Twitter was proving to be quite useful after I discovered my slippery client Spore posted regularly. But today I had other fish to fry after being approached by a slim-built stranger wearing an obvious disguise. The glasses and moustache might have fooled me, but the plastic nose was a real giveaway.
I invited him in and he peered round the room before entering shiftily.
"I need some branded elements for a small business start-up," he offered hesitantly. "Money is no object."
"Ok, Mister.. em..," I replied.
"Mister Smith. What kind of business are you starting?" I was reasonably casual about this confab as so many of my clients had turned out to be complete twonks.
"It's.. a bank," he blurted out.
"A bank? You're starting a bank?"
"Yes," he stated frankly. "It's really not that difficult."
I was about to show the goon the door when he got his chequebook out. There was no point in being hasty.
"I can give you a six-figure advance as a retainer with the promise of daily expenses for, shall we say, six months?"
"I see," I said. He was already writing the cheque so it would have been impolite of me to decline.
The signature complete, he thrust the folded note my way and rose to leave. As he did, the disguise slipped an inch or so and what I could see of the features beneath seemed vaguely familiar.
"My one condition is absolute discretion. I must insist that this arrangement remain strictly entre nous."
"No problem," I replied. Six figures would buy enough booze to keep me quiet for a lifetime.
He made his way hastily out the door and I was left somewhat stunned but far from unhappy. Still, I remained curious. I had an inkling who this character was and a swift scrutiny of the signature on the cheque confirmed my suspicion. There it was, with a flourish that only the over-priveleged can achieve: 'F. Goodwin.'