I sat spellbound in the Dog and Whistle public house, as my ‘friend’ Vanessa ordered fish and chips, with baked beans, and it suddenly struck me that she had a very sexy voice.

The barman was so stunned she had to ask twice, unaware of him admiring her slender body, a result of hours on her mountain bike, so she now fits easily into skinny jeans.

I’d applauded when she told those so-called pals – who knew she’d been a victim of the demon drink,
yet urged her to quaff booze with them – to ‘take a hike’.

Beaming with confidence, this bundle of energy pestered the landlord to display her artwork, upon which she’d worked with such rigid discipline, resisting the lure of television bingeing.

Now, she couldn’t wait to display her paintings, and was grateful when they were placed to catch the sunlight,
filtering through the pub’s frosted, Victorian glass.

Then light-fingered villain, Sophocles Sibden,
tried to grab one, but ended up on the floor,
from a tactfully placed foot belonging to the pub’s newly-crowned official artist.

When the landlord introduced her to his camp son, Freddie, who doubled as a topless barman in the nightclub Gorgeous Gals, 
she sketched him in the buff, emphasising his pectoral muscles, but resisted his female colleagues, saying, ‘I like women, but as pals.’

Meanwhile, Sibden had lined up a sale to an Italian professorial society,
but they couldn’t understand his accent,
compounded by his habit of emitting ‘erm’s’ and ‘ah’s’.

So they enlisted Beniamino Lombardo-Bustarden, an international fell runner, who left me standing when I foolishly entered a race up and down Mount Snowdon.

Mind you, I overtook loads on the descent, forgive me for boasting,
but I was quite a good athlete.

Ben, who’d once raced across Ingleborough, Whernside and Penyghent,
Yorkshire’s famous three peaks, so was familiar with Yorkshire dialect,
offered to negotiate with the art thief, confident of translating his thick accent.

Before meeting Sophocles, he studied one of Miss V’s paintings, inspired by her pet feline, Pompous Pussy.

Believing this secret sign to be a clue to unexplained phenomena
beginning in the 18th century, he wondered,
‘Is there a link between this and a long ago union, between a daughter of a mountain shepherd, Luciano Lespositosillyscent,
in Italy’s Marolillian mountains, and a hermit steeped in wizardry,
who dispensed herbs to the sick, thus annoying the town’s clerics?

The offspring of these two pastoral partners were said to have special powers,
and were worshipped by a literary society, which eulogised them in rhyming couplets.

Needless to say the professorial expert was intrigued, spotting clues connecting Vanessa’s paintings with those created by an Italian shepherdess.

Could she be the sweetheart of his dreams, whom he longed to make his artistic mistress?

Meanwhile, the woman herself was cycling around Walpole Park,
when she came across a man on a bench, recognising him as the guy she’d slapped,
after he’d tried to nick her artwork.

Frightened of this seedy individual, she started to pedal furiously, 
only to be halted by a squirrel, whom she recognised as a descendant
of the species Guissepe Rodenta.

Suddenly the little creature spoke, and to her amazement Vanessa
could understand it, ‘Speak to the man on the park bench,’  it said, ‘He has news of great import, so you must ignore the stench.
Sorry about the rhyming, I like to talk poetical.’ 

‘As long as you’re not political,’ she laughed,
not believing to whom she was conversing.

She approached the figure, who rolled off his sleeping place, and, looking askance at the talking rodent, declared, ‘Ah, the pub artist.

‘I’ve been sent to tell you’re being sought for nefarious purposes.
Don’t worry, it’s not for naughtiness, these are intellectual weirdos.
It’s like something out of a Dan Brown novel, but not as far fetched.’

‘A cult of Italian poets think you’re descended from a hermit and the legendary Italian shepherding artist, Luciano Lespositosillyscent.

‘I’ll get to the point, this society is led by a chap called Ben, who wants you to run up Mount Snowdon with him.’

‘If he thinks I’ll do that, he’s very much mistaken; can I take the bike?’

Readers may doubt the veracity of this tale,
but I can only swear that Miss V left a note which read, 'I’ve contacted my make-up pals from art school,
and they’re helping me with a disguise,
so that I can be hidden among the madding crowd.’

I never saw hide nor hair of her, but I visited that gay bar, Gorgeous Gals,
the one I mentioned in an earlier stanza,
hoping camp Freddie might know something,
but came across Sophocles Sibden, 
who told me about that secret Italian society, who worshipped her as a deity.

I was about to go, thinking he was wasting my time,  when he urged, ‘Don’t go yet, stay for the cabaret.

'It’s a 1920s-themed one, with stylish young women dressed as ‘flappers’.

'You know, corset-less young middle-class women dancing outrageously to the Charleston...’

Well, top-class entertainment it was not, but at least I found my sweetheart.

For who was leading the ensemble on stage but Vanessa, fast-stepping her feet, in amateurish make up and an enlarged bust?

I became a regular visitor to Gorgeous Gals, using the talking rodent as a spy.

As a result, Sophocles gave up drinking, swearing he’d seen a talking squirrel,
who warned him about a secret Italian society.

Since then visitors from far and wide have visited a public house called The Dog and Whistle.