The Well of Loneliness (not)

It's coming up to 6 and I'm in the back room of the Sun, with the glass-covered well in the middle of the room. You can stand on it and peer down and look at the source of the water which residents here drank before mains water arrived. We've had a planning meeting for our Dickens event, which New Business Colleague thinks is "fucking shit" because he's uneducated and needs help. It's good working with Kev and Neil. You can be honest and question things without them getting all prickly.

I'm drinking the lovely Ross-on-Wye dry cider. Every batch they make is different. They grow forty varieties of cider apple on their farm and every time you drink it it will be different. It's all unpasteurised, it's all pressed and made in their orchard. We should get the EU to limit the word "cider" to the kind of things that Ross-on-Wye are doing rather than this placcy bottled shite that teenagers get pissed on in bus shelters. It damages the name of a drink that should be part of English gastronomy.

Bit of an awkward meeting with Seriouscrush and boyf last night (the owners of my house). They seemed to think I am profiteering from their lease. They own two other houses, each worth about 450 grand. It was a managed evening; a spontaneous laughter about something we were saying corrected by the cloud of the issue before us. I didn't want to appear too grateful about their generosity towards me; and always, the receding memory of my affair with Seriouscrush. They were saying that the honesty with which they deal with me isn't being reciprocated. No, maybe not, but honesty is a privilege of the wealthy.

Mary-Ann texts this morning. It's a surprise. I reply, saying that I'm missing her, which I am. I miss her tits and the way she gave herself to me (and I to her) as a sexual recreation ground one Sunday, while Stefan moved about in the bedroom opposite and went for a noisy piss, failing to do what any person with an atom of sensitivity would do, which is to fuck off down the pub for a few hours. I suggest ringing her. She replies cautiously. "I'm not very good at doing the casual as a sequel to the intense x."

I just want a bird I can go out drinking with, go dancing, get pissed, chat with the first thing that comes into your head, easy selfish skin touching, which doesn't mean fucking each other in seven equally satisfying positions, fall asleep, bother her in the morning, massive fry up, fried eggs and black pudding.

I'm torn between wanting to reply and thnking she's too deep for me. On my dating profile it says "I've got the spiritual depth of a puddle, so while you're off finding yourself in Peru I'll find the corkscrew." And I'm not sure if I fancy her that much.