Well, I must say," said Thelma Gusset (pronounced "Gussay"), the fragrant women's editor of the T&A, "it is nice to have EMC back in the saddle. As it were."

"Indeed," agreed The Scribbler. Exeter Montgomery Cashew's surprise return to the Boilermaker's Arms, after an extended and not altogether fruitful visit to Hollywood where he fancied he might make his fortune as an actor, had been welcomed by one and all. Well, almost.

"Boris looked a little... put out," observed The Scribbler.

"Well, he would," said Thelma through a mouthful of sandwich. The pair were sitting out on Centenary Square, watching the sales shoppers scurry by. It was damp and cold and altogether miserable, but the pair had thought it important to get a bit of fresh air after the excesses of the Christmas season, so had resolved to spend at least one lunchtime a week sitting out in the open having a healthy meal. The Scribbler glanced at his salad sandwich and grimaced, then wiped the rain from his brow. Surely this sort of self-imposed torture shouldn't strictly commence until January 1, with all that resolution nonsense? Still, if it made Thelma happy, he was quite willing to go along with it. For now.

Thelma continued, "Boris has put a lot of work into running the pub in EMC's absence. He quite understandably feels he's been supplanted somewhat now. And he was so looking forward to playing the part of mine host on New Year's Eve."

"Hmm," mused your humble correspondent. The ebullient EMC was much-loved and respected, but he did have a habit of riding roughshod over other people's feelings. He resumed, "Perhaps we should have a quiet word in EMC's lughole. Ask him to let Boris run New Year's Eve as planned."

Thelma clapped her hands together. "Oh, Scribs, how thoughtful. Let's go now." Then she stopped and cast him a sly glance. "Hang on, you're just trying to get me into the pub again, aren't you?"

Your correspondent put an affronted hand on this chest and said: "Me? The very idea?"

An hour later the rain on The Scribbler's shoulders had all but dried and he nursed a pint of Old Enraptured Ragamuffin in his hands. Ah. The status quo had asserted itself once again. While Boris busied himself sticking new "sell-by" labels over the out-of-date beer bottles in the cellar, Thelma and The Scribbler took the opportunity to have a word with EMC, back behind the bar and reigning supreme.

"Hmm," said EMC thoughtfully. "Not a bad plan. Let Boris have his head on New Year's. As it were. And he's put a lot of work into planning the night, you say?"

"Oh, yes," said The Scribbler. "He's booked a Trapped Wind tribute act."

Trapped Wind was the skiffle combo that The Scribbler and his pals had once played in, and they'd had a brush with fame that nearly resulted in pop stardom.

"What are they called?" asked EMC.

"Rehab Sprout," said The Scribbler. "Quite festive, if you think about it."

EMC nodded. "Okay, it's a deal. I shall sit back and enjoy the festivities, and Boris can crack on with organising New Year's Eve. A fitting end, really. Boris has been a fixture of this place for...ooh, how long, now?"

"Woah," said The Scribbler, holding up his hands. "Rewind a bit. A fitting end? What do you mean?"

EMC assumed a look of innocence. "Didn't I mention? I'm only back temporarily. I need some cash to put into an independent movie that I've been offered a part in. It's going to be a surprise hit, apparently. So I've decided to sell the Boilermaker's."

"Sell the Boilermakler's?" said The Scribbler aghast. "You can't!"

EMC withdrew a cheque from his shirt pocket and kissed it. "Too late, old boy. I already have."