I knew a man, once, who had left me with some very important information, but I could not remember what it was. It must have been important, because the man was sweating profusely when he told me, from every pore on his body and three on mine. In desperation, I called Directory Enquires to see if they could help. "I'm looking to find something I lost," I said, so she gave me the number of a private detective agency. The man from the agency turned up in a coat, which he took off as he entered my flat, revealing another coat. "Can I take that for you, too" I said. He said, "No, it's the only other thing that I'm wearing", and crossed his legs with a flourish.

"Now," he said, "Tell me what you remember". The following three-day monologue encompassed most of the salient points of my life so far, though I did skip over my time as a transvestite cabaret singer on board the HMS Devonshire. At the end, the man, who had been making notes on an Etch-a-Sketch, showed me his work. The picture on the screen was of a small dog with an oblong body and three stick legs. "That's my dog" I said, "That's no use to me". "I didn't think it would be, what with it only having three legs", said the man, who left, taking my dog with him.

I had now lost a dog and a memory, so I called Directory Enquires back. "It's me again," I said to a lady I had never spoken to before. "I think I need to clear my mind", so she gave me the number of a cleaning service. I called them up and asked them to come on Thursday.
That Wednesday, there was a knock at my door. I sent it away, only for the cleaning service to turn up. "Sorry we're late", one of them said. "It's OK, I think my calendar is slow", I said. "We can fix that," she said, tearing the entire month of November out. That Sunday, the clearing of my mind started.

Over the course of the afternoon, the piles of rubbish I kept clustered between my ears started to fill the floor space. "I'm sorry," I said to the women with the vacuum cleaner, "I must just have a lot on my mind". Amongst the piles of magazines, overdue videos and petting zoo, we found a Russian dance troupe. "We're lost," they said. "Where were you?" I asked. "The second movement, after the double pirouette". I asked if they had considered just forming a conga line and heading for the door. Though sceptical, its inclusion led them to greater fame as they stole the show at the dance world championships. After lengthy negotiations, they agreed to return the show, on condition they were allowed to compete in the Modern category. They came joint runners up, to much public outcry and the eventual assassination of former Russian president, Boris Yeltsin.

Incredibly enough, I got my first clue to the knowledge I sought when the cleaners left. The entire operation had touched some sensitive parts of my brain and left a ringing in my ears, so I answered it. That's odd, I thought, I was sure I had set my ears to Discreet, but there they were, 14 inches wide. "Hello," I said, in German. "Guten Tag" said the other man, in English. "Can you tell me what number this is?" I asked. "Nein". I asked the man if that was it, or if he was just being short with me. He said he could talk at length if I wanted. I said I'd rather he talked at height, so he told me a tall story, before his plane flew into a mountain.

The oddness of the conversation struck me like a bathtub full of picked onions, and I went to the study, with a ham sandwich, to think. How could this man have a one-digit phone number? How many other one-digit phone numbers could there be? Surely no more than fifty. Waiting for the bus, I called number 9 back, and got a busy signal. A helpful lady's voice said, "We are currently busy. Please wait. You are currently number 17 in the queue". I looked ahead of me at the bus stop, and there were sixteen people waiting there. I looked behind, where the helpful lady was smiling apologetically. "I'm sorry," she said, "I have to count things". "Does this happen often," I said" "45,629 times," she replied.

As I got onto the bus, the driver said, "you can't bring that on here", so I left it outside, without knowing specifically what he was talking about. I took the seat at the back of the bus, and placed it nearer the middle. I called a number at random: the number 3.
"Hello", I said when the call was answered, "who's that?"
"1597," the voice replied.
"Excuse me," I said, "the year 1597?"
"Yes," said the voice. "Near the end of March. I'm sorry, are you selling something?"
I decided I was, and blurted out "Time share."
"Not today, thanks. Not since I shared time with 1789. When the operator said it would be revolutionary, I had no idea," said the voice, and hung up.

Mildly disconcerted, I decided I needed to know what the first phone number was. I pressed 1, and it starting ringing. The ringtone was heavenly, in a very real way, as a voice cut in. "Heaven, Paul speaking, do you have an appointment?" it said. I said I hoped not, but could he check. He asked me my name, and I gave it. "One second, there's actually someone here for you".

The man at the other end sounded familiar, and I realised it was the profuse, sweating man. "You fucking idiot" he said, reasonably. The sound of his voice stirred my inactive brain like a pneumatic whisk, and I suddenly remembered the important information. "I've got to attach the bungee rope, and cut the mindless chatter because its distracting", I said, remembering with a smile how hard it had been to attach the mindless chatter. "Yes, you fucking, fucking, fucki..." "Thank you. You have been so helpful", I said, hanging up. I felt relieved.

As I stepped off the bus, I accidentally dropped my phone, which was promptly run over by a cyclist.