"Happy days. You know the Battle of Bendaton was the only time in the whole war that the Royalist and Parliamentarian armies joined forces to attack the locals?"

"Yes, thank you, I did go to school" I snapped.

"And it was only thanks to my ancestors and their sketches of high ranking officials of both armies engaged in unsavoury activities with a group of local livestock that they were persuaded to leave before the village was razed to the ground."

"I know, I know. And we’ve been happily paying you a subscription each week to retain certain secrets which, although perfects respectable in context, are open to misinterpretation. But all I’m asking you to do is…" I was interrupted by the door bell.

"A perfect example. I need you to make sure my drawing room isn’t ransacked while I go and answer the door. Will you do this?"

"Is that Mr Wetfinger at the door?" I bellowed rhetorically. The stampede downstairs told me that Francois Devine’s hedonism didn’t involve any kind of ear plugs or sound proofing. He practically bit the door off its hinges.

"Mr Wetfin…" he began. "You are not Mr Wetfinger" he declared.

"Flapjack, Doctor Flapjack. I’m here to see Dennis Brent."

"Bah" sulked Francois Devine. I thought for one moment that he was going to slam the door in the doctor’s face but basic manners prevailed. "You’d better go in there and wait."

"Thanking you most kindly" said Doctor Flapjack. Francois Devine stumped back up stairs, muttering about false pretences and how he’d now have to reset certain of his hedonistic devices. I was fogged.

"Mister Brent" said Doctor Flapjack as me pumped my hand warmly. "I’ll take a cheque."

I wrote him out a cheque for his normal consultation fee and showed him to a seat.

"I won’t have a cup of tea" announced Doctor Flapjack, apparently unaware that I wasn’t going to offer him one. "I find its best to have an empty stomach during invasive procedures. Things are fraught enough and messy enough as it is without me throwing up barely digested tea all over everywhere."

I nodded sagely as I remembered only too clearly what it felt like to have Doctor Flapjack throw up all over my back.

I’d almost forgotten the blackmail man sitting in the corner of the room like a spider at the centre of his web. His pen was poised, ready to note down the details of what would normally be a confidential meeting between doctor and patient. Doctor Flapjack noticed the presence of another and rounded on him, ready to give him the full force of his Hippocratic responsibility.

"Norman" he said surprisingly. "Marvellous – this will save me the bother of having to fax you the details. Good good."

I stood open mouthed. It was all I could do not to blench.

"Mouth closed, Dennis" said Uncle Gaylord. I tried to ignore him. Then he gave me an idea. I propped up the rather severe portrait of my Uncle Gaylord and used it to create something of a partition. The blackmail man didn’t stir from his seat – he had his code and would not actively spy on his customers. If he happened across things that was fine but to invade a person’s privacy would be beyond the pale. I whispered to Doctor Flapjack and indicated that he should do the same.

"So what are you going to do today?" I asked.

"Well, Mr Brent" began Doctor Flapjack in his usual voice, "I’m going to insert a camera into your fire exit."

"My what?" I asked, genuinely fogged.

"You mentioned that you’re experiencing a burning sensation when passing a stool – I thought it would be rather amusing to call it your fire exit. I find medical terminology so boring. I can’t imagine what it must be like to study it for years on end."

"You’re going to insert a camera into my… into me?" I asked.

"Yes – don’t worry – its common practice in America. And here too probably. It’ll let me see what is going on in a way hitherto impossible Try and I might, I have been unable to see all the way through your skin."

"And this is absolutely necessary is it?"

"Well, necessary is a strong word. I prefer to say that I’d like to do it."

"Fair enough. Will it be painful?"

"Ah well, that’s another question" he said.

"Is there an answer?" I asked after a long pause.

"I’ll take all human precautions" he assured me. "Now, undo your belt and slip your trousers off. I’ll get the camera out."

I did as Doctor Flapjack instructed and adopted the position.

"Oh and could I possibly have a cheque for the operation before we start? You might not want to give me money by the time we’re finished."

I put my trousers back on, did my belt up and sat down to write him a cheque. This was already proving a very expensive morning and I hadn’t even paid the blackmail man yet. That concluded, I took my trousers off again and resumed the position. Doctor Flapjack opened his medical briefcase and took out an old fashioned Polaroid camera. He began rubbing it with a thin film of generic supermarket petroleum jelly.

"I thought you were going to use one of those tiny little cameras like Doctor Grace Holloway used to kill the Seventh Doctor in the television movie whose name we do not mention except as a way to annoy ‘Smasher’ at parties."

"Yes, I can see why you’d think that. Television has a lot to answer for. But I can assure you that this is how we do this in the real world. One day there may be cameras the size of marbles but not in my lifetime. I’d hold on to something sturdy if I were you – this may register."