"Heave" called the milkman. He hadn’t personally joined in the manual work but, since neither had I, we shared the moral mid-ground without comment.

More and more people joined the pulling party. Word was beginning to spread that here was an event so important to the community that they would selflessly give up their free time to help a fellow human being. I wiped a misplaced tear from my eye as I beheld the purest demonstration of the human spirit it has ever been my good fortune to see.

"This is a beautiful moment" I said, choking back another misplaced tear.

"Anything to get rid of that massive arse – it’s a bloody eye sore" said one of our neighbours.

"It’s bound to be a fire hazard too" added another.

"I’ve heard it’s a weapon of mass destruction and that the American army might invade Bendaton at any minute" cried a third.

"I like horses" shouted a fourth. We rounded on her with contemptuous stares. At least I did and I assume the masses felt the same as I did because there is no obvious reason why they shouldn’t.

"I like horses too" yelled someone from the crowd. Quickly and loudly they came to a consensus that everyone present (except me) liked horses. Some were less forthcoming than others about what it was about horses that they liked but horses were voted the Most Popular Thing amongst this group of unwashed ordinaries and Francois Devine took a temporary back seat to democracy. Eventually I rallied the troops and they resumed their strenuous pulling on the rope.

After what seemed like hours but was in reality somewhere between eight and a half and eight and three quarter minutes since Timothy was given the job of liberating Francois Devine we heard a loud popping sound. Initially fearing that the rope had simply sliced through Francois Devine and burst him like a balloon encased in a soft cheese, I rushed into the drawing room to estimate the damage.

Instead of Francois Devine’s innards and mess all over the place I found a Francois Devine shaped hole in the wall and, some feet away brushing off brick dust, was Francois Devine.

"Hello, Dennis Brent" he said cordially.

"Hello, Francois Devine" I replied.

"I’m free" he informed me.

"Brent Towers is no place for effeminate catch phrases" I snapped. I was irritated by him already and it had only been ten seconds.

"I think I will withdraw for a while" he announced. "Having been trapped for almost eight hours I feel the urge to have a particularly bacchanalian fifteen minutes. If anyone calls for me, tell them I am busy being hedonistic and will attend to them later. Mr Wetfinger is of course an exception – he may be shown in immediately."

He withdrew to his wing for whatever purpose he had in mind. Mr Wetfinger from the pie shop did indeed call for him and I showed him and his portable wagon upstairs without delay. He emerged a few minutes later mopping his brow, grinning like an imbecile and counting a generous bundle of pound notes.

I went back into the drawing room and sat a contented sit upon my sofa. I looked out through my new hole and pondered how lucky I was that Francois Devine was no longer wedged. If he’d remained wedged for seven years he could legally have claimed ownership of the drawing room.

The milkman interrupted my musings when he popped his head (and his hand) through the hole and hinted he would like a tip for saving the day. When I failed to notice his hints he started implying he wanted a tip for saving the day. When I also missed his implying he outright said he wanted a tip for saving the day. When I feigned deafness and apparently missed his saying he wanted a tip for saving the day he grabbed me round the throat and shouted in my face that he wanted a top for saving the day. I reluctantly took my purse out and gave him two pounds. He seemed happy with this (apparently he stood to win over five hundred pounds in wagers for having extracted more than ten pence from Dennis Brent as a good will payment).

"I hope no one takes advantage of this massive ‘ole to rob you" he laughed as he made his way back to Timothy the horse.

"What?" I started.

"It’s almost a burglar’s charter that thing" he chuckled. I realised almost immediately what he meant. My entire security system is based on the assumption that there isn’t an enormous hole in one wall. Take that out of the equation and you’ve a recipe for anarchy. Hoards of ne'r-do-wells, criminals, vandals, rival collectors and other miscellaneous scum would be pouring in at the first sign of an opportunity.