A weekend consumed by anxiety and meetings with lawyers; Anthony is to appear before the magistrate tomorrow morning at 8. He is charged with signing a company cheque which subsequently bounced. He signed the post-dated cheque in good faith on his Directors’ orders a year ago whilst still an employee. They stopped paying us three months later, when their funds dried up. It was only after that they presented the cheque Anthony had put his signature to. The lawyer gave us two options: that Anthony admit liability, ‘yes, that’s my signature on the cheque, I signed it in my capacity of manager believing it would be honoured’, or go for an adjournment and buy the company time to rustle up the necessary funds.
Why on earth would we opt to buy time for a company we no longer work for that has failed to pay its staff or acknowledge pleas for payment from creditors?
We are to be at the village police station at 7 to collect a police escort to accompany us to the courthouse in town. What’s the betting there will be nobody there and we will have to wait, trying to be graciously patient and then, once somebody appears, we will have to drive the 25 klms to town like maniacs, hoping we are not stopped for speeding en route in which case we’d risk another arrest, in order not to be late for our 8am appointment with Madam Magistrate?
Amelia left for France last night – a school trip. She was beside herself with excitement and packed, amongst other things, 15 long chiffon scarves as Madame Curley, her French teacher, had told her that women in France were chic, and aspiring to chic meant wearing, apparently, a lot of flowing scarves.
Why all the scarves I wanted to know
Because I need to be cheek
Yes, cheek, Madame says French women are cheek because they wear scarves
Oh, I say, you mean chic?
No, cheek, she repeats adamantly. Clearly she does not believe I am – chic, that is – for I don’t even know how to pronounce the word.
So. She has gone armed with suitcase full of brilliantly coloured scarves and plans to wear them ‘around my neck and my waist’. I hope she does look ‘cheek’, and doesn’t look like a washing line.
She didn’t when I kissed her goodbye at the airport last night; she looked radiant and happy. And beautiful, yes. And there were no signs of the tragic Railway Children expressions she bore as her father was borne away by the police on Friday. Thank God.
I am going to bed now. I won’t sleep. I am now an expert on insomnia. Which is a bit of a waste since on account of silly small-minded Oz editor, I’m not going to be able to air my quite considerable experience of sleeplessness to an Australian readership.