What? Oh yes – the noise. I was lying in bed and I could hear a frightful pounding. The bed was shaking slightly and the small glass of water on my bedside table was gently sloshing. I pressed my hands to my chest and, through my tweed pyjamas, I could feel my heart racing. I was sure I must be having a heart attack – that was the only possible explanation for the facts that had presented. I loosened my tie, unbuttoned my pyjama shirt and felt my chest again. There was no doubt that I was having palpitations. Clearly those six pounds and fifty pences were weighing heavily. A thousand visitors a day – maybe two thousand visitors a day – add up to a sizable sum. I was contemplating opening my own museum (with probity checks which could perhaps be expedited if the proles purchase platinum membership) when I became aware that my heart was settling down. The bed was still shaking and my small glass of water was still disturbed. I quickly deduced it wasn’t my heart which was causing all this. Never let it be said Dennis Brent isn’t big hearted but even my generous organ couldn’t cause this much movement <g>.

I went down stairs, rather gingerly as the pictures on the walls were shaking themselves off their hooks, and peered out through a couple of windows to see if I could find the source of these tremors. I switched the radio on and tuned to Bendaton FM just in case it was an earthquake but all I got was a phone in about whether the sort of person who would be listening to the radio at that time of night believed the people of Bendaton would be (a) happier, (b) as happy or (c) less happy if the council introduced compulsory b-r-e-a-s-t enhancement surgery for all female traffic wardens. I thought for a moment that the earth tremors might be the result of too many of these lonely people imagining traffic wardens with enhanced b-r-e-a-s-t-s but remembered that Nicola Bryant once opened a pet food store on the High Street and that would’ve tested the m-a-s-t-u-r-b-a-t-o-r-y powers of Bendaton’s childish element to breaking point. There wasn’t so much as a disturbed tea cup that afternoon.

I went down into the cellar to make sure the motors on my cryogenic units weren’t malfunctioning. They did once and vibrations meant that the people inside looked like they were trying to blend in at a discotheque but without any success. Until you’ve seen William Hartnell jigging along to imaginary music you haven’t lived. Of course, you haven’t seen William Hartnell jigging along to imaginary music because that particular pleasure was reserved for myself and my inner circle. It would cost a great deal more than six pounds fifty pence for a member of the not-we to see such a thing. I’ve tried (without success) to recreate the scene but for these past four summers Mr Hartnell and his frozen colleagues have remained as stiff as boards. Anyway, it wasn’t the cryogenic unit malfunctioning that was causing my house to shake. I merely add this as an aside.