Emmjay was tidying up over at Foodge’s office, getting ready for the next scene.  Rather he would have been tidying up except he enjoyed the fantasy that he could have had a habit of chatting up beautiful women – probably with a track record of only sporadic success.

This time he was engaged in light banter with Foodge’s secretary, the lovely Fern Bracken.  Fern had made her pile selling often legitimate pharmaceuticals and was working for Foodge a few days a week for a bit of company and Pol Roger money.  There was a rumour that Fern and her man – an alleged engineer were running some kind of Internet scam selling sunglasses to ersatz punters, would-be’s and shonks who in turn were trying to return replicas for fraudulent refunds.

There was a knock on the glass-panelled door.  “Entre !” said Fern.

In the open doorway stood a disappointingly clad Vinnies mannequin vaguely resembling a blonde that Emmjay had written into a previous episode.

She extended her hand, mistaking Emmjay for Foodge.  This was understandable because Emmjay’s recent hard work at the gym was paying off and Fern could discern the faint outline of half of a six pack against the Pig’s Arms T-shirt (which was now becoming an integral part of many people’s wardrobe).  “Miss Anne Thropy”, she smiled, introducing herself.

Emmjay looked shocked.  “Is there some mistake?” he asked, dropping his hands beside his body with a look of exasperation.  “

‘I want to see the boss of Wardrobe.  Now !” He barked.

A rotund, cheese-faced chap with a minimalist hairline and skin like a moonscape pizza appeared and did a convincing impression of obsequiousness.  “And you are ?” inquired Emmjay. “Jay Green, from the ABC.  Your people have outsourced Wardrobe to us”.  Some of the production people began to avoid eye contact, but they knew there would be “consequences”.

“Listen to me, Mr Green.  In the next episode, Foodge is going to accept an assignment from Miss Anne Thropy.  The arrangement will be for $1,000 a day plus expenses.  The arrangement is always for $1,000 plus expenses and to afford that, Miss Anne Thropy will be a woman of independent means and have considerable leisure time.”  Are you with me, Mr Green ?”  “Yes, Mr Emmjay”.

“Good.  Now take Miss ~” “O’Murphy – but my friends call me ‘Spud’”  “Please take ‘Spud’ here and dress her appropriately”.  “Yes, certainly, Mr Emmjay”.  “Immediately, Mr Emmjay.”

Emmjay was tired from writing himself such a demanding and very dramatic part.  He slumped in Foodge’s leather-beaten Chesterfield and placed the back of his hand on his forehead for dramatic effect.  Fern offered him a jelly bean from her generous stash.  Emmjay carefully avoided the black ones and the purple ones and thoughtfully masticated a pink one.

Fern carefully checked the office.  She was a stickler for detail. Avoiding disturbing the carefully arranged dust and random collections of paper visually suggesting that Foodge had at some time in his life done work that occasioned the use of paper beyond niceties like ransom notes and scented letters from ladies of major wealth and dubious judgment, Fern sharpened a pencil and did officy kinds of things.

The overhead fan turned a lazy four or five revolutions per minute, casting no shadow on the Persian carpet that Foodge’s father, Chocko had accepted in lieu of payment for turning a blind eye during the kebab incident at the 1938 Inner West Policeman’s ball.  A thin, neutral light filtered in through the venetian blinds.  A Bakelite phone sat on Foodge’s desk.  Fern Bracken preferred using her mobile – creating a strange ripple of in-authenticity in the room.  In the corner stood a hatstand.  In the other corner was a water cooler.

There was no other corner in the room – which made furnishing it a tricky operation, and drafty during inclement weather.  But Foodge ran a low rent operation and four walls were out of the question.

Foodge’s desk was a six drawer pedestal monster, impressive more in its bulk than its utility and Foodge himself had chosen his new Aeron chair to support his surprisingly supple spine.

On the wall was a single picture of a purple woman with luxuriant dark hair wearing a yellow dress and large hoop earrings.  Foodge used the picture to hide his fake safe – containing his fake pistol.  His real safe was in Fern Bracken’s desk.  It contained a fake bottle of Johnny Walker Black. His real pistol – a .38 snub-nose Smith & Wesson– was in an old Johnny Walker Black gift box, behind a pile of fake tax returns and letters of demand from some woman claiming (possibly correctly) to be Mrs Foodge.

Fern took a nail file from her bag and proceeded with an apparently urgent manicure.  She looked expectantly at Emmjay, who took the hint and mumbled something about it probably being time for him to make space for the imminent return of an elegantly attired Miss Anne Thropy, who, in turn would wait an obscenely long time for Foodge to make an appearance.