When the lights returned once more to the Flying Swan, a moment or two after the holocaust in Norman’s kitchenette, they exposed a frozen tableau of deceit and duplicity, which was a sad indictment upon the state of our society.

Neville stood poised behind the counter, knobkerry at the ready, to defend his optics against any straining hands.

Pooley held Omally’s glass above his own, a stupefied expression upon his guilty face. Two professional domino players each had their hands in the spares box. Old Pete’s dog was standing, leg raised, to the piano, and a veritable rogues’ gallery of similar deeds was exposed the entire length of the bar.

Neville shook his head in disgust, “You miserable bunch,” was all that he could say.

The only patron who had not shifted his position during the unscheduled blackout was a green-haired youth, who had been so engrossed in his war against the aliens that he had been totally oblivious to the entire event. Bitow Bitow Bitow Bitow crackled the machine. Bitow, Bitow… “Bugger!” The lad restrained a petulant foot and slouched over to the bar counter. “Where’s me drink gone, Nev?” he asked.

The part-time barman shrugged. “Ask this mutinous crew,” he suggested. Raffles Rathbone turned towards the assembled multitude, but they had by now returned to their previous occupations. Conversations hummed, darts whispered and glasses rose and fell. All was as it had ever been.

“Same again then is it?”

“Why not? Got sixteen thousand, personal high score, got me initials up there three times.”

“Oh goody goody,” sneered Neville. “Are you sure you only want the half of shandy, I shouldn’t crack a bottle of Bollinger, should I?”

“The half will be fine, thank you.” Neville did the honours.

The Swan settled down once more to its lunchtime normality, and such it would no doubt have enjoyed, had it not been for certain distant screams, which were borne upon the light spring breeze to announce the approach of a certain small and disconsolate postman.

“Camels! Camels on the allotment!” The cry reached the Swan shortly before Small Dave.

Omally choked into his beer. “No more!” he spluttered, crossing himself. Pooley shook his head; it was proving to be a most eventful day and it was early yet. Neville reached once more for his knobkerry and Raffles Rathbone stood before the video machine, oblivious to the world about him.

Small Dave burst into the Swan, looking very much the worse for wear. He lurched up to the counter and ordered a large scotch. Neville looked down at the distraught postman, and it must be said that the makings of a fine smirk began to form at the edges of his mouth. Turning away he drew off a single for which he accepted double price. Small Dave tossed it back in one gulp as Neville had calculated and ordered another. “C-C-Camels,” he continued.

Neville drew off a large one this time as a crowd was beginning to gather. “So, Posty,” he said, pushing the glass across the counter towards the postman’s straining hand, “how goes the day for you then?”

Small Dave made pointing motions towards the general direction of the allotments. His lower lip quivered and he danced about in a state of obvious and acute agitation.

“No more postcards then?” Neville asked.

“C-C-Camels!” howled the midget.

Neville turned to Omally, who had dragged himself up to the bar counter. “Do you think our postman is trying to tell us something, John?” he asked.

“He is saying camels,” said Jim Pooley helpfully.

“Ah, that is what it is, camels, eh?”

“C-C-Camels!”

“Yes, it is camels for certain,” said Omally.

“He has a lovely way with words,” said Neville, suddenly feeling quite cheerful, “and a good eye for a picture postcard.”

“For God’s sake! Camels, don’t you understand?” Small Dave was growing increasingly purple and his voice was reaching a dangerous, champagne-glass-splitting kind of a pitch.

“Is he buying or selling, do you think?”

“I hadn’t thought to enquire.” Neville squinted down at the postman, who was now down on all fours beating at the carpet. “He is impersonating, I think.”

Old Pete hobbled up. He had experienced some luck recently over impersonating and wasn’t going to miss out on a good thing. “That’s not the way of a camel,” he said authoritatively. “That’s more like a gerbil.”

Small Dave fainted, arms and legs spread flat out on the floor.

“That’s a polar bear skin,” said Old Pete, “and a very good one too!”

Small Dave was unceremoniously hauled up into a waiting chair. A small green bottle was grudgingly taken down from its haunt amongst the Spanish souvenirs behind the bar, uncorked and waggled beneath the midget’s upturned nose.

“C-C-Camels!” went Small Dave, coming once more to what there were left of his senses.

“I find that his conversation has become a trifle dull of late,” said Neville.

“I think it might pay to hear him out.” Pooley thrust his way through the throng with a glass of water. The postman spied out his approach. “What’s that for?” he snapped. “Going to give me a blanket bath, are you?”

Jim coughed politely. “You are feeling a little better then? I thought perhaps you might like to discuss whatever is troubling you.”

“I should enjoy another scotch to steady myself.”

The crowd departed as one man; they had seen all this kind of stuff many many times before. The ruses and stratagems employed in the cause of the free drink were as numerous as they were varied. The cry of “Camels”, although unique in itself, did not seem particularly meritorious.

“But I saw them, I did, I did,” wailed Small Dave, as he watched the patrons’ hurried departure. “I swear.” He crossed himself above the heart. “See this wet, see this dry. Come back fellas, come back.”

No-one had noticed John Omally quietly slipping away. He had become a man sorely tried of late, what with vanishing Council men and everything. The idea of camels upon the allotment was not one which appealed to him in the slightest. He could almost hear the clicking of tourists’ Box Brownies and the flip-flopping of their beach-sandalled feet as they trampled over the golf course. It didn’t bear thinking about. If there were rogue camels wandering around the allotment, Omally determined that they should be removed as quickly as possible.

John jogged down Moby Dick Terrace and up towards the allotment gates. Here he halted. All seemed quiet enough. A soft wind gently wrinkled the long grass at the boundary fence. A starling or two pecked away at somebody’s recently sown seed and a small grey cat stretched luxuriously upon the roof of Pooley’s hut. Nothing unusual here, all peace and tranquillity.

Omally took a few tentative steps forward. He passed the first concealed tee-box and noted with satisfaction that all was as it should be. He crept stealthily in and out between the shanty town of corrugated huts, sometimes springing up and squinting around, eyes shaded like some Indian tracker.

Then a most obvious thought struck him: there were only two entrances to the allotment and any camel would logically have to pass either in or out of these. Therefore any camel would be bound to leave some kind of spoor which could surely be followed.

Omally dropped to his knees upon the path and sought camel prints. He then rose slowly to his feet and patted at the knees of his trousers. What on earth am I doing? he asked himself. Seeking camel tracks upon a Brentford allotment, he answered. Have I become bereft of my senses? He thought it better not to answer that one. And even if I saw a camel track, how would I recognize it as one?

This took a bit of thinking out, but it was eventually reasoned that a camel track would look like no other track Omally had yet seen upon the allotment, and thus be recognized.