5am

She sat me in a chair and asked me to spread my hands out so she could have a look at them. She tutted in a reassuringly professional way.

"Dear dear" she said. "Your cuticles are in a right state."

I was about to tell her that they simply weren't very flattering trousers when I remembered that saucy innuendo isn't in my nature and never has been. I took the remark in the spirit it was intended and tried to move the conversation elsewhere. Which, given that it was a nail salon and she was discussing my nails, wasn't going to be easy.

"So why is a nail salon open at five o'clock in the morning?" I asked.

"Well" she began, "I suppose its so that men who want their nails doing can do so without being seen having them done."

"Ah" I replied. "I am here in the store purely by chance and only in this salon at your invitation."

"Of course you are" she said and she winked at me. I was relieved that I had clarified matters. I wouldn't like word to get out that Dennis Brent regularly has a young lady working over his fingers in the middle of the night.  That could seriously affect my reputation.

She spent several fruitful minutes filing my nails. I made no fewer than three witty remarks about how they ought to go under "N" for 'nails' in her filing cabinet were she to file them in the alternative sense of the word, namely to store information in a logical sequence rather than the present definition which is to rub an abrasive substance against the plate which covers the upper surface of each finger tip. In fact, that’s word for word what I said and she didn’t laugh. I think she must’ve been partially deaf.

"We’ve got a special offer on at the moment" she began but she was interrupted by a person bearing a clipboard.

"Can I interest sir in applying for a Club Card?" asked the newcomer. Although I technically already owned one of these cards I was duty bound to answer in the affirmative. She took my details verbally as my hands were tied up elsewhere. I don’t mean tied in the sense that one close friend may tie the hands of another close friend as part of a practical pleasantry which ends with the bound friend being dumped in the sea and his life insurance policies claimed upon by his close friend. I mean tied in the sense of being busy elsewhere. See my earlier witticism about filing. She popped my newest card on the nail salon counter and left us alone again. I waited for the nail attendant to return to her tantalising mention of a special offer but her deafness must've returned and she stayed silent. I tried to cough the words "special" and "offer" as a subtle clue but she merely retreated to the back of the salon and returned with a face mask, plastic eye protectors and latex gloves.

"These Club Cards are wonderful" I said, changing tactic. "They give one access to so many special offers. You know – special offers offered to special customers whose special custom means they get offered special offers by those who value their special custom…"

"Mmm" she agreed and carried on sculpting my left index finger. "Oh" she said at last, her head popping up, "yes – we’ve got a special offer on at the moment."

"At last" I sighed. "I am all ears."

"Your name painted onto your fingernails one letter at a time. It’s really tasteful and only twenty pounds per hand. Would you like me to do it for you?"

I goggled. I did – I actually goggled. She went to fetch me a glass of water and everything. I actually got up and tried to sneak away while she was getting the water but I foolishly left my new Club Card on the counter and had to go back for it. So near and yet so far. I weighed up the situation while I drank my free (at least I hoped it was free) beverage. Twenty pounds per hand for my name to be painted on my fingernails was an appalling water of money but it was only forty pounds. My bet with Philip Stiffit – which would be forfeited if I refused her offer – would cost me ten pounds more. There was only one sensible course of action.

"So do you want your nails jazzing up then?" she asked when I put the empty glass down.

"Yes" I told her with reluctance.

I hadn’t realized the flaw in her plan. She’d heard my name being revealed while filling in my Club Card application but the girl couldn’t spell. That was how I came to have D E N I S across all the nails of my right hand but what I felt was too flimsy a grounds for a lawsuit. I was feeling thoroughly fed up with the whole shopping experience. I just wanted to get home and so, after purchasing a pair of white cotton gloves to hide my illiterate nails and signing up for two more Club Cards when asked by well meaning store assistants, I found a public telephone box and called Ian Devine.

It took him nine rings to answer the telephone – it was always more when he hadn’t just ordered several pizzas and wasn’t expecting the firm to call back and confirm the order.

"Brent Towers, the Devine Wing, Ian F Devine speaking" said a familiar voice.

"Ian Devine – this is Dennis Brent" I told him.

"Great heavens – we thought you were rotting in jail. I say, it’s jolly flattering that you’d use your one telephone call to ring me."

"I am not currently in custody" I replied. I explained where I was and that I urgently required him to meet me and take me home.

"I understand what you are saying, Dennis Brent" began Ian Devine, "and I would be willing to ride over and pick you up but I have to remind you that it is during the hours of darkness and my special rate will be payable on top of my normal fee for chariot services. Are you willing to pay the extra sum?"

I cursed him under my breath but,

"Yes" I told him, adding "just hurry up" for good measure.