T HE STORY SO FAR: A man professing to know a dark secret accosts Smuggler. Before this secret can be revealed he is abducted by a shadowy vehicle emblazoned with the words "Cleaning Services". Now read on. . .

What could I do about my man? What dreadful secrets did he hold that had forced them to go to such lengths? And what terrible fate would befall him at the hands of the Cleaning Services?

Was he going to be a victim of "extraordinary rendition", handed over to some foreign power and forced to wear orange overalls for years in some far-flung corner of the globe? Even worse, could he be terminated with extreme prejudice?

On my return home I paced the living room with urgent agitation, wondering what I could possibly do. After racking my brains and with no other course left to me, I eventually decided to grasp the bull by the horns and phone the council's information line.

"If you have an inquiry about council tax press 1. If you have an inquiry about recycling press 2," the mellifluous voice suggested. I was up to option 263, concerning unpleasant odours from communal landings, when I realised this was just a front for the nefarious deeds the government were indulging in. They had no intention of giving out any information, especially where my little man was concerned.

Nonetheless, I was back at the seat by the harbour the following morning at the appointed hour, just in case. And there was my man, nonchalantly scattering crumbs from yet another paper bag.

"My God, you're here," I said excitedly as I sat down. "I thought you had been abducted by MI5 and were even now being subjected to all sorts of unspeakable interrogation."

My little man stopped feeding the non-existent birds for a moment and gave me of a slightly askance look.

"You've been watching too many spy films, you have," he said in a disdainful voice. "They was my boys, Nigel, Dave and Charlie, they clean holiday chalets." He rummaged in his paper bag for the last residue of crumbs before continuing. "It was my birthday see," he pointed, somewhat pointedly, to his pristine flat cap, as if this explained everything. Presumably it must have been a present from someone, perhaps even his "boys".

"Mother was getting in a bit of a stew, you see. Me birthday lunch was on the table and getting cold, so she sent out the boys to collect me."

Well, I couldn't imagine stew as a satisfactory birthday lunch, nor could I imagine how it would taste once Mother had got out of it again, but I surpassed myself by refraining from comment.

My bubble was, however, distinctly burst when my little man added something as an afterthought. "You've got a very weird and over-active imagination you have." I was mortified, I know I have an active imagination but "weird?"

"Well," I said, somewhat put out, "just what is this dark secret you have?"

"It's not exactly dark and it isn't a secret," he said, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. "It's an artists impression of what the decorative screening at the Montebello site will look like when it is finished. I nicked it from the printers."

I looked at my man with something of a raised eyebrow and snatched the print from his fingers. "Oh, very nice," I said, with some irony, "thank you for all your trouble." I glanced at the crumpled print and had to admit it did look quite spiffing.

Just imagine, all that fuss over a little bit of fencing!

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ONCE again Ilfracombe has been put at the bottom of the list where funding is concerned. So far at the bottom of the list, in fact, we are not even on the page. This time it is Leader4 who have decided we are not worth the few coppers of their money it would take to help us move forward.

Never mind, Ilfracombe's Sea Festival will still go ahead despite this parsimonious attitude and a jolly good job too.

Yes, we need events such as this to draw people's attention to the town and what it has to offer, after all tourism is our life blood. It is also worth remembering, however, that festivities like this draw us closer together as a community as well.

Our children will enjoy themselves as much as the children of the visitors but they will have the added benefit of knowing it was the efforts of people living in their own town that made it happen.

The town's adult population will also no doubt partake of the celebrations and thoroughly enjoy themselves but with the extra advantage of feeling part of something very special, which only somewhere like Ilfracombe can provide.

Then there are those who organised the event to be considered. Giving up endless hours of free time and working tirelessly to make the event a triumph, they can justifiably consider themselves part of a very successful and well-oiled team — I meant that in the best possible way, of course!

What I am talking about is civic pride, something sadly lacking in a lot of communities at present. Despite what the knockers say, some of whom actually reside in the town, Ilfracombe still has the ability to pull out all the stops on occasions and it is the people living here that make it happen.

Victorian Week, Birdman, The Beer Festival, The Mini Rally, The French Market, Carnival and now Ilfracombe Sea Festival. May they all live long and prosper; they are everything that makes Ilfracombe special.

There is a saying: "You only get out what you put in." So many people put so much into the town we cannot help but succeed .