'You mean my haircut?'

'So that's what it was!' murmured Joffy. 'I thought you'd had your ears lowered or something. Bit, er . . . bit extreme, isn't it?'

'I had to stand in for Joan of Arc. It's always tricky to find a replacement.'

'I can see why,' exclaimed Joffy, still staring incredulously at my pudding-bowl haircut. 'Why don't you just have the whole lot off and start again?'

'This is Hamlet,' I said, introducing him before he began to feel awkward, 'but he's here incognito so I'm telling everyone he's my cousin Eddie.'

'Joffy,' said Joffy, 'brother of Thursday.'

'Hamlet,' said Hamlet, 'Prince of Denmark.'

'Danish?' said Joffy with a start. 'I shouldn't spread that around if I were you.'

'Why?'

'Darling!' said my mother, appearing behind Joffy. 'You're back! Goodness! Your hair!'

'It's a Joan of Arc thing,' explained Joffy, 'very fashionable right now. Martyrs are big on the catwalk, y'know – remember the Edith Cavell/Tolpuddle look in last month's Femole?'

'He's talking rubbish again, isn't he?'

'Yes,' said Joffy and I in unison.

'Hello, Mum,' I said, giving her a hug, 'remember your grandson?"

She picked him up and remarked how much he had grown. It was unlikely in the extreme that he had shrunk but I smiled dutifully nonetheless. I tried to visit the real world as often as I could but hadn't been able to manage it for at least six months. When she had nearly fainted by hyperventilating with 'Ooohs' and 'Aaaahs' and Friday had stopped looking at her dubiously, she invited us indoors.

'You stay out here,' I said to Pickwick, 'and don't let Alan misbehave himself

It was too late. Alan, small size notwithstanding, had already terrorised Mordecai and the other dodos into submission. They all shivered in fright beneath the hydrangeas.

'Are you staying for long?' enquired my mother. 'Your room is just how you left it.'

This meant just how I left it when I was nineteen, but I thought it rude to say so. I explained that I'd like to stay at least until I got an apartment sorted out, introduced Hamlet and asked whether he could stay for a few days too.

'Of course! Lady Hamilton's in the spare room and that nice Mr Bismarck is in the attic, so he can have the boxroom.'

My mother grasped Hamlet's hand and shook it heartily.

'How are you, Mr Hamlet? Where did you say you were the prince of again?'

'Denmark.'

'Ah! No visitors after seven p.m. and breakfast stops at nine a.m. prompt. I do expect guests to make their own bed and if you need washing done you can put it in the wicker basket on the landing Pleased to meet you. I'm Mrs Next, Thursday's mother.'

'I have a mother,' replied Hamlet gloomily as he bowed politely and kissed my mother's hand. 'She shares my uncle's bed.'

'They should buy another one in that case,' my mother replied, practical as ever. 'They do a very good deal at IKEA, I'm told. Don't use it myself because I don't like all that self-assembly – I mean, what's the point of paying for something you have to build yourself? But it's popular with men for exactly that same reason. Do you like Battenberg?'