It’s turning ugly. Just spoke to “Courts Warrant Officer”. Haven’t got a clue what they are on about. Neither does he. Will call me back within an hour. Apparently there has been plenty of written communication to me at addresses I haven’t lived at for ages. The argument now being that I should have let them know about my movements. This is Kafka. Not his dung beetle, the other one to give you the creeps. Why would I, how could I leave them a forwarding address NOT knowing that they are after me?
Anyway. Whatever. They can whistle for their money. Haven’t got any for starters. You can’t squeeze a dry stone. I will take this to the press if I don’t get a satisfactory result. You know, what’s so sad: You call Mr Pepper, his name, several times immediately. Naturally he doesn’t call back till one of his colleagues makes him. Then he turns (and I rarely use that expression) into a “little Hitler”. There is something so distasteful about the lower ranks smelling the power they have over you. Take me to court – detain me “in police cells prior to the court hearing”. You will live to regret it. And that’s a promise. I am not vindictive but there are limits. Bureau CRAZY.
Only comfort that if I were in Spain I’d already eat my Tapas in cell 66. The Spanish don’t hang about. Neither does French police. At least both those nations’ forces look so dashing in their leathers and boots, pistols at the ready in strategic place. If that is what turns you on. Wonder if Spanish be good enough to afford me a glass of Tio Pepe with my tapas. Chilled.