I don’t know if you’ve had a person of the opposite g-e-n-d-e-r stick their tongue in your mouth – I shouldn’t imagine you have as I can think of no occasion, save that of sloppy life saving techniques, where it would be necessary – but after a while it ceases to be revolting and becomes merely unhygienic. I had learned to ignore the limpet-like woman attached to my face and was mentally working on chapter nine of my forthcoming monograph, ‘Dicks Out – The Script Editor Revolution of 1974’, when I became aware of booing from the assembled crowd. I tried to push her away but she was determined to remain conjoined to my mouth and it was only when my employee yanked her away that I was free of her aural grip.

“Have dinner with me” she wailed as Saragh-Jayne carried her away.

“Dinner? We’d be delighted” said Francois Devine.

“No no” I tried to protest but he drowned me out with his moans of pleasure. “I don’t want to” I shouted but I was competing with the human Krakatoa and knew when I was beaten. Actually, my comparison is an unfair one as, although Francois Devine is as large as a volcano and easily capable of matching it for both volume and storage capacity, the volcano sends matter outwards whereas Francois Devine merely pulls it inwards. He is the anti-volcano if you like (a singularity if you don’t). Not that I want to waste time making witty and precise analogies for my colleague – he had displeased me and we will say no more about him.

“What am I going to do, Saragh-Jayne?” I asked when my employee returned empty handed.

“If you leave here without signing all these books there will be a riot” he explained.

“Though if I’ve left I don’t care if there is a riot as none of my property will be at risk of damage.”

“Equally, you won’t get your fat envelope if you go early.”

“That is much more serious. Can you get my out of here and still secure my fat envelope?”

“I’ll see what I can do. Meanwhile, you stay here and sign some more books.”

“Good point. Who is next?”

“Could you put ‘To Bignell, you were always the best of the best, much better than me or Ian Devine, I’m forever in your debt, Dennis Brent’ please”.

“Bignell?” I said, looking up and seeing the gormless face of someone I hoped never to see the gormless face of again.

“I am he, yes. I’m surprised you don’t have a Bignell impersonator in your group – there’s you looking like old ‘Elk Fancier’ Brent, that man mountain is a dead ringer for ‘Double Helpings’ Devine – all you need to complete the trifecta is someone who looks like me.”

“You? You were never part of my inner circle, Bignell” I snapped. “I am saying all this in character you understand, you were nothing to me, Bignell. You were less than nothing. You weren’t even offered associate membership of Brent’s Seven when we were desperate for a seventh member after I left my generic multi-bladed knife in the snug of the Elk and Bush and we were one down. I haven’t dedicated a single monograph to you, I’ve never shown you even one eighth of my collection and I don’t care if you have paid ten pounds I’m not going to sign your book. Now get out of here before I ask the management to ban you from what may be a second rate book shop in global terms but which still contains the most impressive collection of technical journals this side of Forbidden Planet in Cymm. A shop I happen to know you are also banned from after an unnamed telehistorian told the owner that you’d spent whole mornings in the graphic novel section licking the Panini graphic novels.”

Once more the people cheered me as I abused one of their number. Bignell stumped off with his unsigned book – it had taken a whole year but I had my revenge for the time he japed me in a lay-by. I was further pleased when I saw my employee coming my way with a fat envelope.

“Right – I told her I was your bastard of a manager and that I insisted on half the money up front. She wasn’t happy but I told her I was once ripped off by the manager of the Shagford branch of WHSmith and she understood immediately. So here’s your money, if you wait a moment we’ll get to plan B.”

“What is plan B?”

“Francois Devine is going to create a distraction so I can smuggle you out and replace you with a look-alike.”

“Where on earth will you find a look-alike?”

“Are you blind? I locked one in the toilet about an hour ago. Waste not want not. If I let him have his moment of glory and the other half of the fat envelope he might not sue us for all the things he was threatening to sue us for.”

The sound of a car horn drew our attention away from conversation. What started as one horn quickly became two, four, eight, maybe a thousand horns all calling out in pain.

“One distraction coming up” said Saragh-Jayne. “Put this blanket over you when I say now. Now.”

But I wasn’t quite quick enough. The crowd turned to the shop window and saw what had made the car drivers of Bendaton bash their horns. Francois Devine jogged past with not a stitch of clothing about his person, save a pair of Tom Baker classic underpants on his head. I felt myself be bundled away and looked back through a crack in the fabric to see the fake Dennis Brent take my place at the desk.

“What are you all looking at? That doesn’t look very fascinating or technical” he barked. “You proles are all the same. Pathetically stupid the lot of you.”

The crowd cheered again and carried on as though the genuine article were still in front of them.

“Can you put ‘To Sexy Susie, thanks for the best night of my life, love Denny Brenny’?” asked his first signee.

“Don’t be pathetically childish, you sub-normal not-we. I shall write ‘To Susan, regards Dennis Brent’ and you will like it.”

She squealed and seemed delighted at this tirade. But I hadn’t long to ponder on the foolishness of youth as my earlier interlocutor was waiting for me.

“I’ve booked us a special table at La Maison” she purred.

“I’ll see you there” called Francois Devine as he raced past us on his way to the restaurant. He was dressing himself as he went. I never did ask him how my employee got him to run naked through the streets of Bendaton. I suppose the image was too painful ever to return to.

We got to the restaurant to find Francois Devine engaged in a debate with the headwaiter. He had, it turns out, dropped his tie down a grid in Port Langford Street and was being refused admission as he was improperly dressed. Given that had saved my life that morning (it seemed so long ago already) I leant him my spare tie and we were shown in.

“A table for four I presume” I said to the headwaiter.

“No sir – I was given to understand two tables for two. Your employee and this gentleman on one table while you and the young lady were to dine ‡ deux at our most intimate table.”

“Couldn’t I dine with my employee and FranÁois Devine could share with this female?” I suggested. But she grabbed me by the hand and placed it on her recently discussed chest.

“Oh no – you’re with me. I have special plans for you” she growled.