But which witch should he go to? Luckily, there was a magazine available to help him decide, the title of which you should be able to guess. It told him there was a witch of no small disrepute living in a village in nearby Gatshire, who was a member of a long and ignoble dynasty and one of whose ancestors had once turned a young man into a frog.

Mr Jones immediately drove to Gatshire. So far as he was aware, he had never even seen a witch, let alone visited one, so he did not know what to expect. Nevertheless, he expected something, and this something turned out to be totally wide of the mark.

When he rang the doorbell he was welcomed by an incredibly attractive woman in her mid-twenties. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mr Jones. ‘I must have got the wrong address.’

‘What did you want?’ said the woman.

‘This isn’t the’ –Mr Jones glanced from side to side and lowered his voice– ‘witch’s house, is it?’

‘It is, yes.’

‘Oh. Could I speak to the witch then, please?’

‘You are.’

‘You’re the witch?’

‘I am. Are you going to come in or are you going to stand there gawping?’

‘Yes, thank you. It’s just that...’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, er, you don’t look very witch-like. If you don’t mind me saying so.’

The woman smiled, and said: ‘The modern witch is a very different creature from her mediæval predecessors. Now, would you like tea or coffee?’

‘Coffee, please,’ said Mr Jones, sitting down on the futon. ‘Black, no sugar, thanks.’

After a few minutes his hostess returned with the drink. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘what brings you here?’

‘It’s a long story,’ said Mr Jones. It wasn’t, but by the time he had told it it had become so.