5pm

I looked down at little Dennis Junior and blenched.

"This won't be easy, father, but you must steal yourself and do it" he told me.

"Yes but..." I began.

"Unfasten the safety pin on my left."

I moved to do so.

"NO" he squealed, "my left not your left."

"Ah" and I did as he instructed. I was about to pull the garment open when the landlord came over to me and shook his finger in my face.

"Gor blimey - what do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

"I am changing my son's nappy" I explained.

"You can't do that here - that's the dominoes table. We can't have you coming along and soiling the dominoes table, not with the county championship fixture next week and all."

"Where should I go then? Is there a special room?"

"There is a table in the lady's facilities."

"But I can't go in there - it's for ladies."

"I should think so too."

"So the only place I can change the little fellow is the only place I cannot go?"

"That's a rough approximation."

"Would one of your barmaids be willing to do the honours?"

"I'll ask them. Mirabelle, Collette?"

"Yes, Mr Tedrogers?" they replied in unison.

"Would either of you be interested in changing Mr Brent's nappy?"

"My son's nappy" I shouted by way of clarification.

"I'd rather eat my own head" said Mirabelle.

"Yes - I'd rather eat Mirabelle's head too" added Collette.

"From the smell it would be like opening Pandora's Bag."

"I'm afraid you'll have to find a less hygiene-conscious public house, Mr Brent" said the landlord.

"What if I put some kind of sheeting down on the table top to ensure it remains soil-free?"

"Have you such a covering to hand?"

"I do" and I took Ian Devine's tartan rug out of my satchel.

"Then you may proceed. Try not to spill any on the floor."

"Thank you, Mr Tedrogers."

Little Dennis Junior and I discussed tactics for a minute or two (which largely consisted of him telling me what to do and giving a rough estimation of the textures and colours I was likely to encounter.)

"Father" he said when he had finished his presentation.

"Yes Dennis Junior" I replied.

"I suddenly find this a rather embarrassing situation."

"I'm not with you."

"I don't expect you've ever had a prominent telehistorian examining your bowel movements."

"On the contrary - Ian Devine counter signs my bowel-movement chart every morning" I said proudly. I showed him the chart but he registered his disinterest by blowing a raspberry which caused some of the cheaper inks to run.

"Father, I really think we should attempt to diffuse the rank embarrassment by discussing some fascinating topic or other. I know, you can explain to me this unfortunate "correct story title" dispute while to change me."

"Oh very well" I said. I pulled on my rubber gloves, donned an impromptu apron and unfastened the safety pin which was holding the nappy together.

"What exactly IS Story A called?" asked Little Dennis Junior.

"The BBC insist on using the name 'An Unearthly Child' to describe this story" I explained as the noxious sludge leaked from his partially undone diaper. "The origin of this curious habit of using the first episode's title stems from the 1973 Radio Times special."

I made a brief attempt to stem the flood with my hands but gave up and let it dribble onto Ian Devine's tartan rug.

"Alternative titles for Story A include the factually inaccurate '100,000BC' and the frankly ludicrous 'The Tribe of Gum'. The latter is mainly seen on the Titan script book of the story."

I brushed faecal matter from little Dennis Junior's thighs and wiped my hands on the rug. The earlier flow had now begun to drip onto the floor. I tried to grind it into the carpet with my shoe in the hope that Mr Tedrogers wouldn't notice but I was too preoccupied with our discussion to really care.

"Various documentation exists bearing the names 'Story A', 'An Unearthly Child' and '100,000BC' but there is no common consensus which should be considered correct. I have in my possession a memorandum which calls it 'Dr Who Episodes One to Four by Anthony Coburn' but I fear the world is not yet ready for the truth."

I fear my story had become too exciting as a jet or urine spurted out and soaked my impromptu apron.

"Moving on to Story B, again the curse of the Radio Times means some people refer to this adventure as 'The Dead Planet' which is patent nonsense. The really interesting debates occur between those who have documentation baring 'The Daleks' and those with paperwork to support 'The Mutants'."

"But surely 'The Mutants' is a third Doctor serial" said little Dennis Junior. I beamed at him as only a proud father can. He responded with another jet of feculence.

"Hence the dogmatic refusal from some quarters to even consider its use for the 1963 serial."

I looked down at my freshly scraped son and realised that I was missing one key ingredient.

"Do you have any clean nappies?"

"No, father."

"Oh."

"Confound it all."

"Yes."

"You're new to this parenting business aren't you?"

"I must confess I am."

"Well what are you going to do now?" he demanded.

"I'll find a woman to ask."

"So I just have to lie here, n-a-k-e-d from the waist down until you return do I?"

"You'll get used to it" I told him. It's always best to learn these lessons early in life. "In the meantime you might like to ponder Story C - 'Edge of Destruction', 'Beyond the Sun' or 'Inside the Spaceship'?"

"Thank you, father, that will help considerably."

I went off to find a woman but instead bumped into Ian Devine.

"The pie van must've gone" he said sullenly.

"I'm looking for a woman" I told him. "Urgently."

"But why? What can a woman offer you that you can't get from one of our late night, sherry fuelled, fascinating technical discussions?" he wailed.

"I just need one to change a nappy for me."

"Is that all?"

"All?" I cried. "It is a faecal war zone in there."

"Leave it to me, Dennis Brent, I have experience in capping over-filled pies and I cannot imagine this is any worse. At least little Dennis Junior's waste products are not 450 degrees Celsius and above.

I left him to it. My only involvement after that was promising to buy Ian Devine a new tartan rug for future picnic excursions.

Some time later I was summoned back and saw a beaming Uncle Ian Devine and a smiling Dennis Brent Junior.

"All set to return to Brent Towers?" I asked.

"Uncle Ian Devine is my new favourite grown up" announced little Dennis Junior. "And he’s just had a marvellous idea."

"I have, Dennises Brent, I’ve had a marvellous idea."

"He said we can go to the park. Isn’t that a splendid suggestion, father?"

"Yes" I said, not meaning a single word of it.