Constable Forkwitt and I decided to split up so as to double our chances of finding the villain.

“As long as you promise to turn yourself in once you get your drugs back” warned the constable.

“Cross my heart and hope to become less sensible” I swore, crossing my fingers behind my back.

“Excellent. Shall I go this way?”

“Yes – and I’ll head towards Lickenballs Market” I told him. “He might try to contact a dubious character to “fence” my valuable property.”

“Good thinking” he commended.

“Naturally.”

I had a hunch but it proved to be nothing more than a rucking in my shirt around the shoulder (no doubt caused by my satchel being torn from me) and I found my way to the market without problems. There were a few traders packing their no doubt stolen goods into boxes and retiring home for a festive season built on their ill-gotten gains. Not that Dennis has any prejudice what so ever, even against the criminal classes.

“Excuse me, have you seen an extremely disreputable man offering stolen property from a sensible leather satchel?” I said to a rather swarthy looking cove.

“I don’t appreciate being called a swarthy looking cove” he said, implying that I was thinking out loud again. “I did go to Bendaton Grammar School you know.”

“Surely not. But I went there” I protested. “You can’t… you’re a prole…”

“I know you – you’re ‘Boring Anal Bastard Tosser Twatface’ Brent” he said, invoking bad memories with my school nickname.

“I am Dennis Brent” I agreed. “And you are?”

“Geoffrey Heigh-Swallows”

“Of course – we used to call you ‘Wonderif’ Heigh-Swallows. I never understood it myself but it made the chaps in the JCR roar.”

“So how have you been?” he asked. I told him about my career as Britain’s leading telehistorian. Half way through a fascinating anecdote about Barry Letts preferring jam donuts to ring donuts he suddenly developed an “acutely manky spleen” and rushed off to find Doctor Flapjack. I had a quick rummage through his boxes but found no sign of my stolen property or my sensible satchel. All the other stall-holders had packed up and departed and I felt myself back at square one.

I wandered down Bendaton High Street hoping against hope that good news would fall into my lap but all that fell was bird droppings onto my head. Felicity Bobbins once told me that my well known refusal to put a bird table on the lawn of Brent Towers had earned me a bad reputation amongst the bird population of Firkinside. I put this down to her being madder than someone who doesn’t by seven copies of every piece of Doctor Who related merchandise to ensure a steady stream of income in later years.

Suddenly I became aware that the latest bird mess was more like a stone than a drop of bird message.

“Hoy” I exclaimed manfully.

“You” cried a voice.

“Me?” I replied.

“You’re the guy wot I stole this bag from.”

“I was relieved of a satchel earlier, yes.”

“You can have it back – I don’t want it.”

“What?”

“It’s full of weird junk.”

“Nonsense – it’s packed with nice Christmas presents” I told him.

“Drugs, a tatty old book, a floppy disc – haven’t you heard of optical storage?, a photo of two ugly men in drag and this…” he held up Donald Brent’s open minded present. “What looks like a gimp mask for a moose.”

“It’s to stop a caribou from eating books” I told him.

“Anyway, I don’t want to be caught with this stuff – they might think I was a drugged up pervert.”

He tossed my satchel at me and a caught it with my face. I heard the robber run away and I went through the bag to check that everything was ok. To my immense relief it was. Aside from the problem of my home being blown up if I didn’t find a way to stop my mother from getting older, I was on top of the world. I made my way back to Brent Towers intent on putting my satchel of gifts in a very safe place until the big day.

“Got you” cried Constable Forkwitt, placing his arms around me in a very h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l manner and bellowing in my ear.

“I beg your pardon?” I said.

“I have been proceeding in a forwards direction looking for a man who has stolen a satchel matching the description of the one you are currently holding. D.E.Q. you are the thief I am looking for. If you would care to accompany me to the station we can get the train back to base.

“It’s me” I told him firmly.

“I’m glad you’ve confessed – I didn’t fancy beating you up tonight, not on Christmas Eve and all that.”

“No no – it’s me – I’m the one that had my satchel stolen.”

“But I can’t help notice you have the alleged satchel.”

“Because the robber gave it back to me.”

“A likely story. I’ve got you banged to rights, you stinking criminal, and you’re spending Christmas in jail.”

20:59:58

20:59:59