The Thirst of Many. Carne.

We find our two protagonists lying prostrate upon the beach of a desert island. It would ordinarily be around the time for luncheon, but neither Claridge nor Bertrand knew this, being stranded quite unexpectedly without a proper diary or means of telling the time.

"What on earth? Has the Numismatists Club expanded? This is most peculiar. Bertrand? Dear brother, where are we? Bertrand?" Claridge grabbed his brother smartly by the lapels of his rather fashionable but somewhat bedraggled dinner jacket and shook.

"Just leave the paper under the door, and do please label the society pages for ease of reading..." Bertrand was coming round from some delightful dream thought Claridge, beginning to realise that this was hardly the West End and that obviously they were in some part of the home counties he did not often frequent.

"Oh dear." squeaked Claridge.

As Bertrand began to shake off his slumber, Claridge turned his oft-monocled eye to the scene before him. Surely we mustn't have taken a cab this far he thought, adjusting to the azure blue of the tropical waters and the blinding white of the sand; littered here and there with scuttling Red-Clawed crabs doing whatever it is that they do.

It began to dawn on Claridge that maybe something was amiss. He reached down into his luxurious inner pocket for his cigarettes and found them to be wet. "Blast." Searching with his delicate piano-playing fingers, he laboured to find a receipt from his usual cab company. Good men, a little rough round the edges perhaps, but good men nonetheless. Well, up until now anyway. What rotters!

For what reason do we appear to be here? I do believe that this is some sort of trick.

"Bertrand! Damn and blast you man, wake up! We are in a pickle!" Cried Claridge, tossing his soggy packet of Players towards Bertrand's rather plump and sandy face. The packet misses and lands with an innocuous splat. Well, not so much of a splat, but that wet sound that a small cardboard box might make if damp when thrown upon a sandy surface.

Bertrand stirred, as he might often do in this sort of situation, because unfortunately he was a rather lackadaisical gent with a great propensity for society drinking. He was also rather partial to non-society drinking which; although rather crude and common, was markedly less painful on the wallet and allowed him to fraternise with the somewhat looser women of Britains capital. But putting the thoughts of his brothers fondness for the great and venerable Bellini to the back of his mind, Claridge did what only a brother could do for his brother.

Pulling off one elegant white glove (albeit missing material from the ring-finger and covered with yet more pale sand) and leaning over to his left so that he was within striking range, Claridge used all of his strength to pull of a textbook slap across the now snoring cheeks of his dear brother.

"PPpphhfffuuutttttssssttsts..." Bertrand spluttered, allowing enough sand to transfer itself from the glove to his mouth, nose and tongue in a wonderful coating before cracking open his eyes to the blazing sun. "What the dvil are you playing at? I told you I was not to be disturbed Mrs Brannigan!" He bleated. (It may be worth a note for the undisclosed reader that Mrs Brannigan was Bertrand's House Lady, a rather plump and motherly woman who cared for his multitude of possessions and collections and other bits and pieces over in his pile near Hampstead Heath. But more on that later)

"Bertrand, dear, dear brother! Arise from your tumultuous night-terrors, and do stop being such an arse!" Claridge finally wailed in his rather nasal, but Harrow educated, voice.

"What? Claridge? What are you doing in my chamber? Oh. What the deuce is this? What happened to he Numismatists Ball? This is most unsettling..."

"Finally, another brain to ask yet more questions, I have been pondering this myself for some time whilst you have been asleep dear brother. I do beieve the cab-man has played some sort of trick on us. What happened last night?" Posed Claridge, who took this opportunity now to stand and brush off some of the more stubborn sand and crustacea. Taking a few paces to the shore, he realised that he had never said goodbye to Ms Dutton, the rather charming heir to the great Industrialist Lord Dutton, he of the ship-building and gold-prospecting type: all hats and britches but sadly not an ounce of wit.

"This is most odd indeed. We seem to be on some sort of island." Bertrand added whilst struggling to his porcine legs and shaking seaweed from his matted hair.

"I can see that brother. But what on earth is this all about? The last I remember was leaving the ball at Sovereign House and hailing our usual cab. Then we argued somewhat on the extent of your indulgences, and then simply nothing until I awoke not half an hour ago."

"Any chance of a drink?" Bertrand gasped, looking around for the bar. "Oh dear." He added, realising the extent of the problem, as a large seagull defecated upon his elegant three piece suit and tails. There was no bar, not even one of those delightful poor people in uniform that push refreshment trollies on the late sleeper train to Edinburgh from Victoria.

"Brother, I do believe us two dandies are in a spot of bother" Claridge mumbled, and made steam for the inner part of the island.

What will happen next to the intrepid brothers? Will Bertrand find a bar? Will Claridge ever dry out his cigarettes and find a way off this place? Stay tuned for more...