“Perish the thought,” I said. “My constitution would not survive such constant excitement.”

“Are you taking the piddle?” asked Mr Holland.

“Definitely. Yes.”

“Well, it’s not a necessary requirement for the job. But it’s not prohibited, as long as you do it in your own time. Do you have your own gloves?”

I shook my head.

“You’ll need your own gloves.”

“Why?” I asked.

“For when it’s winter,” said Mr Holland. “When you’re coming to work, if it’s cold you’ll want to wear gloves. I can’t lend you mine. I only have one pair.”

“I’ll get some from Woolworth’s,” I said.

“False economy,” said Mr Holland. “Buy a leather pair from Rowse’s in Ealing Broadway. You’ll pay the extra, but they’ll last you a lifetime.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” I said.

“I think you’re the right man for this job,” said Mr Holland. “Do you want me to run through your duties once again?”

“It’s switch off the bulb if it comes on, isn’t it?”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure,” said I, nodding my head.

“You’re a natural. I think we can say that the job is yours. Any questions?”

“Why does the bulb go on?” I asked.

Mr Holland laughed once again. “You young blokes,” he said. “Always trying to run before you can walk. Always wanting to know more, more, more. You tickle me, you really do. Where will it all end, eh?”

“In the heat death of the universe, or so I’ve read.”

“Well, let’s hope that doesn’t happen before I go on my holidays. I’ve booked a caravan at Camber Sands, one of the most beautiful spots in the country. Ever been there?”

“Only in my worst nightmare,” I said.

Mr Holland laughed once again. And then he stopped laughing for ever. “Enough of humour,” he said. “Telecommunications is a serious business. You do your job, young Barry, and I’ll do mine, and everyone will be happy for it and able to make phone calls as they like.”

“Praise be to that,” I said. “And it’s Gary.”

“I’ll just bet it is. See you on Monday morning, then, Barry. Sharp at seven.”

“Seven?” I said. “What, seven in the morning?”

“Telecommunications never sleep. An unmanned bulb station is an accident waiting to happen. Seven till seven. Weekends off. Who could ask for more?”

“Would you like me to make a list?”

“It was a rhetorical question. See you on Monday. Sharp at seven.”

“In your dreams, you will.”

The bulb booth door opened and in came Harry. “Everything hunky-dory?” he asked.

“No,” said I.

“Yes,” said Mr Holland.

“Good,” said Harry. “I’ll get Gary here sharp at seven on Monday.”

“Whatever,” said Mr Holland. “I’m so glad that the vacancy is filled. We’ll miss old Mr Hurst. Thirty-five years, man and boy, and woman in his later years, he boyed, manned and womanned that bulb switch. Things will never be the same without him, but we live in changing times and I’m sure young Barry will follow the example of his predecessor.”

“In a pig’s ear, I will,” I said.

“He certainly will,” said Harry.

“Seven on Monday,” said Mr Holland. “Look forward to it. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” I said. “For ever.”

“You’ll be here,” said Harry.

“I bloody won’t,” I said.

But I would.

Oh yes.

I would.

I really would.

I was rudely awakened at six of the morning clock. It was the following Monday and my awakening, though rude, was pleasurable.

“I love the way you always wake me up like that,” I said to Sandra.

“As a wife, my duties lie in pleasuring my husband,” replied my loving spouse. “Such is the way with us women, we are never happier than when we are serving our masters.”

The alarm clock jingle-jangled and I was rudely and really awakened.

“Sandra! Make my breakfast!” I said, in my sternest tone.

“Make it yourself,” said Sandra. “And when you’re doing so, make some for me.”

“Let’s do some sexing first, then.”

“In your dreams,” said my loveless spouse, and I went off downstairs.

Then, recalling that we lived in a ground-floor flat, I came up from the cellar and dragged my feet into the kitchen. It was still rather dark, but looking on the bright side it would soon be Saturday.

“I wasn’t born for the grind of nine to five,” I told the cat. “I’m not like the rest of these walking dead. I’m made of more superior stuff. I deserve better. I do. I really do.”

The cat yawned then rubbed itself against my legs like a silken pervert.

“You want food, don’t you?” I asked it. “Well, you can damn well wait for it. I’m a working man and I don’t have time to pamper pussies.”

I brewed coffee, munched upon cornflakes and prepared myself for the day ahead. “Now then, what will I need to take with me?” I asked myself. For the cat had left the kitchen in a huff (which was the height of feline fashion at the time).

I wandered into the sitting room and ran my finger all along a bookshelf. “Let’s see. Death Wears a Hoodless Cagoule?[11] Babe in a Body Bag?[12] Bleed on Me Gently?[13] Werewolf in Manhattan?”[14] So many to choose from. Tricky decision.

Well, I mean, what do you want from me? I was supposed to spend my days sitting in a dire little windowless cell, waiting for a light bulb to flash on, so I could switch it off again. I was going to need something to pass the time, wasn’t I? And what better than the entire genre detective works of P.P. Penrose? Eighty-five Lazlo Woodbine thrillers?

Yes, well, OK, I know. I’d read them all before. Read each of them many times before. But I loved these books and the more you read and reread them, the more you seemed to learn about them. You noticed all these little details, these cross-correspondences, references to other novels, recurring characters, running gags. Not to mention all the trenchcoat humour and the toot that Laz talked in bars with Fangio the fat boy.

“I’ll dip for it,” I said. “Ip, dip, sky blue, who’s it? Not you.” And all along the shelf I went, until I was down to one. One book a day would be sufficient. And I could do what I always did when I read one: imagine myself as a Hollywood director making the film version. Cast with stars of my own choosing, even adding a few scenes of my own, which would involve famous Hollywood actresses getting their kit off in the cause of high art.

I had dipped up The Toytown Murders, which was handy as it was one of my favourites. It’s a bit of a weird one, The Toytown Murders. The entire book is a dream that Laz has while he’s lying in a coma, having been shot in the back by a murderous dame. In the dream Laz is a teddy bear – Eddie Bear, private eye – and he’s called in to solve a series of murders in Toytown, where nursery-rhyme characters, all rich and famous from the royalties on their nursery rhymes, are being bumped off one after another. In case you haven’t read it, I won’t give away the ingenious trick ending. But it’s truly a blinder.

I dressed up for the coming day, being careful to tuck my Fair Isle slipover into my trousers, so I could hide the book in it. Just in case I was body-searched by Harry.

At six forty-five the front-door bell rang and I went off to meet my fate.

“You aren’t going to be difficult about this, are you?” Harry asked, as he drove me through the all but empty streets of Brentford. “I mean, it will save us both an unnecessary amount of fuss and bother and blows to your skull, if you just keep this job for a couple of months.”

“A couple of months!” I shook my head.

“It’s eight weeks,” said Harry. “Long enough for you to read all your stupid Lilo Windborne novels.”