Slamming the door firmly on Mr Lettuce-In-It’s-Cold-Outside, Archibald Gregson hobbled across the bare room and fell into his armchair with a great sigh.

Glancing at the clipboard next to him, the old man weighed up the chances of fitting in a nap before his next appointment – he’d had a busy night, and not got a wink. Desperate for a decent doze, he picked up the phone:

“Doris? Look, can you help me out? I’m expecting a quickie at three – shouldn’t take long but I’m shattered, can I reroute?”

A blissful grin spread across his wrinkly face at her affirmative, and after replacing the phone he was asleep within moments.

Barely five minutes later however, a fateful, annoyingly unscheduled knock, knock reverberated through his slumber like a bullet.

“Who’s there?”
“Heaven!”
“Heaven who?”
“Heaven you heard enough of these silly knock knock jokes?”

Squeezing out a statutory grimace for the cameras, Archibald Gregson carefully recorded the gag, well aware of it’s irony, before trying to get back to sleep.