Walking possession

I composed myself into reasonable middle class person slightly surprised at this affront to my dignity, and rang the bailiffs.

He relented only as far as offering me an unaffordable instalment plan of £114 per month, which, even I were able to agree to it, would be prefaced by a Walking Possession order, in which they enter the house and make a list of the things they'll remove if you fall behind on the payments.

"Can you agree to that now?" he said. "I don't know--obviously I'm just talking off the top of my head now..." "Well, I'll put it on hold till Friday and you can ring me then."

Kirsty came back from her weekend away and saw the letter above. I was, to my shame, wondering if she'd put it on her credit card and I could pay her back over a period of time. I didn't even obliquely suggest she could do this, hoping she might offer, but her sympathy, perfectly reasonably, fell short of offering a dissolute former boyfriend several hundred pounds to get himself out of a hole of his own making.

I had a look through the plentiful forums dealing with this issue. Thousands of people have these things hanging over their heads tonight. I've very little of value that they could take. I've no car, TV, or jewellery, and my mobile phone doesn't have a camera on it. I do have several hundred vinyl records, a greater number of books, and a hifi system (Copland hybrid transistor-valve amp, Musical Fidelity X Pre preamp, Systemdek XII turntable and Rega RB300 arm, Cambridge Audio tuner... er, and so on--we're losing the girls now) that cost £3000 when I assembled it bit by bit fifteen years ago. My worry about losing my records and my hifi is only exceeded by the excruciating embarrassment of introducing the bailiff to the lodgers, and asking them to lie that everything in their rooms is theirs. My sangfroid about financial matters is being tested by this.

Nil desperandum. A suggestion on the forums is that you ask the Council to take back the debt and make a proposal for its repayment. Councils are more reasonable than bailiffs, so that's my job for tomorrow morning. And my hope.

Just to dispel any twinges of sympathy my heart-tugging tale might have provoked, I will say that after my persuasive talk down the Town Hall, I will be off to meet Trina on the boat. With Trina's firm Welsh hand on the tiller, we will steer it to the poo station, where we will connect a big sucking machine which will deliver our shit and piss into Morecambe Bay eventually. We also have to fill the diesel tank up almost to the top, because you don't want condensation in your diesel tank, apparently, so I will have to struggle stick insectly with five gallons of diesel.

Then we can settle down to a nice evening of a blazing fire, problems-forgetting, wine drinking, dancing and friskiness.

There was high drama on Kirsty's street the other day. You might remember that a month or so ago I was walking to hers with a bottle of wine, in a sunny mood on a sunny day, and simply looked across at the man washing his car who lives to the back of her house. "What the fuck are you looking at?" he said. You don't belong here, I thought. It's not that kind of area.

A friend of my girls said that three police cars drew up the other day, retrieved a gun from his car, and started dusting it down for drugs. Wish I'd made more of an effort with him now.