I stopped at a bench, chained my bicycle to a tree, wiped some bird messages off the wooden planks and sat down. I made a list of what I had to do, what I had done and what was yet to do.

Father – In hand thanks to Nigel Gusset.

Wicks – I needed to find a frame for his photograph but basically I was sensibly ahead of schedule.

Grantham – Thanks to Mr Hartnell I had what was needed.

Felicity Bobbins – I somehow had to find “Dodgy Barry”, find out what “Jiggle” was and how I would purchase a couple of inexpensive capsules of what I suspected was an illegal stimulant of some kind.

Ian Devine – My first success and, if I do say so myself, a gift of too great a magnitude for someone like him (even if he is my best friend)

Mother – I still needed to find a way of getting past mother’s defences and finding out what would make her vaguely happy. It only needed to be temporary happiness as it is only Christmas.

Donald Brent – my brother was proving elusive. Mainly because I hadn’t been able to summon up the mental strength needed to call the old dullard. I underlined Donald Brent’s name twice to emphasise that it was my number one priority.

I was doing very well (which is unsurprising as I am Dennis Brent) but still had a long way to go before I could make Brent Towers fit for human consumption. And Ian Devine <g>

I stood up and immediately found I had to wipe my b-a-c-k-s-i-d-e with my sensible handkerchief as the bench had a small plaque of dedication.

“To Clive, in fond memory, love from Bernard”.

I couldn’t believe I had been sitting on a h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-l bench for the past ten minutes. Who knows what I might have caught? There might have been splinters. The last thing I wanted was a h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l prick in my b-a-c-k-s-i-d-e on Christmas Eve. What sort of present would that be?

I unchained my bicycle and rode back to Brent Towers with my comprehensive and very neatly written list in my pocket.

Ian Devine was finishing his lunch when I arrived.

“That was a feast fit for a king, Dennis Brent” he burped. “I haven’t had otter for weeks.”

“Anything left over for me to put in a sensible sandwich?” I asked, aware that I hadn’t eaten for some time.

“Ho ho ho, Dennis Brent, richly comic” boomed Ian Devine. “The last time I left anything large enough to fit in a sensible sandwich was that time I had gastro-enteritis and vomited up a whole chicken drumstick.”

“That’s a convention calibre anecdote, Ian Devine” I said, bestowing great accolade upon someone who, frankly, was being so little help that he didn’t deserve it.

“I preserved that drumstick in my cryogenic unit owing to its uniqueness. I intend to bequeath it to the nation after I am gone.”

“Your generosity has no end” I said, wittily implying that it also has no beginning <g>

“Thank you, Dennis Brent” he beamed. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to begin preparing dinner now.”

“What are we having?” I asked carelessly.

“Ho ho ho, Dennis Brent, you really are a wag.”

“I shall leave you to your concocting” I said, getting Donald Brent’s number from my address book and heading for my study.

“This is Donald Brent, Britain’s leading mediahistorian” he said pompously.

“Donald? This is Dennis Brent – tall chap with a moustache. I’m your brother.”

“Ah yes – Dennis Brent – how can I help you?”

“I was wondering if you have any empty space around your home?”

“Sorry?”

“Any gaps on mantelpieces or on the wall?”

“What a strange question. As it happens I do have a gap – on my bookshelf – where my copy of Kate Mulgrew’s autobiographical volume ‘Whispers of Authority’ used to reside.”

“Is there an anecdote attached to its loss?” I asked, aware that Star Trek stories tend to be duller than Grantham’s collection of beige u-n-d-e-r-p-a-n-t-s <g>

“There is indeed – it was eaten by my new pet.”

“A new pet, Donald Brent?” I gasped. How could he bear to replace Elko?

“I have a caribou called Carrie – she tends to like nibbling on autobiographies. I have locked the rest of them away but sadly Ms Mulgrew was eaten before I could take preventative steps.”

“That is a tragedy, Donald Brent” I sympathised. “I must be going now.”

“Was that all you telephoned about?” he said, confusion in his boring old voice.

“No but I… have to go… because… Ian Devine is stuck up a tree.” I cursed the failure of my imagination.

“Then you must go to him – the force of impact could knock the Earth off its axis.”

“Have a commendable festive period” I wished.

“I return the compliments of the month” he replied.

I added an item to my list and smiled.

13:59:58

13:59:59