‘(E); Before making the final assault on a woman’s virtue, at all costs persuade her to remove her shoes. This can easily be achieved without any appearance of impropriety, yet she will instantly feel pleasantly undressed and vaguely surrendered. (She will also feel happier, for her shoes are almost certainly a size too small.) Encourage her to remove the rest of her clothes herself, a little at a time; this puts you in a very strong position indeed.

‘(F); Calm her fears continually during the penultimate stage; speak soothing, meaningless words to her as you would to a spirited horse, particularly if she is at all religious. If necessary, you can explain to her that you are not really doing it to her at all: she will believe this against the evidence of her senses if it is put to her reasonably. Indeed, this is sometimes the only way with the very devout ones.

‘(G); Take particular care not to ladder stockings, tear shoulder-straps or disarrange hair-styles, particularly if the target is a poor gel. Virginities are for giving away, after all, but a good hair-do can cost as much as two or three guineas, did you know that?

‘“All this is all very well” I hear you say’ – I opened my mouth and then shut it resignedly – ‘“and we’re damned grateful and so forth, but what about getting rid of them when we’ve lost interest and have our eyes on a bit of fresh? How about a few tips on that, eh?” “Ah,” I reply,’ he boomed on,’ “there you have me”, for a woman scorned is a pretty adhesive thing and a serious threat to the environment, as they say nowadays. There’s no fixed rule. Sometimes you can, so to speak, recycle her by fobbing her off on a less gifted friend but I usually find that the best thing is to be frank and manly about it: explain to the subject in kindly words that she has been but the plaything of an idle hour and that now you propose to cast her aside like a soiled glove. Some will acidly reply that “there’s plenty of fresh further up” but most will be so furiously vexed that their love for you will vanish like a rat up a gutter, and they will make their own way to the soiled-glove bin at high speed.’

He chuckled fatly, wheezed, started to cough alarmingly. When he had learned to breathe again I thanked him for his lecturette and reminded him that the subject of my call was yet to be broached.

‘How d’you mean?’ he snorted. ‘Given you enough for a dozen articles.’

‘You have indeed, but I’m not a writer, you know, although I may turn to it if I should ever fall on evil times.’

‘But you are the young feller from the Gazette Diary, aren’t you?’ He was glaring at me with deep suspicion.