The Baron's cheque bounced. It was returned by the bank today having been presented twice unsuccessfully for payment.

I suddenly feel rather foolish for ever entertaining the idea that the cheque might cash at all. The fleeting moment of satisfaction I get from realising I can now refer to my nemesis as The Rubber Baron does nothing to offset the feeling of failure.

So I decide to refocus my attentions on The Baron's parents. Perhaps they are more cooperative, or at least more vulnerable to threats of court action, since they are the legal owners of the property. My internet research has thrown up a current address, which is just around the corner from me, so I decide to head straight round and try to introduce myself.

I walk to the address with some trepidation, take a deep breath, and knock on the front door of the property, which looks as if it is in the final stages of being renovated.

And who should answer the door, but The Baron himself.

Now this has occurred to me as a possibility, so I think I am significantly less surprised to see him than he is to see me. Flustered, he asks me what I want. I tell him his cheque has bounced and declare that I am sick of him and his empty promises and have decided to deal directly with his parents instead. He tells me somewhat defensively that they don't live there and starts to shut the door. I say something like "I'm not going to let this go!" through the diminishing gap between the door and the door frame and then it closes with a bang.

I wander back home, annoyed at myself for not handling the situation better — maybe I should have demanded to speak to his parents, or stuck my foot in his door until he produced at least some of the cash owing — and frustrated that my hot lead for his parents' home address may just be another anonymous development in The Baron's property empire.

Now I'm not normally susceptible to notions of fate or providence but when I get back to my flat, at perhaps my lowest ebb in my recent dealings with The Baron, I discover that the following leaflet has been pushed under my door:

Professor Mbaye's slate of services is certainly comprehensive. Although my problem is not explicitly mentioned — I scan the list hopefully for "bad debtor" or "pathologically uncooperative property developer" — I feel that it must surely be covered under the broader categories of "Business Problems" or "BAD OBSTACLES that are blocking your success".

It is difficult to ignore the timing of this offer to provide "THE ANSWER TO ALL YOUR UNSOLVED PROBLEMS" and although my normal instinct would be towards cynicism, I am reassured by the Professor's assertion that his work is "serious with confidentiality and Quick". Besides, why would a gifted and genuine spiritual healer risk ruining a 20 year reputation with spurious claims about his abilities?

I have a sudden strong feeling that this great man has reached out to me in my moment of need and all that is required on my part is small leap of faith. And once the thought of temporarily suspending my disbelief enters my head, I find myself inexplicably warming to Professor Mbaye's old-fashioned charm, generous nature and apparently boundless enthusiasm for capital letters.

So I put any doubts to the back of my mind and phone the number at the bottom of the flyer. The Professor answers after barely one ring — definitely a good sign for a self-proclaimed clairvoyant — and after patiently listening while I explain my predicament, assures me that my problem is easily solved. However, for the remedy to be fully effective he says I will need to provide some personal item from The Baron to allow him to focus his spiritual energies.

My heart sinks — how am I going to obtain such an item, particularly now relations with The Baron have almost completely soured — until I remember the bounced cheque returned by the bank. The Professor says that this is perfect as it is something that my 'enemy' has been in contact with recently, and is also intimately related to the problem at hand.

As if to seal the deal he tells me that due to the 'credit crunch' he is currently offering two most powerful spells for the price of one, and keen to take advantage of this limited period offer I take that leap and make an appointment for early next week.

After a disappointing start to the day, I now feel better knowing I am taking some new positive, if unconventional, step to shift the balance of power between myself and The Baron back in my favour and I'm looking forward to meeting Professor Mbaye in person next week.

I will let you know how it goes...

It's been a few months since The Baron has been mentioned on Man Writes Blog but recently he's loomed ominously back into frame and I thought it was time I gave you an update.

For the uninitiated, "The Baron" is my family-friendly nickname for the 'gentleman' who in June last year bought the flat beneath mine and almost immediately started excavating a large basement, without consent from either me or the council. In my various dealings with him since then he has revealed himself to be one of the most untrustworthy and unscrupulous people I have ever knowingly encountered.

Various Baron-related episodes have been covered before on Man Writes Blog, so I won't go over old ground, suffice to say that sharing ownership of a property with The Baron is like sharing ownership of The One Ring with Gollum, and trying to have a reasonable discussion about who gets to wear it at the weekend.

Shortly after my last entry in May, The Baron finally realised, or at least finally accepted, that if he wanted to sell his flat he'd need my retrospective permission for the basement. Some months previously I'd given him what I felt was a reasonable figure for signing this off, and at the time it had gone down about as well as a request for some quality time with his wife.

But now, it seemed, he had a potential buyer and was keen to move things forward. He'd had a think, he said, and decided that the sum was reasonable given the hassle I'd had to put up with and so he was happy to pay it. He was "not an unreasonable man". I smiled and thanked him for his reasonableness, both of us knowing full well that we owed this change of heart to the fact that he'd positioned himself over a barrel, with his short and curlies within easy reach.

So while our solicitors prepared the necessary paperwork, we entered a period of nauseating cordiality. He'd corner me at least once a week outside the property we owned together and we'd have long chats about crime, the state of the economy, and Obama's chances in the US election, looking to all the world like old friends. There was even talk (from him I might add) of us going out for a pint together when it was all over.

And then, just when I thought I couldn't take any more, he paid me the money. Not a massive sum but not a tiny one either. Enough to keep me in largely unpaid speculative comedy writing for a few more months. He still owed me a hundred quid or so for some bits and pieces I'd bought during the recent entente cordiale for which we'd agreed to share the cost, but I disappeared off to Edinburgh with assurances that the remaining work would be finished by the time I got back and that there would be a cheque waiting for me for the monies owed.

When I did return two weeks later, there had been no progress on the flat and there was no cheque under the door. Rubbish still piled up against the front wall of the house and was now spilling out onto the pavement. A couple of days after getting back I received a visit from the council saying they'd received a complaint the state of the public footpath and so I stood patiently there being ticked off before being finally able to point out that it was nothing to do with me.

On the same day I found a letter addressed to The Occupier which turned out to be from a debt recovery agency (called Chase Solutions — no really) giving advance warning of a doorstep visit to collect over £300 owed for electricity.

I tried to phone The Baron to let him know that the council and some debt hounds were hot on his heels, but neither of the mobile phone numbers I had for him were in commission. Unfortunately this is a rather regular occurrence. I've had the same mobile for ten years; his rarely seem to last no much longer than ten days.

The next day I heard some people downstairs and popped down to find him in the kitchen overseeing the installation of various shiny new appliances. He was acting decidedly shifty and the faux matey persona had all but disappeared. He told me that the sale of his flat had fallen through and that he'd decided to rent the property out and then spend six months or more out of the country until the housing market was in better shape.

The thought of him finishing his own flat off, moving a bunch of randoms in, and then disappearing out of the country without finishing the other work he'd committed to was more than a little disconcerting. When I asked about the people who would be moving in, he said he didn't know them personally because they weren't arriving in the country until next week. And the way he said it conjured up images of people clinging to the underside of trains.

Over the next few days I tried to keep the pressure on him to finish the rest of the work and pay me the money he owed. But each time he assured me that he'd get something done, it quickly turned out to be an empty promise. I tried to up the ante, by haranguing at him every opportunity, and getting increasingly irate each time, but it soon became clear that I was running out of options. I'd either have to have a physical fight — in fact, not just have one, but actually start one — or just give up.

In the end I decided to write him a letter threatening legal action. Out of courtesy (and because I thought the threat alone might have some effect) I felt that I should inform him of my intentions, but even this turned out not to be easy.

So, the next morning I go downstairs with the intention of delivering this ultimatum and found him outside on his mobile phone. He sees but doesn't acknowledge me and starts walking casually down the road. I assume he wants a bit of privacy for his call so just sit patiently on the wall outside the house for him to finish.

After getting about half way down the road, he glances back, sees me still waiting for him, and then carries on walking, turning the corner at the bottom. And that's when I realise he's trying to do a runner. So I dash after him and then we spend about five minutes locked in this ridiculous routine with him walking up and down the same stretch of road and me following him a polite distance behind. Eventually he puts the call on hold long enough for me to deliver my news. He's not happy about it but he's not exactly begging for mercy either.

Over the weekend I spent several hours writing a very detailed letter with a summary of my various grievances together with the action I intended to take if they were not resolved within a reasonable amount of time.

On Sunday evening I conduct a bit of internet research to try to confirm The Baron's home address (he's very cagey about where he actually lives) so I know where to send the letter, and in the process I work out that the names on the deeds are very likely his parents rather than him and his wife (which is actually a slight relief).

Then for the next couple of hours, I'll confess, I get a bit OCD about finding out as much as I can about this man. I'm Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein rolled into one and this is my Watergate. Except, instead of tirelessly pursuing on foot dozens of reluctant witnesses and hundreds of dead-end leads, I'm sitting in front of the internet in my pants.

I sign up to a couple of pay-to-join people tracing services and then the fun really starts. I'm able to find out The Baron's real first name (I only know him by a nickname) and subsequent searches on this full name throw up various different addresses and searches on these addresses reveal subtle but obviously deliberate variations of his name. Sometimes it's different names at different addresses at the same time, sometimes different names in different years at the same address. Proper multiple identity stuff. This is all rather exciting and I feel that at least now I finally know who I'm dealing with.

The next morning I 'serve' him the letter, and tell him I'm going to send copies to his solicitor, parents and mortgage company. This leads to an argument in the street, which I initially find quite cathartic, but then walk away saying that if I don't get a cheque for the money I'm owed by the end of the day I'll take that as a indication that he has no intention of cooperating on any of the other stuff.

I head out for the day and try to guess what, if anything, will be waiting for me when I get back. I reckon the possibilities are: a cheque (25% probability), nothing at all (50% probability), and a masked man with an iron bar (25% probability).

When I do get back there's no cheque and I resign myself to sending the letters off the next morning. I head out again in the evening and come back late with a half-hope that he might have slipped something under my door, but still nothing.

At 8.20am this morning, The Baron phones and asks when I'm leaving the house because he wants to come round to give me a cheque. He's very keen to make it quite clear that this change of heart has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with my letter because he doesn't respond to threats. We meet an hour or so later outside the house and he writes me the elusive cheque, reiterating the point that his sudden acquisence has nothing to do with my letter. As he is handing over the cheque he looks me in the eye and says "I want to make this crystal clear. I am not the sort of man who responds to threats".

I obviously went straight down the bank to deposit the cheque. I don't think it will bounce, but nothing would surprise me. As to whether the remaining work gets done, only time will tell, but the letter worked once, so maybe it will work again.

Of course I'm mindful that such threats are likely to be completely ineffective...