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Long on

Permalink Fri 17th February 2017

I met up for a coffee with Melissa, who's up from London for a few days to see Kitty and Wendy. It's been a long time since I held a baby. I like the smell of their heads but that's about it.

But they're bringing up baby properly. I don't mean by paying him attention, talking to him a lot, putting his physical and emotional needs first, and all that poncy Southern rubbish. I mean that he's being trained into an appreciation of the finest game ever invented. We're going to clear a day for a visit to the Oval this summer so that all of us can go to see Lancashire beat Surrey.


Middle daughter went to London last week for an audition-cum-interview at a top drama school. Part of me is hoping she chooses the place in Glasgow instead; when we looked through last year's graduates on their website the other day, we noticed that apart from a couple of Welsh people, they all list their "native accent" as RP. One of them has a surname which includes the connective "de"; several of them list "skiing (advanced level)" amongst their skills. She'd be the only person paying her rent herself, and neither me nor Kirsty are in any position to match the subventions that the others will receive. The not-so-hidden injuries of class.

I was at Trina's that day, who was going a bit spare with Demented Mother. I took a recipe from Lancashire Life with me and was making a tomato and pumpkin seed bread. My phone went off in the other room. Before I realised what she was doing, she answered it. Even by the ragged standards of Trina's stunted emotional intelligence, I was staggered at the arrogance of her doing that. It was my actress daughter, enthusing about being chosen for a recall next week.


I didn't send Wendy a Valentines card; it's too obvious. Instead, I sent her an invite to a techno night in Manchester, having first got provisional agreement from her auntie that she could childsit.

I met her today. She was wearing possibly the sexiest of her dresses, although that would be a very difficult decision. Would you like to fuck me in this dress looby, or would you like me to change into that one and see which one you like fucking me most in? She said that she's going to arrange it at work so that she's off the following day, and as long as we can secure auntie's services, we're on.

Oooh, 2 comments!

2 comments

Comment from: kono
Lancashire and Surrey, i can only surmise the game you love so much is called Cricket, which coincidentally is the name of a strip club i used to frequent and single-handedly got the balcony shut down due to my shenanigans...

and for some reason while reading this various Smiths lyrics kept cropping up in my mind, don't know why, the last bit calling out for There's a Light the Never Goes Out...
Mon 20th February 2017 @ 03:24
Comment from: looby
I wish my light for Wendy would go out -- won't do anyone any good and me nothing but frustration. But I am smitten and lost and adrift now. Every night, every morning, every text, every time.
Mon 20th February 2017 @ 08:58

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looby, n.; pl. loobies. A lout; an awkward, stupid, clownish person


M / 52 / Lancaster ("the Brighton of the North").

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