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Those of you who have read my earlier memoirs will be well aware that the country is not really Flashy's home ground, except for the races, of course. No Billiards, no decent knocking shops, and no-one prepared to go above sixpence a corner at Backgammon. But there are times when town can be an uncomfortable place; the name of Flashman becomes bandied in places where he wishes it weren't, and he can feel a strong East wind blowing.

When that happens, the only thing is to ride out the storm on campaign until some other poor sap finds he has drawn the enemy artillery and made it safe for me to return in a blaze of glory, all past misdemenours forgiven and forgotten - for a while at least. The devil of it is when there ain't a campaign to join, and this was just the case when a little affair concerning a forged banknote, a disguised nun and a mousetrap, which won't bear repetition here, began to be nosed about. No-one had mentioned Flashy's name in the connection, but there was talk of the lawyers (damn their eyes) getting their inky grey fingers into the matter and it seemed pretty clear that the time had come to take the air of somewhere out of range of the artillery for a fair while.

There never being a good war going when you want one, I was left with no choice but to invite myself upon an old army chum. Tim Hathaway had been a captain with me in the 44th, but had left the army and set up as a sawbones in some godforsaken part of the country after marrying some Irish filly. As things stood, he had two great advantages: first, he was far beyond the reach of duns and lawyers; and secondly, he was scarce in a position to refuse the right hand of hospitality to old Flashy, who knew fine well not only why he'd left the 44th, but also the value of his medical diploma (no man better, as I'd sold it him myself).

Against all my expectations, quite a high old time I had of it there in Ambridge at first. From the local squires it was all "How de do, Colonel Flashman" and "Do tell us all about Afghanistan and the Crimea again, Colonel Flashman". Even the turnip-heads tipped their hats and showed a proper respect, for whatever that may be worth. Just as well, I began to think to myself, that there aint a war going on, so that no-one can ask why Flashy aint out there drinking the blood of Johnny Foreigner. For given the choice, even in such a place as this it can be a damned fine thing for a fellow to see that his fame has gone before him. It certainly beats scratching the nits as you wonder whether you'll be cut to bits by Cossacks the next day.

The only downside was Sawbones Tim himself, who carried a face on him like a cavalryman who has just found that he's walking home unaided. Not a word passed in that house between him and the Irish trollop - a fine looking piece if you go for the red-haired, grey eyed, broody type, and I have to say I'm indifferent. When we were alone, I taxed the Sawbones with this. "It is a matter I cannot speak of, even to you, Flashman," he replied, with a sigh.

Now Flashy has seen quite a large part of the world, and heard - and inspired - the sighs of a fair few cuckolds in his time. There was no need for anyone to tell me that Mrs Sawbones was fighting for the irregulars, and it took little time and observation to identify the pirate captain in question; one Aldridge, a leading light of the local turnip-shower and a fellow who, from the first, struck me as a damned fancy weskit shark you'd not trust behind you with a musket.

And while I was no great friend of Sawbones Hathaway, it vexed me to see his wife treated so, and I wondered at a way of taking the turnip down a peg. "Only the brave deserve the fair", they say, and if she was not exactly fair, he certainly wasn't brave. Of course, neither was I, but I began to see that there might be some amusement in the matter. I gave it about that I might stay awhile to hunt a few worats, knowing well that when it comes to impressing the Irish filly, no man alive looked better astride a horse.

For the next few days life with Mr and Mrs Sawbones became less and less comfortable for Flashy. The place echoed to the sound of slamming doors and whispered arguments that would instantly stop when I went into a room. It was pretty clear that if the Turnip-head's guerilla tactics hadn't actually carried the field, at the very least he'd inflicted heavy casualties. I began to wonder if I could stand much more of it: Flashy and Co, mender of broken hearts to the nobility and gentry, prayers and laundry two bob extra, is not exactly my line of country.

As for out of house diversions, how the bumpkins could stand it I can't imagine, as apart from drinking there was little enough to do in the village - except watching the sniping sawbones pair, and wondering which would get a bullet home first. So as Aldridge had paid his four penn'orth towards making my life uncomfortable, I began to think of ways to return the compliment - though keeping my artillery well out of sight, you may be sure.

I had tired of the skirmishing and retreated to the pot-house to indulge in the only other activity available in the village, when who should come in but Turnip-Head himself, who orders himself a large brandy and then turns to me. "Flashman, aint it?" says he. "I hear you have the name for being a great traveller. Was you ever in Hungary?"

Now I have done a fair bit of travelling in my time - much of it at high speed and short notice, and for reasons that don't bear too close an inspection. I'd never been to Hungary but I'd heard about it: half the women poxed, the other half you don't care whether they're poxed or not; a diet of beetroot; a language that goes easy on the vowels, and for the rest, nothing but Magyars, wolves and worats, and of the three I can't say which I'd be the most anxious to avoid. But I don't say as much to the Turnip, and tell him how Lew Nolan and I once took out an entire column of Hungarian Dragoons between us with just our sabres. Every word a lie, of course, and for a moment I regretted telling it as I had forgotten that the Magyars were supposed to be on our side - not that it made any difference either way.

The Turnip doesn't notice, however. "I'm glad to hear you know the place, Flashman," says he, "Because you might be able to advise me. I'm thinking of buying some land there. A little beetroot farm at Bilj, in the Province of Piffl. Perhaps you know the place."

Well of course I knew the place as well as he knew Kandahar, but I wasn't admtting as much. And the beginnings of an idea were beginning to form...