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follows me, sheet wrapped round his waistwhich does nothing to disguise the fact that he's slept in his socks. I shake my head. No wonder Mum has had enough of him. One night with my dad and already I feel like stabbing him.

    'Bloody hell,' Dad shrieks as he comes into the kitchen. 'There's a mouse in here.'

    'Calm down,' I say. 'It's Squeaky.'

    'It's vermin!'

    'Don't be rude. He's family.'

    'I'm not sharing a flat with a bloody mouse.'

    'Fine. Get your complaining backside home then.'

    Squeaky comes out to say hello.

    'Do you know that mice can't control their bladders? They leave a constant trail of wee everywhere they go.'

    'A bit like ageing parents, then.'

    'You are just like your mother,' my dad tells me crisply. 'As a family we have saved a fortune on encyclopaedias over the years because you both know everything there is to know about anything.'

    'I'm going to be late for work,' I say. 'Make your own tea.'

    'What time will you be back?'

    'I don't know. I might have to go straight from this job to the King's Head again. It depends how my high-flying day unfolds.' I get a buzz when I think that this might well be a real, exciting opportunity for me. 'What time are you working?'

    Dad looks rueful. 'I might not go in today. Feeling a bit under the weather. Stress,' he says. 'And the back's feeling a bit dodgy.'

    I refrain from telling my father that everything about him is dodgy.

    He rubs at his back, wincing theatrically. 'I'll probably catch up with you at the King's later.'

    I snatch up my bag and coat, heading for the front door. 'If you've got any sense' which is always doubtful with Derek Kendal 'you'll be taking Mum out tonight to make up for whatever it is you haven't done.'

    And with that relaxing little exchange, I launch myself into my day, wishing that I had the energy to sashay down the street like someone in a hairspray advert.

Eight

    O n the Tube, I sing along to Maroon 5 on my iPod all the way to work, which I know is deeply irritating to other passengers and that makes me feel so much better. As I trundle past the usual busking pitch that Carl and I nab, I see there's a saxophonist there and wonder if he's making more money than we usually do. His open case contains a pile of scattered change, and I try to do a rough calculation.
    Bizarrely, I quite like playing in the Underground. The acoustics are good, and it gives us a chance to practise while earning a bit of spare change. We also throw in one or two of our own songs because we're less likely to be lynched than we are in the King's Head. There are legal pitches now controlled by London Underground, but we choose to tread the well-worn path of starving artists and still do it on the fly.

    Eventually, I get off the Tube and skip over to the Docklands Light Railway at Bank, whizzing out to Canary Wharf hemmed in by City boys and girls in their sharp suits and even sharper shoes, arriving just before eight. Announcing myself at Evan David's apartment, I'm buzzed in and then I realise that I meant to make more effort with my appearance and, in my haste to depart, forgot.

    'Hi,' the guy opening the door says. 'I'm Dermuid, the chef.'

    'Chef?'

    ' Il Divo has to eat.'

    'Of course. I'm Fern.' I shake his hand. 'I'm his...I'm not sure what I am. His assistant? I only started yesterday.'

    'And you've come back for more? That's brave.'

    I slip off my coat and then have no idea where to put it that won't make the place look messy, so I hide it behind the desk. This joint still makes me want to gape. There are no curtains to obscure the view, and the morning sun floods the room. I wonder how on earth anyone can earn enough money to afford somewhere like this. A lifetime of busking in the Underground wouldn't even pay for one of the rooms. There's nothing on the desk that looks like it's meant for my attention, sonot really knowing what else to doI follow Dermuid to the kitchen, which is, of course, a state-of-the-art stainless-steel