Every good story has a satisfying end.

And this had started out looking as though it would be a very good story.

A chimney sweep?

Stuck up a flue?

Only hours before a dinner party for which the hoi polloi of London society would be arriving?

The situation appeared as though it would provide anecdote material that my neighbours and rivals could only dream of and I, Mrs Honoria St. Clair, fully intended for the boy – Michael? Martin? – to serve as the amuse bouche of the gossip feast set before my guests.

Such imaginings had been based on the premise, of course, that Michael? Martin? (let us call him Michtin for ease) would eventually manage to extricate himself from what is, after all, one of the more generous chimneys in west London. Michtin was, however, lodged rather firmly, prompting me to politely ask him, after an hour of unpleasant grunting and panting issuing from mid-wall, whether he was really of an age to be chimney sweeping any longer.

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