Joy and Pain (Gillian's House Remix)

Gillian has: failed to keep repeated promises about the rent, been an irritiating mental interference while I was on holiday with the girls, caused me a great deal of financial problems, (which now involve Seriouscrush), and violated Section Eight of the Housing Act 1988.

I serve a Notice To Quit on her at the pub at which she works. It won't be any more effective by embarrassing her, so I folded it and put it in a folder marked "Guest List". She looked at me blackly. "Hello, I've got to give you this," I said. Our mutual friend was in there, which was to my advantage, as I have a witness for its presentation.

She's now avoiding me. This morning, as I was in the kitchen, she crept downstairs (you know how silent old Victorian houses with wooden staircases are) and out the front door, not locking it behind her.

I put all my bedding and the clothes worn on holiday in the washing machine. The dial for the programs is missing, there's a load of congealed liquid in the bit where you put the powder, and it does nothing if you turn it on. I can't afford to have it repaired.

A quarter of hour on the phone with a sympathetic, patient, but slightly exasperated official who explains that I am required to produce a more accurate record of my income from 30 September 2010 to date. Who keeps train tickets or receipts from eighteen months ago? They're all on my accounts, which I've sent to them, but that's not enough--they need to see the receipts. As I walked home today I started thinking what the worst case scenario would be should I lose this house.

I went to the bank and was refused a loan of 900 quid to pay the rent for May and June. In their open plan offices, every fucker could hear everything.

A good looking and witty girl, who might be feeling a bit isolated in The Lesbian Capital of the North, has struck up a conversation. I've told her about Trina. She offered to go away but I don't see any reason for that.

Strange how the material aspects of my life have worsened as the affective ones have taken flight. Last night, after a drunken night on champagne at our book club, I tried to send her a text about diacritical marks. Her real name is a Welsh one which requires a circumflex. It was probably a good job my battery expired mid-composition. She is flirty, funny, chatty, and appreciative, every day.

I've floated the idea of me, her and Kitty meeting up one day. I want any girlfriend I might have to meet my girl friends and I think the alchemy would be good. Although given how much both of them talk, I'd have to remember to pack a book.