Awkward

The new girl, Gillian, moved in on Thursday. Mid-twenties, English, long straight black hair. Tight black miniskirt and black tights; has a nice bust and shows it, unbuttoning a dark blue blouse to just beneath her tits. Despite all this, I'm not in the slightest bit attracted to her. She works long hours in a pub, so I can keep the house economically chilly.

A note of awkwardness appeared. I took the rental agreement round to her workplace yesterday, assuming she'd pay me the first month and the deposit, having moved in three days previously. She said she's not allowed to keep any money with her in the pub (not even a cheque?) and that she'd sort it out on Wednesday. I can hear her moving about downstairs and I wish I'd been firmer about taking the money before, or when, she moved in.

A man waiting to buy a flimsy overpriced quayside flat came round to look at the other room. His posh voice and strange, artificial enunciation made me slightly nervous. "May I sit down?" he asked. I adopted an affected RP. I didn't take to him--too mannered--but as he only wants it for a few weeks it might be worth mincing through the politeness for a while.

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Rhode Island Red, who "forgot" our arrangement to go to see Into The Abyss, replies to say she'll pass on Le Havre tonight, and wishes me "a great weekend." That's two suggestions she's rejected now; I can't extend any more. I'm going with Sixth Form Girl instead (she's in her thirties now but was in the Sixth Form when I met her).

The illustrator and English postgrad who "liked" me hasn't responded to my email, sent six days ago.

Mel and I have agreed to have another chat when I get back from my hols, something I am struggling to now feel optimistic will happen.

I'm letting my sub on the site lapse when it runs out in a couple of days' time. I'm getting jaded with it now, and my response to the Prof suggests it's time to leave it for a while, before I visit my resentments on someone else.

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Kitty therefore unknowingly timed her visit perfectly. She came over yesterday for a couple of hours. To relax into her bright, witty company, the little self-mocking bits of performance she makes out of conversation (she's a drama teacher), and to enjoy looking at her beautiful tits well-dressed self, was a stomach-unknotting relief, as we started drinking before midday and chatted effortlessly and rapidly.

Afterwards we went round a bookshop. I bought Exercises in Style by Raymond Queneau, his 1947 classic in which he recounts an incident on a bus in ninety-nine different ways. I collected my daughters from a party, a din of early teenage girls and chocolate cake in the carpet, and took them to the pub where Kirsty and her boyfriend had arrived back from their weekend away. He bought me a drink, and the second shadow of awkwardness of the day crossed the table.