

FOGGY'S BLOG

Jo Edwards

Published by Weasel Green Press

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

FOGGY'S BLOG

Copyright © Jo Edwards 2013

Smashwords Edition

Cover Art by Regina Wamba of Mae I Design

Edited by Mike Rose-Steel

Interior Text Design by Richard Edwards

ISBN: 978-1-908212-17-7

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Requests for permission should be addressed to admin@weaselgreenpress.com

First Edition:

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For Seaweed

## Table of Contents

Weighing it up

Cost of living

Sickness entitlement

Practice makes perfect

Banking on it

Foggy & Son

Disciplinary action

I love Lucy

Investment opportunity

Dare to dream

A very civil partnership

Counting the cost

Dress rehearsal

Northern lights

Opening night

Also by Jo Edwards

About the Author

Other by the publisher
Profile: Morten Astley Fogarty

DOB: 22/11/1988

Works at: Perypils Insurance Call Centre, Customer Account Handler

Studied at: Shodsworth Comprehensive, Shodsworth Amateur Dramatic Society

In a relationship with: Myra

Likes: Katy Perry, happy customers, Cheesy Wotsits, singing and dancing and all that jazz!

Weighing it up

I would have to have been Lance Armstrong to make it in to work on time. If only I could pedal as fast as he could; how on earth did he do it? He must be extremely fit and probably ate a vast amount of carbohydrates. I made a mental note to stock up on Pot Noodles. I was running late because I hadn't been able to get into the bathroom; Mr Ryder from next door was in there fixing our shower. It wasn't an easy job judging by all the grunting and groaning I heard, but I think he was eventually successful because he shouted "yes, yes, yes!" as he finished.

I didn't see Mum before I left, so I assumed she was still worn out following yesterday's visit to Job Centre Plus. She said it was exhausting having to make up ten things she'd done to find herself a job each fortnight; she used to write them all down on a spreadsheet but now she just handed her shopping list over instead. No one had noticed.

I pedalled furiously to work, waving to Mrs Ryder as she returned home after another night shift at the hospital. She was such a generous woman, letting her husband do so many jobs for us and always completely free of charge. Ever since Dad had left, Mr Ryder was always popping in and out, tools at the ready. We were so lucky to have such obliging neighbours.

Although I was late, I still arrived at work before my team manager, George, so I got away with it this time. I smiled at Lucy, but she was busy texting and didn't see me. She looked lovely today in her short blue dress with the low back that partially revealed her Cupid tattoo. At least, I assumed it was Cupid – it might well be Robin Hood, but every time I managed to get close enough to see, she always had to rush off to do something really urgent. She's such a hard worker!

There were forty-nine calls queuing – Monday morning is by far our busiest day at Perypils Insurance, so it's all systems go from the minute you get in. Jess, who sits next to me, was browsing Primark Online, while on the phone to Barclays, berating them for bouncing her direct debit to Vodafone again. She's a brilliant multi-tasker. I carefully untangled my headset, cleaned my work station very thoroughly with our Eco Tech antiseptic wipes, tested several pens to find one that worked, read Friday's emails and checked my bank account on Internet banking. A quick look at Facebook on my phone, reply to a few messages and I was good to go!

My first call of the day was from a customer who wanted to know how much it would cost to add his schnauzer to his policy. I told him we didn't cover individual body parts. I put him on mute while he was shouting and listened to Cathy and Nick gossiping about the weekend. Cathy was saying: "He was snogging the face off that girl who works in the canteen! You know, the one I had a go at for picking her falsies off over the lasagne."

"Not Chlamydia Lydia?"

"Yes! You wait; he'll be back at the clinic again soon. My auntie works opposite, at the library, and she tags him on Facebook each time he goes in. Everyone must think he does a lot of reading! Ha ha! Shh - he's here!"

I saw George come in and show something on his iPhone to Lucy, making her laugh out loud. She had lovely white, even teeth; she should be in an oral hygiene advert. Lucy doesn't take many calls these days, not since George made her his deputy, and now she has to do lots of complicated things with the team's admin. I know it must be very complex because when Cathy asked George to explain exactly what Lucy did, he really struggled. Cathy had organised a team meeting on Friday to discuss it with George but unfortunately, he was off sick again, and so the meeting couldn't take place.

Our department manager, Kate, walked past and said something to George. I think they might have been discussing sport, because I thought I heard her say the word "O-lym-pic". I did think for a moment that she'd said "Oi, Limp Dick!" How funny! As if Kate would ever say something like that, she's far too professional. I noticed that everyone in the team had suddenly picked up a call, even Lucy. It's great how the team pulls together when the number of customers in the queue reaches treble figures.

Myra texted just before lunch - she wanted me to go to Weight Watchers with her, for support. I said I would, although I had been planning to go to Boots to get some nasal hair clippers. I'd been examining my reflection in the side of the stapler as I waited for a customer to stop crying, and I could clearly see a hair protruding from my left nostril. Where had it come from? I Googled: 'Why is hair growing from my nose' on my phone, making sure I held it under the desk. The top answer was: 'It's God's way of saying he hates you'.

At Jubilee Hall, I held Myra's handbag when it was her turn to be weighed. For the fourth week running, the poor thing was suffering from severe water retention, which makes her heavier than she actually is. I wanted to be encouraging so I urged, "Keep on trying; you'll get there! You're doing really well."

" _Doing really well?_ " she wailed. "I've been bloody starving myself for the best part of a month and I've put on five sodding pounds! How is that doing really well?"

"Perhaps you could try a little exercise," I suggested gently. "Maybe you-"

"I'm always bloody exercising!" she yelled. "We walked all the way to the cinema last week didn't we, because your bloody chain had come off again. That must have been the best part of a mile! _And_ I had to watch you stuffing your face with a hot dog, when all I could have was cheesy nachos and sour cream. You've no idea what's it like; I try so hard with my diet but all that effort comes to nothing. It's utterly soul destroying." I tried to take her hand as we left the hall, but she was too upset to be comforted and we walked to Burger King in virtual silence.

When I got back to my desk, I found a yellow Post-it note stuck to my screen. It was a drawing of a man's face, with a spider crawling out of the nose. It was extremely good, so only Lucy could have done it; she's the most artistic person in the team. How sweet of her to do a drawing for me! She was probably trying to make me laugh, sensing I was having a bad day. Did the picture have some sort of hidden meaning? I smiled at her conspiratorially but she quickly looked away. She really was a very sensitive girl. I sent her an email to say thank you, originally putting a couple of x's after my name, but deciding, at the very last minute, to change them to smiley faces. I didn't want her to think I was some kind of office sex pest.

Mum was sitting in the kitchen in her dressing gown when I got home, listening to her Soft Cell play list. I asked her if she was ill and she said she was undressed because she'd been trying on outfits for Auntie Trisha's civil partnership. I was impressed she was so organised, as that was weeks away. Mum had missed a couple of empty wine bottles when she'd been doing the recycling, so I took them outside to add to the crate and heaved it down to the gate, ready for collection.

I checked through the post, as I always did, to see if there was anything from Dad. He said he'd write when he was settled somewhere; I really wished I could call him but he didn't have a phone.

"What are you looking for, Morto?" asked Mum.

"Oh, you know, I wrote that letter of complaint to Morrisons, do you remember? After I discovered that their own brand natural yoghurt looked very similar to my E45 cream. I was just wondering if they'd replied." I hated telling lies but Mum always got upset if I mentioned Dad, or 'that slimy conniving maggot' as she affectionately referred to him. I knew she only got upset because she missed him so much. I did, too. He'd get in touch soon, I knew he would.

"Is there anything for tea, Mum?"

"No, the housekeeping's run out again," she replied, opening a packet of Benson & Hedges. "I've no idea where it all goes. You'll have to get yourself some chips or something."

I only had time to make myself a marmalade sandwich, as I had to get to a planning meeting for the SADS - Shodsworth Amateur Dramatic Society. Tonight, we would be discussing our next production, which was Grease. I was very keen to secure the role of Danny Zuko, or at the very least, Kenickie. In last year's Oklahoma! I'd just missed out on the part of Curly McLain, as at the time of the audition I had a horrid cold sore that kept splitting. I'd had to perform the song 'Oklahoma' without moving my lips too much. I overheard the director say that I'd be perfect for the role if Curly had just had a stroke. I am currently cold sore free and my adenoids have reduced significantly; surely it's my turn for a major part? I truly believe I was born to perform on the stage; after all, I am named after two of the greatest singers of all time.

When I left for the meeting, Mum was still sitting at the kitchen table, staring into space. She was listening to The Smiths now. It must be so difficult being a woman, and having to agonise over outfits like that. I set off on my bike, humming 'Girlfriend in a Coma'.
Cost of living

Last night's meeting went amazingly well – Tom the director said I could audition for the part of Danny Zuko! I'll have to perform a 'Greased Lightning' solo, then a 'Summer Nights' duet with a prospective Sandy. Myra has the best singing voice in the group, so she was bound to get the role of Sandy; that was a no-brainer. I asked her who she'd like to play Danny opposite her and she replied, "Ooh, that Frankie Trevino's really fit, you can tell he works out all the time and he's got a brilliant voice... oh, er, I mean you of course, Foggy." We agreed to practice together; I will have to perform at my absolute best to be heard over her mighty bass-baritone range.

I carefully wrote out the lyrics for both songs and kept them on my desk, covered by a Perypils newsletter. I peeked at them during the longer calls, trying to commit them to memory. One call went on for an eternity this morning - it was an elderly gentleman, who had called to ask us to stop addressing letters to his "diseased" wife. I kept asking what was wrong with her, but he just got more and more upset. He hung up in the end. Our senior customers did get very confused sometimes. On the plus side, I managed to perfect two whole verses of Greased Lightning during the call!

Jess saw my lyrics when she pinched my newsletter to roll her cigarette on. She read them out loud whilst her customer was on hold. They are quite complicated; I mean "Palomino dashboard and duel muffler twins" doesn't trip off the tongue very easily, but I'm sure with lots of practise it will be fine. Jess said, "You should pull a sickie Foggy, so you can rehearse properly."

"Oh, I don't want to get into trouble; you can lose your job if you're off sick too often. Look what happened to poor Wiggy."

"Yes, but he died before they could sack him, didn't he? So he had the last laugh. Anyway, you're allowed to have a sickness rate of 5%, you know – you're entitled to it."

I tried to calculate my attendance rate whilst changing a customer's address for them. They weren't very grateful, complaining bitterly just because I asked them to repeat it a few times. Jess worked the rate out for me in the end - she reckoned I could take one more day as sickness and still be within my entitlement. Brilliant! I texted Myra to see if she wanted to rehearse with me tomorrow and she texted back to say she would, straight after Jeremy Kyle.

I didn't see much of Lucy today, as she and George were in the meeting room together, discussing the team's quality figures. There was a lot of chatting going on while they were away until one of the other team managers, Cynthia, came over. Everyone slipped their phones and magazines away. Cynthia scares me; her eyes are very close together and she sort of slides up the office as if she's on casters, looking at everyone through her all-seeing eyes.

Jess hissed, "Don't look at her directly, Foggy. You'll get hypnotised and she'll interfere with you while you're under."

I kept my head down and tucked my mobile out of sight, behind my wheelie bin desk tidy.

I received an email from Cathy asking me to vote on whether I agreed with Lucy being George's deputy. She said in the email that the team had not been consulted and nobody else had been given the opportunity to apply. There were three voting buttons: Fair, Not Fair and Couldn't Give A Shit. Cathy said that she was going to re-arrange the team meeting for Friday so we could discuss the results. I saw Jess vote 'Not Fair', which surprised me, as she's a good friend of Lucy's.

I was able to give the decision plenty of thought because, very fortunately, I didn't need to listen to what my customer was saying. He'd launched into a lengthy explanation about why he'd come to have so much cash in the house when he'd been burgled, but only the Claims team needed to know that sort of information. I tried to vote 'Fair' but for some reason, the voting button didn't work, so I just mouthed 'Fair' at Cathy when she looked over at me. I didn't see her write it down but I assumed she would after she'd finished reading the BBC News.

When I realised my customer had stopped speaking, I said, "Thank you, Mr Lewis. Just bear with me and I'll transfer you to our claims department."

"Hang on! Don't tell me I've got to say that all over again?"

"Yes, that's right, Mr Lewis. Just tell them what you told me."

Short silence. "You're a total brick."

How nice! It makes the job worthwhile when someone appreciates your efforts.

I had to walk almost the whole way home as my chain came off again and I couldn't get it back on. My bike really needed a service and I was trying my best to save up for it. Money-wise, I take home £801.92 a month and after I've paid Mum the housekeeping and covered the loan payment for the solar panels (I agreed I should pay for them because my bedroom is in the loft, so I get the most benefit), I have £37 a week to spend on myself. So I am quite lucky, really.

When I finally made it home, I found Mum in floods of tears in the kitchen, clutching a piece of paper. "The bastards have got us this time, Morto!" she sobbed as she brandished the paper at me. "Our council tax has doubled – just like that! And me, without a job! How can they do this to us, don't we pay enough in taxes? They're bloodsuckers! What on earth are we going to do?"

I was dumbfounded. "Do you actually pay council tax then, Mum? I thought you claimed housing benefit - are you sure they've got it right?"

"Of course I'm sure!" Mum was too upset to show me their letter, and shredded it into tiny pieces in her distress. I made her a cup of tea, patted her hand and told her there was nothing else for it - I would just have to up my housekeeping money again. She wailed, "But you need your own life, son! You and Myra should have a place of your own, you should be thinking about raising a family, I don't want to be an old Granny; I mean, I'm going to be forty-three next month, for Christ's sake."

I knew there was no chance of her becoming a grandmother anytime soon. On the occasions Myra drank enough cider to insist I have sex with her, she would always make me wear two condoms. Then she would complain that I took too long and usually fall asleep ages before I'd finished. When I told my mate Barry this, he'd roared with laughter, exclaiming, "Jesus Christ, Fogster! I bet your inner tube has got more feeling in it!"

I gave Mum the £29 I had in my wallet to help towards the additional council tax. I wouldn't be able to bid for that real faux leather vintage retro biker jacket I'd seen on eBay now, which was a shame - it would have been perfect for the Danny Zuko audition. My forest green jumper had a bit of leather on it, on the elbows, so that would have to do. At least Mum had stopped crying now and even cheered up enough to put the oven on for crispy pancakes - chicken curry flavour. Yay! Life is good again!
Sickness entitlement

I was back at work on Monday following a disastrous few days. I took my sickness allowance day on Wednesday, phoning in to tell George I had an upset stomach. Then, in the early hours of Thursday morning, I woke up feeling very queasy and stumbled to the bathroom. Oh my goodness - all hell let loose. I was firing out of both ends. I couldn't reach the sink while sat on the loo, so I had to retch into the toilet brush holder. I spent the rest of the night crawling backwards and forwards to the bathroom and I was completely drained by morning. The weekend was a horrid blur of nausea and nervous farting.

I still felt as weak as a kitten but I had to come into work because I was so worried that I'd gone over my 5% sickness allowance. Jess worked it out for me again and said, "Oops, you're at 7% now." Oh no! "Don't worry," she continued, "George doesn't always bother to work out the percentage, and when he does, he usually gets it wrong."

I watched George anxiously, but he had his head down \- he must be really busy today. Lucy wasn't in, so that was probably why. Jess thought Lucy might still be upset after Friday's team meeting. The vote had, amazingly, been 15 'Unfairs' and 3 'Couldn't Give A Shits'. "But I voted Fair!" I exclaimed. "I voted Fair, Cathy, do you remember? I mouthed it at you; why didn't my vote get registered?"

She shrugged. "I thought you were just doing facial exercises, you know, trying to get rid of those jowls."

I hated to think of Lucy being upset. I got her number from Jess's phone and texted her to say I hoped she was ok and to let her know that I had voted 'Fair'. I added a whole row of smiley faces. Should I put an "x" right at the end? I added it, then deleted it, then added it again. It was a bit difficult to concentrate on the text as I was trying to read out a legal disclaimer paragraph to a customer at the same time. I was forced to skip the really complicated bits. I panicked when I saw Kate, our manager, walking towards me. I tried to turn my phone off, but hit the Send button instead. Argh! I'd sent a kiss to Lucy! Whatever would she think? Kate was standing over me. I tried to concentrate on what my customer was saying, hide my phone and clench my buttocks all at the same time; my bowels were suddenly very insistent again. Kate leant over my desk and whipped my picture of Katy Perry from the blue soundboard in front of me. She slapped it down on my desk. I did a double take. Someone had, very crudely, drawn a picture of a little man trying to climb out of Katy's bikini bottoms, along with a speech bubble saying, "Help Me! I'm drowning!" How could someone deface the demure Katy in such a way? I tried to shake my head at Kate to show her I knew nothing about this monstrous act but she shot me an icy look and strode off in George's direction.

Gosh, I really was in trouble now. Plus, I had to get to the loo. How could there be anything left to come out? How? What should I do; cut the customer off or ask them to wait? I couldn't hold on much longer. As my bowels gave another lurch, I punched the Hold button and speed-minced to the toilets, trying not to attract attention. Martin, a team manager, was in the toilets, head tilted right back as he applied some nasal drops. I muttered, "Sorry Martin" as I shot into a cubicle and ripped my trousers down. The noise was unbelievable. It reverberated around the cubicle, making the door rattle and seemed to go on forever. How had that come from me? It was truly shocking. I heard Martin quietly leaving the toilets - how awful that he'd heard that and what a time for him to have cleared his nasal passages! I made sure to breathe through my mouth as I pulled my trousers up and then slunk back to my desk, praying the foul odour hadn't followed me out. I put my headset back on, but the customer had hung up. Oh dear. I checked my mobile, but Lucy hadn't replied yet.

George came over to my desk while I was examining my jowls in the side of the stapler. _Here we go_. I braced myself as he pulled up a chair. I saw his left eye was very swollen and there was a dark purplish bruise just above his cheekbone. "Football," he explained. "Clash of heads. Anyway, got some bad news for you, Foggy. Your absence rate is over 7% now, so you'll have to attend a formal meeting. You don't need to worry about it; well, not much, anyway. I don't think they'll dismiss you for 7%, but I suppose you never know."

I gulped. "Are you sure you've got that figure right, George?"

"Dunno, Kate worked it out, the meeting will be with her." He looked very weary. "I just need to complete your Welcome Back review with you." He produced a form that had about twenty questions on it. If you were off sick at Perypils, even for half an hour, your team manager always completed a detailed Welcome Back interview to find out all about your illness and see if there was any support you required in the workplace. They really were a very caring company, and took the well being of their employees extremely seriously.

George picked up my pen. "So, what was wrong with you, then? Had the shits?"

"Er, yes."

"Sign here."

Jess had a go at me when George had gone. "You should have said you were off with anxiety or depression; they can't touch you if you've got mental health issues!" I told her I'd remember that for the formal meeting. No reply from Lucy yet. My stomach was churning again.
Practice makes perfect

It was my last evening to practice before the SADS Grease auditions tomorrow night. My Summer Nights rehearsal with Myra had not gone well. I'd got a little confused with the constant switching of lyrics in the duet. When I'd accidentally sung, "Met a boy, cute as can be" Myra had exploded: "Since when was the leader of the T-Birds fucking gay? It's called Grease, not Vaseline!" Her anger got me all nervous and I did too many shoo-bop bops. We eventually decided we should practise on our own.

Mum was in the kitchen flicking through the Next Directory and listening to her Human League playlist. She looked very nice; she'd done something different with her hair and she had a smart red jacket on that I hadn't seen before. It was great that she always managed to look good even though she never had any money to spend on herself. I asked her what was for tea but she said she'd been too busy to go shopping. Just as well, really, I was still feeling turbulent. I'd no idea what had caused my stomach to react in such an alarming way. Nerves, perhaps, before the auditions tomorrow. I'm sure John Travolta suffered much the same way before he had to kiss Olivia Newton John. I tweeted Katy Perry to see if she had any suggestions for combating nerves. She hadn't replied to any of my other 387 tweets but this could finally be the one!

I asked Mum if, when she did go to the shops, she could get me some more fizzy yoghurt; I'd never had anything like it before – it tasted terrific, all tangy and zingy. She looked confused and said she hadn't bought any yoghurt for ages, not since the incident with the E45 cream. Crafty Mum! No wonder the special fizzy yoghurt had been hidden away right at the back of the fridge - she wanted it all for herself! I gave her a knowing smile and went to change into my green jumper with the leather elbow patches to get myself into a moody Greased Lightning vibe. Nothing from Lucy. I expect her phone was out of credit. I'd offer to lend her some money but after giving mum the extra house-keeping and forking out on all that aloe vera ultra soft Andrex, I only had £6.13 to last me through the month. And I needed that for a Clearasil emergency.

It was really difficult to concentrate at work today; all I could think about was tonight's audition. One customer became extremely upset with me after asking for a quote to insure his toy poodle. I told him we only covered real animals but he simply wouldn't accept it. He asked to speak to a manager but George wasn't around – he'd taken Lucy into the meeting room because she still looked upset. Jess said she'd pretend to be a manager and took the call from me, but accidentally pressed the Release button and said, "Oops! Cut the fucker off!" We both put our turrets into 'aftercall' so if he phoned straight back, someone else would get him.

Lucy returned from her meeting with George and I gave her a big supportive smile. She was clearly very touched as her face crumpled and she fled toward the toilets in tears. It was typical of her kind nature not to mention my text message; she must know how embarrassed I'd feel by the kiss. George came over and placed an envelope on my desk. "There's your invite, Foggy."

"Oh great!" I exclaimed, excitedly. "Are you having a birthday party?"

He looked at me very strangely. "No. You're having a disciplinary hearing."

I opened the letter and saw the hearing was in one week's time. My head felt all swimmy and my mouth went dry. But I couldn't worry about this now; I'd worry about it tomorrow. I had to concentrate on tonight. I'd practised as much as I could last night in my bedroom and my throat felt a bit raw from repeated "Na-hites!" It was a very difficult note to hit. Even Myra had struggled; I recalled my goldfish vibrating each time she attempted it.

When I'd gone downstairs to get a glass of water, Mr Ryder from next door was sitting in the kitchen. Mum said he'd come round to say how much he was enjoying my singing, which was very nice of him. He suggested it would be good for my lung capacity if I sang as loudly as I could non-stop for twenty minutes so I went back to my room and did just that. I think they must have really loved it because I'm sure I heard them joining in at the end of the "well-a well-a's" with a loud "Huh!" If their enthusiasm was anything to go by, I was going to totally rock the audition! I just had to keep my nerves under control.

I was sitting in Den's late night diner, passing paper napkins to Myra. I didn't have any handkerchiefs and the toilets had run out of loo roll. At least she had stopped hyper-ventilating now; at one point I was fearful I'd have to give her the kiss of life, like I'd had to once when we were watching television and her mother had suddenly appeared on Babestation. The diner was empty; all the other customers had fled when she'd started stabbing her fork into the squeezy tomato-shaped ketchup bottle shouting, "Die bitch!" The table and windows were streaked in red.

The auditions were over. I thought mine had gone pretty well, despite tripping up the steps to the stage and wrenching my back. This had caused a certain stiffness in my Greased Lightning movements but that didn't matter. I could tell I was one of the favourites for the lead role because I sensed a surge of electricity in the hall when I took to the stage, with several of the cast even filming me on their mobiles.

I was word-perfect! I didn't even stumble over "You know that ain't no shit we'll be getting lots of tit" which I always felt embarrassed singing. I couldn't bring myself to simulate the groping hands like some of the others did but I managed the hip thrusts as best I could with my aching back.

The Summer Nights duet was a little more challenging, however I really thought we'd pulled it off. I went wrong a couple of times but that was only because Myra got too close to me, causing a temporary ringing in my ears, and I lost where we were. I know the massive last note was an absolute triumph because when I finally lowered my arm and looked down, I saw lots of delighted faces.

Myra was easily the best Sandy; she'd even worn her hair in bunches, capturing the fresh innocence of Sandy to perfection. I'm pretty sure no one else heard her exclaim, "You mother-fucking piece of shit!" when she thought the microphone had stopped working during Hopelessly Devoted, or noticed her make that obscene hand gesture behind Frenchy's back. At the end of the evening, we had all crowded eagerly around Tom the director to see who had been awarded the lead parts. I crossed my fingers and held my breath as Tom cleared his throat and announced:

"Danny Zuko will be played by..." _please choose me, please choose me-_

"Frankie Trevino!"

I was utterly flabbergasted - Frankie Trevino had only joined the group last month! More devastating news followed when Tom awarded the part of Sandy to Liz Tyler, or Thin Lizzie as she was known. Her voice was nowhere near as strong as Myra's! What was going on? It was a total travesty. We had no option but to smile bravely and applaud, although I could see Myra's left eye twitching violently, a sure sign she was upset.

As Tom was wrapping up and preparing to give Thin Lizzie a lift home, he handed out sheets of paper that detailed the other parts. I was to play Doody and Myra had been given the role of Jan. As we couldn't recall these two characters from the film, Myra Googled them on her iPhone. Doody was described as 'small and boyish, always idolising the cooler boys' whilst Jan was a 'chubby compulsive over-eater, loud, brash and pushy'.

Myra went into meltdown at that point. I managed to get her to Den's Diner, but not even her favourite twice-fried crispy doughnuts could pacify her. I tried to be positive and said I thought our duet had been great but she yelled, "Great? What was so fucking great about it? You were shuffling round like you'd shit yourself!" I tried to explain that I'd strained my back but she shouted over me, "And why did you sing 'she swam by me, she's got the crabs?' That's not the bloody line, is it? Sandy's supposed to be the vestal virgin, not a pox-ridden old slag!"

I knew she was just lashing out because she was so disappointed. I didn't blame her; she really should have got the part, although I thought her calling Liz "a scrawny titless rash of wind" was a little harsh. Just as she was calming down, I told her I didn't have sufficient money to get the curry sauce to go on her cheesy chips and she started stabbing things again. This time, it was the squeezy mustard bottle that copped it.
Banking on it

I was dreading having to tell everyone at work I'd been unsuccessful for the role of Danny. They were always so supportive of my singing and I felt as if I'd let them all down. I thought I'd tell Jess first, but as soon as she came in she said, "Tough tits, Foggy, better luck next time." Facebook - of course! I hadn't looked at it for almost a whole day. Jess told me that someone had posted my performances on there last night, which was really kind of them. I was desperate to have a look but there were calls queuing and Kate was on the prowl. As I answered a call, I saw her scoop something up from George's desk and hurl it into the food waste bin. I couldn't see what it was but it made quite a clunk. Kate was always tidying up the department; she took such pride in it.

My customer wanted a quote for his Datsun so I started to go through all the usual questions with him as I watched George and Lucy come back from their morning meeting. At first I thought she'd been crying again as her eyes were all watery but then I realised she was laughing – it was great to see her looking so happy! George seemed to be doing an impression of a chicken; he was flapping his arms and strutting about, obviously doing his best to cheer Lucy up. I thought I heard him sing, "Tell me more, tell me more!" but it was difficult to hear properly as my customer had raised his voice. "Why do you want to know if I've got any speeding convictions? What's that got to do with anything?"

"Well, your premium will be higher if you've got points on your driving licence." I thought everyone knew that.

"My driving licence?" There was a short silence. "I said I wanted a quote for my DASCHUND you cloth-eared moron! What the f-"

I winced as he launched into a volley of obscenities. Honestly, there was no need for that. I looked around at the team and they all seemed to be laughing along with George and Lucy; trust me to miss out on all the fun! George stopped larking about when he reached his desk; his face fell and he suddenly looked very serious. "Where's my phone?"

It was lunchtime before I managed to log into Facebook. Oh my God! My performance had received one hundred and seventeen likes! That was amazing; thank goodness for friends – I felt enormously cheered after the disappointment of losing out on the Danny Zuko role. I scrolled down the list to see if Lucy had liked it – she had! What a sweet girl. There were forty-three comments too, but I didn't have time to read them all, as I needed to get to the bank to arrange an overdraft. I'd save the pleasure of reading everyone's comments until I got home but I had a quick peek at the first one. It was from my mate Barry Lund and he'd written, "I feel like chicken tonight!" That was odd, but then he'd probably been at the white spirit again.

I arrived in the foyer of the bank, which had recently received a makeover. It was all open-plan and seemed rather sparse, with just singular counters dotted around. There wasn't much in the way of signage so I hovered at one of the pods waiting for a little old lady to finish being served. She was slightly deaf so I couldn't help but overhear all her balances (she was wearing a tatty old coat and her shoes were worn through but she had over fifty thousand pounds in one account!). She seemed to want to increase her standing order to the Cat Protection League but the young man who was serving her thought she'd be better off taking out some sort of funeral plan. She eventually signed the forms he gave her and left, looking bewildered.

"Yes mate?" I was a bit surprised to be addressed in this way by someone who worked in a bank, but perhaps it was all part of the relaxed image they were trying to create. I told him I needed an overdraft to get me through to payday.

"Well, you're at the wrong counter my friend, but no probs, it's cool. I'm Dazza," he stuck out a sovereign-ringed hand, which I shook, noticing he had a scorpion tattooed on his wrist. "Let's get you sorted, then." He led the way to a glass-fronted side room and tapped my account details into a computer.

"I just need to borrow about twenty pounds for a couple of weeks," I explained. "I had to give my mum extra for a sudden increase in council tax-"

"Yep, yep," Dazza loosened his purple tie and tapped away intently. "Right. It says you can have an £800 overdraft. I'll load it on. You got a credit card?"

"Er, no, you see, I'm usually very careful not to spend more than I earn-"

"You gotta 'av a credit card, mate! What if you book a holiday and the company goes bust? You won't get any money back if you didn't book with a credit card."

I didn't know that. It was a good point, although I wasn't planning on taking a holiday anytime soon; Myra and I had gone camping in Somerset last year but after two days spent bailing buckets of rainwater out of the tent, Myra insisted we came home. She hadn't even slept in the tent – she spent the two nights under the hand-dryer in the Ladies.

Dazza cracked his knuckles. "You got any personal accident insurance?"

"Well, I work in an insurance call centre, Perypils-"

"Cos if you walk out of 'ere and go straight under a bus, I'd never forgive myself."

"But, I don't have any children or anything-"

"Don't matter mate! What if you lost a limb? An arm, say, in a freak chain saw accident. You wouldn't be able to work very easily then, would you?"

"But I live at home, with my mum. I don't have a mortgage-"

"What if you lost your hearing? You couldn't carry on working in a call centre, could you? You might never work again. You don't want to live at home with your dear old ma for the rest of your life, do you?"

He was right, of course; I would like my own place some day and when I became a star of the theatre I'd probably have an apartment in the West End, which would cost a small fortune. What a good thing I came into the bank today! I'd been walking around completely unprotected all this time. Dazza was starting to write on some forms and I glanced at my watch. I daren't be late back, Kate was sure to spot me. Dazza noticed my concern. "Tell you what mate, as you're in a hurry, just sign here, here, here and here and I can fill in the rest later. Alright?"

He was very considerate and obviously cared a great deal about his customers. I suspected he was very successful in his chosen career; he must be, if he was able to afford that chunky gold identity bracelet. Perhaps I should get one. Would Lucy think it was edgy? Damn; it might just have swung the Danny Zuko audition.

Dazza took me to the till so I could take some money out. I only needed £20 but in the end I took £40 so I could take Myra to the cinema; Saw 7 (3D) was being re-shown. She loved the Saw films. I found the gore too difficult to watch and would probably spend most of the movie gazing fixedly into the popcorn box, but it was certain to cheer Myra up. I took my cash and left the bank, walking out past a long queue of angry-looking customers waiting at Dazza's counter. Oops - he'd probably spent too long with me.
Foggy & Son

It was almost midnight by the time I'd taken Myra home – I could only pedal at a snail's pace when she was sitting on my crossbar and it didn't help that my back still ached. The pain went all the way down my left buttock to my knee. I was surprised to see Mr Ryder leaving the house as I cycled into the drive. He said, "Evening Foggy. Your Mum was worried that the house felt a bit cold but turned out her fire-place just needed a good stoking; should be nice and hot in there now!" We were so lucky to have helpful neighbours like Mr Ryder, although I didn't have the heart to tell him we hardly ever lit the fire now. Mum just turned on the electric five-bar whenever the house got to the temperature where she said she could cut a pane of glass out with her nipples.

Mum must have gone to bed, so I poured myself some milk and munched on a Rich Tea. There was some post on the kitchen table that looked like the usual "Dear Householder" junk. I absentmindedly rifled through it and came across a scruffy white envelope addressed to me. It didn't have a stamp and the Royal Mail had written '£1.50 non-postage handling fee owing'. Underneath Mum had written "Morty - U O me £1.50. Can u leave by toaster b4 u go to work tmw".

Blimey. Thank goodness I'd arranged that overdraft; I only had £3.30 left after the trip to the cinema, which had been disastrous, financially-speaking. Myra had suggested that as it was a special treat for her, I upgraded our seats to VIP ones. They were £9.89 each, and were a big disappointment. Admittedly, they were made of leather, but that just meant I made a huge farting sound each time I changed position, so I could hardly move all evening. There was probably a little more legroom than the standard seats, but as the cinema was half-empty, it hardly seemed worth the extra extravagance. I'd only budgeted for £20 but by the time I'd bought the popcorn, two buckets of diet coke and Myra's family-sized pic 'n' mix, I hardly had any change left from the £40 I'd withdrawn from the bank.

I hadn't told Myra about the overdraft; she wouldn't have been very happy to hear that I'd given Mum more money. For some reason, it always made her angry. I don't think she understood just how expensive it is to run a home. Still, why on earth hadn't I just suggested KFC? Myra would have been just as happy with a Boneless Banquet and it would only have cost me £9.99.

I tore open the envelope with a sigh, and then rubbed my eyes. Oh wow! It was from Dad! _He'd written at last_. I read the letter with great excitement:

Dear Morto

Sorry not to have been in touch sooner. Been busy setting up my new company. It's going really well and I reckon I'll be able to make you an associate director soon! Think of that son – you and me in business together, Fogarty & Son. Sounds good, doesn't it? I am literally watching the money roll in! However, as the company is so very popular, I'm having to reinvest every single penny to keep up with demand.

I would love to come and see you son, but my cash-flow is extremely tight at the moment. It's such a shame. But hang on though - there is a solution! Why don't you invest in the business? I can guarantee to double your money in less than a fortnight and I could use the commission to come and see you! Imagine that!

The minimum investment is usually £1000 to everyone else, but as you're family, I could accept £500. My bank details are 40.92.49 00389933. Just think – I could be down to see you in two weeks time! I really miss you son.

Yours truly

Dad

Gosh – an associate director! Me! I'd be able to put a deposit down on my West End flat in no time. Would Lucy come and visit me? I could take her to see Billy Elliott, or if she preferred, We Will Rock You. I'd heard her humming 'Another one bites the dust' the other day, just before she gave me my performance feedback.

I knew Dad would be in touch! If you wish for something hard enough, you could actually make it happen. He'd forgotten to put his address on the letter and there wasn't a phone number for him yet but it didn't matter - I could see him in two weeks! Should I use the overdraft for the £500 investment or wait until payday? I didn't really want to wait and after all, I'd get £1000 back in under a fortnight! It sounded amazing; Dad had really landed on his feet. I couldn't wait to show his letter to Auntie Trisha's girlfriend, Biffa. She'd said, over Christmas lunch, that Dad was in Parkhurst! I knew it had just been the Guinness talking and she probably meant Parkstone, but it had been playing on my mind a little.

I re-read the letter several times, finished my milk and went to bed but I couldn't sleep. Would I be able to balance my role as an associate director alongside my musical career? And it would be such a wrench to leave all my friends at Perypils... but Dad needed me. Blood's thicker than water, as Mum often says, usually when Myra kicks off about the housekeeping money again. Fogarty & Son. Hmmm. I had been considering changing to a stage name, something cool, such as Trevino or Balotelli, or Napolitana.

I just started to drift off when I remembered I had my disciplinary meeting with Kate tomorrow. My bowels twinged and I was wide-awake again.
Disciplinary Action

I had dressed in my best white Burton's shirt for my meeting with Kate. I did put a tie on too, but after a barrage of comments: "You in court today, Foggy?" "Got an interview have you, Foggy?" "Someone died, Foggy?" I took it off. I wasn't in the union because it cost £6 a month, so Jess was coming to the meeting as my representative. I would have liked to ask Lucy, but Jess was very insistent. "Let me do the talking, Foggy, I've got it all worked out. Just remember you're feeling stressed and anxious - the bastards can't touch you for that."

The meeting was at ten o'clock and I felt sick with nerves. It was impossible to concentrate on what customers were saying to me and I kept stumbling and stuttering over the legal disclaimer wording, causing one of them to ask if he could speak with someone else, as he didn't have time for "Gareth bleeding Gates".

A jaded-looking George came over just before ten and said, "Alright, Foggy? I'm sure the meeting's nothing to worry about, but perhaps you should clear your desk, just in case. Don't want to drag out a long goodbye, do we?"

Oh my God! Was I about to lose my job? My stomach went all icy. "Don't worry," hissed Jess. "They can't kick you out if you're mental, it's against the DDT." What was the DDT? I thought that was something farmers used to kill flies, but Jess really seemed to know her stuff; thank goodness she was coming to the meeting with me.

At ten o'clock, with gushing armpits, I followed Jess to the meeting room. Kate was there with a brown folder in front of her and George was sitting to her left with his iPhone in front of him. Kate told us to sit down. I smiled at her but she didn't smile back. She looked very stern. I smiled at George too, and he squinted back at me through bloodshot eyes. There was an overpowering smell of aftershave in the room; it almost masked the stench of Jack Daniels.

Kate said we were having this formal meeting because my level of absence had reached an unacceptable level. She showed me my record of sickness for the last twelve months and slapped a note-pad and pen down in front of George so he could take some notes. My mouth was very dry so I just smiled and nodded.

"Do you understand what I'm saying, Morten?" she asked, giving me a strange look.

"He's too anxious to answer you," chipped in Jess. "After all, he has been suffering with his nerves. He's been awfully stressed about this meeting - look at the state of his fingernails. And his dreadful skin. You don't look like that if you're normal, do you? It's obvious he can't take care of himself anymore."

I tucked my hands under my legs so no one could see my fingernails. The grease from my bicycle chain was so difficult to remove from my cuticles. My skin had been a bit prone to break-outs lately but I thought my Clearasil cover stick had done the trick...

Kate was examining my sickness record. "You haven't had any occasions of absence because of stress or anxiety," she said. George's iPhone made a loud clanging sound. "You've been off sick with a bad cold, sinusitis, another bad cold, excessive mucus caused by an adenoid infection," she paused and swallowed, holding her hand up to her mouth. Perhaps she wasn't feeling too well herself. "And then, most recently, you had a stomach upset." She looked up at me. "So nothing to indicate stress. Or anxiety." Clang!

"All those illnesses are caused by his anxiety," explained Jess, a touch triumphantly, I thought. "He only gets colds and things because he's so downtrodden and depressed. I mean, just look at him, the poor thing; that limp hair, those awful clothes. He's obviously given up. It's not fair of the company to pick on the infirm."

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and looked down at my best suede desert shoes from Florence & Fred at Tesco's. I knew Jess was just saying these things to support me but I thought she might be over playing it a little.

"Sounds dreadful for you, Morten," Kate said, sympathetically. "Obviously if things are that bad, you've been to see your doctor?"

"Course he has!" Jess jumped in.

"And what sort of support is he giving you?" Kate addressed me, holding up her hand to silence Jess. "I want to hear from Morten."

I hadn't been to the doctors! I hated telling lies; I could feel my face getting hot. "Um, well, he said that I should try not to worry too much about everything," I managed, still looking down. "You know; he said I should try some, er, relaxation exercises."

"Such as?" prompted Kate.

"Um, like, um," Oh God, I couldn't think of anything! "Like, well, you know, lying down and er, deep breathing and things." Clang!

"For Christ's sake George, turn that bloody thing off!" Kate suddenly shrieked, making us all jump out of our skins. I thought a bit of wee had escaped. George sulkily fumbled with his phone while Kate glared at him. "Are you writing all this down?" she snapped, jabbing her finger at his doodle of a stick man dangling from a noose.

There was a short silence as George scribbled something on his pad. Kate rubbed her forehead; she did look very tired, perhaps she was working too hard. "Morten," she sighed. "Are you seriously trying to tell me that you've been suffering from various stress-related illnesses for over a year and all your doctor has recommended is that you take some deep breaths?"

"His doctor didn't want to stress him out with anything too heavy," explained Jess. "Not with all his mental health issues. I think his doctor is more like a faith healer, if you know what I mean. He said Foggy had a very dark aura, which causes fear to collect in his body and it can't get out, so it's made him go a bit doolally." I shot her a grateful look; she was so good at this, she should really put her name down to be our official union rep.

Kate's lips twitched. "Well, sadly, that rather _spiritual_ approach doesn't seem to be improving your attendance does it, Morten? I think what I'll do, if it's ok with you, is obtain a report from your doctor. That way, we can ensure everything possible is being done to support you with your problem."

Argh! I hadn't been to the doctors in yonks! The last time had been for my adenoids, but the doctor had just snapped, "Gargle with salt water and tell the next patient to come in," and the time before that must have been when I was a little boy and the doctor diagnosed glue ear, although for years I thought he'd said to Mum, "He's got flu, dear".

"He doesn't have to agree to a report!" protested Jess, sensing my panic.

"But why ever wouldn't he?" Kate sounded astonished. "It's only so we can make sure Perypils is doing all it can to support him. Do you agree to it, Morten?"

"He has rights!" Jess shouted. "You can't just dilate him!"

George made a strangled noise in his throat, which turned into a prolonged coughing fit. Gosh, perhaps he was coming down with something too! The whole office was riddled with germs.

Kate looked at me. "I've no wish to, er, violate you, Morten, but if you won't agree to us obtaining a doctor's report, you've left me with no other choice."

Oh God no! She was going to sack me! I glanced at Jess in horror but she seemed to have run out of things to say in my defence and was glaring angrily at George. I couldn't lose my job – I had responsibilities now, an overdraft, a credit card, the loan for Mum's solar panels - and how would I ever get to see Dad if I couldn't invest in his company? My heart was racing, I was light-headed, and I thought I might pass out. I really did feel stressed and anxious now!

"So I'm going to issue you with a written warning," Kate continued. "If you can't improve your attendance to within the required five percent over the next three months, your employment could be terminated." I startled myself by letting out a joyous whimper. I'd never made a sound like that before! "Oh, that's wonderful!" I gasped. "A written warning! Thank you Kate! Thank you so very, very much!" I went to clutch her hands but remembered my fingernails and held them up to my own chest instead.

Kate looked at me closely. "Do you understand what I've just said, Morten?" I nodded and beamed at her. "Because I'm not sure why you're smiling like that." She leant forward and spoke very slowly. "Just to be completely clear and forgive me for speaking so plainly; if you keep going off sick Foggy, you'll be out on your arse. Your reference from Perypils will say you were dismissed and your whole life will go to rat's shit." I kept smiling gratefully at her. "Don't write that last bit down George, for Christ's- oh, never mind. You can go now, Morten. And, er, Jess - thank you for your truly memorable contribution."

I left the room with Jess feeling on top of the world. I was keeping my job! It was just brilliant. Jess had been fantastic; even Kate had recognised it. As I closed the door, I heard her say, "Open the window will you George? I'm going to jump."

Poor Kate; even though she was obviously feeling a bit down herself, she always covered it so well, with such great kindness and compassion. I thought I'd dip into my overdraft again at lunchtime and get her some flowers from the mad gypsy woman outside Wilkinson's. As a really special thank you.
I love Lucy

It was the first rehearsal of Grease tonight and I was sitting at the back of Jubilee Hall watching Tom putting Frankie Trevino and Thin Lizzie through their paces. Frankie looked so cool; he was wearing a baseball jacket and trendy designer jeans. I tried to see what the label was surreptitiously, but he caught me and snapped, "Don't look at my bum, you bender!" He was clearly feeling the pressure already.

Tom was demonstrating some breathing techniques to Lizzie, standing behind her with his hand just below her chest, getting her to breathe in and out very deeply. If only he'd chosen Myra for Sandy! He'd have saved himself so much time; she didn't need breathing exercises. Her music teacher once told her she had a magnificent set of pipes and he often thought of them as he beat out a rhythm. I wonder what happened to old Mr Riddler? One day he was in school as normal, the next day he'd gone. We were never told why. Most peculiar.

Myra couldn't make tonight. When I'd called round, her mother had told me she didn't feel like going out because "the reds were playing at home". I wasn't sure what that meant but I saw Myra briefly in the hallway, clutching a hot water bottle to her tummy. Oh no – she had a bad stomach too! I hoped she hadn't caught it from me!

I was thinking about my father as I sat in the hall. I'd been to the bank at lunchtime to withdraw some money for Kate's flowers and had been stunned to see my balance was almost one thousand pounds in credit! When I'd asked at the enquiries counter, I was told that the funds were from a personal loan I'd taken out. They told me Dazza had arranged it. Puzzled, I waited at Dazza's pod to speak to him, but he was having a rather heated discussion with an older male colleague. I wasn't sure what it was about but I overheard "nicking my customers" "little gobshite" and when Dazza hissed "right Baldie, out the back _now_ " I thought I ought to walk away.

I'd had to give the flowers to Jess because when I'd walked back into the office with them she squealed, "Ooh, are those for me?" and I didn't have the heart to say no. Still, what with the loan, the overdraft and the credit card, I now had more than enough money to invest in Dad's company! Should I send the minimum £500 or a bit more? He did say he could double it, but maybe I shouldn't be too greedy. But if I did a little more, he may be able to visit even sooner. I could invite him to the opening night of Grease! He might even sit with Mum, as it was a special occasion; maybe they could put their differences behind them, just for one night. Imagine that; Mum and Dad together again - it would be a dream come true.

There was a squeal of metal and a strong smell of glue as Barry Lund crashed down into the chair next to me. "Wotcha Foggy! Where's the beast tonight? In the graveyard howling at the moon again is she, or staying in to shave her palms?"

My mate Barry - always the joker! It was lucky Myra thought so too; she said he was "such a card". I told him Myra wasn't feeling herself tonight. He roared with laughter and exclaimed, "I bet she's not mate! Even a vibrator would insist she put a bag over her head first!" Tom swung round angrily in our direction and shushed at us.

"What are you doing here?" I whispered to Barry.

"Rehearsals, innit? I'm playing whats-his-name. You know, the gangster one that gets off with all the girls. Can't bloody wait."

I stared at him. How on earth had Barry got that part? "But, you weren't at the auditions!" I stuttered, forgetting to whisper. "How did you get to play the leader of the Scorpions?" I could have played that part!

Barry sniffed and shrugged. "Desperate, aren't they? Can't get enough people for the cast so I said I'd do it for a couple of pints of snakebite. Get to grope Debbie Cleaver too, so I'm up for it. She won't be able to do nothing, will she, not in front of an audience!"

I looked over at pretty Debbie Cleaver who was playing Rizzo. She eyed Barry apprehensively. Tom snapped, "For Christ's sake! If it's too much to ask for a bit of hush, we may as well forget the whole bloody thing! We need discipline people, dis-ci-pline. Right. Let's try another run through of Summer Nights. And I don't want to see anyone _texting_ during it this time."

I jumped up but Barry grabbed my arm. "I'm not hanging around for this shit, Fogster, I just need to borrow a couple of quid. Bit short this month and it's my little sister's birthday tomorrow. Got to get her a gift, haven't I? I'll feel like a prize wanker if I don't."

"Oh, is she out of rehab now?" I asked, reaching into my trouser pocket for my wallet. Lucky I had been to the bank today!

"Due out anytime now," Barry plucked two tenners out of my wallet. "I'm going to get her a bottle of vodka to celebrate. Cheers mate. Laters!"

Mum had gone to bed by the time I got home. There was an empty wine bottle and two glasses by the sink. That was good; she must have had a friend round. She needed cheering up. It was a shame she'd gone to bed already; I wanted to tell her about Dad and see what she thought. I re-read his letter for about the hundredth time. I'd decided I wasn't going to wait for payday; I was going to send him the money tomorrow. How fortunate that Dazza had made a mistake and given me a loan as well as an overdraft! It must be fate.

My back ached as I pedalled to work into a gale-force wind. I might have slept awkwardly, or possibly I'd aggravated it when I had to help Big Brenda up after she'd taken a tumble in the dance hall sequence. Luckily, she'd fallen on top of Little Chris, so she didn't injure herself. Little Chris hadn't wanted to be helped up. He groaned, "No, just let me lie here. My lungs will start working again soon."

Lucy looked lovely today. She had a sort of white crocheted dress on which was quite short and showed off her long brown legs. I tried not to stare but it was impossible not to look at her each time she passed by with George. She came over to speak to Jess and I heard them discussing fake tans while I was talking to a customer about their claim for a burst pipe. Jess said to Lucy, "You look gorgeous, Luce" but when Lucy had gone, I heard Jess mutter, "If you enjoy looking like a tangerine in a doily." Jess was probably a tiny bit jealous; I couldn't blame her, I expect she was regretting wearing her baggy black Nirvana sweatshirt when Lucy was looking so incredible. She walked past again. Gosh, her legs were so shapely, she must work out a lot and her arms were all smooth and golden, not at all hairy and no hint of the dreaded bingo wings that Myra was always flapping in my face... "It went off in my hands, it did! Spurted everywhere, up the walls, over the floor, drenched the cat... I just couldn't control it at all! Mind of its own, exploding like that!" I reluctantly dragged my mind back to my customer and their plumbing problems.

I spent lunchtime in Boots perusing their range of medications for aching backs. There was a massive selection! An assistant told me that a heat wrap would be the best thing – they were £19.99, but he assured me it would be worth it. I bought one and some Ibuprofen; that should knock the pain on the head. Back at my desk, I found a pencil drawing of a cartoon man with his eyes standing out on springs and his tongue hanging out. It was the character from The Mask! I loved that film. I looked around and saw Lucy watching me. Feeling my face turning red, I smiled at her and sat down, my heart suddenly racing. Was Lucy flirting with me? She was the only one who could draw like that and she knew I liked Jim Carrey films because I'd been so thrilled with my Secret Santa gift of a Dumb and Dumber DVD at Christmas.

Lucy had done another drawing for me! What should I read into it? Was she waiting for me to make the first move? But I couldn't - what about Myra? Gosh, it was such a dilemma. Perhaps I should ask Mum for advice, or better still, Auntie Trisha. She knew how women's minds worked; she was about to marry one, after all. I'd give her a call. I stroked the cartoon drawing, knowing I'd keep it forever.
Investment opportunity

Hooray – it was the weekend and I wasn't on the Saturday rota! I had gone to Myra's to use her laptop so I could send Dad his money using Internet banking. I couldn't use my phone because it needed topping up. We'd had a computer at home once but Mum had been forced to sell it to cover an unexpected maintenance fee from Unigate. She said it was compulsory, and was required to keep the Shodsworth milk float on the road. I thought it was scandalous how they could levy a huge fee on us just like that, completely out of the blue. Poor Mum was so upset she had to go away for a few days to get over the shock. It did the trick though; she looked all bronzed and glowing when she came back.

I'd taken Dad's letter with me to show Myra, hoping she'd be as excited as I was about the investment opportunity. However, she wasn't in the best of moods. I arrived to find her in her bedroom, completely surrounded by clothes and shoes. "Look at this pile of bloody rags," she snarled. "How do they expect anybody to actually live on Job Seekers? How? I've nothing to wear to Trisha's civil partnership, nothing at all. Everyone else will be in new outfits and fancy hair-do's and I'll look like I've been let loose in the Rowan Hospice shop."

I tried to console her by telling her she always looked great but she wailed, "You just say that to shut me up! You never pay me any proper attention, never!"

"What about your black tunic?" I ventured. "You look a million dollars in that-"

"Wear a bloody tunic and leggings to a wedding? Are you mad? I'm not a bloody chav! What should we get them for a gift? A plastic gnome from the pound shop? And how are you planning on getting us there? I'm not turning up spread-eagled on your bloody cross bar!"

I didn't like to tell her that I had been considering going on my bike. Maybe we could take the bus instead; it was only three changes, after all. I tentatively suggested that she asked for her job back at Superdrug; I was sure the unfortunate incident with the rude customer and the heated curling irons had been forgotten by now.

She started to cry. "It's not fair! They've given my job to some skinny bitch. It's typical; there's so much prejudice against you these days if you're even the tiniest bit overweight. You know how hard I try with my diet, all that effort I put in to eating healthily, counting my stupid bloody points religiously each day and what's it all for? I've got nothing in my life, _nothing_. The only thing I had to live for was to play Sandy, and what happened? They gave the part to a toothpick. That Lizzie can never carry off Sandy! Imagine her in that black leather outfit - she'll look like a piece of fucking thread!"

I put my arm round her and fed her with fat-free Jaffa Cakes until she calmed down. I told her I had received a bonus at work so I could buy her a new dress. It wasn't true but she'd get even more distressed if she knew the money was borrowed and anyway, Dad was going to double my investment, so it was a bonus of sorts. She cheered up considerably. "And new shoes and a handbag? And one of those feathery fascinating things that goes on your 'ed?" I wasn't sure how far the loan and the overdraft would stretch, but the credit card had arrived this morning so I nodded and said, "Of course!" She gave me a big kiss on the side of my head that almost knocked me off the bed and rushed next door to get the Evans catalogue from her neighbour.

There was no way I could tell her about Dad and investing in his business now. I had to be quick. Her laptop was on. I minimised Holiday Showdown on ITV Player and logged into my Internet banking. With trembling fingers, I typed in Dad's account details from his letter and sent him £600 from my current account. I'd been awake all night thinking about how much I should invest and £600 had seemed about right; more than the minimum but not too flashy. It took a matter of seconds. Just think! In a few weeks I would have £1200 and I'd see Dad! I must be the luckiest person alive. I quickly closed down Internet banking and flicked back into Holiday Showdown. That was a thought; I'd go past the travel agents on the way home and pick up some brochures. Mum and Myra would be thrilled and perhaps Dad would come too; a proper family holiday!

Mum was sitting at the kitchen table when I arrived home and she rolled her eyes at me. As she leaned over to reach the wine rack, she revealed a dark hunched figure sitting behind her on the rocking chair. Argh! Granny Pattern! She peered at me through bright piercing eyes, which were as black as coal. I shivered. "Well, don't just stand there, boy! Come and give your Grandma a kiss." I edged round the table towards her, trying hard to smile as I bent down, getting a strong whiff of Oxfam and feeling her prickly moustache on my cheek.

"He looks very thin, Pam, haven't you been feeding him properly? Never been much of a cook, have you? That's why that husband of yours ran off, you know; went to find himself someone who'd take care of his needs. The way to a man's heart is through his stomach, so they say."

"Stick the kettle on Morto," said Mum, wearily, pouring herself a large glass of white wine.

"And that stuff won't do you any good!" scolded Granny Pattern. "Never touched a drop, me, or my Arthur, God rest his soul. We always managed to abstain from such evils; people had self-control in those days."

"But you'll have some champagne at the wedding won't you, Granny?" I asked jovially, trying to lighten the mood as I filled the kettle. She almost had a seizure.

"The _wedding_? That's not a wedding! It's, it's an outrage! An abomination. Two women? Disgusting. I've already told Trisha I won't be going; my poor Arthur would turn in his grave."

I was shocked. How could she not go to her own daughter's wedding? "B-but, I thought you liked Jodie Foster?" I stammered. "You loved Silence of the Lambs, I remember you taking me to see it several times when Mum was at work. I was only four, so you smuggled me into the cinema in your wheelie shopping bag. And I saw you reading Clare Balding's autobiography in the library the other day."

She sniffed. "They don't ram it down your throat like Trish and that, that creature do. Talking of creatures – are you ever going to make an honest woman out of that Morticia?"

"It's Myra," I corrected, pouring boiling water onto the tea bags. "I've got lots of saving up to do first, Gran, before I can even think about getting married."

"Yes, I daresay she's expensive to maintain," Granny Pattern mused. "I expect she eats away at your savings-"

Mum snorted into her glass. I passed Granny Pattern her tea and asked after her health, subjecting myself to two hours of nauseating, pus-filled details.
Dare to dream

I arrived at work early on Monday morning, hoping to catch Lucy before the rest of the team arrived. I'd have been even earlier if I hadn't had to spend a considerable amount of time scraping porridge off my heat wrap. I'd slung it into the microwave not realising that I'd over-nuked my Quaker Oats and they'd escaped over the side of the bowl. Porridge was like glue! The heat wrap felt very strange and uncomfortable round my back and I couldn't really tell if it was helping the pain or not. My back was particularly bad because Myra had insisted on having sex yesterday afternoon when her mother had nodded off in front of the Antiques Roadshow. She said it was to say 'thank you' and had climbed on top of me, mistaking my agonised cries of "Oh God!" and "Aaargh!" for ecstasy, causing her to bounce up and down with such vigour that one of the flying ducks fell off the wall.

I opened a Thomas Cook brochure and flicked through a couple of pages, intending to ask Lucy if she could recommend anywhere. She was here! She walked up the office towards her desk and removed her denim jacket. There was no one else around – it was now or never. My heart suddenly hammering, I stood up with my brochure and walked over to her desk. "Morning Lucy!" I began brightly. "Monday again, what a bummer!" She looked up briefly from her iPhone but quickly put her head back down. Fool! I knew how shy she was, I should have made a gentler approach. I tried again. "Um, I'm thinking of booking a holiday, Lucy; I'm coming in to some money, you see and I wondered if you'd been to any of these places?" I placed the brochure in front of her and leant in as close as I dared. Her hair smelt all shampooey and fresh.

"Oh, right." She put her phone down and examined the brochure. "What sort of things do you like doing on holiday?"

Crumbs, I didn't know! I'd hardly ever been on holiday. I knew what I didn't like – scooping up muddy water from groundsheets and swimming with turds, but I could hardly say that to her. "Oh, you know," I said, casually. "Sun and sand and stuff."

"Hmmm," she turned the pages. "You know, I wouldn't bother with all these brochures, I mean, they're so mainstream, aren't they? Someone like you needs a place that's a bit more, well, unique." I couldn't stop myself blushing; she understood me so well! "There's a really great website that I think you'll like." She took a Post-it note and wrote on it 'orienthol.com'. "Have a look at their holidays, I think they're much more your sort of thing."

She was so lovely! I was about to thank her profusely when Cathy burst through the door. "Have you shit munchers seen Facebook? Nick's posted a picture of George in Shooters and he's snogging Gillian from Accounts! His hand is right inside her Jeggings!" She beamed at Lucy. "Are you ok, Luce? You've gone really red. What do you think Gillian's daughter is going to say? I'm pretty sure George was seeing her too - she works in the kitchens, doesn't she? I think he'd better avoid the canteen for a bit – at least whilst he's working his way through the entire family! Ha ha!"

Lucy turned and fled towards the toilets. Poor thing; she must be upset that George had been humiliated in this way; she was always very protective of her friends. Cathy smirked at me. "Oops! Me and my big gob! Going on holiday are you, Foggy? Or just perving at pictures of women in bikinis? You dirty git!" She sniffed at me. "Have you been eating porridge? Well, I suppose that's the only oats you'll be getting around here! Ha ha ha!"

The atmosphere in the team was toxic. I hated it when it was like this; my tummy felt all knotty and I tried hard to avoid catching anyone's eye in case I got glared at. George and Nick had a stand up row, almost ending in fisticuffs, Lucy spent most of the morning in floods of tears and I noticed she had moved away from George to sit next to Emma. Kate had literally dragged George off to the meeting room by his ear and he was scarlet when he returned. Our customers were in a shockingly bad mood, too. One phoned to complain that we'd given him a quote over the telephone for his contents insurance premium of £12.95 but when the policy documents came through they stated £21.59. He wanted to know which one was right so I played safe and said the larger amount was correct. He wasn't happy and when I told him that the telephone quote was "more of an estimate" he went absolutely ballistic, so I put him on hold to give him time to let his rage out, as per our complaint handling guidelines. Perhaps it wouldn't be so tough leaving after all. I wonder when Dad wants me to start with him?

I was hugely relieved when the day ended and I made my way to Myra's to pick her up for another rehearsal at the Jubilee Hall. She told me, very excitedly, that she'd ordered her outfit and it was due to be delivered on Thursday, just in time for the wedding on Saturday. She'd spent one hundred and twenty-two pounds in total! I gulped and smiled and said, "Yes, of course that's ok." Thank heavens it was payday next week, and then the following week, Dad would be down with my £1200. I hadn't told either Mum or Myra about the investment; I wanted it to be a nice surprise for them, so prayed I wouldn't give it away in my excitement!

The rehearsal went a little better this time, although Barry didn't turn up so we couldn't practice the Scorpions' scenes. Someone said they'd seen him leapfrogging tramps in the precinct. Myra accidentally dropped a bowling ball on Thin Lizzie's foot, which halted proceedings while Tom administered first aid, although I wasn't sure why he massaged her shoulders for so long. Perhaps it was to increase circulation. Greased Lightning was stopped by the arrival of Tom's wife, who turned up with an iced sponge cake, which, unusually, was in the shape of a revolver. She said she'd designed it herself. None of us knew it was Tom's birthday! He cut the cake, looking very embarrassed as we all sang 'Happy Birthday' and best of all, Myra picked the icing off her piece of cake and gave it to me! So I had two lots of yummy icing! I noticed Frankie Trevino looking at me very enviously. The only downside to the cake-stop was that Tom broke a tooth on what he thought were marzipan bullets. His wife said, "Oh, sorry about that love, didn't I say? I had to use the real thing." Her attention to detail was a marvel!

We took Greased Lightning from the top, and I tried really hard to perform the dance moves with my bad back. I couldn't lift my arms the whole way up to the lines "Greased lightnin' go Greased Lightnin'," but I knew my singing had made up for it as Tom sought me out at the end of the evening and told me my vocals had a very nasal quality. I was as pleased as punch! He did ask me a strange question though, he said: "Have you had your earring checked recently, Foggy?"

I blinked in surprise. "I don't wear earrings, Tom," I replied, showing him my lobes. "I'm not really a big fan of jewellery. But funnily enough, I have been thinking about getting an identity bracelet and perhaps a sovereign ring. Not a big gangster one, obviously, but something a little more discreet." Tom didn't seem to know what to say to that and his mouth hung open until he was called away by Thin Lizzie, who said she needed a thorough de-briefing, so they headed off towards the props cupboard so Tom could give her one.

The back door was locked when I got home, which was most unusual. I knocked once and then again, much harder. Where was Mum? I heard some scrabbling around inside and the door was eventually opened by Mr Ryder. "Ah, evening Foggy. I was just fixing your mother's kitchen table for her. Had a devil of a squeak it did, but I think I managed to bang it out." Whatever would we do without him? Ever since Dad left, Mr Ryder had been coming and going, tirelessly fixing things and doing lots of fiddling and tinkering for Mum. "Your mother's gone to bed, I think," he told me. "Said she was thoroughly worn out." He winked at me. "Night Foggy."

I said goodnight and put the salt and pepper shakers back on the kitchen table. There were newspapers and place mats scattered all over the kitchen floor; he was a bit of a messy worker, but I shouldn't complain, not when he did Mum so many favours. I looked around the kitchen to see if there was any post from Dad but there didn't seem to be anything. I mustn't be so impatient; he had a very successful business to run and would be extremely busy. At least I had the chance now to look at the website that Lucy had recommended for my holiday. I tapped the address into my phone, expecting images of palm trees and sun drenched beaches to pop up, but instead the site had pictures of bars and scantily clad people stood around drinking. I read the introduction:

"Guys! We know that you think about having no strings attached sex about every ten seconds. What you need is a holiday for men where your fantasy can become reality! Our adult holidays for single gentlemen guarantee you'll meet exotic ladies or other men, depending on your persuasion. We create a sensual experience for western men looking for a partner."

Blimey! I stared at the website, feeling my eyes growing as large as saucers. Had I typed in the correct website address? I looked at Lucy's Post-it again. Yes, it was right! Why had she considered it suitable for me? Oh my God! Was she trying to tell me that I should be single? Did she want me to leave Myra? Why would she want that, unless she... no, it couldn't be possible, could it? Did she want me for herself? Was it possible she could be in love with me? There was some strong evidence, after all - she'd drawn those pictures for me, leaving them secretly on my desk when I was at lunch, she always 'liked' my rehearsal videos when someone posted them on Facebook, she was often too shy to say good morning to me or acknowledge me during the day and now there was this – directing me to a sensual holiday website. Could it be true; did I dare to dream?

I poured myself a glass of milk and stirred in two teaspoons of strawberry Nesquik, pondering on what my next move should be. I couldn't finish with Myra before Auntie Trisha's civil partnership; she was looking forward to going so much now she had her new outfit. I'd tell her afterwards. No, I'd wait for Dad to come and ask his advice first, man to man; he would know what should be done for the best. I couldn't wait to see him.

It was a very trying week at work, with the team seemingly split into a George camp and a Nick camp. I didn't want to take sides and went out of my way to be especially nice to both of them, although once when I'd said hello to George, Cathy snarled, "Why are you talking to that Granny Shagger?"

It was all so terribly awkward. Poor George had ventured into the canteen for a coffee but had returned with a massive stain on the crotch of his trousers. "Spaghetti 'oops," he muttered miserably, as he passed my desk. To my dismay, Lucy had gone sick so I couldn't thank her for giving me the holiday website or look for any more signs that she was in love with me. Cathy said Lucy was having to "spend a bit of time at the library" and everyone had roared with laughter, but I didn't understand why that was so funny, although I laughed too, so as not to look silly.

My back was so sore it was rather difficult to think about anything else. I had to stand up at frequent intervals throughout the day to ease the pain, which annoyed Jess; she said it was like sitting next to a "fucking jack-in-the-box". I went to Boots at lunchtime and they gave me something called Co-codamol. They wouldn't sell me Ibuprofen as well so I got that from Superdrug. Hopefully I had enough to get through the wedding relatively pain-free.
A very civil partnership

Saturday morning dawned bright and sunny – whoopee! It was the perfect day for a civil partnership. Myra, Mum and I were going to get the ten thirty bus into Gloucester, which was the start of our journey to Trout Hall, where the ceremony was being held at two o'clock.

It was just before ten when the post landed on the front door mat. Mum was still in the shower and I was dressed in my M&S machine washable charcoal suit, which had been an absolute bargain at £59! I felt extremely smart - I must make sure someone takes a photo of me so I can put it on Facebook; I'd love Lucy to see me all dressed up like this. I picked up the post and there it was! An envelope with Dad's handwriting on it! This was it - he was writing to say when he would visit!

I tore open the envelope with trembling fingers.

Dear Morto,

Many thanks for your initial investment and congratulations! You are on your way to your first fortune! I will be down to see you shortly with your cheque, and in the meantime, if you know anyone else who is able to invest in our company, a reminder that my bank details are still: 40.92.49 00389933. They won't regret it!

I'll be down soon son – looking forward to seeing you and discussing your directorship. I really miss you son.

Yours truly

Dad

Gosh – my directorship! That sounded so grand. I looked at myself in the hallway mirror. I'd better get used to wearing a suit if I was going to be a director; M&S did an easycare range too, which would be very practical - Lucy would be so proud of me! I re-read Dad's letter, feeling a tinge of disappointment that I didn't have an actual date for his visit but at least he had included his address this time! It was a PO Box number in Manchester – goodness me, he was only three hours away! I took several deep breaths; I just had to be patient, I would see him very soon. With a surge of happiness, I phoned a local taxi company and ordered a car to take us to Trout Hall. It was very extravagant, but for once in my life, I could afford to be frivolous!

I hadn't factored in how much quicker a taxi would be than three buses, so we arrived at Trout Hall two and a half hours before the ceremony was due to begin. Luckily the bar was open, so I got Mum and Myra a bottle of wine to share whilst I ordered a glass of water so I could take my painkillers. Mum was admiring Myra's outfit; she was wearing a fluffy white cardigan over a black and white dress that had an extremely tight bodice and a wide, knee-length skirt. She had a black and white feathery thing on the side of her head. "Foggy bought it all for me," Myra told Mum proudly, "And the shoes. They're faux satin." Mum almost choked on her Lambrini. She stared at me. "Where did you get the money from for that lot?" she demanded. "And for splashing out on a taxi – what's going on?"

"He got a bonus," Myra explained, seeming to relish telling my mother this. "Didn't he say? He wanted to treat me. For a change."

Mum's face had turned a funny dark colour. "Morten! How could you? Didn't you stop to think that _I_ might like to be treated for a change?"

"He treats you all the time!" shrieked Myra. "Look how much bloody housekeeping he gives you – anyone would think you live in Downton sodding Abbey the amount he has to pay!"

"Now, look here, you, you-"

"Oh, here's Auntie Trisha!" I exclaimed with huge relief. My aunt came over to greet us. She was wearing a red checked shirt over faded skinny jeans and brown cowboy boots; she said she'd just come to fetch a bottle of Jack before she started getting ready.

"What's your dress like?" asked Myra.

"It's like a suit," Auntie Trisha grinned. "You can't see me and Biffa in puffy white dresses, can you?"

"Can't wait to see Mum's face," muttered Mum.

"I didn't think Granny Pattern was coming," I said in surprise.

"Of course she's coming!" scoffed Auntie Trisha. "There's no way that tight old bat would miss out on free food and drink!"

"Oh, she doesn't drink-" I started to say, but Auntie Trisha screeched with laughter and punched me on the arm. "You are funny, Foggy! Got to dash - see you all later."

We sat down again. My arm really hurt but I couldn't rub it because I didn't want anyone to think I'd been hurt by a woman. Mum and Myra ordered another bottle of wine and I noticed Mum fluttering her eyelids at the young waiter while Myra whipped off her cardigan when he came over. When he placed the bottle on the low table, he came face to face with Myra's bosom, which was being squeezed out of her bodice like it was in a sausage machine. He backed away in alarm, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste to escape.

Wedding guests started to arrive and soon the small bar was filled with smartly dressed friends and relatives. We were called into a side room just before two o'clock and there was Granny Pattern, already seated in the front row, wearing a black coat and a black hat with a veil. "She's waiting for the fucking funeral march," hissed Myra, who had become rather giggly. I'd only had a pint of lager but even so, my head was already swimming. It must be because my stomach was empty. The music started – 10cc's 'I'm Not in Love' – and Biffa and Auntie Trisha walked up the middle of the room arm in arm. Auntie Trisha had a lovely cream silk trouser suit on and Biffa was wearing a white sort of Teddy Boy suit, with a long jacket, drain pipe trousers and chunky brogues. Her hair was cropped very short with a little quiff at the front.

I shot a look at Granny Pattern. She had her eyes closed and was clasping her hands to her chest. Was she holding a crucifix? I couldn't quite see. The ceremony was extremely brief, which was lucky as Myra's feathers kept flicking in my face and tickling my nose, causing me to sneeze several times. As I didn't have a handkerchief, I had to use a KFC receipt I found in my wallet. When it was over, we all trooped outside to the walled garden for some photographs.

Granny Pattern came and stood with us, shaking her head in disbelief. "My poor Arthur," she groaned. "What would he say if he was alive today? His youngest daughter, the apple of his eye, committing such an unnatural act! I thank the Lord he's gone from this world, I really do."

"Dad was quite a tolerant man, as I remember," said Mum, her face very flushed. Under her breath she murmured, "He bloody well must have been, to have put up with you all those years."

"And his eldest daughter," continued Granny Pattern, narrowing her beady eyes as she looked at Mum. "Unable to satisfy her husband's needs and now left all alone without a hope in the world."

"I'm doing alright," Mum said, defiantly.

"Alright?" exclaimed Granny Pattern. "That man left you prostitute!"

"You mean destitute."

"I know what I mean."

I enjoyed the hog roast very much and then Auntie Trisha and Biffa cut a huge chocolate cake and we had a slice with champagne, which Myra whispered was "cheap Cava shite", but it tasted very nice to me. I felt rather dizzy afterwards and had to sit in the bar while everyone else was dancing. Myra staggered in and out of the bar to top her glass up; she'd switched to cider, and her feathery thing had moved round to the front of her head, almost completely covering her face. She had to tilt her head up the ceiling and puff at the feathers to be able to see out. Biffa came into the bar and plonked herself down heavily on the sofa next to me, bouncing me up in the air.

"Not dancing, Foggy? The DJ's brilliant – we were in the same rockabilly band at college, until he got kicked out for growing cannabis in the common room. Ridiculous over-reaction, I mean, it's hardly a crime, is it?"

I told her I felt a bit light-headed. Auntie Trisha came in too, looking all hot and sweaty. "Jesus Bifana, your uncle can cut a dash on the dance floor! I could scarcely keep up with him; he's throwing women all over the place! Budge up a bit, guys."

Biffa shifted closer to me. "I haven't got an uncle."

"Well, who's that guy in the grubby blue suit? Keeps grabbing all the girls?"

"I dunno. I thought he was one of your lot."

"Oh. Oh well. Do you like our rings, Foggy?" They both raised their left hands and waggled bands of gold and diamonds at me. Biffa's was the size of a knuckle-duster but Auntie Trisha's was slim and pretty. "Cost the best part of a grand they did, but so worth it! We got them engraved, see? Our names and today's date. Gorgeous, aren't they?"

They did look lovely. "Not dancing, Foggy?" asked Auntie Trisha. "I thought you'd be in your element; a chance to practise your moves before the big night!"

"He's feeling a bit light-headed."

"I'm not surprised! He's been popping pills all day long! What's this?"

My wallet was on the table next to the Ibuprofen and Dad's letter was poking out. "Oh, it's-" I didn't have time to explain; Auntie Trisha was already reading it.

"What is it?" asked Biffa, peering over her shoulder.

"It's from Weasel-features," she said slowly. She always had pet names for Dad. She looked at me. "Foggy; please tell me you haven't sent him any money?"

"I've invested six hundred pounds," I told her, proudly. "I had to use my overdraft and er, a loan, but it's ok - Dad's new company is such a huge success he can double it in less than two weeks! He'll be down shortly with my cheque and he wants to discuss running the company with me!" I beamed at them; it felt great to tell someone at last. "Just think – me, a company director! But please don't let on to Mum and Myra; I want it to be a surprise for them."

Biffa and Auntie Trisha looked at each other. "Oh, they'll be surprised alright," said Biffa.

"And you said he was in Parkhurst!" I laughed. "I knew you were only joking; but you had me going for a while!"

Biffa put her arm round my shoulders and gave me a big hug that went on for so long I feared a rib would pop. It was probably her way of apologising. Mum stumbled over to us and slurred, "Come on you boring bastards, everyone's doing the Time Warp in there! Morto, Myra's still sitting on the floor after 'Oops Upside Your Head'. I think she's passed out."
Counting the cost

I didn't feel at all well on Sunday. The taxi ride home was a bit of a blur but I vaguely recalled it having to stop several times for some reason, so it took forever to get home. It wasn't fair that I felt so rough when I'd hardly had any alcohol at all, although Biffa had pressed a huge brandy on me towards the end of the evening; fortunately, I hadn't drunk the creamy-looking thing that Auntie Trisha gave me in a sperm-shaped test tube. I'd tipped it into an ice bucket when no one was looking.

My back was throbbing from repeatedly having to haul Myra up from the dance floor and shoving her breasts back inside her dress each time she pulled it down to flash the waiters. I'd also made the mistake of picking up Granny Pattern's handbag for her; it weighed a ton! When I asked her what she'd got in there, she sniffed, "Just a bit of cutlery, like. And one of those candelabra things. Couple of dinner plates. Two wine glasses. And the bell from reception. Come in handy that will; the old bitch in the flat next door's got tinnitus – I can drive her mad with this." She saw my shocked face and got defensive. "We're entitled to a few bits you know, the prices this place charges! It's criminal."

It was past midday, but Mum still wasn't up, so I took the opportunity to write a letter to Dad.

Dear Dad

Thank you so much for your letter! I can't wait to see you so just let me know when you will be down. I could always come to Manchester; if I caught the 8.40 train, I would be there by 10.59, so we could have the day together. If I book the ticket in advance, it will cost just £29 (one way) – not that money's any object anymore! I'll need to take the day as holiday at work or I could come at the weekend, so just let me know what's best for you. I know how busy you must be with the company so I am looking forward to helping you manage everything. Will I need to move to Manchester? Perhaps I could stay with you until I find a place. I'll have to finish with Myra and Mum will miss me and have to get a job, but I know they will understand when they realise what a great opportunity you have offered me. I am so grateful – I promise I won't let you down, Dad.

I am starring in a production of Grease on the 15th at Jubilee Hall – can you come? I will send you a ticket. I have quite a major role this time and get to do a lot of singing and dancing – I think you will be amazed at how much I have improved since you last saw me! Don't worry though, I truly believe I can balance my theatre work with directing the company; it definitely won't be a problem.

I really hope you can make it.

I miss you very much Dad. Please come soon.

Love from

Morto xxx.

It was a little bit of a white lie about having a major part, but as luck would have it, I could end up playing two roles, as Tom had told me that if Nervous Noel didn't recover from shingles then I would have to play the part of Eugene as well. I went to post the letter and when I returned, I found Mum slumped at the kitchen table in her dressing gown with her head in her hands. "I'm dying, son," she groaned. I told her not to be silly; she was simply exhausted from all her energetic dancing with Biffa's uncle, or whoever he was. They'd disappeared towards the end of the evening; we hadn't been able to find them anywhere and it was only the taxi's headlights that had illuminated them scrambling out of the shrubbery in the walled garden. Mum said the poor man had felt unwell and she'd been helping him get some fresh air when he'd stumbled and they'd both fallen over. She was very considerate like that. She didn't even seem to mind that she'd bruised her knees so badly.

I asked if there was anything I could get for her. She brightened up a little. "I think, perhaps, I could manage a pizza. You could get me one of those Meaty Feasts from Morrisons. And some garlic bread, too. Don't forget the cheesy coleslaw and Doritos – get a family-sized bag. And diet coke, of course. Oh, and some choc chunk cookies and a nice bit of Battenburg for later. Can you manage all that on your bike? Sorry I haven't got any money son, but all the housekeeping's gone. Where does it all go, eh?"

It was Monday again but at least it was payday! Thank goodness – it had been the longest and most expensive month ever. I flicked into my Internet banking when I got to work; my account balance read £808. That was about right for payday. But hang on; that had included a loan for £1000! I'd spent one thousand pounds! My head swam and I clutched the edge of the desk. I'd sent Dad £600 but how had I managed to spend an additional £400? Myra's outfit of course, and the taxi had been extortionate but lots of other bits and pieces must have added up... gosh, it was frightening. The new loan payment was going to leave me short this month, so I'd have to use the overdraft again. I'd only wanted to borrow twenty quid when I went into the bank! I'd never spent this much in my entire life... _calm down_. I'd see Dad very soon and he'd give me my cheque for £1200; then everything would be okay again.

I realised how lucky I was when some of the team arrived and started checking their accounts too. Nick sighed, "Have we actually been paid today? I'm still overdrawn."

Jess said "the bastards" had bounced her Vodafone direct debit again, and Cathy asked if anyone knew how you made yourself bankrupt. I'd wanted to tell them all about my Company directorship today but it didn't seem appropriate now; I didn't like to brag about my own good fortune. Lucy was back at work – she was very pale and quiet and kept her seat next to Emma. I didn't see her speak to George at all; she must still be disappointed with him.

I kept my head down as Kate was on the rampage. Apparently, the Chief Executive was due to visit us tomorrow and she was frantically trying to tidy the place up. I saw her tearing our team night out photos down from the wall and putting up a lovely poster of flying geese. My buttocks clenched as she swept past my desk; she stopped to examine my Katy Perry poster but it was a new picture of Katy at a red carpet event and she looked very dignified and charming in her cut-away, leather-look, bodycon mini-dress. I put my customer on mute, smiled at Kate and asked her, "What can I do to help you?"

"Resign."

I just love her sense of humour! She moved on to Ben and I heard her telling him to cover up one of his tattoos.

"I'm not arguing with you, Ben, it's not a worm wearing a helmet, is it? I know a penis when I see one; I've worked here long enough. Cover it up!"

I went back to my customer who was still complaining bitterly that we kept on spelling their name wrong. I apologised to Mr Belland as I watched Kate rubbing 'Nick is a bum bandit' off the whiteboard.
Dress rehearsal

I was extremely excited about tonight's dress rehearsal. Tickets for opening night would be available now, so I could send one to Dad. Nervous Noel had still not recovered from his illness, so I was going to have to play two roles. It was a challenge, but what a great chance to show my acting versatility! Tonight was going to be brilliant.

The atmosphere was electric at the Jubilee Hall. The girls looked terrific in their satin Pink Ladies jackets and I felt the absolute business in my black PVC T-Birds jacket, even though the sleeves were a little too short. I also had Eugene's Rydell High School pullover and nerd specs to slip into when I changed character. I almost forgot about the nagging pain in my back as we got ready for the opening scene. Tom was in a bit of a panic as Barry hadn't shown up, but just as we were about to start, the doors were flung open and he lurched into the hall clutching a can of Special Brew. Then we were off!

I pushed my bike slowly home after seeing Myra safely indoors. The front tyre was flat and my pump had gone missing. My ears were ringing after all the yelling, shrieking, screaming and histrionics that had accompanied the final run-through. It had started to go wrong, in my opinion, when Frankie Trevino decided to portray Danny as a wired-up demented cokehead. He stormed around the stage, taking swift drags from a real cigarette and yelling at Sandy, "Yo, Bitch!" He slammed me (Eugene) so hard against a prop school locker that I was totally winded. Because I was still trying to catch my breath, I forgot to change character and had to do 'Summer Nights' with the other T-Birds while wearing my tank top and nerd glasses.

The girls didn't fair much better. Myra sat down a tad too heavily on a picnic bench causing it to snap, and poor Debbie Cleaver had to constantly wrestle with Barry as he tried to touch her up. I couldn't recall the line "Give us a snog you frigid cow" from the film, so I think Barry might have been ad-libbing. Thin Lizzie broke down in tears during 'Sandra Dee' when the pillow fight got rather rough – Myra almost knocked her off the stage when she caught her with an over-zealous sideways blow.

Afterwards, as I sat back stage trying to pick the splinters out of Myra's bottom with my nostril tweezers, I could hear Tom ranting at the cast. I never knew he had such a terrible temper! I suppose that's what perfectionists are like, though; always so very pernickety. As we were leaving, I tried to comfort him by saying, "Oh well, Tom! You know what they say; bad dress rehearsal, great opening night!" I could tell that made him think for a moment because his eyes narrowed into slits.

"Yes, I'm sure it will be a great opening night, Foggy, provided someone doesn't sing two beats behind everyone else, or make the arm movements in Greased Lightning look like a Nazi salute or do their well-a well-a's like a demented fucking chicken!" His eyes had gone all goggly, and Myra pulled me away, saying Tom needed some "down time". I wondered to whom he was referring? We didn't have time to ponder for long as we had to move sharpish to avoid Barry, who was projectile vomiting as he staggered around outside the hall. He was just like a sprinkler.

I had to drag myself into work the next morning; I felt utterly exhausted. Kate was still zooming around the department preparing for the Chief Exec's visit. "I've confiscated Katy Perry," she told me. "You can have her back when he's gone." She peered at me. "What have you done to your eye, Foggy? It looks very sore." I told her that Frankie Trevino had pinged me with his metal comb during the diner scene. He was supposed to just flick the end of my nose. She seemed momentarily lost for words then said, "Well, just keep your head down so you can't be seen. Actually, you're better off not looking directly at the Chief Exec; it's not a pretty sight."

I kept looking over at Lucy, who was wearing her lovely blue dress, thinking that she'd probably be concerned by my bad eye, but she was busy on calls. Jess told me that Lucy had put on Facebook that she was no longer George's deputy! That was strange; I wonder why she'd made that decision? Was it because of her feelings for me? Did she think our relationship compromised her position as team deputy? My heart beat a little faster and I almost forgot I had a customer on hold; luckily they'd only been waiting for eleven minutes. Cathy sent an email round entitled "Who's next under George?" I noticed that she hadn't copied Lucy in, which I thought was very considerate of her.

I really ought to tell Lucy about Manchester before she grew too attached to me. It was only fair. Would she wait for me? And when was I going to tell Myra? It would have to be after opening night; we needed to focus on that now. Nothing from Dad yet but I'd sent him a ticket – fingers crossed he could make it. Drat, why had I put this customer on hold? I couldn't remember now; I'd have to ask them.

The Chief Executive frightened the life out of me. He was absolutely huge, with a loud, booming northern voice and an angry-looking face. There was a whole pack of other visitors who followed him around the department. I overheard him bark at one of them, "Make yourself useful, whoever you are and get me a brew; none of that flowery shite mind, I'm not a bleedin' poofter." I kept my head down when they came to our team. Kate introduced him to George, but the Chief Exec ignored him and instead went over to Lucy, asking if she would talk him through the figures on the white board. Poor Lucy! She was ever so brave and must have done really well because he spent absolutely ages with her, even smiling several times. He said, "Aye, that were fookin' great." and pumped Kate's hand when he left.

As luck would have it, I found myself practically bumping into Lucy when I was coming out of the Gents and she was just heading to the Ladies. I said "well done" for making the Chief Executive so happy and asked "he's based in Manchester, isn't he?"

Lucy replied, "I think so, why?" I took a deep breath and told her I might be moving there soon, to run a company with my father. She said "Oh" and vanished into the Ladies. I felt absolutely wretched; that poor girl, she must be heart-broken. Should I follow her in to see if she was ok? As I hovered undecided outside the Ladies, Cathy burst out of them and boomed, "You can't use these yet, Foggy, you're still pre-op aren't you? Ha ha ha!" I turned away, face on fire. Honestly - Cathy could be a little boorish sometimes.
Northern lights

I cycled home like mad every evening to see if Dad had replied, but nothing arrived. I sent him another ticket for the opening night on Saturday, just in case the first one had got lost in the post. I checked to make sure Mum was coming and she said, "Oh yes, er, well, probably – is there a bar?" I told her there was an after show party for close friends and family with wine and nibbles. Granny Pattern was coming and hopefully Auntie Trisha and Biffa, if they were back from their honeymoon in Hull. Would Dad make it? Why hadn't he written? Or had he gone quiet so he could surprise me by just turning up on the night? That must be it! Typical Dad! He always loved surprising people, like the time he'd changed his job and not even told Mum! She got the shock of her life when she saw him in the high street dressed in his Asda Security Guard uniform – she thought he still worked at Countrywide Estate Agents!

I couldn't keep still at work on Friday; I was so excited about the opening night and seeing Dad, plus I thought if I moved about a lot my back would loosen up and hold out for the performance. The team fell very quiet at one point during the morning and I glanced up to see Kate leading Lucy away in the direction of the meeting room. We all looked round at each other. What was going on? Jess whispered, "Well, Lucy has been off sick a lot, you know. George tries to cover up her absence figures but I reckon Kate's found out. I bet Lucy's for the high jump." I stared at Jess in horror.

"No! They can't just sack her, can they? Can't you help her, like you did with me? You were brilliant in that meeting."

Jess sniffed. "Why would I want to help Golden Girl? She's always so up herself; nah, tough titties. She's on her own."

I could never make out if Jess and Lucy were friends or not. Just that morning I'd seen on Facebook that Jess had posted to Lucy "Luvvin your hair today babe! It looks gawjus." It must be very complicated being a woman.

Lucy eventually reappeared looking flushed. I really admired the way she'd managed to compose herself after I told her about Manchester; she was always so professional. She sat down at her desk and put her headset back on. That was great to see; at least she hadn't been sacked.

I met Barry at lunchtime for a burger and decided to tell him about Dad and Manchester, although I didn't mention the £600 investment as Barry never had any money and it didn't seem kind to gloat about it.

"Well, that's a turn up, Fogster, I must say! Good on yer, getting out of this bloody dump. And they never actually proved anything against your old man, did they? What are you gonna do about Jabba? Have you got to take her with you or can you ditch her somewhere along the M6?"

"I'm going to finish with Myra," I said, gloomily. "I know she'll be really upset and I hate the thought of that but I can't ask her to wait around for me. It wouldn't be fair. Who knows where this thing with Dad will take me."

"Bloody hell, give me some warning first, will you? I don't want to be around when she goes off. I saw her the other day in Subway and all I said to her was "you look well". She screamed, "You mean fat, don't you, you sizist bastard!" and went for me with a footlong Chicken Temptation. Those crusty whites bloody hurt, you know!"

"She'll understand it's for the best," I muttered, not even convincing myself. When was I going to tell her? Maybe at the after show party; at least her Mum would be there to comfort her. And it might be safer in a public place...

Friday afternoon and customer calls were dropping off. George called us together for a quick team briefing. He read out our performance figures for the week but nobody ever listens to those. He told us Kate had been very pleased with the Chief Executive's visit and had received some great feedback. I beamed proudly at Lucy, but she had her head down, scrolling through her text messages.

"Er, there was one other thing," began George, a bit awkwardly. "It's just to say that Lucy will be leaving the team." _What?_ Everyone stared at Lucy. "Yes," continued George. "She's been offered a job in Manchester. At head office, no less. And she's decided to take it."

I couldn't believe my ears. Lucy was moving to Manchester! It was so she could be with me! Oh my God, this was fantastic news.

"Are you alright, Foggy?" asked George. "Your mouth is hanging open."

"I didn't see any positions in head office advertised," chipped in Cathy, sounding annoyed.

"Er, I think the Chief Exec created a special position for Lucy-"

"What's that then, missionary?" Cathy seemed to have a beef about something but I didn't listen to the rest of the argument that ensued. Lucy was moving to Manchester to be with me. Lucy and me, Dad and our company – it was just too good to be true! I cycled home on cloud nine.
Opening Night

Shaking with nervous excitement, I peeped out from behind the curtain to scan the audience who almost filled the chairs in Jubilee Hall. I could see Auntie Trisha and Biffa in the front row, and there was Mum trying to get Granny Pattern to put her Fifty Shades away. Jess and Cathy from work were in the second row, giggling at something on their phones. Where was Dad? Not here yet. He did have a long journey, of course. Myra's mum was there too; that was good. I was going to tell Myra at the party. I couldn't put if off any longer, especially as she kept asking when I would be getting another bonus and looking at holidays on Teletext.

Behind me there were screams as Barry went round with a bicycle pump, sticking it up the skirts of the Pink Ladies. Nervous Noel was back to play Eugene, but couldn't get his fly done up and was running round in a panic trying to get someone to help him, which just created more screams. Myra had started to practice her vocals but Tom had to stop her because the vibration was making the lighting flicker. Thin Lizzie looked extremely nervous, and I noticed Tom giving her lots of encouraging hugs. Frankie Trevino was twitchy and kept touching his nose and rolling his head from side to side. I smiled and nodded at him but he just stared back and pointed his comb rather threateningly at me.

I looked back out at the audience. It was almost time. But I still couldn't see Dad.

I clutched my orange juice as I listened to Granny Pattern telling me about her boil. She'd bought two cushions to sit on, apparently, but that didn't seem to have helped. Friends and family of the cast were milling around sipping wine and munching cheese straws. The show had been an absolute triumph and apart from Tom's wife storming the stage in the middle of 'Hopelessly Devoted' brandishing a banner that had SANDY IS A MARRIAGE WRECKER emblazoned across it, everything had gone pretty much according to plan. I'd remembered all my words and dance moves, and my back had held up well. The therma heat wrap had slipped down to my ankles at the end of Greased Lightning but I don't think anyone had noticed. I'd managed to duck out of the way of Frankie Trevino's comb, which hit the wall with such force it pinged back and caught him on the nose, making it bleed. He had to sing "You're the One That I Want" with cotton wool plugs up his nostrils.

I was just desperately disappointed that Dad hadn't made it. Where was he? I'd looked around the audience for him all night but he must have got held up somewhere. I hoped he was ok; what if he'd been in an accident? I'd have loved for him to have seen me perform tonight. Never mind – he could always come to the next showing. Myra was standing just outside sharing a cigarette with Barry and Frankie, laughing loudly between gulps of wine. I hoped she didn't drink too much more; I was going to have to tell her in a minute. My heart was in my mouth. What would she say? What would she do? At least the cups and plates were made of paper.

I was about to make a move towards Myra when Auntie Trish and Biffa bounded over.

"Wotcha Foggy!" Biffa gave me a dig in the ribs that really hurt. "I loved the bit when your corset fell down! Absolute genius." She looked down at Granny Pattern. "Alright Mum?"

Granny Pattern turned purple. "Don't you mum me, you, you, you reprobate! My Arthur would turn in his grave to hear you call me that! Surprised to see you're still together the pair of you. I give it a week, I said to Elsie next door, before it's all over. Waste of bleeding money that sham of a ceremony you put us through. May God forgive me for going." She went to make the sign of the cross, but several sausage rolls flew out of her sleeves. We all ducked. She sniffed. "Far too heavy, that pastry; I don't suppose my bowels will shift for a fortnight. I'll have to get the towel-rail reinforced again." She shuffled off in the direction of the wine boxes.

Auntie Trisha and Biffa exchanged glances. "While we've got you on your own, Foggy, there's something we wanted to tell you."

"Oh yes?"

"We've just been up north on our honeymoon. Wanted to see Biffa's brother before he's deported. Anyway, we spent a couple of days in Manchester, and you'll never guess who we saw."

I gaped at them. "Not Wayne Rooney?"

"Er, no, Foggy, not Wayne. We bumped into your father."

"Dad?" I gasped. "You saw Dad?" They both nodded. "That's amazing!" I cried. "I really hoped he'd be here tonight - when's he coming?"

"Well, that's just it, you see Foggy." Auntie Trisha put her arm round me. "Because his business is going so well, he's had to go abroad for a bit. You know, he's got to branch out, internationally speaking."

I looked from one to the other. "Abroad? But, where?"

"New York," said Biffa. "He said to tell you he was very sorry that he can't see you, but he thought you'd understand. It was a very last minute thing."

Dad had gone to New York! So he wasn't coming. I couldn't believe it; I wanted to cry but I couldn't in front of everyone. I swallowed hard and fought back the tears. "I guess business has to come first."

"Yes," said Auntie Trisha, giving me a kiss on my slicked back hair. "Life's a shitter sometimes. But look; he asked us to give you this." She produced a tatty envelope from her jacket pocket. It was stuffed full of twenty pound notes. "It's the £600 you gave him, I mean, invested with him. He said it wasn't quite the right time as the markets are quite volatile at the moment, so you're to have it back and you're not to send him anymore."

I took the envelope. "But he said he'd double it." I kept looking down so they wouldn't see the tears that I couldn't blink away. "He said he'd bring me a cheque for £1200. I've got a loan. And an overdraft." I knew my voice sounded like a sheep's.

"Yes, well, I'm sure he thought he could," explained Biffa. "But it's the bloody markets, isn't it? Always up and down."

I nodded. "Yes, the bloody markets. Of course. Did he say when he wanted me to move to Manchester?" A thought struck me. "He doesn't want me to go to New York, does he? I haven't got a passport, but I could get one quite-"

"No, no." Auntie Trisha was beginning to squash me. "He said you're to stay here for the foreseeable. Thinks it's best if you look after your mother; he said she needs you more than he does just at the moment."

That was so like Dad to put Mum's needs before his own. What on earth was I going to tell Lucy? She'd found herself a job in Manchester now! She wouldn't still go, would she? My throat ached from trying not to cry.

Biffa pulled a hanky out of her trouser pocket and passed it to me. I noticed she wasn't wearing her wedding ring. Nor was Auntie Trisha. "Where are your lovely rings?" I asked them, blowing my nose.

They looked at each other. "Oh, well, we decided they weren't really us," said Biffa. "Don't need a flashy bit of gold to demonstrate that you love someone, do you?"

"But you had them engraved and everything!"

"We'll probably just get a piercing done instead."

Barry sidled over to us. "Oi Foggy, have you ditched the beast yet? Well, get a bloody move on then; I thought I might have a crack."

"Change of plan," I told Barry, miserably.

"Bugger it." He thought for a moment. "Would you mind if I tried your mum, then?"

Jess and Cathy came over and thumped me on the back. "We're off now, Foggy!" boomed Cathy. "You were unbelievable – loved the bit where you head butted Danny Zuko! The tosser _so_ had it coming! Got some fantastic footage so we're gonna upload it all onto Facebook tonight – everyone will be beside themselves! See you at work on Monday!"

Brilliant! My performance would be on Facebook where Lucy would see it; she'd know I was thinking about her when I sang the line, "We go together like ramma lamma lamma ka dinga da dinga dong" and she'd see me dancing shirtless to Greased Lightning. I'd even rubbed a bit of Myra's lip Vaseline onto my chest to make it glisten; I knew Frankie wished he'd thought of that because he looked as mad as hell. It was a pity my denim dungarees now had several cigarette burn holes in the crotch but I'm sure no one could see that. No; there was just no way Lucy would want to leave Shodsworth now.

I suddenly felt a great surge of joy. I had so much in my life to be grateful for: a caring family, supportive friends, great job, brilliant bank manager, a jet-setting father and a wonderful future on the stage. I must tweet my performance to Katy Perry and suggest the 'Something Stupid' duet again - how could she refuse now? Just think; she might even invite me to New York and I could surprise Dad by performing at Carnegie Hall!

I knew at that moment I had to be the most fortunate man in the whole wide world. Life's just so good to me! I fished a fag butt out of my orange juice and went to help Myra re-capture her breasts.

ALSO BY JO EDWARDS

Foggy will return shortly in **A Very Foggy Christmas** , but in the meantime you can catch up on all the action at Perypils Insurance in Jo Edward's bestselling novel, **Work Wife Balance** and its sequel, **Pot-bound**.

WORK WIFE BALANCE

Kate King is flailing to keep afloat. As her team bicker, finger-point and cheat their way through rumours of sackings and site closures, her ill-tempered husband is becoming increasingly embittered and secretive.

If things aren't bad enough, Kate also has to contend with a career-climbing, attractive younger colleague and the sudden appearance of back fat.

Something has to give, but will it be her marriage or her job? And which does she care about more?

" _Kate is a wonderful character, believable, likeable and with a nice line in funny put-downs. This is well-written, very funny and I raced through it, occasionally squealing in horror at the antics of Kate's colleagues. It's also a joy to read about a strong woman with a big job and fiery opinions, a nice antidote to the sugary sweet sort of chick lit."_ Daily Mail

POT-BOUND

" _The roots of a pot-bound plant wind themselves round and round the inside of the pot making an impenetrable wall. They are unlikely to spread out into new soil; they can only circle endlessly, travelling to nowhere._ "

Will Kate be capable of laying new roots amidst the harshness and turbulence of her life, or will she forever be twisted around into knots?

(As Pot-bound is a sequel, Jo has not given much away about its plot in case you have not read Work Wife Balance!)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jo Edwards lives and works in Hampshire, in the UK. Her debut novel, Work Wife Balance, became an Amazon bestseller and its sequel, Pot-bound, has recently been released. Jo is always delighted to hear from readers – please do visit her at: www.jo-edwards.com

If you can spare a few minutes to leave a review on Smashwords, Amazon or Goodreads, that would be very much appreciated!

For more information and links:

Other Weasel Green Press paperbacks:

Dulcie Feenan:

Christmas comes to Oddleton

J.A. Clement:

_On Dark Shores_ series

1: The Lady & 2: The Other Nereia

Other Weasel Green Press e-books:

Dulcie Feenan:

Christmas comes to Oddleton

J.A. Clement:

_On Dark Shores_ series

1: The Lady & 2: The Other Nereia

_Parallels_ series:

The Black-Eyed Susan

Flight from Shantar

Song of the Ice Lord

A Sprig of Holly

All available from Amazon.

