The death of my former colleague Wicks, and the subsequent elopement of my former colleague Grantham, had created a vacuum at the heart of Bendaton which was troubling me greatly. Their cottage – a desirable property – was lying empty and with every passing day it was growing more and more likely that a family of unsuitables would move in. Grantham seemed keen to dispose of the property and kept foolishly clipping the price so as to make it more attractive. Despite the fact that a great many residents of the village mistake me for someone they don’t like I still have a sense of pride in the wellbeing of Bendaton. It was with this in mind that I had taken up vigil outside the cottage to check for any signs of interest. That was a week ago and, aside from a heart stopping moment when thought it had been purchased by a postal worker (only to discover he was merely making a delivery), there had been little activity. I am, for ease and clarity of narrative, ignoring the four occasions on which a constable bundled me out of my bush and questioned me in connection with a series of reports that there was a man in the bushes with a pair of binoculars. I neither know nor care what Mrs Shrimp gets up to in her bedroom even if it is with Mrs Beef from the tobacconists.

On the eighth day I was pouring myself a beaker of warm water when a large van pulled up outside the cottage. I was frustratingly unable to see anything as the van was blocking my view so I immediately rushed into plan B. With my beard in place I walked gingerly over to the van and pretended my stuffed guide dog was simply taking a well earned rest.

“Can I ‘elp you mate?” asked a burly removals man.

“Is someone moving in?” I asked.

“You can see that can’t you?” he replied.

“No” I said indignantly, “I can’t. I’m a blind man.”

“Oh right. YES – SOMEONE… IS… MOVING… IN” he explained loudly.

“Do you have their name, previous address, references, medical and s-e-x-u-a-l history, viewing habits and criminal record to hand?”

“NO… I… DON’T… MATE” he told me. It’s damned annoying talking to proles at the best of times but when they are being wilfully ignorant it really gets my goat up.

“Well, do you know anything about him?”

“ONLY… THAT… HE… PAYS… WELL… AND… IS… A… REALLY… NICE… BLOKE.”

That didn’t help me at all – it doesn’t sound like anyone I’ve ever met before.

“Thank you my man” I said, giving him up as the lost cause he undoubtedly was. I returned to my bush and removed as much of the glued on beard as I could. I stowed my disguise in a secret compartment inside the stuffed Labrador and pondered my next move. It was no exaggeration to say that the entire future of Bendaton, not to mention the welfare of Firkinside, was at stake. If that cottage played host to wild living, drug crazed, football supporting, lowlife scum bag, loser, dole sponging, h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l-s then the world might as well end beneath my feet. I took another sip of warm water from my flask and considered how I might find out the basic information outlined above.

“Hello, Dennis Brent” said a familiar voice. “What are you doing in that bush?” It was my colleague, Ian Devine come to keep me company no doubt.

“Hello, Ian Devine. I am keeping watch on the property lest a family of vagrants move in.”

“Do vagrants buy property?” he asked unnecessarily.

“They might be scum, Ian Devine, and it falls to me as a property owner to get advanced warning that scum has infected the area. Every minute that goes by with scum in the neighbourhood is money literally leaking from my purse.”

“That is a terrible picture you paint” he said sensibly. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“You could take over on watch for a few minutes while I go an empty my bag.”

“I thought Doctor Flapjack said the bag was only for emergencies.”

“I don’t think I’m stepping away from the line of sensibleness when I say that crouching in a bush counts as an emergency. Now, will you replace me?”

“I would dearly love to, Dennis Brent, but I fear the shrubbery is of an extremely sparse nature and my big boned physique would be rather apparent.”

“You make a good point. Would you possibly consider emptying my bag?”

“We have been colleagues for many years, Dennis Brent, but we have never been that close. I will however do you a small favour which may help you pass the time in your bush.”

“Namely?”

“It might occupy your mind if I told you that the cottage has been purchased by Britain’s coolest telehistorian, Philip Stiffit and that he is moving in today.”

“Thank you, Ian Devine” I said politely, “that will give me food for thought… hang on… how did you know that?”

“A letter arrived for you a week ago, eight days to be exact, from Philip Stiffit letting you know he would be moving in today. Here it is.” He handed me a rather crumpled missive.

“Why have I not seen it before?” I asked.

“I fear it became entangled in a sandwich I was preparing and it has only now reappeared upon the scene.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I have been a little constipated these past few mornings and it wasn’t until today and I felt able to part with the assembled material.”

“Ian Devine, I will ask this only once and we must never speak of it again. Has this letter passed through your digestive system?”

“It has.”

“I appreciate your honesty and at the same time am unable to feel anything from the neck down.”

As if to prove me wrong, at that moment Philip Stiffit – all fake tan and cheap attempts at friendliness – slapped me on the back and greeted me warmly.

“Hey there, Den” he said, adopting his usual and objectionably vulgar contraction of my name.

“…nis Brent” I muttered by way of finishing his sentence. “Hello Philip Stiffit” I said in return.

“It’s great to see you again, Den.”

“…nis Brent. It is a surprise to see you, Philip Stiffit.”

“Hey – I know we haven’t always been friends in the past owing to me being more successful and more popular than you but I hope that living in the same village will be a great chance for us to get to know each other, Den.”

“…nis Brent. I am sure that it will be a most unusual experience” I said cryptically. I had been considering the quickest way of placing Brent Towers on the market when a thought occurred to me that was well and truly beneath me. I clasped the letter Ian Devine had so recently passed me and rolled it around in my hand.

“What’s say you pop round for a glass or two of sherry later, Den?”

“…nis Brent. I would be delighted, Philip Stiffit” I said. “Let’s shake hands and make a fresh start.”

“My pleasure.”

I beamed as he pumped me warmly by the hand. There is nothing as putting one over on a rival. Looking back, it could only have been made better had I held the soiled letter in my right hand but one never thinks of such details at the time. I am typing this with my nose as both my hands are immersed in bleach – one to remove Ian Devine’s intestinal fluids and the other to cleanse it of the foul stench of Philip Stiffit and his namby pamby, popularity seeking, short cut taking, warm smiling and impossibly smug manner.