"Come on, Den" said Philip Stiffit, eager for me to take my place at the head of the conga.

"…nis Brent. I'm coming, Philip Stiffit." I grudgingly trudged into the drawing room and saw that the assembled dinner guests were already touching each other about the waist and doing something rhythmic with their legs. Miss Bobbins and Philip Stiffit joined the human caterpillar at the front (Ian Devine clasping her rather too familiarly and only arriving at her waist at the third attempt.)

"Your turn, Den" said Philip Stiffit.

"…nis Brent. Oh very well" and I submitted myself, reluctantly, to Philip Stiffit's grasp. Although I had three layers of tweed between myself and his hands (as a side note, if anyone knows a reliable supplier of tweed vests could they please contact me as my regular tailor has foolishly died without instructing a successor in their manufacturer) I still felt deeply uneasy. He pushed me forward and implored me to lead the chain in something he called fun.

"Where do you wish to go?" I asked.

"It's up to you - you're in control, Den."

"…nis Brent" I began but he proved himself to be a liar almost immediately as he pushed me more decisively and I was propelled forwards. His grip was keen and I felt rather like the Dalek in Story SSS who was being pushed into a deadly lake of molten ice. It was literally the same thing. I narrowly avoided a collision with the fruit punch (sustaining only minor wetness) and found myself heading inexorably towards the open drawing room door.

The rest of the congregation insisted on singing (if you can call it that - to my ears it was little more than intoxicated chanting of the same monosyllable) as we weaved through Philip Stiffit's ground floor. I might as well have been on wheels for all the good being at the head of the line afforded me.

We "danced" (for want of a less absurdly inaccurate word) through Philip Stiffit’s so-called archive suites. For a man who had only been living in the village for a matter of hours he had managed to assemble a presentable showcase of second rate artefacts. One or two of the labels were at a crooked angle and several of the glass casings had obvious finger marks on them. I saw with disappointment a scarf which an unknown bidder (code named "pstiff1999" and who I may be on the verge of unmasking thanks to a private investigator I engaged for the purpose) had snatched from under my nose in the dying seconds of an auction. Philip Stiffit must’ve made a secret deal with this dishonourable auction-goer and purchased the item behind the scenes. There is literally no other explanation. I made a mental note to find out where this secret trade took place and whether I could devise a means of getting invited. Public auctions are so unseemly. Much better for men to gather in secret and perform their private acts away from prying prolish eyes.

Given that Wicks, Grantham and I had been merely sensible acquaintances I had never seen over their cottage. I had sipped small glasses of sherry in the drawing room, been shown items of minor importance in the museum, viewed with distaste the autographed "New Adventure" novels in the library and prised Ian Devine out of the larder with the aid of stout ropes but I had no idea their cottage had a swimming pool (no Louise Jameson in it I’m afraid <g>), an observatory or a dungeon. I had little time to assess the facilities in any of those rooms however as I was still being brutally propelled in the name of low quality physical entertainment.

"Let's go outside" shouted someone I took to be Mr Penistone.

"Great idea" someone else cried

"Hold hard - I need to unlatch…" I began before I was pushed face first into the heavy oak front door.

"Sorry, Den" lied Philip Stiffit.

"…nis Brent. Let me unlatch the d…" I answered before I was pushed into the door for a second time.

"Who's pushing?" asked Philip Stiffit, his voice not containing the angry inquisition required on this occasion. It was almost as if he didn't mind my being assaulted but that is so unlikely as to be impossible.

"Sorry" said another voice. There was an unmistakable sound of crumbs dropping from the speaker's lips but I know Ian Devine would never do anything like that so I was completely in the dark.

I fumbled for the door latch and managed to prise it open despite the wealth of humanity pressing down upon me and we were soon outside in the front garden.

"Watch out for the gnome" I noted but my recommendation must’ve been drowned out by a passing car as I collided with the aforementioned. Luckily, the stone man’s pointed hat missed both my legs and only scraped along the gusset of my trousers. Years of congealed unguents had given my undercarriage a hardy protective layer and I was unharmed. Mr Gnome could not say the same for he found himself with a slightly shorter hat. I permitted myself a small, and ultimately short-lived, smile.

"Is Mr Snicket's 24-hour convenience store still open?" asked Mr Penistone.

"Great idea - let's get some Pringles" came the reply from the back of the line.

"And some other Pringles" added another voice. They began to chant the word Pringles (which I thought was a rather vulgar form of sporting jumper but apparently is a local delicacy). I was push-started in the direction of Mr Snicket's

We had gone roughly eight hundred yards (there are lamp posts at 10 yard intervals along Bendaton high street and I had been conga-ed into eighty of them) when we are flagged down by a passing police man.

"Ello ello ello" he said, maintaining a standard I feared had been lost with the coming of softer shirts and WPCs. "What do you think is going on here then? Have you been drinking, sir?"

He was looking straight at me and I was looking straight at him so there was no possibility of feigning deafness. Philip Stiffit dug a fist into my ribs as if to remind me of our ludicrously expensive wager.

"Yes" I said reluctantly.