'Goodbye, Thursday,' said Emma, holding my hand, 'you've always been very kind to me. I hope you get your husband back. Would you permit me to afford you a small observation that I think might be of help?'

'Of course.'

'Don't let Smudger dominate the forward hoop positions. He works best in defence, especially if backed up by Biffo — and play offensively if you want to win.'

'Thank you,' I said slowly, 'you're very kind.'

I gave her a hug and my mother did too — a tad awkwardly as she had never fully divested herself of the suspicion that Emma had been carrying on with Dad. Then, a moment later, Emma vanished — which must be what it's like when Father arrives and stops the clock for other people.

'Well,' said my mother, wiping her hands on her pinafore, 'that's her gone. I'm glad she got her husband back.'

'Yes,' I agreed somewhat diffidently, and walked off to find Hamlet. He was outside, sitting on the bench in the rose garden, deep in thought.

'You okay?' I asked, sitting down next to him.

'Tell me truthfully, Miss Next. Do I dither?'

'Well — not really.'

'Truthfully now!'

'Perhaps ... a bit.'

Hamlet gave out a groan and buried his face in his hands.

'Oh what a rogue and peasant slave am I! A slave to this play with contradictions so legion that scholars write volumes attempting to explain me. One moment I love Ophelia, the next I treat her cruelly. I am by turns a petulant adolescent and a mature man, a melancholy loner and a wit telling actors their trade. I cannot decide whether I'm a philosopher or a moping teenager, a poet or a murderer, a procrastinator or a man of action. I might be truly mad or sane pretending to be mad or even mad pretending to be sane. By all accounts my father was a war-hungry monster — was Claudius's act of assassination so bad after all? Did I really see a ghost of my father or was it Fortinbrass in disguise, trying to sow discord within Denmark? How long did I spend in England? How old am I? I've watched sixteen different film adaptations of Hamlet, two plays, read three comic books and listened to a wireless adaptation. Everything from Olivier to Gibson to Barrymore to William Shatner in Conscience of the King.'

'And?'

'Every single one of them is different.'

He looked around in quiet desperation for his skull, found it and then stared at it meditatively for a few moments before continuing:

'Do you have any idea the pressure I'm under being the world's leading dramatic enigma?'

'It must be intolerable.'

'It is. I'd feel worse if anyone else had figured me out — but they haven't. Do you know how many books there are about me?'

'Hundreds?'

'Thousands. And the slanders they write! The Oedipal thing is by far the most insulting. The goodnight kiss with Mum has got longer and longer. That Freud fellow will have a bloody nose if ever I meet him. My play is a complete and utter mess — four acts of talking and one of action. Why does anyone trouble to watch it?'

His shoulders sagged and he appeared to sob quietly to himself. I rested a hand on his shoulder.

'It is your complexity and philosophical soul-searching that we pay money to see — you are the quintessential tragic figure, questioning everything, dissecting all life's shames and betrayals. If all we wanted was action, we'd watch nothing but Chuck Norris movies. It is your journey to resolving your demons that makes the play the prevaricating tour de force that it is.'

'All four and a half hours of it?'

'Yes,' I said, wary of his feelings, 'all four and a half hours of it.'

He shook his head sadly.

'I wish I could agree with you but I need more answers, Horatio.'

'Thursday.'

'Yes, her too. More answers and a new facet to my character. Less talk, more action. So I have secured the services . . . of a conflict resolution consultant.'

This didn't sound good at all.

'Conflict resolution? Are you sure that's wise?'

'It might help me resolve matters with my uncle — and that twit Laertes.'

I thought for a moment. An all-action Hamlet might not be such a good idea, but since he had no play to return to it at least gave me a few days' breathing space. I decided not to intervene for the time being.

'When are you talking to him?'

He shrugged.

'Tomorrow. Or perhaps the day after. Conflict resolution advisers are pretty busy, you know.'

I breathed a sigh of relief. True to form, Hamlet was still dithering. But he had brightened up having come to a decision of sorts and continued in a more cheery tone:

'But that's enough about me. How goes it with you?'

I gave him a brief outline, beginning with Landen's re-eradication and ending with the importance of finding five good players to help Swindon win the Superhoop.

'Hmm,' he replied as soon as I had finished, 'I've got a plan for you. Want to hear it?'

'As long as it's not about where Biffo should play.'

He shook his head, looked around carefully and then lowered his voice.

'Pretend to be mad and talk a lot. Then — and this is the important bit — do nothing at all until you absolutely have to — and then make sure everyone dies.'

'Thanks,' I said at length, I'll remember that.'

'Plink!' said Alan, who had been padding grumpily around the garden.

'I think that bird is looking for trouble,' observed Hamlet.

Alan, who clearly didn't like Hamlet's attitude, decided to attack and made a lunge at Hamlet's shoe. It was a bad move. The Prince of Denmark leapt up, drew his sword and before I could stop him made a wild slash in Alan's direction. He was a skilled swordsman and did no more damage than to pluck the feathers off the top of Alan's head. The little dodo, who now had a bald patch, opened his eyes wide and looked around him with a mixture of horror and awe at the small feathers that were floating to the ground.

'Any more from you, my fine feathered friend,' announced Hamlet, replacing his sword, 'and you'll be in the curry!'

Pickwick, who had been watching from a safe corner near the compost heap, boldly strode out and stood defiantly between Alan and Hamlet. I'd never seen her acting brave before, but I suppose Alan was her son, even if he was a hooligan. Alan, either terrified or incensed, stood completely motionless, beak open.

'Telephone for you,' my mother called out. I walked into the house and picked up the receiver. It was Aubrey Jambe. He wanted me to speak to Alf Widdershaine to get him out of retirement, and also to know whether I had found any new players yet.

'I'm working on it,' I said, rummaging through the Yellow Pages under 'sports agents'. 'I'll call you back. Don't lose hope, Aubrey.'

He hurrumphed and rang off. I called Wilson Lonsdale & Partners, England's top sports agents, and was delighted to hear there were any number of world-class croquet players available; sadly the interest evaporated when I mentioned which team I represented.

'Swindon?' said one of Lonsdale's associates. 'I've just remembered — we don't have anyone on our books at all.'

'I thought you said you had?'

'It must have been a clerical error. Good day.'

The line went dead. I called several others and received a similar response from all of them. Goliath and Kaine were obviously covering all their bases.

Following that I called my old coach, Alf Widdershaine, and after a long chat managed to persuade him to go down to the stadium and do what he could. I called Jambe back to tell him the good news about Alf, although I thought it prudent to hide the lack of new players from him for the time being.

I thought about Landen's existence problem for a moment and then found the number of Julie Aseizer, the woman at Eradications Anonymous who had got her husband back. I called her and explained the situation.