This is a copy of my weekly blog which I write for work and is published on the council's intranet.  The views I express in this log are my own, professional, views as the Head of Communications but do not necessarily reflect those of the authority itself.

3299048532

I have become a number.  I am obsessed with this number.  I can repeat it off the top of my head.  I am living, breathing and dreaming about this number.

I will explain its significance in due course.  I suspect you fear that given my ‘difficulties’ with the TV licence over the last few weeks that this is my new prison number for the free accommodation that Her Majesty has very kindly offered me in C wing at Armley jail.

Well, it nearly came to that.  Very nearly.

You’ll remember from last week that I had found a secret hiding place in the basement of Civic Hall.  This is so I could take shelter every time something that remotely resembled a TV Licence detector van came within a half-mile radius of the building.

Members of my team – dubbed ‘keep Andy out of jail operatives’ – were stationed at various windows in order to see approaching people and vehicles from all angles.  Naturally they did a sterling job in being eagled eyed.

But, dear reader, I feel I made a massive tactical and managerial boo-boo with my deployment of operatives.

Clearly, while they were keeping watch, I was a bit down on numbers in the office so it was left to me (when I wasn’t hiding) to answer the phone.  This was a mistake.  I thought TV Licensing would swoop in and try and take me out using some kind of vehicle brimming with aerials and high tech gadgetry.

Oh no.  Their methods were much more primitive.  They rang me.

Oh, how I wish I had ignored that ringing phone.  Oh, how I wish it had gone to voicemail.   Oh, how I wish I had never bought a ruddy TV in the first place.

Anyway, a nice young lady called Jessica (clearly this was a tactic to lure me into confessing to a lack-of-licence) was on the other end of the line.

‘Hello Mr Carter, I understand you’re having some issues with a TV licence?’

I thought I’d play it cool:

‘Umm, I don’t think so – what gave you that idea?’

‘Easy’, said Jessica.  ‘We read about it in your blog.’

Buggeration.  Caught red handed.

Jessica ‘kindly’ confirmed that Civic Hall was not licensed – despite me giving her every possible variation of the address and postcode.

I managed to buy some further time by assuring her that ‘I knew a man who could help me’ because I was ‘sure he knew where the licence was kept’.

(This is the same man several of you named in your messages of help.)

Next morning, I recounted my tale to a colleague and this is when my new best friends came into my life.

Bobby and Les from the corporate property management team.  They were the silver lining to my otherwise black cloud.  They’re now on my Christmas card list.

‘Don’t panic,’ said Les.  ‘We went and bought a TV licence the other day’.

Hallelujah!

And so there it is: 3299048532 – the number of our brand new, shiny and gorgeous TV licence.  You can imagine my delight when I called Jessica back.  I was able to fend off the might of TV Licensing with just an eight digit number.

So, the good news dear and loyal reader (who I’m sure would have set up a Facebook page in order to campaign for my release from jail); I am spared a spell behind bars and can continue my work communicating to the people of Leeds.

But that’s not where this story ends.

Firstly, how did Jessica and her colleagues manage to get hold of my blog?  Do we have someone in our midst who is leaking my Log to the outside world?  Or perhaps TV Licensing has special tech that monitors the blogsphere?

And of course, there is one loser from all of this.

Big Bad Bob is going to have to wait a bit longer until he gets his new cellmate.  Hold on in there Bob!