In case you were wondering, Mr and Mrs Crowther, residents of number one, Church Road, considered themselves to be, well, perfectly normal really. Certainly, they were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything rousing or inspiring, because they just didn't go in for such stuff.

Although the Crowthers had everything they wanted, they also had a secret, and their biggest fear was that someone would discover it. They dreaded anyone finding out about the Bells. Mrs Crowther's sister-in-law, Jessie, was a fine golfer and a talented, if somewhat unconventional, tennis player. However, she had introduced scandal to the family and was certainly not the sort of person you would want as a member of Upper Gummtrey Tennis Club, not if you were perennial committee members like the Crowthers.

When Mr and Mrs Crowther woke up on that dull, grey Sunday morning, there was nothing to suggest that rousing and inspiring things would soon be happening all over the country. No one noticed the little yellow ball flying past the window.

Mr Crowther first noticed something strange in the corner of the room - a Teletubby reading a Wimbledon programme. For a second, he didn't realise what he had seen. Then he looked again. Yes, there was a Teletubby on the television - Tinky Winky, he thought it was - but there was no Wimbledon programme in sight. Had he just imagined it?

On his way to the club, Mr Crowther couldn't help noticing there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. Some were wearing caps back-to-front and baggy T-shirts and bandanas. Others wore Plus Fours and cropped golf pants. He muttered to himself about the woeful state of contemporary sports fashions. These people all seemed to be whispering together excitedly. He forgot all about it until he passed a group of them outside the club gates and he caught a few words of what they were saying,

"Well, that's what I heard - poor Jessie! Poor Jessie! . . ."

"- yes, and her son Jeremy survived!"

Crowther stopped dead in his tracks. Fear overcame him. He served twelve double-faults in a row that morning and found it difficult to take the minutes at the committee meeting after lunch. As he walked to the car park, he was so distracted he didn't notice at first that his racket was ringing. Or was it buzzing? Without thinking, he put it to his ear and promptly bumped into a little man with a bald head.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"Don't apologise," said the tiny man in a squeaky voice, "It's ok. Really! My fault, my fault! I'm Philip Ossifer, by the way, and you might like to know that today you're going to go down in history. I'm sure even a hacker like you will be, y'know, a good influence! We'll all remember this day!"

When he got home, Crowther's mood was not improved when the first thing he saw on the television was a Teletubby - Tinky Winky, reading a Wimbledon programme.

"Turn it off!" he shouted.

He thought about the strangely-dressed people and the conspiratorial whispering. He frowned when he thought about his racket buzzing and some weirdo calling him a hacker. What on earth was a hacker, anyway? As he contemplated what a difficult and worrying day he had had, his wife was outside on the front step, bent over a little bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep.

Under a tuft of jet-black hair there was a strange scar, like a tennis racket . . .