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interrupt, Wilfred, but you will, I know, wish to meet Robert Amiss, who will be joining us on Monday to tidy us up a bit.’
    ‘In what sense?’
    ‘Management, administration, that sort of thing.’
    Parry’s eyes swept over Amiss in the manner of a busy duchess being presented with a new housemaid. ‘Hello.’ He turned towards Lambie Crump. ‘I’m writing what I hope you will feel is a rather inspired dissection of Tottman’s latest. Thought it might make a good lead for next week.’
    ‘Splendid, splendid,’ said Lambie Crump, showing no more interest in the downfall of Tottman than Parry showed in the rise of Amiss. ‘In a bit of a hurry. Must move on.’
    ‘Any chance of a word later?’
    ‘Doubt it, Wilfred. Doubt it. Have to disappear early. Rather hush-hush weekend, don’t you know.’
    ‘Wilfred’s keen,’ he explained to Amiss as they proceeded down another corridor. ‘But it is possible to be too keen. Sometimes one has the feeling he has little or no understanding of the constant strain on someone in my position.’ He opened another door. This time he did not usher Amiss in, having clearly taken the view that it would be foolish to try to circumnavigate the stacks of newspapers, magazines and other paper debris that covered almost the entire floor.
    Through a haze of smoke, the room’s two inhabitants could just be seen behind the piles of paper, the coffee mugs, the tennis balls and the other assorted objects that littered their desks. Lambie Crump’s nose wrinkled in distaste at the smell of tobacco: the man was chewing on a pipe; the woman was smoking a roll-up. Both were intently absorbed in reading that week’s Wrangler .
    ‘Good afternoon, Marcia and Ben. Here is Robert Amiss, who will joining us on Monday.’
    They looked up suspiciously.
    ‘Doing what?’ asked Marcia.
    Lambie Crump waved a hand vaguely. ‘Making one’s life easier, one trusts,’ he said grandly. ‘Taking a bit of the administrative burden away. You know the kind of thing.’
    As their eyes strayed back to their Wranglers , Marcia suddenly emitted a yell. ‘I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!’ she bellowed. ‘We should never have let him correct the proofs himself.’ She leaped to her feet, tripped over a pile of newspapers, picked herself up and stormed over to Ben, throwing the offending magazine in front of him and jabbing the top right-hand corner. ‘Look at that. Just look at that. Makes me feel positively suicidal.’
    ‘Oh my Gawd,’ said Ben. ‘That’s a bloody catastrophe.’ They gazed at each other in mute, shared horror.
    ‘What is it?’ asked Lambie Crump, sounding weary rather than apprehensive. Marcia picked up the magazine and in the sepulchral tones of a BBC newsreader announcing the death of a national icon read: ‘We could have done with less contributors with a penchant for the mawkish…’ She looked up and asked dully, ‘How could he? How could he? How could he?’ Her voice rose and she stamped her foot. ‘Fewer! Fewer! Fewer! How often do I have to tell that platinum-headed git about where to stick his misapplied lesses…?’
    ‘Along with his misplaced onlies,’ added Ben.
    ‘Oh dear, yes, yes, yes, mmm,’ said Lambie Crump, to whom they were paying no attention. ‘Must be off now, goodbye.’ As he shut the door they heard Marcia’s voice rise in hysteria. Amiss looked at Lambie Crump and raised an eyebrow. ‘These are not bog-standard coolies, you understand. It is because of them that The Wrangler has a reputation for being more free of errors than any similar journal here or in the United States. But that brings with it for the rest of us the penalty that an error like “Aegean” being substituted for “Augean” – which happened recently – is a tragedy sufficient to cause lamentations for days. And then, of course, there will be the hysterical reaction to the arrival on Monday of one of those letters.’
    ‘What letters?’
    Lambie Crump sighed deeply.