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Little Snoring was enjoying a period of autumnal calm. The school holidays were over, and the trauma of the disastrous summer fête - when the refreshment tent was sucked off the village green by a mini-tornado - had been replaced in the memory of villagers by the unexpected success of the cricket team in the final of the county cup competition. Also, the surface of the High Street had been completely re-laid after successive visitations by the local gas board, an electricity company, and a cable TV provider, had left it looking like a grey and black-striped ploughed field.

For the Scribblers, September meant the re-commencement of meetings after a long break. During the summer months the library had doubled as an activity centre for children - a role which had temporarily disenfranchised our budding writers. The first meeting of the new season had the aura of a reunion, with members taking the opportunity to catch up on all the local gossip.

One topic was on everyone's lips, however, the results of the annual NAWG writing competition. The Scribblers had, as usual, submitted an entry - this year entitled 'Bedtime Follies' - in the anthology category. It had been placed last-but-one, but this was viewed as a small success, because it was one place higher than we'd achieved in 2001.

Eventually the chairman, Bernard Lumsden, called the meeting to order, formally welcomed everyone, swiftly dispensed with outstanding business matters, and finished with the announcement that he'd received an application for membership from a gentleman who'd taken up residence in the Grange during the summer months. As if on cue, the main door of the library was opened and in came an Afghan hound. On the other end of its extended lead was a very tall, middle-aged man, wearing an Ernest Hemingway-style hat and carrying a bulging, battered briefcase under one arm.

"Evening all," he said. "Jeremy's the name. Jeremy Jockstrap."

"Charmed, I'm sure," replied Hetty Pinchbeck, ironically.

"Is there somewhere I can anchor the pooch?"

"How about the guard rail outside?" said Bernard. "Animals aren't allowed in here, there's a sign to that effect on the door."

"Oh, frightfully sorry, old chap. Didn't notice it. I'll just put this down first."

The newcomer slid his briefcase onto the nearest table, which happened to be the one where the committee members were seated. This action caused the minutes book to glide off one end and on to the floor, closely followed by the chairman's cherished briar pipe. After this interruption, everyone settled down again; the dog had been parked outside, a chair was found for Jeremy, and the reading session began.

Jeremy was a very attentive listener, and also a taker of copious notes. For the first half of the session he stared, with the intensity of a laser beam, at each person as they read. When other members offered comments, he scribbled frantically on sheet upon sheet of yellow legal paper which he'd shaken out of his briefcase. He made no attempt to speak: this proved to be the lull before the storm.

It was half-time. With the electric kettle filled with water, and members' beakers primed with their choices of either a teabag or instant coffee, with or without milk and/or sugar, this was an opportunity for an informal exchange of views about the readings so far.

Bernard, though, decided to make a formal approach to the newcomer. After having introduced himself, he asked:

"What are your writing interests, Jeremy? Anything in particular?"

"Well, I'm very much a novice at this game. Only been at it for a couple of years. I thought I'd have a go at a memoir first, 'writing about what I know', and all that."

"Really," said Bernard. "You've obviously had some experiences that are worthwhile recording."

"Gosh, I'll say! I used to be in the military. Special forces, you know. Skirmishing with belligerent tribesmen in the Yemen; that sort of thing. However, it was what I did subsequently that appears in my first book, which I've called 'Bandits at Angels One-Five'. It's an account of my exploits as a mercenary fighter pilot with the Royal Andorran Air Force.

"Your first book, you say?" interjected Sam Snyde, who'd overheard the conversation.

"Yes, there are two more in the pipeline: one is a novel, the other is a biography of George Michael. I met him once in a toilet."

Bernard gave a theatrical cough and said, "I'll have to remind you that there are ladies present, so you'd better spare us the details on that one."

Sam continued, "Do you have any particular preferences for authors? "

"Well, my main inspiration has been Jeffrey Archer, with Delia Smith coming a close second - I love my food. I'd intended to write a sex-charged fantasy novel but it'll now probably be a culinary detective story. As I was saying to Joanna and Terry at Hay-on-Wye the other week, fantasy is becoming an overpopulated genre. In fact I hinted that they ought to cash in while the going's good and collaborate on one final book. I suggested they call it "The Adventures of Harry Potter in Discworld". But to come back to my memoir, I just happen to have a few copies with me. I'll show you one."

"How convenient," muttered Sam, as Jeremy scampered over to his briefcase and returned with a slim volume.

"This is it, my magnum opus," he giggled. Well it wasn't really a giggle, more like the sound one might get from a malfunctioning food mixer.

"Oh yes, very impressive," said Sam as, with his tongue firmly embedded in his cheek, he eyed the glossy cover, which was emblazoned with the ostentatious logo of the Megaphone Press, a well-known vanity publisher.

"You can borrow it, if you like," gushed Jeremy.

Sam said: "Another time, perhaps. I'm presently occupied with a 900-page biography of Marcel Proust, which will be followed by a re-read of Dostoevsky's 'The Idiot'," giving Jeremy a meaningful look.

Jeremy, apparently stunned by this mention of a couple of classical authors, didn't quite know what to say. Which was just as well, because the chairman called 'Time' and we all returned to our seats.

It was a transformed Jeremy that dominated the second part of the reading session. Ignoring any procedural niceties, he gave his opinion on every piece of work, and in a style that took our breath away. Whether it was a short story, a poem or an extract from a novel-in-progress, he found something worthy of effusive praise, before ending his homily by gently easing a figurative knife between each reader's shoulder blades.

Lavinia Fanshawe, for example, was treated to the following:

"…I'll conclude by saying that I don't know an awful lot about poetry, but your poem is an exquisite example of lyrical reverie encompassed in trochaic tetrameters. I have one tiny criticism, though: no amount of poetic licence should permit you to rhyme 'splash' with 'quash'."

Lavinia was incandescent with rage. She stood up suddenly, sending her chair crashing backwards on to the floor. "How dare you! No one, but no one, has ever presumed to openly criticise my work in such a manner!" she shouted, lunging at Jeremy.

This loss of composure was the signal for the chairman first to call an already tense meeting to order, and then declare it closed. Jeremy, oblivious to the consternation he'd caused, just sat there with a pained expression on his face. He gathered together his profusion of paper, stuffed it, and his book, into his briefcase.

"See you in a couple of weeks then, folks. I assume my application will get the nod," he said, making the latter sound like a statement of fact rather than a question, as he made his way to the door.

"Oh, Jeremy," called Bernard. "Just one more thing before you go. The next meeting won't be held here but in the village hall, at six-thirty sharp."

"Right you are. I'll be there."

The rest of us, a little bemused by Bernard's last remark, watched Jeremy unhitch his hound and saunter off down Church Lane in the direction of the Grange.

"What was that all about?" said Sam. "The theatre club is using the village hall in a fortnight's time. They're holding auditions for this year's pantomime, aren't they?"

"Exactly," replied Bernard, with an enigmatic smile, "and Jeremy will make a perfect Simple Simon. Don't you agree?"

Copyright © Paul Grainger - Oct 02