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Hop in the sidecar, Dennis Brent said Francois Devine. I didnt need to be told twice.

I said, hop in the sidecar, Dennis Brent repeated Francois Devine having pushed his visor up and become considerably less muffled. I jumped into the sidecar and we sped away from the angry torch-wielding mob. They tried to arrest our escape by throwing rocks at us but luckily they missed the motorbike and were deflected harmlessly away by the back of my head.

The first six minutes of our escape were textbook. The motorbike made good speed and the mob, who were committed to their cause and I give them credit for that, were outdistanced by some yards. I turned to look at them, a solid mass of angry humanity but one getting further away by the second.

Nearly there called Francois Devine.

Im not a mathematician or a physicist and I wouldnt want you to think I wasted my time on such tinder-dry disciplines but even I appreciate the law which states that for every fat man on a motorbike there is an equal and opposite hill. We got about a third of the way up before the motorbike slowed to walking pace. The roar of the engine drowned out the shouts of the angry mob so it came as quite a surprise when I realised they were almost on top of us. I leapt from the sidecar and sprinted the final few hundred yards to my potting shed. The rioters mustve thought their luck was in when their quarry was foolish enough to try and evade them by hiding in a small, wooden shed with nothing more than a single bolt to keep them out. Little did they know that this shed was the nerve centre of my new security system. Ever since some ignorant and self-indulgent nobodies discovered I had bought a patch of land and was planning to demolish the Mrs Tiggy-Winkle Cuddly Animal Sanctuary so I could erect a pre-fabricated storage unit to house various accumulated photocopies of documents held elsewhere in my archive, I had become less popular than usual. Threats had been made and Id reacted in the only way I could by purchasing a state of the art security system from an Eastern European country not bound up by weak-minded liberal human rights regulations prohibiting man traps and electrical deterrents. I flipped a switch and the grounds outside became, if not an actual death trap, then certainly an unwise place to roam about without a map and a lot of protective rubber clothing. I made my way down the underground passage which linked the shed and Brent Towers and made a mental note to put a couple of pounds to one side for when Francois Devine asks for a half-share towards the petrol used in our escape.

I sat down in my favourite armchair, took a sip from my small glass of sherry and tried to block out the sounds of the rampaging mob being angrily thwarted by my security grid. I had but a moment to ponder on the ups and downs of the previous twenty-four hours when the rancid flavour of the Bargainsave sherry caused me to wince violently. It was then that I noticed I was not alone in my living room. A woman, dressed in a voluminous white wedding dress, was standing in front of the rather severe portrait of my late Uncle Gaylord.

What? I said.

She let out a startled squeal (which, at that point, I felt was entirely understandable as Uncle Gaylords expression is enough to frighten anyone whose constitution hasnt been steeled by a generous monthly allowance).

What? I asked again.

Who are you? she demanded. I wasnt used to being spoken to like that in my own viewing room. At least not by a woman as myself and Francois Devine passed a unanimous motion banning women from the viewing room.

B I began before she interrupted me.

Where am I? she exclaimed.

What? I said for a third time.

What the hell is this place? she yelled.

What? By now I was convinced the cheap sherry had triggered a queer episode and I was no longer responsible for my dialogue.

Finally the bride turned round and stared at me.

Mrs Stiffit? I ejaculated.

Oh hello, Dennis Brent cooed the former Miss Felicity Bobbins.

You do remember that you dont live here any more I prompted.

Ohhhh yes, thats right she said, the truth dawning in her confused little mind. I thought this wasnt our lounge. My bad. Sorry and all that rubbish.

Why are you wearing that ridiculous dress? I asked.

Were going to a Catherine Tate theme party and it was either this or my old school uniform. Must dash my love to Steve. She left with what can only be described as a cross between a skip and a jump.

What?

 

 

THE END~!