10am

I should've realised that I hadn't a long wait ahead of me. It would take Ian Devine a very short period of time to eat a Dennis Brent sized hole in his mound of pies. Sure enough, he was back in the time it took for me to be bundled out of the car park by security and sneak back in disguised as an Islamic woman. All it took was my navy blue scarf wrapped strategically about my head. They saw nothing peculiar about such a person being clad from head to foot in hard wearing tweed. All they cared about was not being seen to offend me.

"I'm back" said Ian Devine unnecessarily. I could see perfectly well that he was back. I would've been terse with him until I noticed the craftsmanship which had gone into his nibbling a perfect Dennis Brent size hole in his mound of pies. I used the phrase "Dennis Brent sized hole" in a metaphorical sense in my earlier paragraph but that is exactly what I saw before me now. His attention to detail was as admirable as it was thorough. If he had remembered that I have a nose it would’ve been perfect. I pointed out his error and he used his highly skilled mouth to bring matters to a satisfactory conclusion. Admittedly the seat was rather crumby (in the sense of being covered with crumbs rather than being inadequate or a bit shabby – Ian Devine’s Beetle was neither, a most sensible vehicle and one I helped him choose the previous summer) but I was glad to be aboard.

"To Brent Towers" I said.

"Hurrah" he added and promptly stalled again. He looked down to see that a pork pie had been resting against the clutch pedal and given him a false sense of the lightness of foot needed to keep the engine running.

We had been going for five minutes or so when he asked me a question (something I had learned to dread during my ordeal).

"Would it be all right with you if we stopped somewhere for elevenses?"

"Yes" I said through a sigh. "Where had you in mind? The garden at Brent Towers is rather fine this time of year."

"Alas it is not – the shrub did not survive the night" he said gravely. I made a mental note to return it to the garden centre and get a refund – they described it as ‘hardy’ and being unable to survive a British night doesn’t count as ‘hardy’ in my book. Look at me – I survived a much tougher time than it did and I wouldn’t even class myself as ‘hardy’. ‘Rugged’ perhaps, certainly ‘hard wearing’ but ‘hardy’ might be going a little too far. Feel free to write to me (don’t expect me to pay for a reply) if you believe I am worthy of the word ‘hardy’.

"Oh" I said having wasted all my shrub-related thoughts on my inner voice.

"Philip Stiffit was a bit tiddly and set fire to it."

Damn and blast the man – now I wouldn’t be able to get a refund. Curse him and all his kith and kin.

I was becoming a little irritated by Ian Devine as we sped back to Brent Towers. His refusal to go above twenty two miles to the hour (he claimed he had read it was the optimal speed for fuel efficiency in a Beetle but I suspected it was more to do with the width of his thighs preventing him from reaching third gear.) He also insisted on switching the cassette player on and forcing me to listen to episode three of "The Marian Conspiracy". He knew full well that I wasn’t due to listen to that particular episode until the 22^nd of July 2008. I stuffed pastry in my ears to avoid the risk of invalidating the purity of my schedule but he chastised me for wasting pastry and forbad me from taking anymore. I offered to make do with the disgusting jelly that lines pork pies and which is completely inedible but Ian Devine asked what jelly I was referring to and stated that he had never noticed any jelly in pork pies. Often, he added, he didn’t even notice the pork. I implored him to switch off the cassette tape and he agreed (reluctantly). He replaced it with someone called "Hanson" and sang along as we drove.

"Mmm bop" he intoned. "Mmm bop"

"Ian Devine" I began.

"Ba duba dop ba do bop"

"Could we perhaps…"

"Ba duba dop ba do. Oh yeah"

"…drive in silence?"

"Mmm bop"

"Only I would relish a few minutes sleep…"

"Ba do bop"

"…having been up all night."

"Oooh yeah"

I gave up.

Some time (and plenty of ‘mmm bops’) later we pulled up by the side of the road.

"Dennis Brent" began Ian Devine.

"Yes, Ian Devine?" I replied.

"It is very nearly eleven o’clock."

"And?"

"Perhaps we could take one or two of my pies somewhere and eat them in more pleasant surroundings. I was thinking of a rather nice picnic area just beyond that hedge where we might sit and I can eat my pies and you can eat whatever you have brought with you."

I was about to say that I didn’t have any food and further more I hadn’t eaten anything since dinner at Philip Stiffit’s when I found one of Bignell’s mints in my jacket pocket and so reduced my proposed statement to a tissue of lies.

"It is always pleasant to eat pies but it is extra pleasant to eat pies in the open air. I have a small tartan rug in the glove compartment – it probably won’t be big enough for both of us but we all have to make sacrifices don’t you."

"I would prefer if we didn’t…" I began but his lower lip started to wobble, his eyes became those of puppy dogs and, more important than any of than namby pamby sentimental nonsense, he asked me a closed question.

"Is it ok with you if we stop here for an hour or so to eat elevenses, Dennis Brent?"

"Yes" I said through gritted teeth.