9am

Sarah Mutton took one look at the huge quantity of comestibles in Ian Devine’s special trolley and her better instincts took over.

"Of course, as you are such a valued customer we wouldn't want to do anything that might inhibit your enjoyment of our retail experience matrix" she said without shame. The till girl scanned each item in turn and minutes later I was presented with a bill which would've made even Terry Nation scream out in pain. I did consider that the cost of Ian Devine’s appetites so dwarfed the financial gain from winning the wager that I would be ahead were I simply to forfeit and walk out but there is much to be said for the non-monetary value of my beating Philip Stiffit and his stupid face. I signed the chit with an extremely shaky hand and Ian Devine beamed at me throughout. Little did he know that his next decade's worth of birthday, Christmas, Easter, anniversary and Doctor Who Day gifts were currently sat in his special trolley being drooled over by Ian Devine and anyone with shares in Shopco.

The store detective and Sarah Mutton consulted privately while I finished bagging what can only be described as a population of pies.

"Obviously" began Miss Mutton, "we cannot overlook your gross breaches of company policy."

"Obviously" agreed the store detective.

"But we are willing – on this occasion and as a sign of goodwill – to overlook them."

"Obviously" agreed the store detective again.

"As long as you agree never to set foot in this store again unless you are accompanying Mr Devine."

"You are banning me from the shop?" I gasped. I hadn’t been banned from anywhere ever and anyone who tells you differently has misunderstood a situation where I decided to strike a place from my list of acceptable locations independently of the owner’s decision that I might be better suited somewhere else.

"We value your money, Mr Brent, but perhaps not your actual presence."

"Obviously" said the store detective for a third time.

"If you would hand over your Club Cards" she added. I passed her every single one of the wretched pieces of plastic and she snipped them in half with a pair of special scissors.

Indignity was piled upon expense pilled upon indignity as I had to help stuff an ungodly quantity of pies into a mauve Beetle while Ian Devine sat in the drivers’ seat and claimed that he had a doctor's note prohibiting him from fetching, carrying, straining, shoving, heaving, pushing, pulling, piling and stretching. We had filled the boot utterly and the trolley was barely changed. The back seats came and went and there was only so much that would fit in the glove compartment.

"Put it on the passenger seat" suggested Ian Devine.

"But there won’t be room for me" I protested.

"Of course there will – it’s only a few pies. How much space can they possibly take up?"

I took him at face value (a mistake when one has a face like Ian Devine’s) and loaded up the passenger seat.

"I really think that it will cause me considerable inconvenience" I said as the stuffing continued unabated.

"Pish and nonsense" he replied with a wave of his hand. "Trust me, Dennis Brent, I have conveyed pies on four continents and I am fully aware of the capacity required. You may rest assured that everything will fit in without a hitch."

I took him at his word and continued to load. There were two pies left in the trolley and absolutely no space what so ever. I couldn’t even see Ian Devine without walking round to his side of the car.

"I’ll take those" he said and, stopping only to put a little salt and pepper on them from his Swiss Army condiments set, his wolfed them down.

"It appears my warning of an overstuffed car was not substantially incorrect" I said with resignation. What should’ve been a moment of triumph was spoilt slightly by my victory leaving me well and truly shot in the foot.

"I fear I may have miscalculated" he mumbled through a mouthful of pie. "I could’ve sworn… oh!" and he slapped himself in the forehead. "I neglected to take into account the double-crust coefficient" he said. "I have been a fool. All my sums were based on a falsehood and there is nothing I can do but apologise, Dennis Brent."

"You could dispose of some of the pies and let me in your car" I offered.

"I shall ignore that remark and blame it on your having not slept."

"How can you blame it on that if you are ignoring it?" I said, winning another point.

"Well if that is your attitude I would suggest you either affix yourself on the roof or you stay here in this car park."

"Hold hard, Ian Devine, I meant no disrespect. I am simply rather keen to get back to Brent Towers and catalogue last night’s recordings. If I slip behind, anything might happen."

"The world will not end if you omit a few items from your archives" he told me pompously.

"I have finally realised that you will speak any heresy if it means not disposing of pies."

"Wait" he said suddenly. "I have discovered a solution. If I drive away now, home to Brent Towers, I am inevitably going to feel peckish en route. I may be tempted to nibble one or two of my lovely pies." He stopped to stroke the mountain of pastry that occupied what ought to have been my seat. "It is not inconceivable that a small amount of space might be liberated by virtue of my nibbling."

"Well?" I demanded.

"When sufficient space is freed I could turn around and come back to pick you up. Isn’t that a splendid plan?"

It wasn’t a splendid plan of course. It had more flaws in it than a one hundred and sixty three storey building which has one hundred and sixty three floors. "Floor" and "flaw" sound identical hence my witticism has a duel meaning which imbues it with humour which wouldn’t ordinarily be present as a floor only has a flaw if it is unstable and therefore unsafe and that wouldn’t be a suitable topic for comedy. But I had no choice – I had come this far, what was one more disappointment?

"Yes" I told him. Adding, "it’s an excellent plan" in a clear voice and "if you are a simple minded fool" once he had gone.