Before I bury myself in web sites telling me “how to fire a gun”, or indeed “how it feels to fire a gun”, “guns in use in the early 90’s”,  I succumb to a few old habits. It is Christmas after all. A quick stray into Marc Jacobs territory, a peak at Stella McCartney, window shopping at Aspinalls, a lingering moment with Vera Wang., all courtesy of the internet, remind me I don’t have a credit card!

It’s credit crunch Christmas in our house. Even so the daughter needs presents. I have found her a genuine Biba jacket. It’s purple. I am so excited. I hope she is. For those of you who were not alive in the first years of the seventies, Biba may well have passed you by. For we few who were lucky enough to slide into its glittering emporium, Biba was our temple. Biba was style!

I found the jacket in the charity shop. I am sure they didn’t quite realise what they had stashed on that rail. It was on sale for £4.00. I added £10.00 to the purchase price.  

Barry thought I was being ridiculous. 

“It what you call bargain hunting.”

It was for the local hospice, I told him.

“Even so, business is business.  If they didn’t know what was on their rails that is not your responsibility.”

My daily phone calls with Barry had not vanished along with my internet connection.   He doesn’t much like Christmas.

“Going into a tower block, taking a television, seeing the kiddies cry, it’s not a job you want to do, Madelaine.”

I am sure it isn’t.  Do you actually have to take it before Christmas?

“I am not happy!  I can tell you!  It’s not like its some geezer with a Mercedes.  Usually it’s a single Mum with kids.  I worry that we’re the least of her problems.  God knows they’ve usually gone down the loan shark route long before we appear. “

Loan sharks!  

“It’s not a nice world out there, Madelaine”

I know.

“What about this armed robber?  Have you written any of it? How much does he want to see before you get more money? Do you have a delivery date?”

This is from the man who didn’t want me to write for an “armed robber”, who worried for my safety. Now he is worrying about delivery!

 Momentarily, I long for parchment paper, a quill pen and a friendly horse and rider to take my missives, deliver them by hand, and return with the reply.  In the meantime, I have purchased a dongle.  A dongle connects my laptop to my mobile phone provider.  But said dongle, will not connect by a broadband connection.  I telephone technical services at the mobile phone company.  The technical advisor suggests I use my laptop outside!  It may be that the dongle cannot pick up the broadband connection through my walls.   It is blowing a bloody gale.   My neighbours look on amazed as I sit, in my coat, typing my blog.  The dongle is still showing green. If I was connected to a broadband connection it would be blue, not green!  I am going to endeavour to post my blog, but it may take almost as long to post it as it would’ve taken if I had used a trusty rider and his horse!  

My mobile phone is ringing.  I can see its Barry. For the first time ever, I can’t face speaking to him. I can’t deal with the broadband crises and the Bailiff!

Michael, distracted from sleep and displaying rather elegant legs beneath his toga like towel arrangement, descends the stairs to discover me, in tears, trying to stop Bailiff from entering the house!  The  Bailiff says he will be back with a warrant.   I ring the Council. 

Lady in Council Office asks “why didn’t you open our letters?” 

I didn’t because I though the Ex was dealing with all that.  I had mentioned that I had letters but he told me to ignore them.  

“Yes, well, as far as the Council is concerned you are living in the property, you pay the Council Tax.  I am afraid you are responsible.”

Michael said he had an early appointment and he was gone before I could butter him a slice of toast!   I telephoned the Ex.  He says he has problems.  He’s already told me that the car scrappage scheme is no good for second hand car deals.  I point out that his failure to pay council tax predates car scrappage!   He said I should have chased him!

I know its my fault.   I should’ve chased him.  I should’ve opened the damn letters.   But they went behind the clock in the sitting room, along with the rest of the letters I couldn’t face opening.   My stomach is in knots.  What the hell am I going to do?

Barry’s £1500, the lapsed mortgage payments, electricity, gas, phone, and token credit card payments have depleted the Armed Robber’s £3,000 advance.

I am going to see him tomorrow, to begin work.   I am feeling very very depressed.   His cuttings files have revealed him to be a pathological megalomaniac.  How can I turn a man who set fire to a bank, knowing that the staff and customers were still inside the building, into a loveable rogue?  I can’t.  And what’s more, I don’t want to turn him into a loveable rogue.   But I am not sure how well he is going to take to me withdrawing from the project, and I’ve spent his money!    Why didn’t I listen to Barry.    Barry,   Barry, I need to speak to Barry.  He’ll know what to do about the Council Tax!

“Madelaine, Madelaine, stop babbling.  I can’t make out what you are saying?   Are you trying to tell me a Bailiff came to the door and tried to gain access? “

Yes

“What for?”

The Ex hasn’t paid the Council Tax.

“Oh bloody hell.  Not the Council Tax!  This is serious, Madelaine.  Now listen to me.   Under no circumstances are you to let the Bailiff in.”

He says he is going to get a warrant.

“Of course, he said he is getting a warrant!   I say that all the time.  Mind you, Council Tax …. We can get a warrant for Council Tax”

There’s no money left from the advance from the armed robber.  And…. I’ve read the cuttings and the man is frankly….

“Didn’t I tell you?”

Yes.   Oh, Barry what would I do without you….

“That’s all right, Madelaine.   We’ve just got to get you straight, that’s all.   Tell you what?  Do something nice, cheer yourself up.”
He’s not going to tell me to have a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits is he?
“Look at something you would like to buy.  And save up for it.  Women like a bit of retail therapy.   The wife told me that.     Got to go.  Speak in the morning.”

Retail therapy?    Me?   Has Barry gone mad?

I go upstairs to my laptop.   I look up Council Tax.  Failure to pay could result in a custodial sentence.   Suddenly a bailiff is nothing to worry about.   Who would look after the daughter?  How would I cope with prison?  Images of a pipe smoking boiler suit clad cell mate come to mind.   I feel sick.  I know the armed robber is my only way out of this cycle of hell.    

I hear the friendly plop of an email.  A job?   Please, let it be a job?   No, it’s not a job.  It is a spot of retail therapy, an email from Aspinal of London, luring me to their site.  I can’t resist, I take a look.  Their handbags are a decadent secret vice.  I look. I salivate. I comfort myself.  Barry said I should indulge in retail therapy. Looking on line is free retail therapy.  Oh, but the Buffalo Clutch - the bags are as divine as ever.   I can’t help but notice that there is twenty per cent off a shopping basket full of goodies. With that i could buy all my Christmas presents!

Of course I’m going to share my find, just click here to apply the discount at checkout (promotional code AF20OFF) - valid til 30th Nov 09.

“Madelaine?”

Yes, Barry, the money’s hit the account.

“Well that’s good. We can get that bit of business out of the way, then. Want to give me your debit card number?”
I sigh. 

“Madelaine? You all right.”

Yeah, I’m fine of course.

I grab my wallet, extract the debit card and give him the number, the start date, the end date, the three security numbers on the back.  I can feel my heart beating.  A triumphant Barry gives me the verification code.  

“Now doesn’t that feel good £1,500 off your balance of £7500. “

£1,500. We agreed  on £1,000! And how come the balance is now £7500. 

“Interest Madelaine, and fees. It all mounts up.”

Fees? 

“Letters, phone calls….”

I haven’t had any letters…

“That’s only because I’ve stopped them. Got to go. Some woman’s playing merry hell because I clamped her car. If only these people would pay their fines we wouldn’t have to have any of this unpleasantness! Speak to you tomorrow. Good luck with the mortgage.  That’ll be another weight off your back!”

I am left with a dialling tone.  

I look at my watch.   No point in ringing the mortgage company yet. Their lines won’t be open. I calculate the payments I need to make on the rest of my debts. I will have £920.00 left. That’s three figures in the bank account!

For want of something else to do, I write a list….

“Things I can do without” 

Cigarettes…  I cross cigarettes out, it doesn’t qualify for my list.  I don’t smoke.

I start again.  

Good Red Wine. It slips down like velvet, but in the end, all I have left is an empty bottle.

A car. Eats beyond my means, requires maintenance and insurance, and has to be taxed. Sounds like a husband.

Sheer tights. Thick tights last longer. There are always bare legs.  

Ice cream. I can make my own!

Theatre. When did I last even think of going to the theatre!

Holidays. A recliner in the park will be fine! 

Indian Takeaway. Over emphasis on heat doesn’t make up for a lack of an underlying hint of spice variation.

New clothes. The latest nipped in waist will be next season’s cold toast.

Cinema. Eventually they are all on TV. Eventually!

Phone calls with Friends. Eats up time and money. Keep in touch with an email!

By the time I have finished the list, it is time to make the payments. Half an hour later, it is all done. Paid in full for this month. I take a deep breath. It’s almost time to go to work.  

The phone rings.  I answer.  It’s the Armed Robber.  “I hope you got the money,  Madelaine?”

“Yes, thank you so much…”

“Hope you are going to treat yourself to something special, something for yourself.”

“Err….   My daughter needs a coat.”

“I am delighted that you will be able to buy it for her.  But I want to know what you are going to buy for yourself, to make yourself feel better.”

“What would actually make me feel better is a win on the lottery, just enough to clear the debts and Barry out of my life.”

“Barry is the Bailiff?”

Oh damn it!  Will I never keep my mouth shut.

“How much has he wormed out of you?”

I am suddenly, oddly, defensive of Barry.  “The agreed amount.”

“And what was that.”

I find myself mutter £1,500.

“That’s half of the money I have advanced you.   We’d best get on with the book.  Shall I arrange a visiting order for next week?”

Yes, I will have finished the research by next week.   Why did I say that?  I haven’t even received it yet!

“I will make it for the end of the week.  Look forward to seeing you Madelaine.”

We say goodbye.  I am wondering if the voice is malevolent, or am I just paranoid.  At least I know where I am with Barry.

I hear a voice shouting my name.  “Madelaine”.  My heart leaps.  It’s Michael.  Oh God, its Michael.

I tell Barry.

“  Right, well the £3,000 will go some way to keeping “them” quiet.”

  £3,000!  The lot!   I can’t do that.  I have slipped up on two mortgage payments.   I need to bring those repayments up to date, and the daughter desperately needs a new coat.  Not a fashion item.  A coat that covers her knees and her wrists and keeps her warm!   Then there is gas, electric, council tax.   I work out that I can give Barry £1,000.

“£1,000 is not really going to help, Madelaine.”

“But, Barry…  I can’t slip any more payments on the mortgage.   You see that, don’t you?”

“It’s my heart.  It’s my downfall.  I have too big a heart.   I’ll tell them about the £1,000.”

“Oh Barry, thanks”

“But the thing is Madelaine, are you sure you should be doing this?   How kosher is it!”

Completely.  The advance is coming from the publishing house

“No one releases money without a contract, Madelaine”

Well…err….

“Madelaine, I worry about you.   That money is coming from the armed robber, if you ask me.  It is being laundered through the publishing house”

No.  It’s not possible.

“I am not saying the publishing house is laundering money, I am simply saying the money is not from the publishing house.   It is from the armed robber!”

Barry and I are arguing.  I hate it when we argue.   It leaves a hole in my stomach.   Barry has become rather important. 

“I appreciate that, Madelaine.”

Oh my God, did I actually say that, out loud!

 “You are rather important to me.  I like to see myself as a safe haven for my clients, a sort of counsellor”.

Clients?  Counsellor?  I thought we were debtors, bad people who owed money and people like Barry, debt collectors,  are supposed to be like the turnkeys at Newgate, Prison.

“I’ve told you, in my line, you have to be able to read people, use psychology.  There are three kinds of debtors Madelaine.  There are the shirkers who won’t pay.  People who are out of their depth, floundering, desperate.  And there are people like you who can swim around the island and eventually climb out of the water on to dry land.”

Barry and his analogies!  I think the last time we discussed this debt was like a glacier!

“Tell me something, Madelaine.  You are a woman of the world”

I am?

“ Does a woman need to spend £40.00 on having the hard skin scrapped off her feet and a lick of red painted on her toes?”

I clear my throat.  You mean a pedicure, Barry.

“I can understand going to the chiropodist.  If you’ve got a corn, a bunion, or an ingrown toenail, that’s what you do.”

I can’t believe I am having a conversation with Barry about ingrown toenails and hard skin.

“That’s life, Madelaine, ingrown toenails and hard skin!”

Right, I assume we are referring to a pedicure.

“Precisely.”

There is more to a pedicure than scrapping off skin, and cutting toe nails!   There’s immersion of the feet in warm, soapy water in foot spa that swirls the gentle suds up and over the feet.  Each foot is gently lifted out of the water, and towel dried, creams and lotions are applied, toes are clipped and filed and tweaked until they look as if they have never seen a shoe.  The massage, a foot and leg massage, is bliss.   Toe painting completes the pure pamper.  The business of pedicure has about as much to do with a visit to the chiropodist as a facial has to do with a visit to a dermatologist.

“Right.  £40 for submerging feet in a bucket with some detergent in it, toe cutting, slopping on a bit of cream, and some paint on the nails.   You can do that at home!”

Me!   I haven’t had a pedicure for as long as I can remember.  And I want one.   Sorry, Barry, but I may just sneak one out of that £3,000!

“I am referring to the wife.  She has a pedicure every bloody month.  And to be frank my credit card is beginning to get severe indigestion. I can’t see the point of it.  .”

Barry, you may be an expert on debt but you know nothing about women.

I need to wind back a few days.  I should start with the bus trip to Pentonville Prison, which is conveniently located on the Pentonville Road.   It was one of those bright sunny autumn days.  From the top of the bus I could see into the forecourt and the white low built “entrance” which might have served a Victorian Hospital.   But behind the white building, I could see huge red bricked walls topped by rolls of barbed wire, and beyond the wire, window upon window.  What must it be like, looking out of those windows, on a bright sunny day to a road where there are cheerful red buses, and not so cheerful cars?  Where people come and go as they please?  And then I remind myself that I am going to see an armed robber.

I go to a blue door called the Visitors Centre.  I have to show my visiting order, and my passport to a prison officer behind a glass window.  I then have to put all my belongings, most definitely including the pencil and pad, into a locker.  I am allowed to keep 20p for refreshments!  Not much profit to be made here then! 

I am “patted down”.  I notice that even children are “patted down”.   There seems to be a play area for kids, and kindly folk from a prisoner’s charity are on hand for advice.  I didn’t need advice.    I’ve watched Emmerdale and Corrie.  I’ve even seen Porridge!   I know what prisons are like!   What I didn’t know about was the smell, antiseptic and rancid at the same time.  I am wondering if it is okay for visitors to make a bolt for freedom when the prisoners file in.   I look into their faces, I see fear, acquiescence, anger, and on some, a sort of calm acceptance that is, somehow, much more disconcerting.

I am so busy looking around that I don’t see anyone approaching my table.   “Madelaine, Madelaine Greene?” Startled, I look up and find myself staring into the face of George Clooney.  

I blink.  “George” sits down on the other side of the table “Unnerving, isn’t it?  Coming into this place?  It was built by a Major Webb in the early 19th century.”

“Was it?  Oh. How do you do,” I say.  How stupid is that?    But I am in pieces; I am looking at George Clooney and he is an armed robber in Pentonville Prison!

“The wedding cake, it was beautiful.  Thank you.   You are clearly very talented.”

“Thanks.”  Gosh, am I blushing?

“When Pierre told me you were really a writer, I took a look at some of your pieces. “

“You mean Affordable Art for Home Makeovers”

“George” laughs.  “No, the earlier stuff?  The profile on Bobbie Sands?”

“That was years ago, before I had my daughter, when I believed… “

“….Believed what you wrote mattered?”

 “Yes.”

“I like the fact that you don’t spare the truth, and you don’t judge”.

Who are any of us to judge?

“Tell me about you, you now”

To my shame, I did.  After months of keeping the shame of debt bottled up, I’ve spilled all to another (admittedly) close girl friend, but now I am telling an armed robber who looks like George Clooney.  I am losing the plot. 

“You’ll need the commencement money sooner rather than later.”

Images of Barry’s dark warnings come flooding back.  Suddenly I am aware of the smell of prison again.  “No…no… I couldn’t possibly take….”

“You’ll be hearing from my editor”.  And then he mentions a name, a very reputable name, working at a very reputable publishing house.  

Visiting is over.   We schedule another meeting, a work meeting, “after you’ve had a chance to read the cuttings, letters and whatever…”

The following morning I report all to Barry.   He is still worrying.  “I don’t want to wake up to you on the news, with a black eye and bandages.  I’d never forgive myself”   Barry?   Getting soft?   Never!

And now its morning, the daughter has gone to school and I am about to call Barry.   I do have some news for him.  My visiting order has arrived from Pentonville.   I know what I am going to wear.  I sorted all that.  I am taking a notebook.  I hope that will be in order.  I have never visited anyone in prison before.  I not quite sure what the form is.   I ponder over my pencil.  Could a pencil be classed as a weapon?”  

Pierre is comforting.  He is sure I will get an advance.   “He is a generous man” he tells me, his nose just visible above the choux pastry concoction that will eventually be a wedding cake. 

Now I am actually going to Pentonville, I am quite excited.

Barry, however, is not pleased!

“Pentonville? The nick?  No, you are definitely not going there!”

“I will get money.  Money for you!  The visiting order is for tomorrow so…..”

“I am not happy about it, not at all.  Frankly Madelaine, I hate to say this, but you are being irresponsible.  You have a daughter.   You can’t get mixed up with armed robbers”

“I am not getting mixed up with armed robbers.   I am going to write an armed robber’s memoir and the armed robber is going to give me an advance.”

“And what, if I might ask, is going to happen to the advance if you don’t get a publisher!   You won’t be getting a visit from someone like me!  Someone with patience and understanding…  “

“Barry you are frightening me now.”

“I mean to frighten you!   You are giving me a lot of stress Madelaine, I am having to lose your file on a regular basis now.  Oh damn it, I’ve got to go.”

“Barry, you can’t go!”

“I’m after this geezer’s jaguar.  Call me in the morning, we’ll have a proper talk!”

I slam the phone down.  I call Barry every bloody morning.   The rest of the country is sitting down cereal and toast, and I sit down to Barry!   And now he’s got me scared!    I am not going to listen to him.   I know that I can handle this. It might even be something “big” for the Daily Mail.   “Armed robber’s confession, I am a reformed man.”    But what if he isn’t a reformed man?  What do I do if I am offered an advance?   I need that money!   But, supposing Barry is right and on a dark night a big man in leather comes round for the money…!

 My novelist friend has just returned from New Zealand.  She calls.  I blurt it all out, the whole sorry story, from the moment Harriet fired me.   I think I have been very concise. 

 “Who is Barry?” she asks, confused.  Clearly I have not been as concise as I thought.

“The Bailiff”

“The Bailiff.  Maddy what is going on?   I go away for a couple of months, look at some nice scenery and a lot of sheep,  and I get back to find that you’ve fallen in love with a Bailiff”

“Fallen in love!   Of course I haven’t fallen in love with the Bailiff.”

“Well, it’s Barry this, and Barry that.”

“Because Barry rules my life, Barry wants his money and I speak to him every morning to give him an update on my financial affairs.”

“Are you sure this is legal?” she asks.

 The daughter is at a friends.   I am in no mood to worry that it is now two weeks since I last saw Michael.  I am too busy worrying about what I should do about the advance that Pierre is sure I will be offered.   An advance that could buy me a night or two of sleep.

“I’ve been fired” my girlfriend says calmly.  “I don’t mind, I don’t mind at all.  In fact I am glad”.   I am shocked, she writes brilliant screenplays and award winning work for the theatre.   It’s inconceivable she could be fired.    “It’s not inconceivable.” She tells me, “and I feel liberated”.   “Liberated?” I ask.   “Well…  Liberated and panicky.  I may not ever earn any money again.  I can get another job.  You did.  You make cakes.  I will be a gardener!”

“But there’s a recession!” 

“Well I’ll garden for myself.  Grow my own food and to hell with the lot of them!”    

 I ask “she of E Bay Parties and Hoxton Market”, if she would mind going in first.   I am told, firmly, my need is greater than hers. 

We ring the door bell.  I have no idea what I was expecting, but a rather large lady swathed in orange with matching orange lipstick and paler orange eye shadow, opened the door.   “You will be wanting Claude” she said cheerfully, as she swept out.

“I thought Claude would be a woman.” I whispered.

“I am,” a nice voice replies.  I am confronted by a kindly lady.  She is French, and rather neatly dressed in a navy suit.  She looks more like a bank clerk than a clairvoyant.  Somehow this is very comforting.  

She conducts my girlfriend into a seemly front room, and me into a small room.   I look around.  The room seems perfectly normal. There a lot of photographs of landscapes at sunrise and sun set, and rain, and snow.  I look for ghostly visitations.  There are none.  

Claude hands me a pack of cards, I am instructed to shuffle them, and then cut them.  I hand them back to her.  She arranges them in a circle.  I don’t like the look of them.  There’s a nasty looking devil, a tower, and some poor bloke with swords stuck in his back, and if that’s not enough there’s a card with three people out in the snow.  None of this looks good.  Claude confirms my worst fears   “You are going through a time of penury.  You have no work, well you have some work, but it is not what you want to do.”  I am not so sure, I actually rather love my job making patisseries and wedding cakes.  “It is not enough money!”  Claude tells me firmly.   I didn’t need to come all the way across London to be told that.   I shuffle the cards again.  This time she wants 21 cards.  I select them and hand them to her.   She sighs.  I wonder why, I can see a card called the Lovers, that looks good.   “You have three lover.   None of them any good.”   “I have one lover, and he may be a little derelict when it comes to “being there”, but when he is there, I feel terrific”, I tell Claude.  “You have a husband, he has another woman, and you say you have your ‘derelict’ lover…”

Oh God, what is she going to say?   What is she going to tell me?  This whole thing is stupid.   I don’t want to hear that he has another woman!

“He is nothing…. !”

 Nothing, the object of my passion is nothing!  What does she mean?

“And George Clooney, he has feelings, but he has a wife.”

George Clooney?   What the hell is she talking about?     

 She of  the “E Bay parties” is sitting on the sofa.  I ask her if she is going in for her reading now. 

“No, I am far too scared for anything like that.  What if she tells me the truth?”

“Why did you make me come then?”

“You needed cheering up.”

“So do you.  You’ve been fired.”

“Yes, but I feel liberated.”

“And you don’t have any debts.”

“I’ve got a lovely husband.  And that makes everything easier.  Especially when he is working.”

“Well you haven’t got George Clooney”

“What?”

“I, apparently, have George Clooney!   And he likes me, a lot!   But he’s got a wife.”

“Rubbish.  Clooney is not married. He had a pig, but I think it died.”

“This is nuts!   George Clooney!”

“Maybe it was a mistake, this tarot business, but at least it got you out.  Let’s go and have a glass of cava.”

“I can’t afford cava”

“No, not right now, you can’t but when you can, I will have champagne, Veuve Clicquot Rose!  Till then, its my tab.”

 What I love about my friend is that she believes in me.

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!

“I tell you Madelaine, it’s the ones who give the credit card details, and the card goes through, that get my goat.  They’re always shouting how they need to get to work and what time am I coming over to release their cars.  If they had the money in the first place why didn’t they pay the charge when it was issued? The others are different, they’re the ones who don’t have the money.   You’re lucky Madelaine, your debt, I’ve told, it’s an island.  You can get round it.   It’s the ones who aren’t as lucky as you, kids and debt.  I worry they’ll go to loan sharks.  I really do”.

Can’t you let them pay by instalment?

“I do.  But if they fall behind…   It’s a worry.”

Barry, you have a heart of gold. 

“Yeah.  I do.  So how are we doing?   On the subsidence?”

I told you they are monitoring.

“How long are they going to be monitoring for?”

Err.  Six months.

“Six bleedin’ months.  That’s no good, that’s no good at all.  You’ll have to come up with something Madelaine.”

I am doing my best.  There is no spare money.

“Well this set of circumstances cannot go on.  You’ll have to think of a way to deal with the debt.  Re-mortgage, that’s the answer.”

With my credit record.

“I am sorry Madelaine, I can’t spend all day sorting out your problems.  I’ll speak to you in the orning.”

I’ve never seen this side of Barry before.  He knows what the situation is.  He knows I am not running away from the debt.   He knows I am on the walk don’t ride diet, the make do and mend.  I even stitched a pair of tights last night!  He knows I will sell the house when I can.  And then there are the other debts.  I’ve rung them all, told them I am trying to sell my house, arranged a £10 a month repayment until I get back into employment.  Barry won’t take £10!

So I am off to Pentonville Prison tomorrow.  I wonder if I can get an advance?  I’ve heard of robbing Peter to pay Paul, but I need to get money from the armed robber to pay the Bailiff!
 
I decide to take a look at E Bay.  See if anyone has bought anything.   I never did get my beautiful dress back.   My beautiful dress was gobbled up for a fiver. I forgot to put a price on it.  I cried for a week.    I’ve  lowered the price on the earrings, £350.  No one wants diamond earrings.  Damn it!

I open my depleted wardrobe. I know it was London Fashion Week last week.  Harriet went.  She emailed me, surprised I wasn’t there!   I never go to fashion week.  I go to affordable art galleries!   I really don’t like that woman!   I need to sort out what I am going to wear to go to the prison.  What is suitable prison visiting gear?  Jeans, high heels, a tee shirt and jacket.  Maybe not the high heels, flat boots might be better.  Make up?  No, no make up.  Hair up?  Hair down?   Oh this is stupid.   I’ll speak to Barry in the morning, tell him I am off to Pentonville, take the lap top and just go in the jeans, the tee shirt, the jacket and the flat boots.

I lay out the prison visiting gear on the bed.  Michael hasn’t been in touch.  I want to send him a text.  No, I don’t.  I want him to text me.   I have been wanting him to text me all week.   I mind.  My stomach feels like it has been hit with punch from a heavyweight boxing champion and my heart hurts.  It actually hurts.