The situation was now critical and I had no choice but to ask Brent’s Seven for their assistance.

“Gentlemen and lady” I began, “this has been the longest day of my life and it isn’t over yet.”

“That’s true, Dennis Brent” agreed Ian Devine.

“There is a bomb in Brent Towers and it will explode at midnight destroying my collection and killing all of us. We must find this bomb and defuse it before… come back” I called as my band of so called alleged heroes rushed for the exits.

“I have to go…” began Wicks.

“…and polish some…” continued Grantham.

“…pies off” finished Ian Devine.

“You rotters” I cursed. “After all the time and trouble I went to to acquire top quality gifts for you all.”

“That true” mumbled Wicks.

“He has a point” added Grantham.

“My larder!” cried Ian Devine. “The bomb would destroy my larder. And my twenty foot Christmas cake. We must find this evil device and dispose of it.”

“Spoken like a true member of Brent’s Seven” I said with witty irony.

We split into groups to search the house but it was a huge task. It wasn’t called Brent Towers for nothing – the place was enormous. I had lived in it for several years, ever since my Uncle Gaylord left it to me in his will, and even I had not fully explored it. It was like trying to find a needle in a haystack and we knew it. Perhaps we should make a run for it, I considered, because it was no longer a matter of valuable artefacts – we were talking about human life. But I slapped myself at this lapse into Ralph Cornish style nonsense. My collection was worth ten of Ian Devine, Wicks and Grantham and I feel confident that they would admit it. I had a vague idea what a bomb looked and sounded like and rushed from room keeping my eyes and ears open and my mouth closed. No joy (if finding high explosives can be called joy). I returned to Brent’s Seven and we shared our lack of news.

“We’re all going to die” blubbed Grantham.

“We’re doomed” added Wicks.

“I’ve never died before – this will be fascinating” said Miss Bobbins.

“At least your mother will be safe” complained Ian Devine, “now that she’s on ice.”

“Ice?” I murmured.

“Frozen.”

“Quiet – I wasn’t talking to you” I instructed. “Of course!”

Inspiration had just struck me like Andrew Beech that time I made a few improvements to his Tardis console.

“Mrs Slagtramp’s beaver” I exclaimed.

“Dennis Brent!” gasped my acquaintances in unison. “Have you run mad?”

“Mrs Slagtramp’s beaver” I repeated, the answer being so obvious that it couldn’t have taken this long for me to think of it. Could it?

“Dennis Brent – you appear to be babbling pornographically” warned Wicks.

“We will restrain you if you do so again” added Grantham.

“Doctor Flapjack said he was going to ice Mrs Slagtramp’s beaver. At the time it seemed to stir something in my mind and I thought it was that I should freeze my mother to preserve her for all eternity. But it wasn’t.”

“Grantham – fetch the straight-waistcoat – Dennis Brent has become insensible.”

“No no no – Doctor Flapjack said he wasn’t Noah Sark. I corrected him with a brief summary of the story of Noah’s Ark” I explained.

“I’ll sit on his chest and you chaps can buckle his hands” announced Wicks.

“Noah’s Ark” I stressed. “THE Ark.”

“You’d better buckle his feet as well – he might employ kicking techniques.”

“Don’t you chaps understand? The Ark – Ian Devine’s Santa Claus cake is the human’s statue and the Rudolf head is the Monoid’s addition to it at the end of episode two.”

“Dennis Brent you are a genius” they exclaimed unnecessarily. We rushed to the chapel and looked up at Rudolf’s head.

“How will we get it down?” asked Grantham.

“Ian Devine – it’s time for you to put your mouth to good use” I said. With the speed of a mechanical mother in law, Ian Devine’s teeth demolished Santa’s trousers, Santa’s waist, Santa’s chest and finally Santa’s shoulders. He picked up the plastic reindeer head and held it up to his ear.

“It’s ticking, Dennis Brent” he confirmed.

“Right – we have to get it in the lake and we’ve only got two minutes left until midnight.”

We spread out in a “Rugby” style line and Ian Devine threw the head to me. I almost caught it and was relieved that it didn’t explode when it slammed against the stone floor of the chapel. I picked it up and tossed it skilfully to Grantham. He flapped at it in true telehistorian style (we’re experts not athletes, dammit). He tripped over his feet when he tried to run after it. Eventually he managed to throw it to Wicks. Wicks missed it by about a foot owing to a depth perception problem caused by too many hours closely studying fascinating technical documentation. Wicks grabbed at it and was able to throw it in the direction of Miss Bobbins who rushed through the front door and kicked the head with a skilled foot. It sailed through the air and landed with a satisfying splash in the middle of Gaylord Lake. We heard a mighty explosion.

“Pardon me” said Ian Devine. Then the bomb went off.

I threw the ear-piece in the bubbling lake but not before I gave Mr Grade a piece of my mind.

“This has been the best Christmas Eve ever” enthused Miss Bobbins. If only she knew what I’d been through. I’ll be sure to send her a copy of this manuscript so she can fully appreciate what a man Dennis Brent really is.

It had been the longest day of my life and finally it was over.