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Poppy Stubbs gazed wistfully at the people eating in the Michelin-starred “Cirque de Manger” food tent. It was her tragedy in life to possess both a creative spirit and a love of fine dining. So far today her busking had only earned her enough for a bag of curly fries at the neighbouring “Greasemaster” food tent, which was still waiting for its first Michelin star.

She was about to burst into tears at the smell of foamed asparagus when a sign on the tent caught her eye.

WAITRESS WANTED

MINIMUM WAGE + TIPS

APPLY WITHIN.

Her heart leapt!

PS. NO PROTEST SINGERS

And sank again. But the sound of expertly poured Chateau Frou-Frou drove her on. She found a quiet area around the back of the tent and laid her guitar gently against a tree.

‘Back soon, baby, I promise,’ she whispered.

She felt strangely naked as she walked back to the entrance, but pressed on and was on the verge of applying within when she had further reservations. She rushed back to where she had left the guitar and added her collection of badges, a copy of the I Ching, a ‘PEACE NOW’ shawl and a large placard denouncing globalisation. For a moment she considered a further level of misdirection by putting on the fake moustache she used for imitating The Man, but on balance decided that it would count against her chances of securing the waitress job. Typical fascist employers.

As she walked inside the tent she felt a hitherto unknown level of super-nakedness, and was therefore very uncomfortable as the manager sniffily looked her up and down.

‘How good are you at catching knives?’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’ said Poppy.

‘You do know what happened to the last waitress, don’t you?’ said the manager.

‘Er… did she retire to a pretty little cottage in the lake district?’ said Poppy hopefully.

‘That was her dream, poor girl,’ said the manager. ‘Well, you’ve got the job if you want it. Nobody else has been crazy enough to apply.’

‘Do I get a staff discount?’ said Poppy.

‘Oh, you’ll get to try all the new dishes,’ said the manager. ‘Just be careful when you give feedback. And whatever you do, don’t set it to music.’

Poppy Stubbs put down her guitar and gathered up the change from her peaked cap. It was starting to rain, and she could afford a coffee.

It was mid-afternoon and the coffee tent was already bulging when the rain refugees joined them. Poppy waited patiently in the queue, humming softly to herself.

‘Never take the trees for granted!’ she said when she reached the bartender.

‘I won’t, I promise,’ he replied, unperturbed. Poppy was a regular customer. ‘What can I get for you?’

‘An espresso,’ said Poppy. ‘Blacker than the night, hotter than the sun. And a piece of rocky road, please.’

‘Rockier than the moon?’ said the bartender.

‘Moonier than the rock,’ said Poppy.

She sat down on a bean bag and began strumming absentmindedly.

# Take the cake and leave the pie, twenty dead dogs and no one asked why #

A couple of lines later, she felt someone tap her shoulder. She turned to see the coffee shop’s manager.

‘I’m afraid you can’t play in here, miss,’ he said. ‘We don’t have a performing license.’

‘I’m composing, not playing,’ said Poppy matter-of-factly.

‘That makes no difference. I’m afraid you’ll have to stop or leave the tent,’ said the manager.

‘Fine,’ said Poppy. ‘You’re the man. Did you know that? The man!’

She drank the espresso and carefully wrapped up the uneaten rocky road in a serviette to take with her. But as she got to the entrance to the tent, her way was blocked by a mysterious shepherd. His clothes were sodden and he carried a shotgun.

‘We’re under attack!’ said the mysterious shepherd. ‘A pack of wild dogs in the fields – sheep on the run or ripped to pieces – I had to get up a tree – damn lucky I had my gun – got about a score of them, rest ran away – bloody hell!’

‘There, there,’ said Poppy. ‘Get this rocky road inside you, you’ll feel much the better for it.’