“A book signing?” I gasped. It had been my lifelong ambition to have a genuine, honest-to-goodness book signing. A signing of books. Of my books. My books which proles had purchased. My books which proles had purchased and which they wanted to be made more valuable by the autographing of the title page. The autographing of the title page to be done by the author. The author being myself. I had done book signing events before, of course, at technical seminars, conventions and just on an ad hoc basis whenever I found a table situated near a pile of books. But no one had ever actually asked me to autograph their book before. It was literally the only piece of the puzzle which had never quite fallen into place.

“There is quite a queue already” enthused the manageress.

“But how…?” I asked.

“Oh we’ve got hundreds of his books in our stock cupboards. He used to send us copies of everything he ever published. We could never put them on the shelves of course – we tried that once and the shop was besieged by angry parents and religious men with lighted torches. We used to try and get the council to take them away but they took us to court for endangering health. The toxic waste people wouldn’t touch them, the paper recyclers laughed in our faces and even the midget home refused to take them as part of their ‘donate a makeshift staircase’ week. So we did the best we could – put them in the dampest cupboard and hoped they would rot away to dust. Fortunately, they didn’t and now Dennis Brent is dead he’s become something of a cult figure. We have been overwhelmed with demand for his fascinating technical works all day and when we heard you were in town, well, we put two and two together and Bob was quite literally married to your mother.”

“That is a heart-warming story’ said Francois Devine. “Will you be serving snack foods at this soiree?”

“A selection of complimentary nibbles have been provided for the Dennis Brent impersonator and his team,” she confirmed.

“I am part of his team – I’m his closest friend. Show me the nibbles.”

She led us through into the main body of the store and I was amazed at the sheer weight of numbers before me. It was as if the entire population of Bendaton had turned out to get my books signed by an impostor. I felt quite offended that so many people had spent so many years pretending not to be interested in my work and all the time they harboured within themselves an insatiable lust for fascinating technical information. Now they descended like vultures to feast upon the rotting carcass of my work. They were worthless scum who deserved to be put right on the matter of respecting me when I was alive and not when I was dead.

“Try to put on a good show for them” whispered the manageress, “they’ve paid ten pounds per head to get in. I’ve got your money here – in this fat envelope – I’ll give it to you after the signing.”

What a heart-warming sight it was to see so many devoted people wanting to pay their final respects to a much-loved author.

“This is Miles Saragh-Jayne – my employee – and he will be coordinating security this evening” I said to the manageress.

“I think it would be better if Saragh-Jayne patrolled near the door” said Francois Devine, “while I ensure the smooth and safe running at this end of the auditorium. Next to the nibbles.”

“Your motives are as transparent as your argument during the debate as to whether Jack Kine offered good advice when he told Raymond P Cusick to build the original Dalek casings out of plywood rather than fibreglass” I said wittily.

“That hurts me, Dennis Brent impersonator. It hurts me more than you could possibly know.”

Francois Devine squeezed a tear from his rotund eye and I feared there was going to be a scene. But, just when things were on the verge of almost becoming potentially awkward, a small group of fans began to applaud. Then more joined in. Soon the entire bookshop was vibrating to the sound of several hundred people applauding my witticism. Francois Devine gave me the cold look of a man who has found his bid for sympathy thwarted by a round of applause and angrily opened a bag of Twiglet-style snacks.

I sat at my desk, took out my best fountain pen, and waved the first member of the public forward.

“Good evening, sonny” I said, giving him one of my very warmest smiles.

“You even smell like him” said the young man. “Like a rat ate a huge amount of old cheese a fortnight ago and then hid in your trousers to die a terrifying death.”

“Hm… method acting and all that” I mumbled. “What would you like me to write?”

“Could you put ‘To Big Dave, love from Dennis Brent’ please?”

I reluctantly transcribed what he had requested (deliberated smudging ‘love’ so it looked nothing like that nauseating word) and waved him on. Ten pounds in the bank and the next one please.

“What’s your favourite Doctor Who story?” asked a young lady with blue daubs in her hair.

“What a strange question” I told her. “How can anyone waste precious opinions on the output of the production process? Transmission is to production was evacuating ones bowels is to eating a well-prepared meal. If one were forced to opine I would suggest that Story V is the longest and therefore has the greatest number of production documents to study. But a camera script is a camera script and it is the annotations and level of supplementary detail which determines my enjoyment of it and not some ludicrously facile ideas of ‘story’ or ‘dialogue’ or – heaven forefend – ‘acting’.”

There was another round of applause and, rather than hanging her head in shame at the shallowness of her life, the girl who asked the question turned to the throng and took a bow.

“I said he’d be brilliant” she cooed. I scribbled something in her book and asked the bookshop staff to move her on.

I’d signed ten or twelve books when Francois Devine poked me in the ribs.

“Hold hard, Francois Devine, I’m working here for ten pounds per head.”

“Your employee is trying to attract your attention” whispered Francois Devine. I looked over my admirers and saw Saragh-Jayne was waving for me to join him by the door.

“Excuse me, fans, I must away to the lavatory for a moment” I told them. I pushed my way through to where my employee was standing with a tall, moustachioed gentleman who looked vaguely familiar.

“What is it, Saragh-Jayne?” I demanded.