Ian Devine was looking at a drawing of Father Christmas.

“Considering the season?” I asked wittily.

“These are the plans for my Christmas Cake” he explained. “It is a twenty foot tall Santa Claus made entirely of fruit, nuts, lard, mixed peel, marzipan, pastry, jam, syrup, marmalade, butter, cocoa, chocolate, beef and icing.”

“And you have constructed this monstrosity?” I gasped, feeling sure I ought to have noticed it about Brent Towers.

“I’ve almost finished – I’m up to the shoulders.”

“Where is it?”

“Promise you won’t sneak in for a nibble”

“I promise.”

“It is in the chapel.”

“Of course – the tallest room in Brent Towers. Good thinking, Ian Devine.”

“Thank you, Dennis Brent.”

“Are you hoping to complete it this evening?”

“I was just on my way when I was distracted by a loaf of bed and a tub of butter.”

“I am in a bit of a rush but who in their sensible mind could resist the chance to see a twenty foot Santa Claus?” I complimented. I had underestimated Ian Devine. I had assumed he was the kind of man who would’ve been busy eating layer one while he was constructing layer two and – the laws of gravity being what they allegedly are – it would be the Forth Bridge of cake making. But this was spectacular.

“One question, Ian Devine” I began.

“Ask away, Dennis Brent. It will keep my mind off the insatiable desire to lick his lovely frosty knees.”

“Why does he have a Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer head?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Look up there – the cake has been finished with Rudolf’s head. Have you run mad, Ian Devine?”

“You know I don’t like to look upwards, Dennis Brent, as the shock could snap my neck like a Twiglet. Mmmm – Twiglets…”

“Well I advise you to do so now, Ian Devine. The cake is completed but in a most incongruous manner.”

Ian Devine held his head firmly and looked upwards. He let out a moan.

“My Santa… my beautiful Santa…”

“I would be a bad acquaintance if I denied you the fascinating opportunity to fathom out this mystery for yourself” I said, increasingly aware that time was not on my side.

“I need a sit down… no I need a lie down… no I need a pie… pies… lots of pies… hold me Dennis Brent – I feel faint.”

I took a step backwards (for his own good) and Ian Devine toppled like a big round tree. Luckily the chapel had a sturdy stone floor and even Ian Devine couldn’t damage it. That chapel – the oldest part of Brent Towers – had been standing since the middle ages and if a Civil War, plague and the Great Fire of Bendaton couldn’t damage it then Ian F. Devine wouldn’t stand a chance. A beam from the ceiling fell where I had recently been standing and I immediately (and sensibly) revised my opinion of what a wobbling Ian Devine was capable of. I rushed manfully out of the chapel, grabbed my satchel and rode off to see Nigel Gusset. I looked over my shoulder and took what I hoped wouldn’t by my final look at the chapel’s magnificent stained glass window. Goodbye St Chlamydia.

I reached Nylon Cottage in double quick time as Mr Grade kept spurring my on with various mouth generated banging noises. I tapped on the door.

“Are you a Carol Singer?” asked Mrs Gusset through the letter box.

“No” I replied honestly.

“Lend me a rendition of “Oh Come All Ye Faithful”” she requested.

“I’m not a Carol Singer – I’m Dennis Brent. Tall chap…”

“Ah – I know your face” she said, starring at the front of my trousers (surely all she could see from her position). “Would you like to borrow a mince pie and a glass of mulled wine?”

“I’m here to see Nigel.”

“He isn’t much to look at” she confessed. “Though Mimsey Nads of the sixth form is rather keen on him from what Mrs Nads told me at Weight Watchers.”

“I have an appointment to see Nigel – he has prepared an item for me.”

“You’ll have to return Nigel within three weeks or you’ll be liable to a ten pence per day fine” she warned, unlocking the door in seven different places.

“I understand” I said, humouring the old woman.

“NIGEL”

“Is it Mr Brent?” he asked.

“I believe that it is. So he claims at any rate. He has an honest and open face and I've decided to believe him.”

“Come in, Mr Brent” and I walked into his musty computer room. He handed me a disc.

“It’s the official Woollastonbrent font. I’ve copied his handwriting exactly, registered it with the Font Database and put the only other copy in the world on this disc.”

“You’ve been exceptional, Nigel” I commended. “And now I want to give you a Christmas present.”

“Lend him a Christmas present” called Mrs Gusset from the lavatory.

“I wish to offer you something that few have ever been so honoured as to receive.”

“Gosh.”

“I’m giving you…”

“…lending you…” yelled Mrs Gusset over the sound of flushing.

“…associate membership of Brent’s Seven.”

17:59:58

17:59:59