8am

I looked out of my kitchen window that morning and saw that it was the ideal day to sit in the garden and enjoy my breakfast. Mr Gerbil and his builders had finally finished the large wall I’d ordered so I was now safe to enjoy the wonders of nature without being hit by missiles thrown over my fence in error. I can only assume they were intended for the local landfill site and that the removal of basic map reading from the syllabus at the Bendaton Academy For Young Gentlemen had produced a generation utterly unable to correctly identify municipal facilities. I poured myself an extra large bowl of Bargainsave Branflecks and treated myself to a dash of milk to compliment them. I dipped that week’s teabag in my Jon Pertwee mug, correctly placed everything upon my coronation breakfast tray and carried it out to my patio table. There was a little light drizzle in the air but nothing I wasn’t hardened against many years ago when forced to go cross country running at school. I wouldn’t have minded if that had been part of PE but it happened in several other classes too.

I was sipping my orange juice and nibbling on a clump of Branflecks when I heard the sound of something being pushed through my letterbox. I got up and went to see what it was, stopping to pick up my fire extinguisher out of habit. Better safe than sorry. But, to my delight, it was a letter and not an incendiary device. It had been hand written too which almost certainly eliminated the possibility that it was threatening criminal damage or assault. Even the proles have figured out that the police can identify you from your penmanship. Sadly, the Bendaton force haven’t acquired such skills and can barely find any evidence in a signed confession but that’s a Labour government for you.

I took the letter into the kitchen and carefully opened it using the steam from my recently boiled kettle. You never know when you might have need of a used envelope. The stamp had been regrettably marked by the postal office but I was confident I could re-use it on a Thursday when old Mr Puffdaddy is on duty at the sorting office. He’s as blind as a bat and would never notice my subterfuge <G>.

“Dear Mr Brent” it began. This was a refreshingly pleasant opening as most of my correspondence tends to be a little more Anglo-Saxon. The previous owner of this property must’ve made a lot of enemies. “I am writing on behalf of the Doctor Who League of New York and New Jersey to ask that you use the enclosed plane ticket to fly out and address our annual convention. We were hoping to get Tom Baker but he had to pull out when he found that Symphony were one of our sponsors. You were the only person we could think of that is a suitable substitute. The convention begins tomorrow evening. We hope to see you soon.” It was signed Pamela Spandex and was on proper headed note paper. I immediately smelled a rat. I’ve been the victim of one or two h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l pranks over the past few years and I feared this was yet another pathetic ruse to make me look silly. But there was, as implied, an aeroplane ticket inside (first class) from London to New York. I grasped hold of my hardwearing work surface as a touch of light headedness took hold of me. Finally, after all these years of scorn and mockery of my advanced technical theories, I was to be guest of honour at a “Doctor Who” seminar.

I immediately started work on a list of things I had to get done before departing.

1. Boast about it to Ian Devine.
2. Boast about it to…

At this point I stopped a melancholic stop. My brother Donald would’ve been next (he was never asked to any important events as guest of honour – the biggest crowd ever to see him was at his funeral and that’s only because a large number of people from Bendaton turned up thinking it was me being cremated). Then would’ve come Wicks – sadly murdered during the Alan Affair – and Grantham. I hadn’t seem anything of Grantham since he ran off with my brother Donald’s former house-guest Liam McLean. Felicity Bobbins was on holiday in Amsterdam, E-l-k-i-e hasn’t written or telephoned in months and, well, we all know what happened to Mr Jones from the open minded boutique. So all my confidantes except Ian Devine were unavailable, much to my chagrin. Oh well, I thought, I’d just have to make up for it by rubbing Ian Devine’s nose in it with just a little bit more force <G>.

I knocked briskly on Ian Devine’s bedroom door but got no reply.

“Ian Devine” I called. Nothing stirred. I hadn’t known him oversleep since he had a dream about a pie factory and awoke two days later having eaten most of his mattress.

“IAN DEVINE” I said loudly. “There is a sandwich on the floor” I added as the final test. Still there was no reply. What could this mean? Ian Devine was a man of habit. His routine dictated that he didn’t emerge from his boudoir until at least nine am except during the Annual Pie Festival when he slept in a tent just outside the marquee as a voluntary security measure. Then I remembered a fragment of conversation from the previous evening which appeared to shed a little light on matters.

“Don’t forget, Dennis Brent, that I shall be using my new sun-bed tomorrow morning in the East Wing so if you have any messages you shouldn’t waste time knocking on my door or attempting to lure me out with talk of fictional sandwiches” he had said.

My dilemma was a tough one – was it worth being in the same room as Ian Devine while he lay, all naked and oiled, on his sun bed just so I could boast to him about my trip to America?