"I fear not – my arms are wedged by my side. It is most unfortunate. Ideally one would’ve been trapped behind to attend to rear business and one at the front for matters immediately in front of me. Alas my running technique does not involve correct arm movement and as a result I am wedged in as unfortunate a position as a gentleman can be. Oh! The irony. My personal trainer was planning on correcting my running stance only next week."

"You have a personal trainer?" I gasped.

"Of course – doesn’t everyone?"

"Um" I said. On the one hand I couldn’t be seen not to have something Francois Devine had but on the other hand it is most undignified to sweat (publically or privately) and personal trainers do have a reputation for sweatiness. "I can’t answer that question because… because… because I don’t have a suitable answer yet" I told him. I was loath to return to the subject of his itch but saw very little alternative. "So you are unable to scratch yourself?"

"Alas no. I cannot even move my arms enough to make the symbol of a cross to ward off vampires or h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l-s. I am essentially defenceless."

"You do know that making a cross with your fingers doesn’t actually work on vampires?" I said patronisingly.

"It might do" he said weakly. "What about h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l-s?"

"Oh yes – it gets rid of them. It triggers a convulsion which looks to the untrained eye like hysterical laughter but which can’t be because there is absolutely nothing funny about a gentleman making the sign of the cross with his fingers and screaming ancient oaths when confronted by people of incorrect orientation."

"You are wiser than I thought, Dennis Brent" said Francois Devine. "Now, will you scratch my backside or not?"

"Is ‘not’ a realistic option?" I enquired.

"No. I need scratching. End of."

"Don’t be young, Francois Devine, it doesn’t suit you."

"Sorry."

I went into my private archive to look for something which might enable me to resolve the current situation without recourse to anything which would scar me mentally and physically for the rest of me life. Luckily I don’t believe in reincarnation or my psyche would be damaged for the rest of time. I considered using one of my protective suits but they are only certified against heat, cold, radiation, chemical spillage, biological hazard and being sneezed on by immigrants. There was nothing in any of the paperwork about touching another man in an unmentionable area. Although, since the area is unmentionable, that might be why they didn’t mention it. But I couldn’t take that chance – I needed something else. I put on one of my protective suits just in case, gathered a few bits and pieces, and went out into the back garden to face my grimmest duty since Doctor Flapjack broke both his arms playing tennis and asked me (on pain of no more prescriptions) to operate his walk-in colonic irrigation salon for a month.

"Dennis Brent, is that you?" called Francois Devine as I approached his hind quarters.

"It is" I said through my protective face mask.

"Sorry?" he said, unable to hear me through (a) the face mask and (b) the wall.

"Yes" I said again, lifting the face mask and popping my head through a window.

"Then you may proceed" he told me. I put my mask back and approached him with the Viking helmet from Story S clasped in both hands.

"OWWW" he cried as the first horn pressed into his enormous flank.

"Did that hit the spot?" I called.

"No – it was most painful. I think you ought to cut your nails before having another go."

I ignored him and prodded his rear with my helmet.

"OWW" he called again. "Once more you missed the spot."

I threw caution to the wind and started battering his behind with the helmet but his cries of pain told me I was getting nowhere near. I withdrew and rethought my approach.

"Dennis Brent?" whimpered Francois Devine a few minutes later.

"Still here."

"I am still in need of your assistance" he told me.

"And I am still prepared to give it. Free of charge. But I need a little more time."

"Matters are taking a disturbing turn" he said cryptically. I chose to ignore him and try Plan B – the clawed monster hand from Story HHH. I placed my large, furry hand upon Francois Devine’s seat and shook it from side to side. It made quite a mess of his trousers but eventually I heard an "Ahhh" from my drawing room and concluded I’d succeeded.

"Is that all right?" I asked through the window.

"The itch is no longer troubling me" he said, missing off copious thanks and offers of remuneration.

I packed away my props and my protection suit and went back into the drawing room for a sit down. I could tell immediately that something was not quite right. I mean not-quite-right within the context of a man being wedged within ones walls. Not not-quite-right generically speaking. If the not-quite-rightness of a man being stuck in ones wall is scored as zero then there was still a negative score on the not-quite-right meter. I explained all this to Francois Devine and he gave me a pained look. I took that to mean he hadn’t understood and went back over it using a couple of ad libbed pie charts and a diagram scribbled on the back of a pound note.

"Yes, I appreciate that" he began at last, "and I feel able to materially contribute to the discussion."

"Then pray do so" I told him.

"The negative score on your splendid collection of charts is because I have a second problem."

"Another itch?"

"Worse than an itch."

"Two itches?"

"Worse even than two itches."

"Three…"

"Worse than any number of itches. Dennis Brent?"

"Still here."

"I need to use the facilities."

"Audio editing, video editing, cataloguing, data retrieval, microfiche, paper-based, cryogenic or catering?"