“Ian Devine” I gasped when the dust had cleared and the debris had settled.

“Dennis Brent?” he replied half-wittedly.

“Ian Devine” I repeated firmly but fairly.

“Dennis Brent?” he asked again.

“Dennis Brent” I said, not in an attempt to trick him but in an effort to confirm that I was who I patently already was.

“Dennis Brent!” he exclaimed. I don’t know if he intended to embrace me in an unacceptable manner but his exertions were blocked by a stout piece of masonry and he had to make do with hugging that in a vice-like (and slightly tearful) moment.

“Ian Devine” I began.

“Dennis Brent?” he asked.

“Let’s not start that again” I chided. “Ian Devine – you have rescued me. A task for which great thanks will be bestowed upon you. For one thing I would check Friday morning’s postal delivery – there may be a small token of gratitude enclosed therein. That is if Mrs Snee in the post office will relent on her earlier insistence that it is no longer economic for them to issue postal orders for less than a pound. I told her that the customer is always right and she muttered something about my being factually inaccurate but at least my statement rhymed with her version of the truth. The woman is a fool but a necessary one.” I was in full flow and, if I do say so myself, being charming and witty in circumstances which would’ve excused bitterness and anger, when Ian Devine interrupted me again.

“Dennis Brent” he panted. Obviously his fitness had reached new depths and merely keeping up with me was proving too strenuous. Oh that’s a good one – I must make a note of that and use it when giving my address at his funeral. It won’t do to be too sombre despite his request that we hire twelve professional wailers.

“What is it, Ian Devine?” I snapped. I was ready to leave this place and his constant repetition of my name was hindering me greatly.

“Dennis Brent” he said once again, this time pointing for emphasis.

“If you have nothing better to do that repeat my name as if you were a fan who had failed to hold their dignity when meeting their idol, I will be hurrying along. I haven’t washed in almost two weeks and I fear I am beginning to ferment.

“Two weeks? But you have only been missing for three days” he began. I would’ve explained the benefits of a ten-day cycle to him but he was still gawping.

“So people have noticed I was missing?” I asked, hopeful that this might indicate a sudden (and might I say thoroughly deserved) upturn in popularity.

“I’ll say they have” he replied. I beamed. Then I beamed some more. I had been beaming for what felt like the whole of a rather enjoyable Tuesday when he slapped me in the face with a rolled up newspaper.

“Hoy” I exclaimed and I tensed myself for a grapple.

“Read this” he said firmly and pushed the newspaper at me. His initial blow had knocked my spectacles from my face and I had to grub around in the semi-darkness for several minutes as I hunted for them.

“Can I help?” he offered eventually. I would’ve taken him up on his kind suggestion (subject to contract) were it not accompanied by a loud crunching noise.

“Beg pardon” he said, patting his stomach.

“I think you have trodden on my spectacles” I told him savagely.

“These you mean?” he replied, holding out my glasses between the tips of thumb and forefinger.

“Yes but how...?”

“I caught them – I could’ve turned professional but I find sporting matters so tedious” he blathered.

“Then why did you let me grub around on the floor for several minutes?” I demanded.

“Oh I thought you were paying homage to me. So sorry – it’s an easy mistake to make.”

“When was the last time someone grubbed about on the floor paying homage to you?” I asked.

“Gosh, well, it’s been some time now, I’d say on balance it must be… no probably not quite that long… maybe… at a rough estimate… perchance it was last August.”

“You mean the last time you smacked me about the face, knocking my glasses off in a dimly lit place and where I had to grub around on the floor while you merely waved your hand in a slightly self depreciating fashion and didn’t do anything to help me?”

“That certainly sounds familiar.”

“Well at least I now understand the gesture you were making. I thought you were wafting air and feared I might’ve released a small quantity of involuntary intestinal gas.”

“It does you good to pay homage to me every now and again. Keeps you humble. Prevents your ego from getting out of control.”

“It does me rather more good knowing the true extend of your hubris” I said with elegant wit. “Not to mention the satisfaction I now feel at having released a burst of intentional intestinal gas during my recent stint grubbing around on the floor.”

“Was that you? I thought I must’ve ruptured a gas main while making my entrance. What a relief – my golden rule has been to avoid gas explosions ever since one propelled me to within a whisker of the van Allen belt while I was house sitting for my Austrian relatives.”

“I fear” I began while cleaning Ian Devine’s filth from my spectacles, “that we might be straying slightly from the key points of our conversation. Who noticed I was missing and were they more obviously wailing or gnashing their teeth?”

“You can read about it for yourself” he said with sudden bitterness. He thrust a copy of the Bendaton Bugle into my midriff and I starred at the front page.

“Win a part in Howard’s Way” I read aloud. “Isn’t that rather out of date? The final episode of Howard’s Way was transmitted between 7.30 and 8.20 on the 25^th November 1990.”

“Two things, Dennis Brent” noted Ian Devine. “Firstly, it was between 7.45 and 8.35 as well you know but I’m prepared to accept that spending several days trapped down here might’ve left you marginally insensible. And secondly, it is not that to which I refer. Look approximately one inch below the fraudulent competition about which I have already written a stiff letter of complaint.”