10am

The most pressing question was getting Ian Devine a ticket on the same plane as myself. It was obvious to me that in an emergency – as this patently was – that it would pose no real problems. Bendaton has a first rate travel agency. Literally hundreds of people have recommended I avail myself of their services.

“Good morning” I began with the good manners for which I am rightly known.

“Can I help you sir?” asked the witless prole behind what I suspected was not a genuine wooden desk.

“I hope you can, woman. My name is Mr Brent and my colleague here requires an urgent passage.”

“Your colleague?” she asked patronisingly. It should’ve been obvious to her that Ian Devine was outside the agency attempting to find something solid to which he could securely attach his tricycle.

“My colleague will be joining us shortly, woman, and I would be grateful if you would avoid patronising me while I am gracious and generous enough to patronise your business.” I explained my clever linguistic conceit in some detail and she concentrated so avidly that her eyes noticeably glazed over.

“I require” I continued, aware that Ian Devine must’ve run into a bit of a snag, “a ticket on flight 90210 which leaves London Airport at fifteen hundred hours this afternoon.”

She began to giggle.

“Why are you making that peculiar noise?” I asked.

“You want a seat on that flight at such short notice?”

“Did I not just express such a wish?”

“You’ve got more chance of tying your pet moose to the lamp post at the back of the Elk and Bush and expecting her still to be a virgin the next morning.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The flight is full” she said firmly, unaware of her own obvious error.

“Don’t be pathetically stupid, woman” I said, maintaining my friendliness despite her unwarranted provocation. “My appearance at the convention was only arranged this morning. How on earth can the aeroplane be full already?”

She had no answer to my challenge and began giggling nervously. She knew she was up against a superior intellect and her obvious plan to extort money or gratitude out of me for appearing to do extra work on my behalf had gone out of the window. Speaking of windows, I would’ve been grateful for one to try and get an update on Ian Devine and his tricycle. I had chained my bicycle to a tree in under three minutes, removed the lights, the seat, the saddle bag, the brake cables and the peddles and stowed them all away in my satchel for safekeeping. People will steal anything these days.

“I find this whole affair difficult to credit” I said despairingly. “Surely it cannot be beyond modern technology to secure a first class seat… or rather three first class seats for my colleague Ian Devine, even at such short notice.”

“First class?” said a voice that was oddly both distant and close by. A man popped up from under the desk and repeated his fragmented question.

“Yes – first class” I clarified.

“You may leave us, Nubia, I will attend to this gentleman” said the newcomer. The woman went off to do whatever women do when they’ve been confronted with their inadequacy.

“Yes Mr Always” she said sulkily.

“Sebastian Always, sir, I’m in charge and responsible for the… First Class customers.” His voice dripped with respect and he paused to draw an excited breath before saying the words ‘first class’. “Would sir care to join me in the… First Class bonkette?”

He waved his hand and a wall panel slid back to reveal a plush maroon settee and coffee table. The coffee table wasn’t maroon. Just the settee. The coffee table was made of genuine wood, unlike the desk. I dare say there was wood in the settee but it was so comfortable than I couldn’t feel it. And I’m speaking as something of an expert – you will recall the story of the princess and the pea? My a-n-u-s gives me special powers when it comes to settees and the like.

“Now, about these first class tickets” continued Mr Always. “Would you like a massage while you enjoy my company?”

“Thank you, no. I prefer to keep my tension where I can see it.” I was lucky he didn’t ask me to prove I could see the back of my neck, my shoulders, my a-n-u-s or my face.

“Then to business. I have checked the… First Class computer and there are three seats available for the flight in question.”

“Excellent” I enthused.

“There is a small problem” he began, “I don’t wish to speak ill of anyone who can afford to travel… First Class but the computer did point out that your colleague would be sat very close to a problem passenger.”

“Oh dear” I said, sympathetic for Ian Devine’s misfortune. “It isn’t a prole is it?”

“Far worse.”

“Worse than a prole? You don’t mean a h-o-m-o-s-e…”

“No no – nothing like that. It simply said that your colleague would be sat near, and I quote from the… First Class computer… ‘Dennis Brent an anus’.”

“I see where you have made your mistake” I said, fighting to save my pride from the after effects of another one of those g-a-y computer viruses. “That is medical jargon. I am Dennis Brent and I have an abnormal a-n-u-s. ‘An’ is obviously code for ‘abnormal’.”

“If sir says so” said Sebastian. “I will return shortly with the tickets, a small selection of complimentary snack foods, a little soothing music and the… First Class contract.”

“I shall stay here” I called to Mr Always, unable to extricate myself from the sheer comfort offered by the settee. I took my emergency speculum from my satchel and used its polished chromium exterior as a mirror. Not to look at myself you understand – I have no need to be pathetically vain as I am extremely good looking for a man of my years – but to see whether I could spot Ian Devine. It hadn’t escaped my attention that Mr Always would be requiring an awful lot of money upon his return and I only had enough in my purse for the latest edition of Elk and Efficiency.

“Come on, Ian Devine, for once in my life I actually need you…” I muttered feebly.