I tried to attract Francois Devine’s attention but he was mid-way through his fourth garlic baguette and I just couldn’t get near enough to attract his attention. My employee was nowhere to be seen – I made a note to dock his pay accordingly – and I had no choice but to limp behind the mad woman. The limp – a convenient affectation – merely made her think I had become engorged and was as keen to see the liaison through to its unnatural conclusion as she was.

“Come on, you hot little social retard” she called. I slowed to a snail’s pace but she grabbed my hand and pulled me after her.

I tried falling down the stairs but she simply used it as an excuse for some improper touching. I pretended I needed to visit the lavatory but she said she placed her en suite at my disposal. I even tried claiming it was past my bedtime (which was technically true) but this merely hastened her desire to get me into bed. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

“I should go to the lavatory and purchase some…” I struggled with my words. “Some… gentlemen’s sheaths.”

“I’ve come prepared” she purred and pulled out a box of unmentionables. I purported to faint but she was having none of it. After five minutes lying on the floor with her standing over me, gently kicking me in the ribs and telling me we had all night together I miraculously recovered and shuffled off to face my fate. Popularity was becoming less and less attractive all the time.

I sat in an armchair and pondered my next move. She was in the bathroom – putting on ‘something special’ for my supposed benefit. I had been forced to remove my tie but was otherwise respectable. ‘The Armageddon Factor’ was on in the background courtesy of some cable television channel and I toyed with the idea of writing a monograph about the varying percentages of screen size taken up by the many and various station identification logos during ‘Doctor Who’s later years as a staple of specialist niche channels. I went over to the bedside table to look for a pen and pad. Sitting down on the bed I heard the unmistakable sound of crunching paper. This was not what one expected from a high quality hotel even if one wasn’t personally paying for it. I drew back the bedclothes and found that there was a layer of what appeared to be old production documents underneath. A closer examination showed them to be season five camera scripts – hand annotated – and all original pages. For a moment I thought this was a normal part of the s-e-x-u-a-l act and that I could’ve saved myself considerable sums on internet auction sites by simply lowering my resolve and copulating freely. Then I remembered I was trapped in a hotel bedroom with an insane woman who seemed to react strongly (though I wasn’t sure if the reaction was positive or negative) to fascinating technical information. Worse, the more interesting I became, the stronger her reaction. I am a fundamentally interesting man. I literally cannot help but be fascinating despite the effect it has on people. If she caught me on a particular topic of interest I feared she might combust. It is a terrible burden to be as enthralling as I am.

“Are you ready?” she called from the bathroom.

“I’ve been waiting for the past few minutes” I replied. “If you’ve finished in the bathroom I would be most grateful if you’d let me go in and change my rectal dressing. It has been solidifying for the past couple of hours and I’m afraid if I don’t replace it soon it will harden completely and I’ll have to go to Doctor Flapjack’s emergency surgery and have my cavity chipped.”

She made a faintly disgusted noise that I won’t even attempt to spell for you. I heard the door open and she came out in her special outfit.

“Well? What do you think?” she said alluringly.

I didn’t know what to say – she looked remarkable. I’d never seen a woman dressed like that in person before.

“You look striking” I said, knowing it was a huge understatement and that any red-blooded male would be only too happy to trade placed with me at this moment.

“Where did you get that incredible outfit from?” I asked.

“A very special online store” she replied, stroking the little rocket badge with a moistened finger.

“Is it Carol Richmond’s actual uniform?” I said.

“The very same. Only three people have ever worn this costume – myself, Ilona Rogers and a model hired by the man who runs the website.”

“Can I touch it?”

“I was hoping you’d try to remove it with your teeth” she replied.

“Steady on – we’re talking about a valuable piece of television history here.”

“It’s not the only one – I’ve got you a present” she said, handing me a brown paper parcel. “Go in the bathroom and put it on.”

I did as she suggested and, having changed my dressing and avoided any rigid settling, I opened her package and took out Lorne Cossette’s uniform. I knew the moment I sniffed it that it was genuine. It still had an air of his favourite tobacco about it and an almost imperceptible ink smudge on the sleeve that matched a smudged script from episode two which is a much-valued part of my collection. The sense of awe at holding Captain Maitland’s uniform lasted just long enough for me to formulate a plan that literally couldn’t fail to work. I rushed myself into the outfit and presented myself in her boudoir.

“Come here and kiss me, you ravishing borderline asberger’s case you.”

“I fear I cannot” I told her.

“What? Why not?”

“Because you have cast me in the role of Captain Maitland and yourself in the role of Carol Richmond. For us to have congress would mean betraying the man John. This I could never do” I told her. It was surely just a matter of time now before she accepted she had left me a loophole and the whole thing would be called off.

“Bugger” she cursed. “Oh well – get the uniform off and we’ll start again in just our pants.”

It was my turn to say “What?”

“You heard – take your clothes off, you gorgeously dull man and let me sit on you.”

I was about to say something witty, profound and almost certainly day-saving when there was a knock on the door.

“Who can that be?” she said with annoyance.

“Maybe it’s the police” I said hopefully.

“Why would the police be knocking on my door?” she asked.

“We’re not married.”

“And this is a hideously backwards village” she conceded.