a few minutes then?”

“Thank you Mrs Gusset.”

“NIGEL” she called, not stopping for breath before adding “I’m afraid he seems to be out.”

“Yes mother?” said a rather spotty youth from another room.

“I have a Mr Brent who wishes to borrow you.”

“See me, mother, I expect he wants to see me.”

“Well you aren’t invisible, Nigel dear, so I expect he’ll be able to see you.”

I smiled warmly at Nigel and he indicated that I should join him in his computer room.

“I’m just putting the finishing touches to the Bendaton Online website.”

“We have a website?”

“There’s nothing in it yet – Mr Cockgrip asked me to set it up for him.”

“I’ll give you some fascinating articles” I promised.

“Lend him some fascinating articles” said Mrs Gusset from the hall.

“Ignore her – she’s a librarian” muttered Nigel. “What can I do for you, Mr Brent?”

“I was speaking to Mr Cockgrip earlier and he says you can create ‘fonts’ from handwriting. Is this true?”

“It certainly is. The only problem is that I don’t know many people to ask. Would you like me to computerise your handwriting, Mr Brent?”

“Certainly not. Such technology would be dangerous – I’ve been smeared by false correspondence before and I do not propose to make it easy for them. If they wish to smear me with my own hand then they will have to come to me to do it.”

“Then were you giving me false hope?” asked a saddened Nigel Gusset.

“Lending you false hope” called Mrs Gusset.

“Not at all – I have here a sample of my father’s writing and I was wondering how long it would take you?”

He examined the letter that I had popped in my satchel. It was father’s usual threat to cut me out of his will unless I signed a contract which stated that I wasn’t in any way, shape or form his son and therefore had no claim upon his estate.

“I reckon I could get that done in about two days” he enthused.

“Hmm” I considered. “Would it be possible to do it quicker?”

“How much quicker?”

“I was thinking maybe ten minutes? Fifteen if it’s complicated.”

“I couldn’t give you anything in that time” he warned.

“Lend you anything in that time” shrilled Mrs Gusset from the sitting room.

“If I worked solidly I could have a copy ready by this evening” said Nigel, clearing his desk of roll playing game magazines and shouting to his mother that he’d like to borrow a cup of coffee.

“I’ll let you have my card” I told him.

“He’ll let you borrow his card” called Mrs Gusset.

“I’ll give you a call when I’ve got news.”

“He’ll lend you a call when he has news.”

“Thank you. I’ll look forward to it.”

“You seem to be looking at your watch, Mr Brent” said Nigel, clearly a shrewd and observant boy.

12:59:58

12:59:59