Urgh.

When I so much as … as think about the way he’s lied and connived and conned and … and charmed people. How he’s ingratiated himself (did I say that before?). Ingratiated himself with everyone. Everyone. Even Mrs Barrow! Everyone. Everyone but … well, but me. Obviously.

The way he’s …

Urgh. Urgh.

I am going to speak to Mr Huff. I am. Confess. Apologize. Although before I can head on over there – here we are … Phew! Quick left turn. Avoid the puddle. Apply the brake. Clamber off. Throw down my bike. Remove my rucksack. Peek inside: tin of pilchards, check; pork pie, check; iron supplements, check; Deep Heat, check; aniseed balls, check – before I can head over there I’m obliged to pop in on Shimmy to drop off his Dopamine and some other stuff he’s asked for.

Of course (nothing’s ever as simple as it should be in this life) when I arrive it’s utterly impossible to gain access to the cottage. Rogue has fallen asleep – as is his perfectly maddening habit – directly behind the front door. The sheer weight of that animal, the heft, is equivalent (and this is absolutely no exaggeration) to a large chaise-longue or a small settee. I smack the door into him, repeatedly (Sorry, Rogue!). I have a full three inches leeway (Oh lucky me!). But he refuses, point-blank, to budge. I know – I just know – that he’s blocking my access on purpose – I’m certain of it – purely to avoid the distinct likelihood of his being dragged out for a spot of brisk exercise.

And I can’t get in through the back, either! Dammit! Dammit! Security-obsessed Shimmy has bolted the tall side gate. I knock (obviously – doors, windows), I sit on the bell, I yell, but all to no avail. Shimmy is listening – at quite extraordinary volume – to a home-taped recording (off the TV) of Fraggle Rock, his favourite programme. I can hear him singing along to the theme tune, bless him. Damn him.

Dance your cares away!

Worry’s for another day –

Let the music play,

Down at Fraggle Rock!

Again it plays, and again and again and again. Can he have made himself two separate recordings so he doesn’t have to wait to rewind? Has he even got two functional tape recorders? Does he possess the technological know-how for such pointless shenanigans?

I try the back gate for a second time. I return to the front door and smack it into Rogue. Thud.

We’re Gobo, Mokey, Wembley, Boober, Red!

I return to the gate. I’ve climbed over it before, but only under extreme duress. There’s very little purchase for hand or foot. After scrabbling around for a while I have the brilliant idea of fetching my bike, leaning it up against the gate and using it (the pedal, then the seat) as a kind of portable stepladder.

Everything is proceeding apace. The bike is carefully positioned – a brick wedged under the front wheel, the back wheel pushed against the wall of the house. I climb up. It’s a little unstable (a little ungainly, come to that) but everything’s going perfectly to plan, until …