7am (2am local time)

The men with rubber gloves and face masks rushed over to us.

“Mr Dennis Brent?” asked a strangely un-American voice.

“No – I am Ian F. Devine Esquire” said my colleague with perplexing pride.

“I am Dennis Brent” I said honestly.

“Good god” said the English man. “It’s worse than I thought. I mean, welcome to New York.” He pulled off his face mask (thankfully not his whole face <g>) and introduced himself. “My name is Anthony and I’m afraid I was the one charged with getting you here under false pretences.”

“You mean there is no prestigious “Doctor Who” conference?” I asked.

“No.”

“No fame?”

“No.”

“No glory?”

“No.”

“No opportunity to tell a richly comic story about Frazer Hines falling asleep and having his kilt adjusted by Wendy Padbury so that when he awoke he displayed his g-e-n-i-t-a-l-s to a senior Hindu cleric?”

“No.”

“What a confounded nuisance. Oh well, fetch up your trunk, Ian Devine, we’re going home.”

“Hold on, Mr Brent” said the English man. “I didn’t bring you here for nothing.”

“Have I inherited goods or cash of notable value?”

“No” he said, returning to his favourite word in a pathetically stupid show of his intellectual limitations.

“Then what can possibly justify all this kafuffle?” I demanded.

“Follow me” he said and, in want of anything more sensible to do, I did.

He lead me through a maze of corridors, occasionally stopping to tell men and women in white coats that I was “the one” or “he’s here” or “I know – I thought better of her too”. We rounded a corner and I caught site of the sign. We were obviously in the wrong place and had taken entirely the wrong route.

“We’ve arrived” he announced.

“I think not” I told him firmly. “Surely anyone willing to lure me into a medical trap must be intending to experiment on me and that could only be done in proctology or possibly the fungal research laboratory. This is…”

“We’re in the right place I assure you” he told me. People were bustling around and paid little heed to me other than to force me into a medical gown, slip my feet into sterilised shows, entangle me in a hair net or punch me in the face in an obvious case of mistaken identity caused by my unfamiliar gown, shoes and hair net.

“Look – will someone please…” I began. I was silenced, however, by a scream of real and terrible emotion. Better than a Watling and possibly on a par with the full Langford.

“We’re ready for you” said a blood stained American doctor.

“I’d really rather not be tortured today” I blubbed. “I’ve got a bit of a headache and I wouldn’t enjoy it.” But no one seemed to care what I thought as they bundled me into the theatre. Another emotive scream rang out and chilled me to the bone.

“Hold her hand” shouted a doctor. The bright light of the operating room took a moment to get used to but I quickly located the source of the screaming. A sweaty hand was thrust into mine and a volley of abuse came my way.

But, despite what you are no doubt thinking, it was not my mother who lay on the delivery room table but rather Nurse Simian.

“What on Earth?” I questioned. More screaming abuse came my way along with a good deal of spittle. But no answers.

“She’s almost fully dilated” said a nurse.

“Push, Mrs Brent” said the doctor in charge.

“She is not Mrs Br…” I began but the crushing power of Nurse Simian’s hand put a stop to my train of thought. Her grip tightened as she strained away. I thought at first that she was constipated and was about to suggest Bargainsave’s Premium Economy BranFlecks when the nurse interrupted.

“I can see the head” she said excitedly.

“Whose head?” I asked. I had a sneaking suspicion I wasn’t being given all the facts.

“Push, Mrs Brent” urged the doctor. Nurse Simian’s grip tightened still further and I feared any further fascinating technical works would only be possible by dictating my words to a secretary. Oh, the expense.

“Nearly there” encouraged the nurse.

“I HATE ALL MEN” screamed Nurse Simian. I felt duty bound to mention the likes of Sir Cliff Richard, Pip Baker, myself, Ian Devine, Frazer Hines… but like all women since the dawn of time she didn’t listen.

Then, as if by magic, a voice could be heard screaming above the beeping of machinery. But it was not the vulgar screams of Nurse Simian. The cries were emanating from a rather messy blob being held up by the doctor. He (the doctor) beamed at us.

“What on Earth is that?” I asked. Nurse Simian began to cry tears of joy and, after a moment of staring at the disgusting lump, I too found my eyes moistening in the artificial atmosphere of the air conditioned hospital which probably had too high a pollen concentration for the sensitive nose. At that moment the door burst open and a pale blue marquee flew into the theatre.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” it asked.

“Don’t be pathetically stupid, Uncle Ian Devine, it must be perfectly apparent to you what g-e-n-d-e-r I am” said the baby.

“That’s my boy” I managed to say before fainting clean away.


THE END