As I walk back along the green, I access a raft of problems from Londoners, along with a note from the editor of theGazetteto call for a chat.
He answers on my first ring. ‘Daisy.’
‘John.’ He’s a man of few words and I mirror his behaviour.
‘How’s Doodle?’
‘Fine.’ I think.
‘I wanted to check how it’s going and whether the exposure and job satisfaction are worth your efforts.’
I tell him although it’s early days I did gain a few followers. ‘I’m sharing the column on my own pages as well and people are really liking it there.’ He seems pleased and I wonder about asking for a fee if it really takes off. Then I could rent Doodle more. When I booked him for WellWomanCon I found his greedy owner had doubled the fee. John congratulates me on my work. ‘I think you may end up almost as popular as Aurora. She won’t appreciate a contender for her throne.’
We ring off and I miss Doodle again. I can’t wait to see him at the show and I make a mental note to ask Eva how she’s getting on with bagging him for Christmas.
I raise my head at the sound of chittering noises above me and spot a line of birds on a telegraph wire. I snap a picture and instruct my followers to try looking up from their devices to see where the real tweets are happening. A red balloon stuck in a tree catches my attention and I wonder who it belonged to. I rarely notice what’s just above my head. What if an acorn was hanging? Would it bring the sky down on me? Flipping open the notes section of my phone, I compose the first line of next week’s newsletter for the few people who actually open it: ‘Could you be Chicken Little …?’
As I walk I become aware of music; a familiar rendition of ‘The Sound of Silence’. Fat chance of any of that round here. I pull my hat firmly onto my head as I veer around the green. Why can’t he busk somewhere else? With my eyes glued to the ground, I start stepping in the right-hand corner of every paving stone, deciding my father gives me OCD.
‘Trying not to trip over your own feet?’ I look up to find Joe crossing the street towards me, a full carrier bag in each hand.
My heartbeat quickens. ‘I thought you rushed off to better places after bleeding the commuters dry.’
‘Is there anywhere more glorious in the whole of the kingdom than Goldhawk Road?’ Forget the shopping, Joe is edible today. His new haircut suits him, shorter at the top and shaved at the sides.
I nod to his bags. ‘No van?’
‘Parked up for the day a million miles away. I almost got as far as Acton before I found a space that wasn’t marked out for residents.’
‘You don’t have a driveway?’
‘I have a drive and a resident parking permit, both of which I rent out to an estate agent and his wife, with Range Rovers more spacious than my flat.’
‘Eva has a pimp out my parking space app. You should check it out. She has lots of incentives for loyal customers. People who use it a certain amount of times in a month get a free car wash from a school leaver with sandwich bags over his feet.’
‘Heading home? Walk back with me?’
Now I face a dilemma. The idea of a stroll with him has the potential to turn my day around but I’m not sure about letting him see the crack hopping. Maybe if I distract him with coffee-related chit-chat as we walk? I launch in. ‘How many kinds of milk do you serve that have never touched a cow’s udder?’
‘Oh, you wouldn’t believe the weird requests; a guy once asked for a nectar-based substitute,’ he laughs, ‘and I half expect someone to ask for tarantula milk one day. Or camel’s milk straight from the hump. You hungry? Fancy trying out some of my pizzas? I’m planning a veggie special.’
‘That sounds amazing. I’ve just come from a meeting where they didn’t even offer me a drink. I’d like to talk with you about that actually. There may be something in it for you, if you’re open to working for someone else for a while.’
‘Cool. But you might regret saying yes to my offer. I’m all about the unusual flavours today. I picked up some fat artichokes and have them in mind as a star ingredient. I’m also thinking of playing with courgette ribbons and pesto for the follow-up. And have you ever had a chocolate pizza?’
‘Only in my fantasies where I’m basically swallowing it in one bite.’
There’s a silence while we digest my comment. We then cover three more blocks before he steers us around a corner, swapping the bags between his hands.
‘Let me take one of those?’
‘We’re almost at mine.’ He shoves them into one hand when his phone rings and balances it under his chin to talk. ‘Yep? Can I call you back? OK, speak later.’
‘Problems?’
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he heads towards a nondescript house, part of a terrace of Victorian properties in various states of disrepair. He lets us into a shared hall, collecting his mail before unlocking another door.
‘Don’t expect a palace. There’s mould on the walls and the electricity cuts out on a daily basis. But as I don’t own it and I’m always out in the van or sleeping off the early mornings, I don’t care. As long as the rent stays cheap and I’m not electrocuted by my own heated towel rail, I’m happy.’ He unloads the shopping in a strip of kitchen that forms part of the small living room.
