Money, money, money….I don’t make money. Only counterfeiters and the Bank of England make money. What I do is to maintain a cash flow or, as my bean counters will have it, sustain a systemic business-wide fluidity in debt/asset accretion and amortisation. Yeah, me neither but what I do understand is I wouldn’t be here today without these accountants so who am I to criticise. All I know is their numbers make my figures count so god bless ‘em. They’re fantastic but I don’t tell ‘em that. My father always said never flatter, it just makes the total fatter.

Yeah, right, not one of his best, you might say. But I wasn’t taking the risk a few kind words – if I could think of any, that is – might drop an extra zero into their bill.

He also said, you got to yearn to earn if you want to make it. Well, he never thought I would but I did. I showed him. Well, nearly. Shame was he never got to see it. Massive embolism took most of him away and what it left we put in a Home. You know the type, the kinda place we’d like to forget where the people we don’t always remember end up. The folks there, well, they were way past their deadtime. They hung on for grim death with all the feeble grasp their body husks would allow. So did he, for more years than anybody liked but eventually his property empire came to me, his only daughter.

They sniggered. But I, Celia Urquart, showed ‘em. And along the way I married Gerald and had twin boys. Somehow, the traditional accoutrements seemed to reassure the banks and arbitragers and the credit I needed continued. There was a blip when my husband committed suicide but I milked it for all it was worth and got another nanny. Children can be so demanding of your time.

Now I had the largest letting portfolio in Leeds with a reputation for the fewest and shortest blanks.

That kept me busy. Other things had to get in the queue. I missed my daughter in law’s funeral. I know, I know but business always came first. My son didn’t understand, doesn’t call, won’t know me any more. I wonder how the grandchildren are now. I used to see a lot of them, they were always sorting out errands or a bit of petty cash bookkeeping. I miss them but things get done anyhow. I sent them a big Christmas present last year. A note would have been nice, you know, just to say how they’d spent it but nothing.

It just slipped my mind, the funeral. I was awash with lawyers. I was being sued. Couple of students left the heating on. Faulty boiler, so the coroner said, and bang, so to speak, bob’s you’re late uncle and both tenants died. Absolute tragedy, didn’t find them for a week, terrible stink, had to have the place fumigated and couldn’t let it for weeks. Like I said, a real tragedy.

It was manslaughter, they said. The gas certificates weren’t up to date. So what, I said.  Not good, said the lawyers. But I paid them an enormous, fortunately tax deductible fee, and was acquitted. It had been a private prosecution so on the plus side at least I got my acquittal costs back from the grieving parents. I like to see justice done over this sort of thing. Restores my faith in money.

Anyway, I had better get on, got an eviction notice to serve. Not their fault, really. Family of five, terrible car accident, parents lost their jobs, no insurance. I really felt for them otherwise I would never have given them the extra 48 hours. Now it’s heartbreak time but I’ll get over it. So long as there’s not too much crayon on the walls and stains on the carpets, I should get this blank filled in a week.

And then to bed. Don’t sleep as well as I used to. It’s the price you have to pay for an active mind, my Dad used to say. And when I do, my dreams are so…well, like when I was starting out, days away with Gerald and the boys. But, hey, so long as I take the pills I can get a few hours in time to get up and do it all again. I’m lucky, me. Not everyone’s as well off as me.