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level of lovability which the British public had accorded to Henry Cooper. His short-term aim that afternoon (which would be achieved much more easily) was to chat up Fiona Wakeford.
    She was an actress who had risen to public notice in a popular W.E.T. sit com,
Who’s Your Friend?
, in which she played a pretty but totally brainless actress. Since this did not involve the slightest effort of acting on her part, her career looked set fair to be very successful. She didn’t mind Nick Jeffries chatting her up. In fact, she was so used to everyone chatting her up that she was hardly aware of it. She wasn’t aware of much, actually.
    The other woman panellist was a very different proposition. Joanie Bruton had started life as a journalist on local newspapers and then moved towards women’s magazines. The illness of the regular contributor on one of these had forced her one week to write the agony column, and she discovered such an aptitude for this line of work that within three years she had become a nationally-recognised guru, whose advice was solicited and respected on every embarrassing topic. Her petite good looks, forthright manner and boundless energy had quickly established her as a popular television personality. She made no secret of her appetite for hard work, and, when interviewed (which she was quite frequently) constantly paid tribute to the support of her husband, Roger, who had given up his own Civil Service job in the Department of Health and Social Security to manage the business side of her burgeoning career. He was there in the Conference Room that afternoon, a pale, rather breathlessly fat figure, checking through a pile of correspondence with his untiring spouse.
    The fourth celebrity also appeared to be working, though the restlessness in his eyes suggested that he was motivated more by keeping up with the Joneses (or, in this case, the Brutons) than from a genuine desire to read the television script in front of him (which of course had nothing to do with
If The Cap Fits
; it was for a B.B.C. series called
Joe Soap
).
    Bob Garston was a television journalist of the ‘New Hearty’ school. He had risen through those programmes of the late Seventies which had taken up serious causes like consumerism and treated them with such unremitting facetiousness that they produced a television equivalent of the tabloid press. He was the sort of presenter for whom no word was allowed out unsupported by a picture and no opinion unsupported by a pun. He worked assiduously on his image as a man of the people, and prided himself on the fact that the audience identified with him. In his heart of hearts he felt superior to everyone, but that afternoon, as he neglectfully scanned the script in front of him, he looked disgruntled.
    The door to the Conference Room opened. Quentin, the guardian researcher, glanced up protectively, but then relaxed as Jeremy Fowler sidled in with his customary air of apology.
    ‘Er, good afternoon. I’m the Script Associate on this show . . . I’ve worked out a few lines, you know, that some of you might want to use.’
    ‘What sort of lines?’ asked Joanie Bruton.
    ‘Well, you know, er, funny lines . . . I mean, there may be a moment when you want to make a joke and, er, well, I’ve worked out a few jokes that might be suitable.’
    ‘Oh, I’m hopeless when I try to do that,’ confessed Fiona Wakeford. ‘Honestly, I can never remember the line, and I get the joke all wrong and it’s worse than if I hadn’t said anything. I’m terribly stupid.’
    No one contradicted her. Joanie Bruton and Bob Garston returned to their work, but Nick Jeffries looked interested. He recognised his limitations in the field of repartee. ‘What sort of lines you got?’
    ‘Well, erm, a lot of hat jokes. I mean, the show being about hats . . . you know.’
    ‘Like . . .’
    ‘Well, erm, there’s this one about the man whose neighbour’s dog eats his hat.’
    ‘Who – the neighbour’s