It wasn't my kind of work, but I was doing a favour for a friend. Hank Bachelor, who'd given me some help in recent times, had got his Private Enquiry Agent licence and was scratching a living at whatever he could pick up.

'It's a sort of security job, Cliff,' he said on the phone. 'At a party.'

'Bouncer,' I said.

'No, no, this is a high-class affair. Top people; charity function. Politicians, media types, the glitterati.'

'Shepherding drunks to the dunny. Calling them taxis. Seeing no one nicks the silverware.'

'Yeah, maybe a bit of that. Come on, Cliff. I'm sick as I can be with this virus and I need to stay in tight with the firm that hired me. With you as a substitute, licensed and all, I won't lose any brownie points.'

Hank is an American who has embraced Australia in every way but still uses American idioms. I agreed to stand in for him at the Jonas Clement charity evening in Manly out of friendship, and curiosity about Clement.

'You'll have to wear a soup 'n fish,' Hank said.

I groaned. 'I hate those penguin suits. They make me feel like… a penguin.'

'Women like 'em. There'll be some babes at this shindig, believe me. You might get lucky.'

So I hired the gear from a place on Parramatta Road opposite one of the university colleges and not far from my house in Glebe. I walked there, getting as much exercise as I can these days to keep the flab at bay. I'd been there before.

'Still a forty-two long, ninety-three round the tummy, Mr Hardy?' the outfitter said.

'I think so.'

Stick-thin himself, he ran the tape over me. 'Best to check, some of our clients do tend to expand. Hmm, ninety-four centimetre waist. Not bad for your height and…'

'Don't say it. You're only as old as you want to be.'