"He would’ve simply positioned one of his servants in the drawing room and let him or her battle any rampaging hoodlums intent on stealing his valuable property" I replied to myself, already technically going mad. Alas I had no servants to place in danger and would have to man the gap to the best of my abilities.

I had hoped Francois Devine would take some of the burden – it being technically and entirely his fault – but he informed me rather pompously that he’d enjoyed his fifteen minutes of hedonism so much that he was planning a full half hour of hedonism almost immediately. I was told to refuse all callers except Mr Wetfinger and he returned to his boudoir to do whatever it is hedonistic people do.

I had a number of appointments booked in for this morning and it occurred to me I ought to do something about them. Cancelling was out of the question as they may have hidden penalty charges and the expense could cripple me (not to mention I might get a reputation as an unreliable person and I’ve seen the damage such a reputation can do. It once spread round the village that Francois Devine was unreliable and people stopped braking when they saw him crossing the road because they no longer had confidence that he could be trusted to continue walking in his current direction. He may well, they reasoned to themselves, be about to deviate sharply or do something unexpected. Therefore, they continued to reason, my braking would be unnecessary as he is much too unreliable to credit with linear movement. As a result of his branding as an unreliable person he ended up in hospital on no fewer than six occasions before a counter rumour was spread denying the first rumour was true.)

I was due at Doctor Flapjack’s surgery for what he described in his letter as " A really interesting experimental diagnostic treatment identifier". It sounded well worth his fee as I was in particular discomfort with a burning sensation every time I passed solids. I dialled his number and he answered worryingly quickly for a man who purports to be very busy.

"Doctor Flapjack?"

"Never heard of him" replied the doctor. Not THE Doctor obviously <G>.

"It’s Dennis Brent."

"Dennis Brent, my boy, lovely to hear from you. I’m looking forward to this morning’s session – I’ve got something very interesting lined up."

"Have you tried it on any of your other patients?"

"My what?"

"Your other patients."

"I don’t think I have any… oh yes… no I haven’t. I’ve been saving it for you. It’s far too expensive for the proles."

I beamed when I heard that. It’s nice to be special.

"I’m afraid I can’t come to your surgery this morning – Francois Devine has smashed an enormous hole round the back."

"Good lord – that sounds serious. It was bad enough when you had an abscess but a fully fledged hole – that sounds expensive. I mean painful. Painfully expensive."

"No no – your dirty mind misunderstands me – the hole is in my house."

"You’re resting it – good good. Sound as a bell. I’ll be round in no time."

"I need you to make a house call… oh right. That sounds ideal."

"I may be late – I need to photocopy a new certificate for my waiting room. The old one has begun to yellow and curl. I’m planning on taking the opportunity to revisit some of my listed achievements. But I’ll be there in no time. Keep your hole warm and moist and don’t forget to have your cheque book close at hand. I don’t think you’ll be able to walk after my exponential treatment. Pleasure hearing from you. Toodle pip."

He hung up before I could clarify his rather juvenile mistake about my hole. Part of me suspects he deliberately misunderstood what I was saying because he thought it was funny. Though obviously no one would find such remarks funny.

My next call was to the blackmail man. He of course already makes house calls but I wanted to let him know (a) that he should come this afternoon instead of this morning so he didn’t interrupt Doctor Flapjack and (b) that he should come round the back rather than knocking on the door as I was unable to answer it.

"Stubbs and Cotton, Family Blackmailers since 1877" said a cheery voice at the other end of the line.

"My name is Dennis Brent and I’d like to speak to the blackmail man please."

"One moment…" There was a click as the call was transferred to the blackmail man.

"Dennis Brent – nice to hear from you. Are you well?"

"Not really" I sighed.

"Oh dear – I do hope nothing I won’t find out about has happened to you" he said sympathetically.

"I need to rearrange our appointment. Could you call round this afternoon as I’m having a rather intimate examination from Doctor Flapjack this morning and he did say something about it being an experimental procedure. I shouldn’t like for you to be inconvenienced."

"Thank you for telling me, Mr Brent, it’s always worth knowing when my loyal customers are likely to be compromised. I’ll make a note of it and pop round accordingly."

"Thank you, blackmail man" I said.

"No no – thank YOU Mr Brent. Always good to hear from you."

"And you, blackmail man."

That was that – I don’t know why these people in call centres complain about how stressful their jobs are. I made two phone calls and didn’t suffer any stress at all. They must all be weak and lacking in fibre. There is literally no other explanation.

My self-congratulation was spoilt by a knock at the front door.

"POSTIE" he shouted. "I've got an item of value and need someone to sign for it. Is there anyone there?"

"I’m in the drawing room" I shouted. "Come round the back."

"Is there anyone in?" he repeated. He was obviously unable to hear me. "If no one opens the door I’ll have to take it back to the depot who’ll probably lose it."