5pm

Ian Devine was not a man who gave up on a grudge without a fight. We alighted from the tax cab in silence (splitting the fare equally but with an implicit understanding as we unclasped our purses rather than an actual discussion or calculation with pie chart), we purchased our tickets in silence (Ian Devine going too far as usual and miming “first class fare to London please” with dexterity not normally associated with the amusingly overweight). We boarded the train in silence and sat, in exactly the same frosty way as the United States of America and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics did during the cold war, on opposite sites of the carriage. Ian Devine’s lower lip was still trembling as he thought of the nuts he would not now be able to enjoy. I offered him a hand as he struggled to stow his trunk but he turned his shoulder and spurned me. When my own trunk fell from the overhead rack and pinned my head to the floor he merely brushed some imaginary dust from his shoe.

Relief came when an announcement was broadcast over the generic public address system to the effect that the buffet car was now open for business. Ian Devine dashed from the carriage like a wild deer from the sound of a zip and I was left in peace to consider how best to regain Ian Devine’s respect. I wouldn’t have long to wait.

I was enjoying chapter seventeen of “Dennis Brent’s Convention Calibre Anecdotes vol III” – in particular the occasion when Frazer Hines mistook me for a burglar and attempted to strike me with his Christmas tree – when my mobile telephone rang. Yes – rang. None of this “musical” nonsense. A proper telephonic ring. The sort of sound which implies one has an interlocutor wishing to converse rather than a pathetic tinkle which screams “bring back National Service”. You may wonder why I have a mobile telephone – ghastly and expensive contraptions as they undoubtedly are – but I felt it was necessary for six reasons. (1) So I could contact Doctor Flapjack in case of an emergency. (2) So Doctor Flapjack could contact me if he had news of a breakthrough. (3) In case one of the local boy scouts in my employ has news of an unwitting charity shop, jumble sale or second hand store with potentially valuable merchandise at a nugatory price. (4) So my publishers can get in touch if they ever want to publish one of my books. (5) To allow the local pizza exporters to ring me back and check whether the order they’ve just received is genuine – usually it is someone playing a practical pleasantry but they are aware that Ian Devine occasionally has Italian Nights and so even the most ridiculous order might be genuine. (6) Because Ian Devine bought one and I couldn’t be seen to be inferior to him in any way.

“Dennis Brent” I said upon pressing the green button and accepting the call.

“Dennis Brent” panted Ian Devine “I am in a fix.”

“I’m afraid I can’t talk at the moment, Ian Devine” I said, “I am currently in Coventry and the signal is not very strong.”

“Oh Dennis Brent” blubbed Ian Devine, “I am prepared to forgive you for your conduct in the nut affair. It isn’t something which can ever be remedied but I am prepared to put the incident out of my mind and welcome you back into my bosom.”

“Very well, Ian Devine, I accept your apology.”

“Hold hard, Dennis Brent, I am not apologising” said Ian Devine hastily.

“Oh dear” I feigned, “your signal is breaking up.”

“Oh very well – I shall post a note of regret as soon as we reach London Airport. It will be waiting for you upon our return to Bendaton.”

“If only the Arabs and the Irish were as good at solving their disputes as sensible men such as ourselves” I said without a hint of arrogance. For the truth is the truth and should not be tainted with false modesty.

“We certainly are an example to humanity” he agreed. I was beaming and felt sure Ian Devine was beaming too.

“However” he continued, breaking into our mutual beam, “I still require a modicum of assistance.”

“Have you become wedged in the lavatory?” I asked.

“No. Well, yes, but I feel confident I could free myself were I not unable to leave the water closet.”

“A faulty door?” enquired.

“Worse.”

“A worryingly narrow corridor?”

“Worse.”

“Have you accidentally sprayed water from the tap onto the front of your trousers so it looks as if you have had an accident?”

“Worse than that.”

“You cannot mean that you have discovered that the woman behind the ticket desk took your money but instead gave you a ticket she had drawn herself so as to deliberately get you into trouble with the ticket inspector, have you ejected from the train in the middle of nowhere and then spread the story around the whole of Bendaton that you were a no good freeloading beatnik who ought to get a real job and not make richly comic remarks to the effect that she was unsuited to her job as it requires degrees of practical intelligence not normally present in the female gender?”

“That is a very specific example of a hypothetical problem, Dennis Brent” commented Ian Devine.

“Yes… well… I have a rich imagination, Ian Devine. Have you had a genuine urine accident and don’t feel you are able to convincingly blame a faulty tap?”

“Worse even than that.”

“Then what ails you, Ian Devine?” I demanded, keen to get back to “Dennis Brent’s Convention Calibre Anecdotes vol III”.

“I am under siege. This lavatory is my sanctuary.”

“Who is besieging you?”

“I fear you would not believe me.”

“You are a sensible man, Ian Devine, and your word is second only to a signed document to me. Tell me who is behind your current confinement?”

“I am being besieged by Balsdeep the Balti Badger.”