I managed to postpone the "voluntary" interview with Plod. It was supposed to be this Wednesday, but I was anxious not to get arrested before me and Kirsty and the girls set sail for Brittany this morning.
When I get back I'll tell you more about my uncle's cremation and the shortest wake I've ever been to. The funeral was at 3.30, we spend the usual twenty minutes or so getting to the pub, then everyone left at 5.00! Most of them are teetotal, and this demonstrates the baleful consequences of giving up the drink.
I have been living in interesting times, in the Chinese sense. There is much that would not be judicious to reveal in public, but I will condense that which can be shared into what I hope is a narrative of untiring length. A further delay in posting this has been caused by my having to reinstall the operating system after over-reaching myself in trying to set up LUKS on my entire hard drive, thinking I was technically competent to avoid the dangers of using it on my OS, explicitly described on the project's website.
I should also point out that the second section of the post is NSFW.
One day last month, Teaching Practice Friend asked if she could call round at 8.30am, as her mother was going to be spending a few hours in hospital. Her knock seemed very loud for a lissom girl in her forties. I opened the door to a surreal scene of two plain clothes CID officers, and Teaching Practice Friend holding a budgie in a cage in one hand, with two dachshunds on the lead in the other.
With admirable presence of mind, Teaching Practice Friend suggested she takes the dogs for a walk. Plod came in asked me about a former housemate, Bela. There wasn't much I could say, as the last I heard she had abandoned her MA and had left to find herself in Thailand. "Lots of travel books, Mr Looby," one of them remarked. "Do you go abroad often?" They rang through on their radio to do a "body check" -- a name I'd not heard before for checking up on one's criminal background. It came back clear.
Running out of ideas, they were eventually forced to reveal their hand. They had intercepted "a very nasty substance" in the post. Opinions may vary as to how nasty said item is. They asked me for a phone number in order to keep in touch. Unthinkingly, I gave them my mobile number and immediately regretted doing so. Absurdly, I thought of how Vladimir Putin would have been trained in the KGB never to reveal such information.
My heart was pounding violently and it was only with the utmost effort that I was able to maintain a calm appearance during the conversation. They left, inconclusively, thanking me for my time. Teaching Practice Friend returned, and my mind swam in distraction and worry, and I was hardly taking in a word of her conversation.
A week or so later me and Trina set sail from Portsmouth for a week's holiday in St Malo. Trina was most anxious throughout the lead-up to the trip, convinced that a crack team of Interpol's drugs squad would see my pre-booked holiday as evidence of the guilt of a fugitive.
A couple of days into the holiday, I was sitting alone in a bar when a text came through. "Sorry to bother you while you're on holiday," said my neighbour, "but something strange has happened at your house." They said that there was a padlock and clasp hanging loose from the door, together with a notice from the police. I arranged for a locksmith to go round and change the locks. I did nothing to disabuse my neighbours of their misapprehension that there had been a burglary; and I did my best to banish the incident from my mind for the remainder of our holiday.
When I arrived home I expected the house to be in complete disarray after my unwelcome visitors. It was hardly touched at all. Nothing in my room had been moved. I found out that the new lodger had had to go down to the police station at 5am when she got back from work, to get the padlock taken off. Oddly, the only thing they confiscated was Tom's computer, which will be the most boring hard drive they'll have examined this century. At least mine has some pretty pictures on it.
The police had left behind a copy of the Search Warrant, which gave them authority to look for "methamphetamine and items related to the production of methamphetamine." Now, whilst my chemical romance has taken on various flavours over the past thirty-odd years, methamphetamine is pharmacopeia incognita to me. I learned that while I had been in France, an actual meth farm had been discovered round the corner from where Kirsty lives, in the heart of Lancaster's macrame belt. The next day, there was a comical coincidence. The police had delivered, to every household in Lancaster, a leaflet containing a scratch and sniff card, to enable those who have led a somewhat sheltered upbringing to recognise the smell of cannabis.
Nothing happened for a month, then yesterday I received a call from the police inviting me for a "voluntary interview", which will take place later this week or early next, but only after I've spoken to my solicitor. The old advice, that there are two people to whom you should never lie--your doctor, and your solicitor--is good counsel.
In other news, Kim came over and we had another of our paradaisical three day sessions of sherry, no drugs at all--of course not, because I detest all drugs--fish and chips and saucy postcards in Morecambe, and that special closeness that comes from sleeping in the same bed as a woman you love in a friendish sense. Her lovely, strokable, unkempt, dark-blonde hair melding into the sand as we slept off a bottle of sherry on the beach. I thought she was taking a bit long in the loos neat the Clock Tower, and I got a text "Just putting on me bikini." She'd found it earlier in B&M Bargains for a fiver.
Trina... that will have to wait for another time, but it's unravelled beyond the point of rescue. She described me, in an email, as "selfish, shallow, immoral and disrespectful but you are also great company and a good laugh," which is pretty accurate.
Donna paid for me to go to see her in Milton Keynes. She cooked a lovely meal, plied me with Prosecco, and then we had fabulous sex. She dressed up in black hold-ups, red fuck-me high heels, and this mesmerising black bra. My cock was rigid; I felt doubly liberated with sexual desire and the lack of worry about getting it up. I said "Right, I think it's time I put my cock in your mouth so that you can suck it," she replied "Any particular way?" which made me tense with delight at the precisely expressed miracle of submissiveness. We got detained on the stairs; and she showed me a new trick which sent me into an agony of pleasure and pure desire. Next night, we went to a pub in Tring and got pissed with her friends (everyone was way over the limit driving back). They were excellent company, all working in the legal side of pharmaceuticals. One of them said she goes "slug dancing", which means she gets pissed and goes out at night dancing around her garden stomping on all the slugs.
I go for a coffee with Italian Looking Woman. She was wearing a scoop-necked tight green vest, over which was a low V-necked shirt in a flowery lilac, yellow and green pattern, with a sewn-in black tie round her waist. She couldn't have shown her lovely tits off any better; but she makes a great deal of eye contact, and so the opportunities to enjoy them were limited.
We got talking about the awkwardness of first-time sex. She said she worries about it and imagines scenarios in which it will be a disaster. "I mean, what if when he takes his pants off... and it's really small?" Another reason not to pursue her.
At the party, Wendy came up to my room. "Oh," she said, as she walked through the door. "It smells... drinky." Wendy's a relative of Kitty's and we've stayed in touch since the New Year's Eve party. She was looking at my books, and urging me to read The Wind-up Bird Chronicles by Murakami. We started talking about sex, and I said that on the appropriately-termed comedown from speed I feel possessed by a sexual drive and sometimes feel depraved in my ways of sorting it out. The following day she texted, hoping both that we can meet up again and that "the wankfest was a good one."
She was a great dancer too, in her gorgeous dress that was tight right down to her thighs, but had a loose, V-neck with lots of narrow folds. When I told her it was a great dress, I couldn't help a tiny look down, and we both laughed. "Yes, thought you'd like that, looby," said Kitty, who was standing close by.
At one point, with an Underworld album on, (Wendy's choice), Trina was jabbering incessantly on, and I started trying to manoeuvre her out of the circle in which Chris, Wendy and I were trying to create with dancing. "Shall we just dance?" I
told asked her.
There was another girl there I took a bit of a shine too, one of Erica's friends who (like me) was at her wedding. "Well, we sleep in separate rooms now," she said. "In the evening we can be sitting on the sofa and he just gets his penis out and says 'So are you going to suck it or are we going to have sex?'" That's something you say when things are going very well, not when you're sleeping apart. She was lovely and chatty and smashed a bottle of wine, part of which turned up in my foot this morning.
Helen was there, very tired, but doing her best. She asked me to put Car Wash on but couldn't dance to it and for one moment I thought she might fall over. After she'd left, Erica -- off her tits on Fruit Salad and Smarties -- said, "your friend Helen. I found her attention-seeking and self-pitying." I nearly burst into laughter. It was accurate -- for that particular evening -- and was said entirely without malice. My friend from teaching practice turned up dressed as a nun and as she left, saying she had church in the morning, another guest was respectfully nodding. He thought she was a real nun.
On Sunday morning, me and Trina were in bed. I turned my phone on and went still and quiet, and ignored Trina asking me "what's the matter?" It was a text from Donna.
I'm in the back of a car. I think it's a silver Audi. I've been taken from my home against my wishes. I think I've been kidnapped. It feels like we are driving north. Please alert the authorities but tell them to act with caution as I think my captors might be armed.
I rang her friend, and got the two long dial tones which means she's cut off by fog in Europe somewhere. "Hi Beth, sorry to bother you on a Sunday morning but I've just had a text from Donna saying she's been kidnapped. I don't know if you could ring me back and tell me if that's something her sense of humour would cause her to write, or whether we need to do something?"
Trina, as I knew she would, got into a strop, useless in a crisis as ever, which is why she'd be the last person I'd tell if I were in trouble. "There's more to this than meets the eye. There's another girl to worry about now. Who's this Donna anyway?" "I've told you. She's the girl I went to the Soul Festival with, with Erica and Jo and boyf and the girls."
She stormed out of bed. I couldn't care less what she said or did. I got up and texted Donna, and received a phone call from Beth, who was in a hotel in Germany, attending a beer festival. It emerged that it was a joke about having to come up north to see her sister, whom she doesn't like.
I explained it to Trina, who said it was "disgusting". I said I thought it was a clever, articulate and convincing joke. As gently as I could, because she can't help her upbringing, I told her that her reaction explained why I wouldn't tell her about anything about it, and that it was an example of why I say she's a natural conservative.
It's lovely having the city back to yourself, now that the students have gone back to the places where RP is the unlocal accent. I'm in the pub, and occasionally I wonder why it isn't jammed with shouty men in banana suits and women in sexless dresses, putting all that effort into a fucking curry night down a cheap chain pub. It's just the locals now, and the marooned Chinese who can't afford to go home, and who always seem to laugh a lot.
It's bra strap central down Wetherspoons tonight. Lovely. No complaints whatsoever.
Catweazel, who is not wearing a bra, is standing at the bar, which is unusual, both for the hour, and his positioning; normally he passes his afternoons on a table nearer the door, cursing to himself, punctuating his interior invective with a twitching tic of the head.
The new girl, Deb, moved in yesterday. She's in her mid-twenties and has a tough, night-time job in town. She burns these scented candles which gives a thick, dominating scent to the house. Seems pleasant enough though, as they all are at the beginning.
I'm always surprised and inwardly apologetic that anyone has chosen to live here. There's the gaping bit of wallpaper in her room and the ineradicable brown stains on the radiator, the lack of a shower, the ugly water-sodden bit of greyed wallpaper at the back of the kitchen sink... but I suppose she's chosen this over other places, and the rent's cheap for this area.
Goaded into activity partly by this feeling, and while listening to Warwickshire v Lancashire on the radio, I cleaned the bath, bleached and cleaned the shelves in the kitchen, did the shopping for the beetroot and feta soup I'm making for when Trina comes round tomorrow, then made a minestrone, for whatever meal it is you have at twenty past three, to go with the bread I'd made earier. Lancashire are 48 runs ahead with 8 wickets remaining.
I've got to warn Deb about, and invite her to, a party here on Saturday. I don't want to give her an implied licence to use the house like Party Central, despite a houseful of house music and people who are bright and chatty at 8am.
I'm getting quite to like these Sunday nights when Kirsty and boyf come back from their weekends away. There's always alcohol involved and occasionally it's quite comical to see Kirsty, especially, twitching with whatever's still in her system. All of us sit around and talk and drink for a couple of hours, me, my former girlfriend and our children, and her boyfriend, who's played a fucking blinder in how he's dealt with it. The girls really like him, which gives me a sense of calm and togetherness, for which I am grateful.
Boyf was upstairs and I asked Fiona, eldest, how the weekend went. They'd spent it at Boggle Hole Youth Hostel near Whitby.
"...It was very middle class though. Boyf was in the kitchen one evening and told Mum 'get doing that washing up, bitch', and a man said 'Oh, that's rather... harsh'."
Last Sunday morning, me and Donna were in bed in Glasgow. I was prodding my teeth, trying to find the source of a droning, blood-pulsing toothache. The potentially awkward subject of how we wrap this up turned out to be surprisingly easy to sort out.
"Donna, it's been a great weekend -- and it's not over yet -- but just to be honest,
I've already got a girlfriend, to whom I should stop acting like an utterly selfish twat it's too far for a relationship. That doesn't mean we can't have nice times at things of shared interest. And also," I added, faking a bit of selflessness, "I wouldn't want to stop you meeting anyone else."
"That's OK. That'd work." I kept stroking the inner bit of her upper arm because I've worked out she loves that (don't we all?) "So, a non-exclusive -- whatever -- where we just meet up for things we'd like to do? And perhaps stay overnight, you know, given the distance?" "That'd be great." I said, and we did some more of that humpy bum-cock non sex, given the no sex rule we'd agreed on.
Now, or rather, at some plausible interval, I can introduce Trina and gradually remove the layers of duplicity.
I went to Glasgow to
fuck meet Donna.
Sent: 1 June 2014, 1208
I am depillated to within an inch of my life. Although that is but stage one of the smoothing process. You'll be sliding all over the place. See you in the Horseshoe!
Sent: 1 June 2014, 1413
Jeez I love these Glasgow trains. Everyone's pissed up and this big gang of lads are having several hairs of the dog after a stag do in Blackpool. Cracking! X
Sent: 1 June 2014, 1449
Just through security so it feels like I've already left the country! Dxxxx
Sent: 1 June 2014, 1452
Don't miss your stop x
Sent: 1 June 2014, 1541
Right, we're off Dx
Sent: 1 June 2014, 1442
Happy flight! I'll give you something to suck on for landing X
Sent: 1 June 2014, 1449
Sent: 1 June 2014, 1654
I know you won't get this till you're off the plane but got a better idea. Scrap the Horseshoe, come to the Blackfriars instead. We can have something to eat and the beer's better.
Sent: 2 June 2014, 1024
Well that went a lot better than I thought. Don't have slightest wish to carry it on in any serious way but in the short term... she's pretty good in bed. Off to find some breakfast and then the art gallery Xx
Sent: 2 June 2014, 1213
You louche bastard! Glad you're having a good time. Stuck in the office. Am most envious x
Sent: 2 June 2014, 1849
It's been a superb 24 hours as your girlfriend. I've had a fab time. Thank you looby. Safe journey home too. Will be closing my eyes on the flight and thinking nice sexy thoughts involving you.. Dxxxxx
Sent: 2 June 2014, 1851
Thanks. I've had a fab time too. And amongst other things, it's lovely how you turn me on Xxx
Above is the way that we have told it to each other. There was, however, the odd moment when I thought it wasn't going to work, even in the short term.
We got back to the hotel, opened the cava and laid down on the bed and chatted for a few minutes. I said "Do you think we've got too many clothes on?" "Well, there's no rush is there?"
So we talked for a bit longer. We got horizontal again and started kissing. She moved her head away, and said "So, in Morecambe, the other week, you asked me about my prognosis, [she's got breast cancer] and I didn't answer."
I gave up. I realised that it's got to be on her schedule. I stood up, rebuttoned my shirt, and we started chatting again. Her conversation at that point, citing bland instances of self-aggrandizing deviance, made me want to ballpoint a passage from The Sea, The Sea: " We are such inward creatures, that inwardness is the most amazing thing about us, even more amazing than our reason. But ... most of what we think we know about ourselves is pseudo-knowledge. We are all such shocking poseurs, so good at inflating the importance of what we think we value."
And then... how it happened, I don't know. Maybe she got tired of her own talking, and my lack of responses. Suddenly, we were kissing in a way I find very exciting and cock hardening. She's quite stroky and soft with her lips one moment. I like how she keeps her eyes open, staring at me with a restrained power. And then she switches into this violent kissing, pushing my head onto hers, making my mouth wide open, so wide.
"Can you go on your side please?" I said. "No, that way. I want to feel my cock hardening against your arse." I turned her back towards me and we kissed again and I started shaking with near-coming.
We checked out of the hotel, wet-haired, at the last moment. At about three o'clock we had to start thinking about going home. She's an amateur dressmaker and was telling me about a new dress she's making. Fabrics and women's clothes are fascinating to me and she told me that it was to be made out of "stretch cotton", and
I we got on to talking about modern skirts and dresses, and how my the sexualised male gaze at the hemline depends upon the technological development of synthetic fibres. "Is that all you can say about miniskirts?" she said.
"Shall we end this where we started?" I said, and we walked back to the Blackfriars. We carried on talking about clothes. She showed me a picture of herself in a dress she made a few months ago. Even with post-work Glaswegians sitting around us, and even -- or because-- she was leaving in half an hour, my cock got stiff again. I was wearing my nice Italian trousers, and when my cock gets hard, I love the feeling of it against the tight cotton.
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