While a tornado ravages Sussex and environs, Mr. Piccadilly paces into the kitchen of his dim London flat where he prepares a gooseberry martini.

Bombay sapphire splashes from a cruet, lately retrieved from the freezer, and into the expectant V of the martini glass. Piccadilly tweezes a ripe candidate from a punnet of gooseberries and squeezes it gently. A drop – no more, no less – and the martini is finished. Perfect.

He raises the glass carefully, so as not to spill a drop, and toasts his friend Frank Dearie, who's by now long gone. And, thinks Piccadilly, it is probably just as well. Good riddance.