Later that day, he phoned too. He had an old-fashioned sort of a voice, polished, though tempered by a slightly debilitated drawl, a slurring here and there that made you think of illness or a stroke or terminal ennui, a voice vaguely  evocative too of cabinet minsters of a certain era. The Eden or Macmillan Governments.

   He spoke in snatched phrases punctuated by a laugh that was a cough or a cough that was really a laugh. A sound that crunched like footsteps on driveway gravel.

   “Look here,” he began.

   And then he went off on a ramble.

   He seemed to be implying that I was slightly mad and had in some way been harassing him. He was now telling me, in the nicest way possible, as you would a harmless yet comic eccentric, to go away. He was prepared to be firm, it seemed to me, but he was also prepared to have a laugh about it too. Whatever it  was.

   “It’s available you know. This film. You can buy it. It’s not anything to do with me.”

   “I’m not really interested in buying it on eight millimetre or on video.”

   “Well that’s entirely up to you.”

   “I’ve been told that you have a 35 millimetre copy. Or know where I can get one.”

   “Look, I sent you the catalogue.”

   “But that’s just for eight-millimetre films, isn’t it?”

   “What do you mean anyway, you were told? Who by, for goodness sake?”

   “I’m not sure they’d want me to say.”

   “Well,” he laughed. “I dare say.”

   “Please believe me… ”

   “You’re one of those practical jokers, aren’t you?”

   “No. Listen. This is important.”

   “I’m sure it is.”

   “No please, it’s very important to me. It’s not the Super 8 version I’m interested in. I need to find a 35 millimetre copy. An original copy.”

   “Well,” he said,” a coldness now entering his voice. “Good luck to you.”

   And then he put the phone down.

   Luckily, though, I was on the ball because I dialled 1471 immediately and got his number. It took me ages to find out that it was the number of a public phone box somewhere in Shropshire.