Peter-Bowman was beginning to think that he would never get to be married what with all the interruptions taking place on the morning of his wedding. Along came another one in the form of a restaurant entrepreneur. Peter-Bowman recognised the intent on interrupting Peter-Bowman's life style of walking in the feet of the restaurant entrepreneur and hid inside his phone box.

Knock! Knock! The restaurant entrepreneur had clearly seen him. The knock had the patient ring of somebody who knew you were inside and was happy to wait there knocking all day until you either opened the door or went completely mad. It's know as the Tibetan knocking torture as it was invented by the Chinese. Knock! Knock!

Peter-Bowman considered his options. It was certainly open to him to just stay exactly where he was and let the constant knocking drive him crazy. He wasn't sure that he would notice a lot of difference in his life. After all, he lived in a phone box and talked to stuffed toys. Asked them for advice even. If that was not mad he didn't know what was. Then again, there was always the chance that he might suddenly realise that he was some sort of fish and promptly drown. This would not be a good thing on the whole, though an interesting experiment in many ways. Peter-Bowman opened the door at just the wrong moment and the restaurant entrepreneur knocked on his nose.

'Thank you, yes,' said Peter-Bowman in surprise. At least he didn't think he was a fish. He checked his gills to make sure he wasn't drowning. The restaurant entrepreneur handed Peter-Bowman a model of a phone box on a silver tray with a meaningful look. Peter-Bowman couldn't find the words to decode the meaning of the look, but he took a moment to peer inside the model phone box. Inside there appeared to be a small but exciting French restaurant of some kind. It looked very exclusive and expensive. Peter-Bowman blinked. He had been doing it a lot lately, and put it down to some sort of allergic reaction.

'Well?' said the restaurant entrepreneur. 'What do you think?'

'It's very nice,' said Peter-Bowman. 'What is it?'

'Why, you're looking at the franchise opportunity of a life time! La Cabine Telephonique!' The restaurant entrepreneur was obviously very excited about it all, but unfortunately, Peter-Bowman could not speak French.

'Unfortunately, I can not speak French,' said Peter-Bowman. 'I don't know what that means.'

'What it means is the hottest line of French restaurants this side of the Rio Grande!'

'Oh. That hot?' Peter-Bowman wondered how hot that might be. As a rule he didn't like hot restaurants. They usually gave him stomach problems at about 3 am in the morning. Stomach problems at 3 am in the morning are amplified quite alarmingly when you live in a phone box. Often the neighbourhood dogs complain that you're scaring away the chickens.

'Hotter than hot!' said the restaurant entrepreneur, 'And I can get you in on the ground floor for the low sum of only one million dollars!'

'That's a low sum then is it? Only the real estate agent seemed to think it was quite a large amount of money.' Peter-Bowman, you may recall, had plenty of money. He just didn't like to spend it very much as it made him feel rich and sticky, like a toffee pudding that is on the turn.

'Real estate agents! What do they know about the restaurant business?'

'Which is their favourite one?' Peter-Bowman liked to answer all questions put to him, as best as he could. He sometimes worried that this was not particularly well, but at least he showed willing.

'Now Mr Bowman, let me talk seriously to you for a minute.'

Peter-Bowman looked around to see if he could work out why the restaurant owner had stopped talking to him and was addressing a stranger called Mr Bowman. He had this problem a lot in fact. Whenever he went to the bank for example, the bank tellers always preferred to talk to Mr Bowman than to Peter-Bowman. It was an amazing bit of luck that Mr Bowman's financial affairs appeared to match up perfectly with Peter-Bowman's so he always knew where he was. He just never knew where this Mr Bowman was, and suspected him of being an imaginary friend of everybody in the world except Peter-Bowman. Sometimes it made him sad that Mr Bowman appeared to have singled him out as somebody not worthy of being friends with, even in an imaginary way, but Peter-Bowman was not one to linger over a cold cup of coffee.

'Mr Bowman?' The restaurant entrepreneur said anxiously. Peter-Bowman hurried to reassure him.

'He never speaks. It doesn't seem to matter. Just tell him what you want him to hear. It seems to work for the bank tellers.' Peter-Bowman often had to explain the situation to people who had not spoken to Mr Bowman before. He often wished that Mr Bowman would get some sort of sign and wear it around his neck to prevent these confusions.

'OK Mr Bowman. What I'm saying is that this phone box of yours '

'Oh it's not his phone box. It's mine. I think he does live here, but I've never been able to find out where. Certainly he doesn't sleep in my bed.' People always made that mistake.

'Well, anyway. This phone box is perfect for our new line of restaurants. What do you think Mr Bowman? Can we bring you on board?'

'Ah, you're from the navy again are you? Why didn't you say? Yes, please take Mr Bowman with you by all means. Apparently he enjoys the sea. I hope you have a very nice day indeed, and a safe trip back to the sea side.' Peter-Bowman went back into his phone box. It really was time to get ready for his wedding now. He began to look for something to wear.