I can't remember! That place in Powys!

"I want to go home with looby," she said repeatedly, putting her arms (and her tits) round me, in between saying she was an alcoholic and putting on the tears when she didn't get enough attention. "Don't get on a downer Kate," the man from Glasgow says. "It's Sunday. We've all got enough fucking problems in the week, come on."

At the girls' house last night, Fiona, my eldest, laughingly showing how she can cart every member of our family around on her back and then be thrown onto the sofa. Kirsty not sharing her wine, probably annoyed with me for exciting the girls before bedtime.

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An afternoon neglecting a deadline, spent with an impoverished Neil and Kev, carting a pile of books, on a trolly, to Oxfam, and then pooling our very limited funds for drink. Glances to strangers across the pub who are in the same state, glances which signal "Isn't this feeling of togetherness lovely?"

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The Professor of Understanding Ruffians Studies at Black Pudding Polytechnic gets in touch, drawn to something in my list of likes--"Materialist theories of art"--which I didn't think would be much of a girl magnet. Bit goofy-looking in her pictures, economy home haircut which looks like her friend's used a conical lampshade as a guide for the scissors, and teeth which present an argument for the early adoption of braces where they might be considered helpful, but you can't tell: Kim looked a bit ragged online; in real life she's a fitbit.

More immediately pretty is the woman from Birkenhead who sends a short, self-deprecating email and a picture of herself mid-stride on the dancefloor of a low-ceilinged nightclub. We're trying to move the pieces of our childcare arrangements around to get out for a drink.

The Christian has gone silent. Maybe she's found what I hoped was the unambiguous "No God botherers thanks." I hope she's not a member of a guitar-led church who's working herself up to respond "Yes, I would say I'm a Christian, but honestly, I've got absolutely no problems with gay people."

A nurse from the city of steel gets in touch with what is now becoming a wearying enthusiasm for parts of my profile, before helpfully telling me that she's pursuing someone else. This genre of email is comprised of formulations of "Someone else will really like you!"

More interestingly, a witty and kinktastic non-monogamous Glaswegian sends the most inventively funny emails. "I wish I hadn't used a Welsh place name as my safeword." That area of friskiness which involves an ethically-sourced physical deprivation of volition and agency from the woman has always appealed to me.

I'm back to Glasgow at the crack of dawn tomorrow as a train driver pal and I are going to see the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra play Bruckner's 7th, but I'm also going to appropriate that pile of rubble I found the other day in Anderstoun as my own art work. I'm going to put up the naming plaque on the building site, and then go round all the galleries and distribute a little leaflet about it containing my cv, a bit of arty blab, a picture of me in front of it, and a statement saying that although the site is not open, it can easily be viewed from Houldsworth Street.

I've also given Ms Llanfihangel-Yng-Ngwynfa my number and have asked her if she's tied up next week at all.

Not all my own work