Dave the Debtor isn't a looker. Think Woody Allen on a bad hair day. I fell too easily for the sports car, expense account and cottage on the coast. I thought he was smooth, he wasn't. Just old. And addicted to spending money he didn't have. Great combo eh?

Dave the Debtor can owe a million quid with no means of paying it back and not blink. But if one of his freckles looks less than pigment perfect, he's a wreck.

'Look at this,' he says anxiously over breakfast.

'It's an arm,' I say.

'Look!' he repeats, taking a magnifying glass from his old man's drawer full of used hankies and Germolene.

He studies his favourite freckles as if they are sprouting GM-like before his eyes.

'Hold it in the sun, ' I suggest in my best nurse voice.

He meticulously moves his arm nearer the window, following my instructions exactly.

'Angle the glass a bit more. That's it.'

'OW! It's burning' he says as the sun seers his pale wrinkly skin.

'Now you've got something real to moan about,' I say.

Dave the Debtor is one of those men who says. 'I'll always take care of you,' in that Rhett Butler way then shits on you from a great height. And he really doesn't give a damn.

I don't like to admit the Debtor hurt me. But he did. Sometimes I wished he'd slammed me against the wall and let rip. Then at least people would understand. But letting someone down? Happens every day love, get over it.

He still owes me a lorra lorra money. And he still has all his own freckles. But I did water down all the suncream before I left, so you never know.