"Is it me or has everything gone dark?" I asked.

"Don’t fear, Dennis Brent, it is not you – it has indeed become dark in here" assured Francois Devine. "I promised you a master plan and a master plan I have brought. Hedonism really clears the mental pathways and gives one fresh perspective on things. You should try it."

"I will."

"Do so."

"Could you give me a few pointers?"

"I prefer to think of it as something one learns for ones self. But I picked it up remarkably quickly."

"You did indeed."

"Thank you."

"So what is this master plan?"

"You see that darkness over there?"

"One could hardly miss it."

"That is my master plan."

"You haven’t blotted out the sun with a pair of your strongest underpants have you?" I asked wittily.

"I shall pretend I didn’t here that" he said coldly. "If you didn’t want my help you only had to say so."

"I’m sorry. What have you done?"

"I have used the skills which a lifelong study of telehistory has given me."

"And?"

Before Francois Devine could reply I was interrupted by the rather severe portrait of my Uncle Gaylord.

"Fraternising with gentlemen in the dark again are we Dennis?"

"I can assure you it is a perfectly innocent encounter" I replied.

"Who are you talking to?" asked Francois Devine.

"Shhh" I replied.

"I didn’t bring you up to have intercourse with gentlemen in darkened room" said Uncle Gaylord.

"We weren’t having i-n-t-e-r-c-o-u-r-s-e – we were merely talking" I told him.

"That is what intercourse means, boy" snapped the figment of my imagination.

"I really must insist I know who you are talking to" said Francois Devine firmly. "If there is someone else in the room I think I have a right to know who they are and who their people are. It might be very embarrassing otherwise. I might forget myself and say something indiscrete. Don’t let me forget myself, Dennis Brent. Is there someone in here with us?"

"Pay no heed, Francois Devine, it is just a symptom of the madness I have cultivated while you were away being hedonistic."

"Ah, I see. Yes, it was only a matter of time. Please don’t let me interrupt. I shall away to tie up the loose ends on my marvellous surprise."

"Do so."

I was left alone (at least so far as I knew) and was ready to remonstrate with Uncle Gaylord until I remembered it was only a painting and if he wasn’t talking to me then I was in no rush to talk to him. Though next time we spoke I would ask how the eyes on his rather severe portrait manage to burn with such fury even in a pitch black room.

I pottered about for a while wondering what on earth Francois Devine was doing. Surely tarpaulin alone would not be enough to keep me secure. Not even Francois Devine would be so absurd. There must be more to it than just tarpaulin and yet I couldn’t think what the rest might be. Perhaps he intended to set fire to the tarpaulin and create a barrier even the most wretched of hoodlum would not cross. Maybe he’d assumed they were superstitious and painted a huge religious symbol on it in the hope they would be warded off. If I’d been in that position I would’ve produced an enormous two-storey facsimile of the rather severe portrait of my Uncle Gaylord – no one would dare enter the grounds let alone the house with that thing staring down at them <g>. Whatever his plan I made a decision – I would let him make enough rope with which to hang himself. It would need to be very strong rope and there would need to be a lot of it and he’d need to find someone who was skilled in knot tying and I’m not entirely sure where this analogy is going.

Francois Devine burst in holding a portable monitor and beaming at me.

"I have solved the problem" he announced. "And this is the proof."

"Tarpaulin is not a solution" I snapped. "The proles will simply brush it to one side like a government healthy warning or a fashionably wispy curtain."

"Look at this monitor, Dennis Brent" he persisted. I glanced at the screen and was surprised to see a fully repaired Brent Towers."

"An old photo" I scoffed.

"Look at Melba – he is holding today’s edition of the Bendaton Bugle."

I squinted at the image in the monitor and it was true – the date was today’s, the headline was a now outdated story about there being an enormous backside growing out of the back of my home and the by-line was a plea for anyone with recent DVDs of Mrs Hinge and Agnetha to contact the editor immediately as he was offering ready cash. Behind Melba was a restored Brent Towers. It wasn’t just roughly mended – it was as restored as my full colour copy of "Galaxy Four".

"This is remarkable" I enthused. "I must see this miracle for myself."

"Ah" said Francois Devine but I brushed this aside as previously unheard of modesty. I pushed past him and followed the monitor cable from Francois Devine’s feet through the hall, out of the front door, round the house and to the spot where the recent hole at been.

"What on earth is this?" I asked when I reached Ground Zero. Before me was a huge yellow cloth hanging over the fruits of Francois Devine’s devastation. A small, locked-off video camera was pointing at the cloth.

"Isn’t amazing?" asked Melba.

"Hmm" I said non-committaly as I tried to piece together the evidence. When I reached my logical conclusion I said "The proles may be – and indeed are – thicker than Francois Devine’s blood but I can’t imagine many of them will be fooled by this."

"How do you mean?" asked Melba.

"Because colour separation overlay doesn’t work in the real world."