Midday

Finding a forum upon which to break the news was easy - we chose the first which wasn't so incompetently run that our application for membership was rejected in error because they were unable to correctly read our names. Drafting the message was a little more troublesome. I was handicapped by the fact that I could only say "yes" if asked a question and Ian Devine was handicapped by being someone who is utterly unable to write an interesting sentence (as anyone who has read one of his childish and irrelevant monographs would concur). In the end it came down to him sitting on me so I couldn't reach the keyboard and thus our good news reached the peasants of the world wide internet. I won’t bore you with the actual message, suffice it to say that it received several replies within the first few minutes and there was only one troublesome poster who felt the need to treat newcomers with reprehensible hostility. I really don’t understand some peoples attitude to fresh blood. I mentioned this to Ian Devine and he nodded.

"Mmm – black pudding" he said dreamily.

We watched Davies for a few more minutes as he frittered away his morning on pointless amusement and procrastination. He picked up a cardigan at one point and Ian Devine foolishly speculated that it was a hint that the Tardis team would be returning to the space museum last seen in Story Q.

"I hardly think that's likely" said Ian Devine. I mean me. I said it, not Ian Devine.

"I take your point" I replied. No, Ian Devine replied. Because he said the original (bad) thing and I corrected him. It must've been my blood sugar level playing tricks. I knew I shouldn't have eaten that mint of Bignell's.

I settled the bill on Ian Devine's behalf (his purse still sitting on the same table which prevented its use earlier at Shopco) and we clambered back into his mauve Beetle. I was prepared to concede that the picnic had, in some small way, been of huge historical significance.

"I think we can head back to Brent Towers knowing we’ve done a good deed, Ian Devine" I said without a hint of portentousness.

"Yes indeed" he agreed. "Or…"

"Or what?" I asked hesitantly.

"Or we could go to Mr Wetfinger’s and buy the pies you promised."

"Ian Devine – you have a car full… you have half a car full… you have a boot full of pies" I told him.

"I may have made inroads into the pies in the boot" he said sheepishly. "Remember when I said I had to pay a call of nature and left you to visit the Elk and Efficiency forum when you thought I wasn’t looking?"

"Yes" I said, adding "in so far as I remember you saying you required a comfort break. The other part of your charge is, I fear, erroneous in both the major and minor detail."

"Well I felt so much better after my visit behind the exceptionally wide oak tree that I felt in the mood for some pies. So I allowed myself to become carried away in the boot."

"Can’t we go home first, have a rest, perhaps watch an episode or two of Fury From the Deep now to judge whether the new colourisation is any improvement on the last attempt?"

"That is certainly a tempting suggestion, Dennis Brent. We watched Mission to the Unknown in the same format last night and it was breathtaking. Felicity Bobbins said she would orally pleasure the people responsible. I didn’t understand what she meant as I’ve always found her voice a little grating."

"Then we can go straight to Brent Towers?"

"We can, Dennis Brent."

"And not via Mr Wetfinger’s pie shop?"

"Ah – I was forgetting Mr Wetfinger. It’s a good job you reminded me, Dennis Brent. You are a true friend. So it’s ok to pop round and see him isn’t it?"

"Yes" I told him through a tense mouth.

It is lucky I suppose that Ian Devine has a private parking space outside Mr Wetfinger’s or we might’ve wasted valuable time (not to mention money) finding somewhere to leave his Beetle. I felt exhausted and utterly drained of my usual joie de vivre but I got out of the car anyway to avoid anyone seeing me sitting in it and damaging Ian Devine’s car as a result. The glass distorts my face apparently and I look like someone else.

"Mmmmnmnmnnnmnn" drooled Ian Devine as he pressed his face against the pie shop window. "Come to daddy" he added.

"Six pies only" I stated categorically as he worked on his wish list.

"Absolutely" he said, wiping some dribble from his chin but only succeeding in letting it drop onto his note pad. "Six pies only. I wouldn’t dream of anything else."

"I already know what you dream about" I said wittily. "It ends up with part of Billie Piper in your mouth."

A hand slapped me on the shoulder.

"Aye aye – sounds like a right corker to me" said Bignell.

"Hello Bignell" said Ian Devine.

"Hello Ian Devine. Hello Dennis Brent."

"Hello Bignell."

"I say, what are you chaps doing here? I thought you’d be tucked up in bed after last night… both of you."

"How dare you" I said before realising he probably meant separate beds.

"We’re buying six pies" said Ian Devine.

"Wow – six pies – that’s a lot of pie. Hey – do you chaps want in on a little jape I’ve planned?"

"Yes" said Ian Devine quickly. "We love humour – Dennis Brent and I regularly roar together. Sometimes even at the same things."

"What I thought was that someone goes into Mr Wetfinger’s pie shop and orders Ian Devine’s lunch."

"That isn’t richly comic" I said coldly. "That isn’t even dry. That’s rather tedious actually."

"I haven’t finished yet. The person goes up to the counter and announces that they’re here to buy Ian Devine’s lunch and…" he burst out laughing at his own inanity, "and… and… they say ‘He’d like a green salad please.’"

"I don’t understand" said Ian Devine. "Does he ask for the pies after the salad? And who eats the salad? This is sounding needlessly expensive."

"That’s the gag – he only asks for a salad. Mr Wetfinger will recoil in shock and we’ll be outside laughing ourselves silly at the look on his face."

"Oh I see" said a happier Ian Devine. "Then we buy pies to make up for causing him distress?"

"If you like. It’ll be priceless."

"It sounds highly entertaining."

"I was thinking Dennis Brent would be the perfect person to play the joke. Don’t you agree, Dennis?"

"Yes" I snarled.