Peter Rhodes on secret justice, fancy-dress drama and keeping an eye on an island

So was it a physical assault, a careless word or something nastier? The public has a right to know because cases like this help set the bar for behaviour in and out of the workplace. But only if we know what really happened.

It seems that assisted dying in England will be delayed for some years, giving us time to see how it works out on the Isle of Man. One argument put forward is that, because of the Isle's small population, there will be no more than a handful of assisted deaths per year. Will this create confidence? If I opted for a helping hand over the River Styx, I'd prefer the deed to be done by a slick, well-practised perfectionist, not by part-timers fumbling their way through the procedure with a hypodermic in one hand and an instruction manual in the other.

I referred recently to the challenge of a fancy-dress party, themed on films from the year 1975. I considered Jaws but rejected it, which was a wise move because, come the night, there were several Jaws impersonators, including two blokes in magnificent full-length shark suits and one embarrassed-looking chap wearing a paddling pool.

For the first time in about 70 years I dressed for the Wild West. Back then it was usually my brother who had the cowboy outfit and Winchester rifle and I was the doomed Indian, armed only with a bow and harmless plonker-tipped arrows. But at the party I unleashed my inner Rawhide, complete with ten-gallon hat, fringed leather chaps and a saucy red bandana, yee-haw. Mrs Rhodes found us a quiet seat in the corner.

What, you may ask, is the link between a 1975 movie and the Wild West? The give-away, slung around my waist where my Colt .45 should have been, was two tins of baked beans. All is clear? Blazingly clear.