Imagine, if you will, a rare, unfettered afternoon where the aroma of good malicious gossip is in prospect, the possibility of lunch looms and a few shekels well spent on same might even offer up the meatily dazzling prospect of the pleasures involved in both victuals, Veuve Cliquot and the character assassination of absent friends.

‘At that moment, at that very instant, the phone rang’.

With all of these delights in mind, I conscientiously, and with not a little excitement, primped myself in preparation for the fray. Precious unctions swamped the senses as I dashed away with a smoothing iron, producing razor sharp creases fine enough to leave even Bradman breathless. The yellow shirt, lightly sprayed with a zephyr of rosewater, then ironed, was a masterpiece. Effortlessly, with the merest flick of the chamois, my shoes were burnished brightly, an immaculate compliment to my lavender hacking jacket and subtly faded red slacks. Then, having not only donned, but (dare I say it?) gracefully enhanced these superb items of male apparel, I prepared to make my way to the appointed rendezvous. Coiffed magnificently, I smiled a secret compliment to my reflection in the mirror, hesitated too long over an errant curl, and reached for the knob. At that moment, at that very instant, the phone rang.

Chagrin (French and pronounced approximately phonetically as ‘shag wran’ with the ‘an’ bit sounding deep in the nostrils as if you’ve just been busted in the mush by Mohammed Ali.) perfectly sums up my reaction when comprehension of this telephonic command finally and irretrievably burst upon my inner eye.‘You what?’ I croaked in disbelief, gripping the hallstand and trembling.‘By six this arvo latest.’‘But I’m just going out the door…’‘I’m sorry, mate, there’s nothing I can do. 500 words by six tonight.

On any subject. That’s what he says. Top brass orders. Charlie’s sick, Drumbshanbo Murphy is in Ulan Bator and so we’ve all got to rally round’.I stared at the phone, my free afternoon imploding, my dreams of the Widow Cliquot’s champagne fuelled ribaldry already fading.‘By six? Tonight?’ I gasped, choking away a sob, ‘500 words? How the hell am I supposed to do that?’. There was silence for a second then an unsympathetic giggle from the other end of the line. The voice, when it came, was deadly serious.‘You’ll have to extract the base metal from your orifice’.‘What?’.‘Get the lead out of your arse!’

‘Bastards!’. I roared, but the phone was already dead’

‘Bastards!’. I roared, but the phone was already dead. I stood, shaking, just inside my own front door, a broken and beaten shadow of the insouciant boulevardier I had so recently been.

I turned and shambled down to the kitchen, muttering vile imprecations to an altogether uninterested and uncaring universe.‘Five hundred words….’ he’d said. I pulled a sheet of paper from the kitchen roll. ‘On any subject I liked…’ Busily I blew my nose, keenly aware of Machiavelli’s advice not to look for pearls therein. I flung the offending hankie in the bin just as an idea formed. I squared my shoulders, dried my eyes and sat down at the kitchen table keyboard. I laughed a wicked laugh, thought a moment, then began: ‘Imagine, if you will, a rare, unfettered afternoon…..’END