Nick’s subject appeared to be daring Flick to do something, while blowing his nose into the generous napkin. Flick, whose Valium had begun to work, enquired of the table, “Does anyone mind if I smoke?”

Extending his chosen role for the evening, Nick replied, “Does anyone mind if I fart?”

In the awkward silence that followed, Flick’s face went a bit red and the Rose, coming to his rescue from Fleur’s end of the table, enquired, “Did you know that the five principal gases that make up a fart are odourless?”

“That’s correct,” added Zeno. “It’s the traces of other constituents that give the aroma. Mercaptans, I believe they’re called. And, of course, hydrogen sulphide is the main culprit.”

Phyllis wondered why the English were so preoccupied with flatulence.

Flick, receiving no direct rejection, and receiving additional prodding from the Captain, reached below the table and withdrew from somewhere—Zeno assumed his sock—a rather dog-eared hand-roll. “It’s not tobacco,” Flick squeaked by way of introduction. He placed the hand-roll demurely on his salad plate, as if awaiting the verdict.

“What it is precisely?” asked Nick.

The would-be executor of stunts, encouraged by the glimmer of interest in Nick’s voice, patted the reefer and extolled its virtues. “A bit of Thai stick. Not as lethal as Nick’s fart, perhaps, but a lot funnier.”

“Well then,” said Nick, pulling a worn gold lighter from his pocket and pausing to sniff the petrol on the wick.

“Ooh, lovely,” squealed Fleur, squeezing the Rose’s arm in anticipation of a general loosening of inhibitions. And, as if wanting to extend the zenith of the moment, “Now who’s brought a new game?”

Nick, who now had the reefer, said, “Never fear, Flower, Nicholas is here.” He twirled his Dunhill and fired up. After he had inhaled, and with a big smile to Flick, he said, “I don’t know about Thailand—this tastes like Maida Vale WB to me.”

“WB?” asked Fleur.

“Window box, I should think,” said Zeno.

Nick continued. “My game is called statistics, and all parties contribute.” He hesitated for effect. “First, we all have to guess how much of our lives we spend in orgasm. Not foreplay, not making it—orgasm only.” His voice cast something of a spell over the table and no one save the Rose noticed he was holding onto the reefer.

“What’s second?” the Captain wanted to know.

“When we’ve made our guesses and written them down, I collect the answers, being as honest as possible”—a wicked glance towards Fleur—“more possible for some than others. We each write down when we started, how many times a week we did it, how many times we do it now, and how long it lasts. When each of us arrives at a total, we add them together and divide by eight. Whoever’s total is nearest wins. The one who is farthest out pays the forfeit. I decide what the prize and forfeit are.”