Doing favours for friends

An unnamed friend of mine who writes quite a successful blog rang me up almost two weeks ago “Martyn, can you do me a favour?”
“What sort of favour?” I’m not one of natures least suspicious people.
“Can you take a delivery for me?”
“What sort of delivery?”
“I’ve been contacted by a production company, can you take delivery of anything they want to send me at your house, seeing as you’re off sick with that leg of yours.”
"This isn’t anything illegal is it?”
“No, no, I wouldn’t do that to you."
"You sure?"
"I’m just a bit worried that they might try and trace me. It’s to do with my weblog, you know the one - about my job?”
“Okay, so long as camera crews and hordes of tabloid journalists aren’t going to end up camping on my doorstep.” His weblog has had several mentions in the mainstream press, and I know the sneaky dog is angling for a book deal whilst desperately trying not to get fired from his day job. He wants to have his cake and eat it. Personally I think it's a waste of time. Who'd want to buy a book about his job?

A week passed and I phoned him myself, I was getting rather fed up of hanging around every morning for this non existent delivery. Angie and I wanted to get away for a couple days more this summer.
“Are these guys on the level?” I asked.
He replied, “I think so. They’re talking about an interview.”
“And you want to stay anonymous?”
“Well yes, you know what my Managers are like. I’d be fired faster than a bullet.” For all my friends faults, he does have a nice turn of phrase.
“Drop it. Drop it like a hot rock.” I advised. The boy is a fool unto himself if he can’t see the risk.
“You really think so?”
"If these guys were for real this recording kit would be already here and you’d have already done the first recording.” An idea occurred to me. “Are they trying to get you to go to a face to face interview?”
“Well, yes. Four podcasts and an interview.”
“And all of a sudden all they seem to want is an interview?”
“Right.”
“Well then?” My proof dear Watson.
“Fuck.” The penny dropped resoundingly.
"See what I mean?"
“Cheers Mart. I owe you one.”

Stupid boy. Sergeant Wilson, take that mans name.

As for myself, I am off sick again with painkiller reaction. My bowels have turned to water and although I don’t feel feverish or nauseous, I’ve got a bad case of the gripes. This is ridiculous. I can barely leave the bathroom, let alone the house.

Must put a positive face on this; use the time off sick to complete my current novel and try and sell the bloody thing. Once I can get away from the blasted lavatory.