Chapter 2- 6pm

[Lissa]

TWO

Francois Devine is – and I say this as someone who has known him his entire life and shaken my head countless times at his blunder-headed ineptitude – a foolish man who is prone to putting all his eggs in one basket. Metaphorically speaking of course. In reality he puts all his eggs in one frying pan. Then, when he feels that the inch and a half of fat left in the pan still has a bit of life left in it having consumed the first lot in under a minute, he goes out to get more eggs. His idea to run to France having failed, he had nothing left in the fund raising note book of life while I had further tricks up my sleeve. Viz – Operation Silence.

With my mouth firmly closed and a neatly typed sponsorship form in my hand, I went out on the high street and handed it to the first ignorant, maggot ridden peasant who didn’t cross the road to avoid me and my shameless and pathetic begging. Initially he tried to push me out of the way and, when that didn’t work owing to the stoutness of my tweed jacket (which gives me surprising upper body rigidity considering I don’t belong to a gymnasium due to sore misgivings about the existence of Direct Debit), he reluctantly took the form and gave it a disdainful look. But then something miraculous happened. When he saw that he was being given the chance to help Dennis Brent’s sponsored silence he was only too happy to write his name in the box, put the figure of one shiny pound in the amount field (leaving enough room for me to add a couple of noughts if I needed to) and signed where indicated. I was in business. I beamed at him in lieu of a verbal acknowledgement and this seemed to coincide with something he noticed elsewhere on the high street as his warm demeanour was broken and he once more returned to the theme of trying to bully my tweed without ever learning the error of his ways. It didn’t matter though – I’ve been roughed up by experts and this prole was no expert – I had my first sponsorship money in the bank and all I had to do now was earn it.

The next half dozen proles were also distracted by events elsewhere on the high street – I really must check my archive of the local newspaper to find out what was occurring – as one tried to run me over with his wheelchair, a mother swung her child’s pushchair at someone stood near me but missed them and struck my shin, a party of builders gave me some bricks to hold but lost control of them in mid-proffer and sent them hurtling towards my head (luckily they missed and hit nothing but solid tweed), a policeman’s retractable truncheon accidentally extended itself at high speed when he walked past me and a Buddhist momentarily set fire to my moustache with his incense. All were very apologetic however when they saw I was working for “charity” and all followed the first peasant’s lead and promised a pound if I kept up the silent treatment until the following evening. I sure that I was easily winning the contest (though I had no paperwork to prove this wild conjecture – a mistake I’ve only made once before and everything was sorted out amicably once the blood test proved I wasn’t the rightful heir to the throne). No one else could have pledges totally £7 – it was a pathetically stupid suggestion. The Memo was mine, all mine, as long as I kept my mouth shut and, under special circumstances, I’m very good at keeping my mouth shut. How else would I have those colour prints of Story FFF? Exactly.

I spotted Mr Wetfinger on the other side of the street and felt sure he would be amenable given how much custom the Brent-Devine household has placed in his shop over the years. His eyesight must’ve deteriorated recently since he didn’t see me even when I was stood right in front of him. He is a man who has built up quite a muscular physique after decades of opening and closing heavy oven doors and as a result I very nearly lost my footing and plunged head long through Mothercare’s window. I waved my sponsorship form, he took a moment to scan it and suddenly became all sweetness and light. I remembered the year he dressed as “Pudsey” the Bear for “Children in Need” and ended up needing to wear an eye patch for real when his lack of depth perception meant he got a boiling hot scone in his eye after misjudging the cooling rack.

“Bless me, Mr Brent” he enthused, “It’s quite a day for raising money for the less fortunate. What with Mr Devine and all. The original and best Mrs Wetfinger got a terrible fright when she heard Mr Devine was having a sponsored fast. She’s just had all her teeth dipped in gold on HP and was terribly worried she’d miss a payment and have to have her mouth sanded. When she hears Dennis Brent isn’t going to speak for a whole day she’ll brighten up like a light bulb. She’ll smile that golden smile and even the bailiff will melt. She always had a golden smile did the original and best Mrs Wetfinger but nowadays it doubles up as a mirror for the rest of us so we’re all winners in a very real sense. I’ll happily give a pound for you to be quiet for once and if you ever want to make it a permanent arrangement I’ll happily negotiate a fair rate minus discount.”

I took the form from the blithering fool a motioned for him to go away.

“Give my unspoken regards to Mr Devine” he said and I waved him off. I was feeling very pleased with myself until my eye fell upon the poster he’d been standing right in front of. I’d put a hundred or so up that morning and most had been torn down within minutes by people who rightly (but foolishly) cared about the appearance of the village.

“Tonight” it read, “An Evening with Dennis Brent. Tickets £10 (no discounts).”

My heart sank when I realised even with my natural charisma I’d struggle to host a one man show if I wasn’t allowed to talk.

[Rob McCow]

Good cliffhanger!

[Richard Brinck-Johnsen]

Yes Rob McCow this is indeed an interesting development.

[Antony Cox]

Loving Dennis's adventures as usual!

[SiHart]

Gasp! What a cliffhanger!