I suppose it was The Grocer wot done it. Just as I was seated, scanning the stunning revelation by Crawley's finest that Peter Freeman's comatose Commission for the Long Grass was still desperately seeking Britain's last honest estate agent, ?the phone rang in the downstairs khazi. "Ah, Pumsey." The voice was familiar. Slick and somehow nauseating, like a Waitrose Soya Smoothie. ""Pity that little sideshow down at Holborn Circus came to nothing. Heard that King Justin was set to abdicate, spend the rest of his days in the counting house and leave the throne open for you." "Darling, how lovely to hear from you," ?I gasped. It was Alistair. Truth is always the first casualty of brown-nosing. "?I'd have thought ?King Justin was safe for the time being. Unless Tchenguiz does a Somerfield." "Ten out of 10, Pumsey," he sneered. "King gets the moolah, Tchenguiz gets the land and you get to Try Something New Today, namely ?turning JS into something more profitable, like an amusement arcade. Except it's not going to happen, despite your magnificent stint at the helm of - where was it? Pumsey's Price Palace? So I need you to run DRIP." """Department of Retail Infrastructure and Pricing," he barked. "Look, Pumsey, by the time we get Freeman's report, Iceland will have frozen over? and there'll be a bloody Tesco Extra on Mars. I need a washed-up backbencher to run DRIP. Archie Leighton's gone AWOL so you start Monday. Think it over and say yes before some journalist friends get frisky with the Freedom of Information Act." It was a bit harsh. Me, washed up? ?But it's a nice little earner to pay for the mistress. So, as of this week,I'm going to ?bang on about competition, prices and the consumer and, who knows, eat a Big Saver sausage roll in public. Frankly, I don't know which makes me retch the most.n