Concealed amonst a bargeman’s contraband, I returned to the city after a disasterous attempt to pass myself off as a member of the dimplomatic envoy to Peking. After calming my nerves with a finger of brandy and a sound beating, I hit the underground for the latest information.

Acting on information from a ladyboy hustler from the East End, I investigated a Labour minister’s front business selling imitation Tissot paintings. It turned out he was training a cadre of Chartists for an eleventh-hour siege of the General Election. We exchanged business cards and parted jovially.

Seeking a sense of closure on the matter of the Peking consul, I communed with an erstwhile scullery maid of a senior cardinal (now a professional Dominatress) and an opium fiend named Clarkson. Over half a pipe of fine hashish and a game of bridge, I learned that a member of the Tory Committee on Nefarious Trade intended to bottle the Yangste and sell it to the bourgeoisie as a cure for Impropriety.

Satisfied, I allowed myself time to age a year.