Midnight

I wasn’t entirely sure what the form was when conducting business with a lady entrepreneur. Would we go to an hotel? A nearby room of her choosing? Or would she be expecting to come with me to Brent Towers?

"Where would we…?" I asked tentatively. I needed to know in advance if I would be billed any additional sum for accommodation.

"Just over here" she said. I flashed my torch in the appropriate direction and saw a small tent e-r-e-c-t-ed by the roadside.

"I…um… are you sure it is adequately discrete?"

"Perfectly. What would you think if you saw a tent by the side of a road?"

"That it was occupied by one, possibly two, deadbeat ne'er-do-wells who would be best left to their own, disgusting, devices" I told her.

"Exactly" she said with a professional smile. "Would you follow me?"

I did so and found myself inside a small (but rather well assembled) tent-stroke-brothel.

"Now, what would you like?" she asked. I thought about asking for a cup of tea but she looked the sort who would use a new tea bag and expect me to pay for it.

"What would you suggest?" I replied, adding "from your cheaper set menu if you have one".

"Well" she began, "research has shown that missionary scores very highly – 76% rated it as good or very good. Only 9% said it was below expectations. Doggie got 74% good or very good and only 3% rated it below par. If you’re in the mood for something a little more exotic" she continued, taking out some full-colour graphs, "the ‘Mexican octopus’ has received 100% positive feedback so far, although you can imagine the survey sample was smaller for that one. The ‘Indian stump-puller’ and the ‘Texas clover leaf’ both scored over 90% though I would be lying if the latter wasn’t responsible for the death of at least one ex-client. If you look at this graph it shows the correlation between the enjoyment recorded for each position when compared with the age of the participant. This graph demonstrates a definite trend vis-à-vis the socio-economic background of the customer in relation to the chosen activity and if you hold on a moment" she quickly and efficiently sorted through some papers, "here are some notes I have compiled for a book I’m planning on writing. It’s called "Perversion and Statistics – How Too Much of the Former Needn’t Prevent the Accurate Compilation of the Latter". I remember a time when a gentleman asked me to dress as Valerie Singleton and pretend he was Joey D…"

"Yes quite" I said, unwilling to listen to anymore of this appalling filth. "You were talking about statistical information."

"Oh yes – so there we were, at it, and he was so wrapped up in pretending to be challenged that he didn’t notice me working on a spreadsheet the whole time. Men can be so terribly easily distracted where sex is concerned." To prove her point she lifted her top. She put it down a moment later and seemed to want something from me.

"Did you notice that?" she asked.

"Of course – you bared what should not be bared" I told her.

"True, but while exposed I completed an invoice for the Procurator of Cymm, I wrote a formula for calculating my average hourly income during 2005 and I printed out a blackmail letter ready to send to a non-paying telephone customer of mine."

"But I… and you didn’t… because you were…" I stammered.

"Men" she said airily. "Now, what takes your fancy?"

I had been here quite long enough.

"A cup of tea would be nice" I said. "And you can show me some more of your statistics while I drink it."

A few minutes later we were discussing her ingenious and admirable filing system while enjoying a very palatable cup of tea.

"Doesn’t it concern you that all your record keeping talents are going to waste in such an unsavoury profession?" I asked.

"Not in the least. I get to indulge my passion for data accumulation, interpretation and manipulation while making an enormous amount of money. They’re not that different actually – it’s all a matter of understanding deviations."

"But you could use your talents for good. Put away the brief dresses and get a sensible job researching fascinating telehistorical material. There are already two females in the field so all the old fashioned s-e-x-ism has been brushed aside. We let the females do the actual brushing as they were tidying the place anyway."

"You can’t compare the two fields at all – do you think I want to waste my time looking at dusty old pieces of paper and writing monographs that no one in their right mind would read when I could be making hundreds of quid a night, collecting a huge album of hysterical genital photographs and travelling the length and breadth of Firkinside? I’ve seen places you can only dream about."

"Such as?" I asked.

"The hanging gardens of Vulva Vale on a spring morning."

"What's it like?"

"It’s good."

"Oh."

"You should go."

"I might."

"Good."

"Thank you."

"You’re welcome."

"Anywhere else?"

"The singing trees of Plinge are well worth a drive."

"I’ll make a note of that if I may borrow a pencil. Mine seems to have snapped during my police interrogation."

She handed me a pencil which was, when I held it closer to the light, reminiscent of a part of the body which need not be mentioned. I wrote down the details of the singing trees of Plinge.

"Please don’t put my pencil in your mouth" she said strictly.

"Force of habit" I explained. I hadn’t realised I was doing it and apologised immediately. I also sent her a note by the second class post but it was returned by the post office because there was no longer a tent by the side of the road. The Royal Mail has lost all sense of going that extra mile for the customer.

"Well, this is all very pleasant but we’re here to do business" she said, clearing away the tea cups. "You’ve had a chance to see the promotional literature. Have you decided what you’d like?"

I understood the ghastly implications implicit in her question and although I had no follow up I had no choice but to say,

"Yes."