As one door closes another one opens.

When the first one closed on me the whole lot took their cue. There was a bloody frenzy of slamming wood. Every hole in every wall sealed up and I was left with a bunch of redundant keys. Some might think I deserved this, saw it coming, but then that's my wife. She's great with 'I told you so.' Plans, ideas and half-formed ambitions were atomised and scattered to the wind in the space of a few months. Perhaps my chagrin has amplified the drama because, Ok, there were a couple of doors left unlocked, but doors into cupboards allow only a couple of steps before you hit a wall. There is no place called Narnia .

So, here I am alone in the internet café. Can't really afford the hot chocolate with cream but, hey, in for a penny and so on. I pay with a five-pound note. It's not that I haven't got change. I have, but probably not quite enough to cover the cost. I could scrabble about in the thin, torn pockets of my suit but, that would lend credence to that which I try to deny. I'm broke.

I'll continue with the illusion as long as possible. At least, outwardly. I suspect the waitress is aware of the truth. She smiles and adds an extra dollop of cream unasked for. My gratitude wells up and almost trickles out. Coughing, I turn away.

I approach the screen in the window seat. I should really be limping. Crippled and hopeless. Cast into the world of the unwanted. I don't even belong there. Is there an under-under class I should apply to join? I think of Groucho Marx's disdain for any club, which would have him as a member. Yeah.

'Are you alright?' A voice enquires.

It hits me hard. Am I so visibly pathetic? Do The Samaritans stalk even cafes looking for trade?

'Do you want me to log you on?' The voice persists.

I turn to see the waitress smiling at me.

I smile back and the bristles on my face feel stiff. Unused to changing their positions.

'No, I'm fine thanks. Just working out where I'm going first. You know? Stock market, investments or holidays. That sort of thing.'

Involuntarily, I duck and weave my head with the words. I must look like a wide-boy.

I did indeed used to be wide. My suit bears witness to this. Recently I've deflated like a cheap inner tube. The weight has left me along with my comforts. My eyes flicker to the side to see if anyone's watching the exchange.

She speaks again. 'Log you on?'

I agree it might be a good start.

'Surf's up.' She smiles. 'Let me know if you want more time.'

'Thanks.' I say and watch her as she takes her leave.

I log onto my e-mail provider. As I wait for the algorithms to chatter and the electrickery to function my stomach tingles. 'Welcome' I read.

That in itself is depressing. Computers are the play things of the affluent. I'm effluent. Luckily the boxes don't differentiate. Politeness is written into the codes. Nice. I guess I'll hang out with computers then. See if I can replace the woman at the DHS with a box. Come to think of it, the doctor, the solicitor and the wife. Turn her into a box. Box. Put her in a box. A spark of passion fizzes weakly to the front of my mind but I manage to dismiss it. I scroll down the list of messages and tick the box for delete all. Debt counsellors. cheap print cartridges, casinos; anti-virus software? No need, I have a quilt for that. Thin and ragged with a 70's geometric pattern in brown and gold. Helps keep my kidneys warm.

No, as I expected. Nothing of interest. No invitations to interview. No consultancy enquiries. My finger hovers over the mouse as I take a final gander and then'¦. See it, saw it. Back and forth. Who has sent that? Who knows my name?

Hey, TT. Open me up.

TT. That's me TT. My abbreviation. Who knows that? My heart beats fast at the thought of Docklands again. The Light Railway. The lift to the heights of corporate technology. I am being called again. Tarquin Tebbit. Your ship has come in. Triumphantly, my finger stabs the button and my eyes greedily devour the fantastic news.

Alouitious Haydock.

What?! What's that mean? Who the hell is Alouitious Haydock? I scroll down quickly looking for the detail. IT director? Head hunter for a technology group? Nothing. My mouse drags and clicks in all directions. That's all.

I stare out of the window until the door bursts open and a group of youths, laughing, fall in. I'm not sure I want to share my space with 16 year-olds who have more money than me. My thoughts interrupted I read the message again and exit without deleting. The cream has sunk into the chocolate making each mouthful exquisite and I long for a fag. Pity internet cafes are so PC. Reluctantly I leave, pausing only to smile in the direction of the waitress. She isn't looking. Effort wasted, I wander and wonder to myself.

Back home I throw the quilt from the sofa, stretch out and turn the state-of-the-art tv on. Digital in so much as I change the channel with my finger, it flickers into life with a vitality to match my own.

My wife. My ex-wife says 'Things happen for a reason.' I reflect upon this as I eat my Coco-pops. These own-brands aren't half bad. The brandy gives the milk a fresher feel and helps disperse the curds. Shuttering light plays across the bare walls as the cars pass by. Commuters hurrying home to loved ones. Dinner on the table. Gentle conversation and wrestling with the kids. A world light years away. Things happen for sure.

Hey! Volvo. Recognise the light clusters. Wouldn't be surprised if this next one's a '¦.Mondeo. Bloody right again. Should have a quiz show. I'd win it hands down. Head down. Shoulders bowed. On my knees. Steady Tarquin. Steady. Lighten up man. Get a grip. Things'll change. Pop up to the local and have a chinwag. See old '¦.. Well, mebbe not eh? Can't afford it anyway.

I wonder, do they still refund money on lemonade bottles? Been years since I've done that. It was always a nice little earner for an eleven year old with a habit. I'll nip out later. See if I can find some. Singles of fags or, 'Five Park Lane please hen' I'd ask. Casual, confident in my Jock accent. Illegal but I'd get them. Always.

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