‘I have just telephoned the airport; they tell me that there are no planes leaving for London tonight. Moreover, the cleaning lady has just told me that she can no longer oblige: she must devote herself in future to caring for her old mother. Whose funeral she attended last year. Moreover, there is a television van parked in the road outside. Moreover, have you seen the evening paper?’ Without waiting for a Yes, No, or Don’t Know, she hung up.

I went out in the rain to the gate and collected the newspaper. (Your free-born Jersey tradesman will do much for you but he scorns the act of putting newspapers into letterboxes, isn’t that odd?)

We studied the front page. The Jersey Evening Post had been fair, nay, kindly to us in the report of the trial but the photograph taken of us on the pavement outside the Court was unfortunate to say the least. We three shambling offenders huddled guiltily together, surrounded by venal shysters, mopping and mowing. George was glaring at the camera in a way that could only be called homicidal; Sam looked like an expletive deleted from a Watergate tape while I had been caught scratching my behind and sniggering over my shoulder. All most unfortunate.

We looked at each other; or to be exact, they looked at me while I shiftily avoided their eyes.

‘I know,’ I said brightly, ‘let’s all get drunk!’

They stopped looking at me and looked at each other. Sonia reappeared, looked at the photograph and promptly got a fit of the giggles. This can be quite becoming in some women but Sonia has never learned the art: her version is too noisy and she tends to fell about on sofas and things, displaying her knickers. Where applicable. George made his displeasure clear to her and she went back to the real love of her life – her washing-up machine; nasty, noisy thing.

Sam and George started to re-enact the ‘let’s all look at Charlie in a hateful way’ scene, so I rose. I can be hurt, you know.

‘I am going home to watch the television,’ I said stiffly.

‘Oh no you’re not,’ snapped George. ‘You’re going home to change into dark clothes, soft shoes and a weapon, and you’re reporting back here in fifteen minutes with Jock, similarly clad.’

Now, I may choose to make myself seem a bit of a craven at times, when it suits my book, but I don’t take crap like that – even from retired brigadiers. Especially from retired brigadiers. I turned to him and gave him a slow, insubordinate stare.

‘It will take twenty minutes at least,’ I said insubordinately, ‘because, things at home being what they are, I shall have to look out the clothes myself.’

‘Do your best,’ said George, not unkindly.

In the event, I was back there in twenty-eight minutes.