I’ve been very quiet for the last few weeks.  First it was the flu and now it is the “debtors” blues.  She of the E Bay Party and the trip to Hoxton Market, has decided another on another expedition.  

She is collecting me in her yellow foxy car and we are going “somewhere”. 

I warn about the lack of ready cash. 

“No problem, “ she informs me, “this afternoon is on me.”  

All morning, as I pipe choux pastry into hundreds of little balls, I dream about where we might be going. It could be a movie, wouldn’t mind a movie, or a massage.  A massage would be bliss.   Perhaps it’s a pedicure at one of the Vietnamese places where tiny, perfect ladies shove your feet into soapy water, peel away dead skin, buff and polish whilst they watch Vietnamese movies on their expensive laptops.  One place I know even has an electric massage chair.   It is total bliss, a robot pounds your back as a deadly looking knife skims over a callus or three.  That’s got to be it, I am convinced we are going to have our feet “done”.   Barry and money, the ex and his used car salesman patter, and the non appearance of Michael,  will all be drowned in a foot bath.        

I suppose, after all this time, I ought to bring you up to speed with my “debt clearing project”.  Pierre is a gift from the gods.  Because of Pierre we eat.   And I enjoy myself.  I love the frou frou business of cakes.   Don’t get me wrong, I love slabs of fruit case, or a neat slice of Victoria sponge, or a cup cake with a smear of icing!  But I love making tarte au citroen, tarte of fraise, mille feuille, sacher torte, cheese cake, strudel made with the flimsiest pastry, the alchemy of baking, the magic of assembly, its perfect escapism.   And I get paid for it.   Paid enough for the daughter and I to eat.  It’s the rest of the debts that are the worry.   The mortgage is beginning to get a bit of a problem.  Job seekers allowance would help with the interest, but I have a job with Pierre so I don’t qualify for job seekers allowance.  

I must stop worrying.  Worrying is not going to help.  I just have to keep churning out ideas and someday, someone is going to pay me, something – anything.   No one wants my debt column.  Not even the local paper.  I offered it to the Council; they publish a glossy every month.  The woman on editorial said “we aim to cheer people up, communal swimming classes, happy faces at the new allotments, talent shows; you know the kind of thing. We both know that debt is not going to make them feel happier.”

Still, there are the Memoirs of an Armed Robber on the horizon.  I have just have to wait for the visiting order to come from Pentonville Prison. Pierre is sure he will give me an advance.  He thinks it might be as much as £3,000!

I told Barry.  I thought he’d be pleased.   All he said was that he didn’t like the idea of me associating with crooks!   Well, needs must! I told him.  His needs!  

My girlfriend’s cheerful yellow car pitches up at Pierre’s café. 

I dash off, happily yelling that I am going to have my feet done.  

“No, you aren’t”, she informs me, “you are going to tarot reader!”

A tarot reader!   Surely sensible people like us don’t believe in fortune telling!  

“I don’t she tells me, “but it might make you feel better!”

But what if she tells me its all doom and disaster?

“We won’t believe her” my friend says cheerfully, as she pulls out into the traffic. 

But what happens if she says the future is going to be wonderful.

“We will believe her.”

Couldn’t we have a pedicure?  We can get a pedicure quite cheaply.

I am ignored; the sat nav guides the foxy yellow car to the house of destiny!