My employee and I were walking down Bendaton high street as the evening turned from day to night in the way that evenings are prone to do. I’m not a poetic man by nature (except for a witty verse about ‘The Trial of a Time Lord Parts One to Four’ in an edition of Mucky Devastation which the less literate tranche of the readership inexplicably believed supported a policy of genocidal eugenics and the culling of those who didn’t conform to my ideals of looks, intelligence and single minded devotion to duty). I was basking in the warm glow of a man who now has an employee to do his bidding when I decided to start getting my money’s worth. I picked up a stick and threw it as far as I could.

“Fetch” I called. Saragh-Jayne just looked at me, then looked down the road to where my stick lay, then looked back at me and sighed. He bent down and picked up a stick that lay be his feet and gave it to me.

“There you go” he said.

“What is this?” I asked.

“A stick. You wanted a stick, you’ve got a stick.”

“But I wanted that stick” I told him, pointing down the high street to where my recent stick lay.

“Why? What is so special about that stick?” asked Saragh-Jayne.

“It… has great… sentimental value” I ad libbed.

“Then you were rather foolish to throw it away” he observed. “Though fortunate to have stumbled across a stick with which you have a history while walking along the high street” he added.

“Are you going to fetch my stick or not?” I demanded.

“If the stick meant so much to you, you would’ve picked it up yourself by now – we just went past it.”

“Don’t quibble, Saragh-Jayne” I snapped. “I want my stick, you are my employee, you fetch my stick. End of story.”

“Whatever” he said. He turned and walked back to where my stick lay. A victory for my powers of rational debate.

“Is this it?” he called.

“Yes” I shouted back.

“Are you sure? There are two sticks here and I don’t want to get the wrong one.”

“Bring both of them” I told him.

“I couldn’t do that – I know how attached you are to your stick – some other gentleman might be equally attached to the other stick and I wouldn’t want to deprive him of it.”

“Mine is… the one on the left” I shouted.

“Your left or my left?”

“My left.”

“Are you sure? I’m closer than you are and I can’t tell the difference. Could you come over here and make an executive decision?”

I walked back to where Saragh-Jayne was standing and looked down at the two pathetic sticks on the pavement.

“It’s that one” I said firmly.

“Which one are you pointing at?” asked Saragh-Jayne.

“That one” I snapped.

“I’m none the wiser.”

I bent down and picked up what I was fairly sure was the stick I had initially thrown. I gave it to him brusquely.

“That is my stick. Now give it to me like a good employee.”

Saragh-Jayne handed over my stick and I felt good. Having an employee was going to be splendid fun.

We got to the Dalek CafÈ just as Francois Devine was demolishing his second ‘Ursula Bake’. There was a whole strawberry lodged in his nostril but he didn’t seem to have noticed. Saragh-Jayne and I went in so I could introduce them.

“Francois Devine – this is Saragh-Jayne.”

“Do you know if they give complimentary after dinner mints at this establishment?” asked Francois Devine, completely ignoring my employee and sucking the wind out of my sails.

“Check the menu, employee” I ordered. Saragh-Jayne leaned over the table and picked up Francois Devine’s menu. I was appalled when Francois Devine suddenly lurched towards my employee and ripped at the pocket of his jacket.

“Have you run mad?” I cried.

Francois Devine pointed to the torn coat and announced “A tear, Saragh-Jayne?”

Francois Devine and I roared.

“Richly comic, Francois Devine” I commended. My employee didn’t see the funny side of it but he was out voted.

When we had finished roaring (and Francois Devine had paid the bill, minus a pro-rata sum for my ‘Army of Toast’ and my share of the 1.75% tip) he told me a woman had been looking for the world famous Dennis Brent impersonator.

“Was she carrying a bag which looked as if it contained canisters of 16mm film?” I asked on the off chance that my luck was going to continue.

“She asked if you would mind popping round to the book shop on the high street as she has a surprise for you.”

“Did she say what the surprise was?”

“For some reason she wouldn’t tell me.”

“I suppose we better go and find out what it is. I’ll send my employee in first to make sure it is safe.”

“An excellent plan, Dennis Brent” said Francois Devine. All noise for what felt like a square mile stopped and it was as if the whole world turned round to stare at us. “…impersonator” added Francois Devine and the moment passed without incident.

I thought about repeating my earlier stick throwing exercise for the benefit of Francois Devine but, upon careful consideration, I realised it hadn’t been quite the show of authority and power I had initially believed it to be. I toyed with the idea of telling him to get me a cup of coffee but blenched when a sign outside the coffee shop said ‘from £1.85’. The best I could do was take a detour through the leisure centre and make my employee hold open twelve sets of doors for us. I miscalculated slightly as Francois Devine’s girth means he needs both doors holding open and my employee could only open one of them so I had to open the other and thus it wasn’t so much my employee serving me as my employee and I serving Francois Devine, but if we’re going to quibble I’m not going to tell you the rest of my story.

We got to the book shop and I prodded Saragh-Jayne to go in first. Like a canary in a mine shaft he would warn us – either through words or convulsions – whether it was safe to enter. He beckoned for us to follow him in. I saw a table, a line of people and a stack of books.