Nothing really had happened in the newspapers that day, either, except that some Arabs had murdered some Jews, some Jews had retaliated on some Arabs, some Indians had perfected an atomic bomb for dropping on Pakistanis and various assorted Irishmen had murdered each other in unpleasant ways. You really have to hand it to God, you know, he has terrific staying-power. Jehovah against Mohammed, Brahma against Allah, Catholic against Protestant: religion really keeps the fun going, doesn’t it. If God didn’t exist the professional soldiers would have to invent him, wouldn’t they?

Nothing nearly so warlike had happened in Jersey, except that an old lady had found a neighbour lifting potatoes which he had inadvertently planted in land which had since been adjudged hers, so she had raised the ancient Clameur de Haro, which dates back to Rollo, the first Norman Lord of the Island. What you have to do to raise the Clameur is to collect a witness or two, drop on your knees and shout ‘Haro! Haro! Haro! A l’aide, mon prince! On me fait tort!’ Where-upon the wrongdoer has to stop whatever wrong he is doing and the whole situation freezes until it can be sorted out at a high level. You have to be pretty sure of yourself to raise the Clameur; they take it seriously in Jersey and, even if you are technically in the right, you can find yourself ‘amerced’ for a good round fine if you have been wasting the court’s time on spite or trivialities – or if your plea doesn’t fit the conditions for proper clamouring.

Nothing happened chez Mortdecai, ether, except that the new gardener appeared. His name may well have been something like Henri Le Pieton Gastineau, but his native wood-notes wild were blemished by a complete absence of teeth and, even when he took them out of his pocket and burnished them on the seat of his trousers before popping them into his mouth, it was hard to achieve a real communion of souls. What I did establish was that he wanted ‘quat’ louis les sept heures’ which my razor-like brain converted into 57 pence per hour – a fair rate if he happened to be capable of toil. As it turned out he was a positive dynamo. ‘Flash’, our tame slug, tried playing head-gardener and bullying him, but got nowhere: he then played his last card and offered his notice – which to his intense chagrin we accepted.

Nothing was new except that it was the First of May, which was Pinch-Bum Day when I was at my dame-school but is now known as Labour Day, when portly, well-paid Trades Union officials persuade lean, ill-paid Trades Union dues-payers to march about the streets saying ‘hooray’ for excellent reasons of their own. They carry beautiful woven banners, each of which would keep a starving docker’s wife in Bingo cards for a week. But I digress.