Friendship is ... True? Precious? A Lie?

Why do people seek somebody else's company? Why do they try to be friends with somebody?
Because they enjoy the other person's company? Because they find the other person interesting or stimulating? Because the other person is somebody they trust or confide in? Or maybe because otherwise they'd be all alone?
Are these good enough reasons? The first three surely are - they are the basis every good friendship is built on. How about the last one? If you have nothing in common, have interests and views that differ so vastly that you disagree on almost everything, have a fundamentally different approach to life even and one just bores the other out of her wits - can a friendship really sustain itself on the basis that there's nobody else? Surely, very few friends really agree on everything - a certain difference might even be refreshing. But what if the only thing that holds the two together is that they need a friend? Just somebody that is willing to listen to the other's sorrows and worries and frustrations and problems. Merely somebody that is at all willing to spend time them.
It strikes me not so much as a friendship but an alliance: an alliance against loneliness maybe. And by its very nature it will only be renewed if there's a reason for it. It will ultimately collapse as soon as one of the two finds somebody that will not only fill the gap but will also add something more to the relationship. Somebody that she would want to be her friend. What about the one that's left? It's a race, a bizarre competition. The winner takes the trophy. The loser is left in the dark.

TV madness - The Fourth in the Trilogy

It begins (how else?) with them (in this case, the TV licencing company, not the voices in my head) sending me another letter - for my bi-monthly entertainment supposedly. Since I don't have TV that fair enough. Maybe they figured: "He doesn't get much entertainment without TV. Let's just send him regular letters of affection instead." Thanks, chaps.
They've already made me go against my principles: I promised a trilogy, delivered three parts and look at me - I'm at it again. If this was Star Wars we'd now be going back to the time before I got the first letter to describe what I though about TV when I still had it. The thing is that I feel more like a part of the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Maybe they also plan to torture me with poetry once they have me.
So, here I have been, holed up, preparing for the worst, stashing provisions for weeks at a time, always waiting for that knock on the door. "Enforcement Officers - open up! We've got the building surrounded." In my fantasies the search light of a helicopter filters through the blinds at that moment. The sound track of the scene would be Metallica's "I Disappear". People will now shake their heads saying "he watched to much TV". On the contrary - too little. Anyway, I haven't seen or heard anything of the TV licencing shock troops yet. Mostly harmless.
So with nothing new and interesting happening I am actually running out of things to say. Thus, I've decided that this will be the absolutely and positively last thing you'll see me write on this. Honestly. Promise. Cross my heart and hope to die - you know.
So, with respect to this letter I got, I was in for another surprise this time. And a shock. After threats, blackmailing and lots of bold and red font - the usual viable means of effective communication - they are trying a completely novel approach. Something that shocked me. Me! After what I've been through. Something so completely and utterly unexpected that I just have to make this sentence really, really long and winding, ridiculously elongated even, so as to make the tension rise just that little, tiny bit more, to the literary fever pitch so to speak, before actually telling you and giving it all away: They try to be polite.
Well, they try. It's still an "OFFICIAL WARNING". This time, however, they try to make it sound politer by telling me why I am forcing them to do this. The evil mobster standing over our hero with a gun pointing at the hero's head saying "don't make me do this". I really can't help it - they make themselves look like villains from a B-movie all by themselves. I just write about it.
They "feel that it is [their] duty to inform me" about my doom as a criminal offender. I'm not sure whether they're now being apologetic or trying to set on example to the sons of England.
Lastly, of course, there the thing we've all been waiting for: the numeric puzzle. "Last month alone we caught 23,966 people." I really can't be hedgehogged anymore. Based on what you know from previous posts, I'll leave it to you smart folks to figure out how random the numbers are this time. Note though they snuck in a disclaimer. They catch 23,966 people - not evaders.
I imagine it this way: A kock on the door. The unsuspecting occupier opens. Three silent, burly men in dark uniforms (maybe even ski masks) are huddled together on the porch. Three pairs of hand grab hold. Moments later the occupier has been catapulted into the hall. "... your statement will be taken in compliance with the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984." I hear them shout at the person. "This is the first step towards your prosecution." "I don't even own a sodding TV" cries the person, still bewildered "you have nothing against me." "Shut your face!" The reply echoes through the stair case of the block of flats. "Last month we caught 23,966 people that said the same damn thing." Defiance rings in the voice of the captive as he answers. "Then have a look at my f***ing living room - I even dismantled the f***ing wall socket. See?" He tries to get up and point to the spot. One of the officers slams him back down. "Don't move" he bellows. Then speaking into his headset: "Search squad, move in." Moments later another small, orderly group of uniformed he-men hustle through, carrying high tech equipment and making sounds of "hut hut hut hut hut". They disappear into the open flat. Silence ensues. A masked head pops around the frame of the door. "There nothing here, sir." "What do you mean?" cries the commander. "Nothing, sir. No TV. No VCR. Not even a pocket radio." "Let me see that." The commander, who has been kneeling in the occupiers face, get up and walks in with confident strides. "Gotta do everything yourself these days." Muffled noises of shattering glass, splintering wood and clattering metal ensue. The commander re-emerges. He looks embarrassed despite the ski mask, doesn't know what to do with his hands. He sideles over to the two others who are still restraining their captive. He mumbles something. The others look confused. "Huh?" "Let him up, for f***'s sake!" At this moment the search squad goes by again "hut hut hut hut hut" and disappear down the stairs. The two officers stand the occupier on his feet then also disappear "hut hut hut". There's an awkward silence. The commander brushes some dust of the occupiers clothing. He scratches his head, his neck, his back. He vaguely points in direction of the exit. The occupier nods knowingly. "hut hut hut" and the commander is gone too.
So here you have it: The forth and last in the trilogy. The (anti) climax and grand finale. The last thing I'll have to say about the matter. There's nothing that could make me resume the topic.
Unless, of course, they release Enforcement Officer action figures.

Tobe E, Private Investigator

This is a story of crime and mystery. It starts like all classic detective stories.

I was a gloomy, grey morning. The sky was overcast and a strong wind from the East was shaking the leaves from the trees. I had let myself into my office - my secretary was nowhere to be found. She must have quit again after I had not been able to cover her last pay cheque. The coffee from last night was still where I had left it. It looked murkier now than the sky, like something you wouldn't want to drown your cat in. This would be another one of those days. I was just going through my mail for the morning when there was a knock on the door. It was firm and purposeful and yet too soft to be the cops - or the tax collector. It was worse: a dame. Dames always ment trouble. Can't be professional when a beautiful face is involved. Larry had always warned me never to get involved with a client. Larry knew - he was a smart man. But Larry had never had trouble with his landlord over payments. A client meant I'd be able to pay the rent for another month.
"You're Mr. E" she asked in a smokey voice. The door framed her appearance beautifully. From the way she was looking at me, the way she was standing there I knew I would regret this. A dame like this could mean nothing but trouble. Larry's voice was screaming in my head to turn her away. I didn't pay attention - never liked people telling me what to do anyway.
I studied her intently from behind my desk. "Depends who's asking, lady."
"I need your help, Mr. E." Damn that voice. "People tell me you're the best."
"People say one thing about you today and another tomorrow. What can I help you with, lady?" I sat her down in a chair opposite me. I lit myself a cigarette. Always helped me think more clearly. Still dazzeled by the sultry red of her lips against her milky skin and the black of her hair I listened to her story.

Now, this is a story that really happened to one of my friends. Nothing has been added nor taken away.
My friend, let's call her J, is a Chinese girl who lives in Beijing. Very recently she did an online application for a job in London, UK. The advertiser was specifically looking for candidates from China that wanted to work in UK.
Shortly after sending in her CV she received a reply offering her the position: a job in the city for £28,000. There was no interview, no test, she never even talked to anybody from the company. Quite unusual for this country, I thought, but she does have experience in the field and maybe they need somebody urgently. It got stranger, though.
Still, she never heard from anybody at the company. Only the company's lawyer contacted her, his details an address in London without post code, a mobile phone number and a yahoo email address. He sent her the employment contract - by email. Apparently, the contract lacked even such basic details as working hours and number of holidays per year. This was when she got suspicious and consulted me.
After one look at the email she had been sent I felt that there was something fishy. First of all, there were quite a number of spelling and grammatical mistakes - not something you'd expect in a professional context.
Next, the lawyer, a certain Barrister Paul Rick, claimed that the CEO of the company - Derek Computers - had already signed a copy of the contract, which was now being held by Mr. Rick. The CEO was never named but J told me his name was also Paul. My friend was to print and sign her copy of the contract and send it back to the lawyer. Again, highly unusual since contracts are normally signed by both parties on the same piece of paper. They should have sent her the already signed original copy.
She was also told that for him to put his stamp on both copies both parties had to pay his fees. Both parties? For a lawyer employed by the company? To this end, she was to transfer to him £200 using Western Union Money Tranfer. Nicely anonymous. Could just as well have been a Swiss bank account. This was what made me really suspicious - I had never heard of a case where a candidate had to pay a company's lawyer to be employed.
Questions of visa application were to be addressed right after the payment had been received and the contract completed.
Various searches on the Web for "Derek Computers London", "Barrister Paul Rick" or "Venus Court Chambers" (the law firm Mr. Rick claims to work for) returned no relevant results. Even the address of the law firm could not be found on leading map sites.
Finally, I rang up the British Law Society, which holds records of solicitors, and the Bar Council, which holds records of all barristers. Neither organisation could find a law firm called Venus Court Chambers. The Bar Council also did not have any records of a Paul Rick being a barrister.
Clearly, it has become a well-known fact that many Chinese people are eager to gain work experience abroad - especially in UK and US. This scam - what else could it be - seems to be aimed at exploiting exactly those ambitions. A job vacancy in UK aimed at Chinese candidates, an offer without any questions asked, just pay the lawyer and we'll get you a visa. Too good to be true. But if you live so far abroad, maybe have never been to UK, maybe don't know how business is done here how would you expose it? The money would be lost. Imagine the trouble of getting this before a court all the way from China. And that would be assuming you can actually locate the culprits.
In the end I advised my friend to insist on more details and the signed copy of the original contract, and not under any circumstances to pay them any money. I don't expect she'll hear from them again. I rest my case.

Back in my dimly lit office I could see the disappointment on her pretty face. Sometimes I hate it when my suspicions turn out to be true. Shows me again and again that there are many bad people out there. People that spend all day trying figure out how to con you out of your hard earned dollars. Of course, folks like that keep me in business.
"How can they do this to me?" Her voice quaked. She was confused, shocked. Understandibly. She wanted - needed - reassurance. I could offer none.
"Those guys are sharks, lady. They'll do what it takes. Better stay clear of them now."
She dabbed at her eyes with a white hankerchief, careful not to smudge her flawless make-up. Then she turned to me again.
"Thank you, Mr. E." Her voice was composed again - that same smooth, smokey tone that had first gotten my attention. "You really are the best. I will never forget this. Is there anything I can do for you?"
She looked at me from under her elegantly curved eye lids pursing her lips. A couple of dozen things went through my mind. She meant trouble. Never get involved with a client. Another couple of dozen things went through my mind. I lit myself another cigarette, studying her through the whisps of smoke.
"My bill will be in the post, ma'am."
I could see she'd been expecting something else. She didn't say a word but her face spoke volumes. The door slammed and she was gone. I sat back in my chair and blew another cloud of smoke towards the ceiling. What the hell did Larry know.