‘I suspect that he is probably having a lie-in. He imbibed somewhat freely last evening and lacks for my hardy disposition.’

Certain sounds issued from the mouth of the wife. Tinkling fairy-like sounds, not unlike those of stifled laughter.

‘Quite so,’ she said, when she had done with this. ‘You certainly are a regular little storm trooper and no mistake.’

‘This term is strange to me, sweet lady,’ said I. ‘But if it is meant as the compliment that I take it to be, then so shall I take it as such.’

‘You do that very thing,’ said the wife. And fairy-tinklings followed.

‘So,’ I said, ‘I am planning to pursue certain career opportunities today and will therefore require suitable sustenance of the breakfast persuasion. All found, fried, with double bangers and toast.’

‘Bratwurst?’ said the wife.

‘Not even close.’ And I raised my eyebrows.

‘Then-’ And then she spoke, naming other victuals.

Victuals of a Germanic nature, whose names, I supposed, should they be printed, would be also in that distinctive Gothic font.

‘I will have to stop you there,’ I told her. ‘I want the full English.’

And would not you know it, or would not you not, at the exact moment that I voiced the word English, all conversation momentarily ceased within the Wife’s Legs Café, which made the word sound terribly loud within so very much silence.

And heads turned towards me and people took to staring.

‘What?’ I said. ‘What? I want a full English. Where is the problem with this?’ And I stared from face to face of them and they stared back at me.

In the corner by the door sat octogenarian Old Pete, with his half-spaniel Chips. And Old Pete crossed at himself and I swear that his dog did likewise.

‘English,’ I reiterated. ‘The Full English Breakfast. I want one and I want it now.’

And, ‘Out of my cafe!’ bawled the wife. ‘We’ll have no such sedition here. Go back to Russia, you communist swine.’

‘To Russia?’ I said. ‘For an English?’

But now the wife raised her stirring spoon and menaced me with it. And I heard someone say, as in a stage whisper, ‘Here’s one to be informed upon, there’s bound to be a good bounty.’

And then I saw the morose-looking fellows in the black uniforms rising from their seats and reaching towards gun-holsters on their hips.

And I knew then it was time to leave.

Indeed, and time to run also.

And run I did, at speed. And any traces of former breeziness and jollity were no longer to be discerned in the style of my urgent perambulation. Out of the door ran I and right off down the street.

And behind me I heard shoutings. And these in the German tongue. Schnell! Schnell! And Handy-Hok, or so it seemed to me. And these foreign shoutings were not music to my ears and I ran on and on.

I evaded my pursuers somewhere down near the Memorial Park and settled myself into a hideaway in the midst of a large clump of bushes. This had in childhood days gone by been a camp for John and myself. And I now gnawed at my knuckles and did rockings to and fro. Everything was wrong wrong wrong. All about me it was wrong, yet I seemed the only one to be aware of it.

I tried to calm down and take stock. It had all begun with Lad Nicholson’s achtungings. And my Aunt Edna offering me Bratwurst and speaking of the Hall of Labour and informing. And then there had been the bilingual street signs and the German sweeties at Old Mr Hartnel’s. And more talk of informing from Norman and then all that at the Wife’s Legs Café.

What did it all mean?

And then I had a revelation. As one does. Sometimes.

German. German. German. And those men in the black uniforms. They were Gestapo. Something terrible had happened. Overnight. Brentford had been invaded. By latter-day Nazis. And not only invaded. The people of Brentford had been brainwashed, perhaps with some top-secret mind-altering drug – brainwashed into believing that everything was all right. As it should be. As it always had been.

And I was the only one who knew otherwise. Knew the truth – because…

Well, why?

Because of some special mutant gene in my DNA that made me immune to the mind-altering drugs, perhaps-

Or more likely-

Yes, more likely it was because I had been away for a year – a year that Mr Rune had turned into a day. And all of this had gone on while I was away.

That had to be it. That all made sense.

‘Well,’ I whispered to myself, ‘that has to be it. It all falls into place. And-’ and I brightened somewhat at this ‘-I will tell you what it also means.’ And I took out one of my Wild Woodbines. ‘It means that whatever I do today, it will not be seeking employment!’

And so I smoked my first Wild Woodbine.

It drew not the admiring glances of my fellows, nor caused the ladies’ hearts to flutter. It made me gag and cough and croak, but such is the way with the smoking.

I did fannings at the air. I had no wish to be discovered by raising any smoke signals. Nor did I wish for some Nazi officer with a thing about Moses taking an interest in what might appear to be a burning bush.

I coughed some more, but quietly. Smoking was good for the nerves, I had heard. Far better indeed than the cup of tea that my Aunt Edna considered a universal panacea. But my nerves, alas, were all a-jangle and the Wild Woodbine searing my throat and convulsing my lungs did not seem to be helping much at all. Perhaps I was smoking it wrong.

I took tiny little sippings of smoke and settled back against a bush trunk that had my own initials carved upon it. This indeed was a fine kettle of fish and things had come to a pretty pass and I was deep in doggy-do which was no fun at all.

Because, hide as I might now, I would sooner or later have to go home. And it was anybody’s guess, although a reasonably sound one, as to what would be awaiting me there.

Germans in black uniforms!

Because this was Brentford and almost everyone knew where I lived. And there were apparently big rewards for informers.

I took to flapping my hands just a little. Flapping my hands quite a lot and turning around in small circles has always been a habit of mine when I find myself in severe peril. It helps me to concentrate. To focus. And should in no way be confused with a display of terror and blind panic. Certainly not.

I took deep breaths. I needed a plan.

And then I thought of Mr Rune.

What would Hugo do?

He would bluff and bluster it out, I supposed, then triumph and end the day with a slap-up meal at the Gestapo’s expense. But Mr Rune was not here and so I was going to have to deal with this all on my ownsome. The prospect held no charm.

I could, of course, make a run for it. Have it away on my toes to parts distant. That would indeed be a plan. Supposing, of course, that this Nazi mind-control-invasion business was a localised affair. Which surely it had to be. The entire country could not be infected by this madness, surely. Across the river to Kew, that would be the best bet, regroup, as it were, and then return. With what? With a liberating army of manly hard-nosed Woodbine-smoking warriors. That would be what’s what.

‘ Kew it is, then,’ I whispered to myself. And would not you know it, or would not you not, my voice, it seemed, had dropped by an octave. And I had only been smoking for two minutes. Result!

‘ Kew it is, then,’ I said once more in a gruff voice and manly fashion. And climbing to my feet, I straightened up my shoulders and thrust out my chest. I was on a noble mission here and I was up to the challenge. I slotted the ciggie into the corner of my mouth and stepped from the cover of the bushes.

And then I skulked away towards the High Street.