I wanted Philip Stiffit to know exactly what I thought of him. To that end I deliberately wore an old and slightly frayed tie, the lesser of my two hard-wearing tweed jackets and the trousers which I had discarded last September but which the refuse collection people declined to take as they claimed it would violate their "health and safety" regulations. The last thing I wanted was for Philip Stiffit to think I had made any kind of effort.

"Den" he called when he answered the door.

"…nis Brent" I muttered before returning his greeting.

"You shouldn't have dressed up for the occasion" he said frustratingly.

"As a matter of fact, Philip Stiffit, I have not. The clothes I am wearing do not represent the pinnacle of my wardrobe."

"I know, Den, I was only kidding. Actually, you look like a three thousand year old maths teacher. Have a drink."

I walked reluctantly through his hall and was appalled to see he had already fully unpacked his possessions. The giants of fascinating television programmes starred down at me from the walls. Peter Wyngarde, Patrick McGoohan, that Baker fellow with the irrational dislike of me, Barry Letts and many more. I froze in my tracks however when I saw the final portrait in his gallery.

"Leonard Nimoy" I gasped.

"Yeah - don't you agree that the modern telehistorian has to take a global view rather than limit himself to a parochial and rather tired nationalistic standpoint? Wouldn't you agree, Den?"

"…nis Brent. I most certainly would not. Unless you are planning to live well beyond your five hundredth birthday you cannot possibly have done more than scratch the surface of British telehistory."

"Narrow thinking, Den."

"…nis Brent. We shall see, Philip Stiffit."

We entered his drawing room and I was surprised to see several familiar faces.

"You know Felicity" he said, introducing me rather unnecessarily to my lodger, Miss Bobbins.

"Hello Dennis Brent" she cooed.

"And I think you know Mr Grantham and Mr McClean."

I gave a cursory nod to my former colleague and his new associate.

"This is my good friend, Jim" he added, pointing a manicured finger at Mr Penistone from the bank.

"Mr Brent and I are old acquaintances" he said snidely. There really is no need for such wanton unpleasantness even from someone as morally evil and personally abhorrent as Mr Penistone.

"Oh and this gentleman you already know."

The small sea of guests parted and there, his face already wrapped around a plate of c-o-c-k-tail sausages was Ian Devine.

"Mgh" he said through a mouthful of pork.

"Ian Devine" I replied coldly.

"Mrs Godd says dinner is ready so shall we go through to the dining room?" announced Philip Stiffit.

"Oooh - let me enter on the arms of my two favourite gentlemen" cooed Miss Bobbins. She grabbed Philip Stiffit and I by the elbows and marched us through the door. Unfortunately the door was only wide enough for two and I ended up banging my face quite badly on the architrave but I didn't let on.

There was the obligatory small talk over dinner - Ian Devine, "dinner" and "small" do not ordinarily go together <g>. We were half way through the meat course when the conversation turned to reading.

"I've just finished a really good book" said Philip Stiffit.

"Oh" I scoffed, "and what trash are you reading these days?"

"As a matter of fact it was 'From the Ark to the Ark in Space - a Critical Appraisal of Arks in Doctor Who' by Denis Brent.

"Really?" I asked, impressed that he had tracked down such a rare tome. Only four copies were ever printed and I believed I had the only three left in existence.

"No - not really. I gave that to Oxfam, Cancer Research, Help the Aged, Save the Children, the Red Cross, the Terrance Higgins Trust, Save the Whale, Greenpeace, Friends of the Earth, Adopt a Granny, the NSPCC, the RSPCA, the RNLBI, the Scouts, the Rotary Club, the church jumble sale and the book recycling people and they all gave it me back."

The less mature people roared with laughter at that rather poorly constructed sentence while I merely fumed inwardly.

"Well then, Philip Stiffit, pray tell what you have been reading. I'll lay odds that it isn't in the same league as 'From the Ark to the Ark in Space - a Critical Appraisal of Arks in Doctor Who' by Denis Brent."

"Its called 'The Yes Man' by a guy I used to hang out with in London - Danny. It's about what happened to him when he decided to only answer Yes to questions."

"That sounds rather juvenile" I said wittily. Sadly I was drowned out by Ian Devine finishing off the last of the ham and his subsequent wails that there wasn't more ham to eat. He excused himself and went to raid the larder.

"I expect you think that sounds rather juvenile, Den" said Philip Stiffit.

"…nis Brent. Yes I do, Philip Stiffit. It sounds just the sort of pointless and insensible nonsense that a friend of yours would get up to."

"I bet you couldn't do it" he said, his eyes suddenly steely cold.

He announced that coffee, after dinner mints and large Cuban cigars would be served in the drawing room and the guests filed out. I was about to leave when an arm restrained me.

"Hold hard, Philip Stiffit…" I began.

"What about it, Den?" he asked.

"…nis Brent. What about what, Philip Stiffit?"

"What about a little bet about which of us can say Yes to everything?"

"Betting is a waste of good money" I told him.

"Scared are you?"

"I fear nothing, Philip Stiffit, least of all you."

"Then what about a five pound wager that you can't go twenty four hours without saying No?"

I felt nervous. Five pounds was an awful lot to flush away on the whims of fate. I decided to bluff him.

"Pah" I scoffed with a wave of my hand. "Call that a wager. It is little more than a handshake."

"Ok - you name the price."

"Ah… well… how about…" I was stuck in a rut of my own devising. I thought fast. "…six pounds?"

"Let's call it fifty quid. The loser pays the winner fifty big ones and the loser is the first person to say No when asked a question."

"Fif… fff…" I had lost the power of speech. "Ffff" I tried again to no avail.

"Simple rules - we can't ask each other questions and no one else can know what we're doing otherwise the bet is off. Ok?"

"Fff" I spluttered again.

"So it's a deal, Den?"

"…nis Brent. Ffff"

He took my hand and shook it.

"It's a deal. Shall we go and have coffee and a smoke?"

"Fff"

We hadn't even reached the drawing room when Felicity Bobbins bounced her head through the doorway and beckoned to me.

"Does Dennis Brent want to lead the conga?" she cooed.

"Fff…" I began. I had just about forced my mouth into a 'No' when I saw the smug look on Philip Stiffit's face.

"Dennis Brent?"

"Fff"

"Do you want to lead our little conga?"

"Fff…" I stuttered, "…yes."