There may be trouble ahead

At the next table, two bus spotters are having a couple of pints. Taking advantage of their seat next to the curving window, they are watching the buses coming into the bus station.

I wonder if that's a 56?
--We'll find out in a bit.
It's going round the corner.
--Yes it is.
How can you tell?
--The emergency window curves up like that round the edge.
Why does it do that?
--I don't know.

Down the pub the other day I saw a couple I know walk in. The man has been generous and good company to me over the years. He's also got a gorgeous wife.

Keeley looked very tired (and quite sexy with it, in her pale brown cord skirt cut on the bias), chasing after their two-year-old daughter. The last time we three met was about eighteen months ago when I was seeing Frances, and that night I went back to hers. While we were having sex in possibly my favourite position, her sitting on me facing me, I told her about seeing Keeley. Frances was quite encouraging, and with my cock buried inside her I started describing in slow detail the pleasure of seeing Keeley, her lovely tits and the stretchy Lycra scoop neck she was wearing. "There's not many women you could do this with" I thought, even at the time.

Such thoughts shimmered across my mind as I talked to them both.

I was the lucky recipient of a hot ticket last weekend - to the tenth anniversary bash of Lancaster Brewery, held in their swish visitor centre. Unlimited ale, wine and cider, and abundant, delicious food (hot fluffy cheese and onion buns, mini steak pies, little cones of tiny finger pieces of fish and chips, and a huge tower of profiteroles).

One of my old customers from the wholesale flower place was there, a woman I detained with endless flirting queries and tilty-headed helpfulness. During a disastrous few weeks working at a bank (they never found that £500 and I certainly didn't steal it), she was standing in the queue behind a rather dashing man who was paying in some money. "Oops," said my fellow teller. If I had pressed this button I'd have credited your account with £40,000."

Straight away, she leant over his shoulder coquettishly and said 'What are you doing tonight?" ("I'm not doing anything," I felt like weakly piping up.)

Outside the premises there's a large illuminated sign: "Lancaster. The Brewery". Swelled with ale and pleasure, I stopped for a minute and felt proud of my city, glad that people like the brewery's owner are here and helping Lancaster regain some of its lustre, without, this time round, it depending on the slave trade (much of the old money round here is of ignoble provenance).

Tomorrow it's Kitty's birthday so we'll be cracking open the champagne with her cousin ("Ooh dear Kitty, that's my third [glass of wine]!"), but with a need not to jeopardise my mens sana in corpore sano as I'm entertaining Mary-Ann here the day after.

I've found the card for her for 14th. In case you can't see, on the back of the card it says "Multipack card. Not to be sold separately."

Me	Harry Redknapp

The episodic nature of this post is due to the fact that all events this week have had to compete with a frequently overbearing preoccupation. I'm about to skid into a patch of black ice ahead, in that I might have misinterpreted some technical details of the law. A bit like the recent case involving a leading English football manager; with, I hope, the same result. But on a "least said, soonest mended" basis, we'll just carry on for the time being and hope it sounds convincing enough on the day