Post-rectilinear modifying poet-archdeacon flagwaver of the Pravant Guarde, Tamlan Dipper, reads from his latest novel, In Celebration of my Imperial Roots.

I once had to fend off an ice-cream cart when I was peace-keeping in the Sudan. I had the peace at the time. All the peace in fact, and was enjoying it at my leisure on the stoop of my two up, five down bunker, sipping a martini and watching the huts of the sole surviving member of the Nduni tribe being burned by the troops of the minority government, when I heard a noise in the shrubbery. Having only my presence of mind, I removed the two ornamental four-pound lump-hammers from my cocktail and brandishing these I peered out into the relative darkness.

Regular listeners will be shocked to hear that all my incendiary elephant guns were on this occasion - as luck would have it - at the dry cleaners.

I was shocked to see the ice-cream cart rooting around near one of the bunker's air vents, and fearing it might catch a chill, made movements to frighten it off. Little did I realise that it had gone rogue; perfectly ordinary - once they reach a certain age their teeth go, which puts them in a frightful temper and they tend to go after humans. Swinging it's bulk around, it came right at me, bowling me over, with me catching it only a glancing blow to the under-carriage.

Needless to say, my upper-lip was jarred somewhat by this, and I feeling the fearsome treads of its tyres spinning closer to my midriff as I grappled, I gave thought to my stirring last words. Yelling "that'll be two and six, guv'nor," I pressed my feet into its rear handle-bar and tossed it back over my shoulders to land in a heap.

Within seconds, it had righted itself and we were facing each other again; a single fore-lock of my hair manfully out of place on my mildly perspired brow (the nights being hot in the Sudan). The advertisements on its sides rippled with barely contained power, and a poorly refrigerated ice-lolly oozed thickly from its gaping maw.

Feinting to the right, I caused it to bunch up for another spring, but as it did so I grabbed hold of the porch and pulled it out from under its treads, upsetting it again, and with a lunge, I was on it. A knee to the electric muzak generator immobilized the creature, and a few heavy blows to the umbrella sapped its remaining life-energy. It was a truly sad moment, as that noble beast of the savannah chimed its last, and I can say honestly that standing there, covered in chocolate sauce and raspberry-ripple, I felt truly sorry for it. I even offered up a small prayer to the relevant S.L.A. department responsible for ice-cream. Yes I did, and I challenge any man-jack to call me sentimental.

The finale of this encounter was met with polite applause from the troops of the minority government, who had been watching, and I swiftly beheaded the lot of them, and sent a short note of complaint to the interior minister, who sent me a ha'penny bit for my trouble. Fine chap. Once shined my shoes, so he did.