But before that, let me record but briefly. Regarding myself, my name is James Arbuthnot Pooley and I was born, educated and live in Brentford, which is acknowledged by many to be London ’s most beautiful borough. It lies to the west of the capital, lovingly cradled in an aqueous elbow of old Mother Thames. It is home.

For the most part Brentford has escaped the monstrous excesses and wanton vandalism of the town planning department, retaining its period charm, with notable historic vistas that bring joy to all who behold them. Blessed indeed are the fine folk of Brentford and proud am I to be one of them.

My parents I do not remember. The precise circumstances of their demise have never been made known to me. An accident, I have been given to understand. A family tragedy. And although I have asked many times I have as yet to receive a satisfactory reply.

Both mother and father to me has been my Aunt Edna. A cheery soul, who bustles about in an abundance of gingham, doing all that she can to school me in the ways of the world and teach me ‘values’. Noble values these – friendship, chivalry, trustworthiness, compassion and the rest. To be virtuous, to be decent, and I do try to be good.

And so it is with some regret that I must begin this tale in a more fragile state than would normally be my wont. For I confess that the previous night I had engaged most liberally in the pleasures of the pump room.

I had downed much beer, in celebration of my return from my year-long adventure, and I had done this in the company of my bestest friend, John Vincent Omally.

John is Irish born and Brentford bred. A lad of my own age, if perhaps lacking for my natural sophistication. A rough diamond, but a mucker, a mate, my chum.

We had drunk and we had ambled home, the borough bathed by moonlight of the fullest. Such beauty as to make a fellow sigh.

But now to awake in suddenness.

And shock. Upon this February morning.

The sunlight pierced the gap between my curtains, striped the laundered linen of my pillow, worried at my eyelids, warmed upon my chin. And I did yawnings of the mouth and awoke as the world went wild.

‘Achtung! Achtung! And a guten Morgen.’ Or so it sounded to me. And it came loudly to my ears and I liked not its sounding.

This din came from the electric alarm clock wireless set, which had been a present to me from my Aunt Edna. That its rantings should encourage me from bed each morning and urge me off on my way to work.

Work being something that my aunt spoke seriously and often about to me. For she was keen that I get to it.

For myself, well-

‘Achtung! Achtung!’ went that voice once more. And I knew well that voice. It was the voice of Mickey Nicholson, or Lad Nicholson as he preferred to be called. Or the Voice of Free Radio Brentford, as he was widely known in the borough.

Free Radio Brentford was our local pirate station. It operated from the interior of a commandeered Post Office van, which the Lad kept on the move to avoid detection by the authorities.

Its transmitter had been cobbled together from an extraordinary collection of bits and bobs and a great deal of Meccano by Norman Hartnel (not to be confused with the other Norman Hartnel). Norman was a good friend of mine, whose daddy owned the corner shop on the Ealing Road.

‘Achtung! Achtung! Achtung!’

‘What is all this achtunging?’ I dragged myself from the desecrated comfort of my cosy bed and sought to tear the wireless set’s plug from the socket. A task I did of a morning. If I had neglected to do it of a night before. And here I encountered an anomaly. Today there was no plug to be found; the cable simply vanished into the wall.

‘Most unsporting, Aunt Edna,’ I said. And I shook the alarm clock wireless set affair about. There did not appear to be an on/off switch on it either.

Lad Nicholson was now prattling on about what a great day today was for the workers and how if we all just pulled together that little bit harder, then an assured future of peace and prosperity awaited us.

This I found somewhat odd. This was hardly his usual style. The Lad’s usual style was somewhat more laid-back, prettily coloured by the heroic quantities of recreational drugs he was known to consume. This being the swinging sixties and everything. So what all this achtunging was about was anyone’s guess, but not mine, I concluded.

I smothered the alarm clock wireless set jobbie beneath my pillow, dragging my sheet and blanket over it too to staunch the sonic assault on my person.

And then I sat down on the lot of it.

‘Acthung!’ I said. ‘What next?’

My Aunt Edna was of that order of sensible beings who understand the value of a hearty breakfast. That it is the most important meal of the day. The very foundation upon which all that lies ahead might be built. Oh yes.

And I was determined that I would tackle same, whilst giving thoughtful contemplation to the matter of regular employment, and so I dressed, vacated my bedroom and took myself down to the kitchen.

To confront another anomaly.

‘What is this?’ I so enquired, as I viewed the plate before me. The gas-ring goddess smiled down at my person between her bounteous bosoms.

And said the word, ‘Bratwurst.’

‘Bratwurst?’ I queried.

‘Bratwurst,’ she confirmed. ‘The very Führer of the sausage world. Pork and veal, with salt and pepper, nutmeg, parsley, marjoram, celery seed and ginger.’

‘That sounds appalling,’ was my opinion. ‘Whatever happened to the usual bacon and eggs? And English sausages? And black pudding? And the fried slice? And-’

Aunt Edna took to laughing to the busting of her bust. She placed her hands upon her hips, rocked to and fro and scuffed her blakeys on the tiled floor. Which caused static electricity to crackle between the knees of her surgical stockings.

‘You’ll be the death of me,’ she managed, breathlessly, between great gustos of hilarity. ‘Whatever next, as I live and breathe, oh mercy, mercy me.’

And then, still chuckling and sparking about the knee regions, she took herself off to the Krupps to brew coffee.

The Krupps? I took in this intelligence. A Krupps cooker? Here in our house? ‘What is this?’ I now asked of my aunt. ‘A Krupps cooker? Surely this is new. What happened to the old grey enamel jobbie that you always assured me would see you out, if not the returned Messiah in?’

Aunt Edna laughed some more, then said, ‘The young,’ in a manner that I considered a tad dismissive.

‘And coffee?’ I added. ‘Not tea?’

‘And there you go again.’ And Aunt Edna clutched at her chest. ‘You will be the death of me and there’s a sad fact for us all.’

And would not you know it, or would not you not, I did not get breakfast at all. I pushed aside my Bratwurst in a pointed manner which I hoped she would see the point of and informed my aunt that I would take my breakfast elsewhere that morning.

‘Before seeking work?’

‘A long time before that, yes.’

‘And will you need money for the bus?’

‘For the bus and breakfast too.’

My aunt took herself off to her purse and returned in the company of paper money, which she pushed into my outstretched hand. I smiled up upon my aunt and she smiled down at me.

‘You are a good boy, James,’ she said as she smiled. ‘I know that if your dear mother was here you would try to make her proud. But as she is not, do you think that you might try to make me proud instead?’

‘I will certainly try,’ I said.

‘So I can expect that you will return later on with the good news that you have secured employment?’

‘I can guarantee at least fifty per cent of that,’ I said. ‘I will certainly return later on.’

‘But you will go to the Hall of Labour, won’t you?’ asked my aunt.