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Inching

  Sun 5th August 2012

The law of diminishing returns is kicking in. I'm taking inches when yesterday centimetres would do. But fuck it, Kitty and Melissa are up and it's the weekend, and I've got a righteous desert of sobriety coming up at my Mum and Dad's next week, the highlight of which will be bunking off on Wednesday evening to see Kim in Durham. It's been a long time since me and Kim exited ourselves from normal life for a few days, as we used to do, and although that won't happen, since I have to present it as a sober visit to a friend, I'm looking forward to seeing her.

We went to the Northern Soul night at the Bowerham. Bit of a funny moment when Kitty said I was being arsey, which caught me up short because I honestly didn't think I was behaving unreasonably, but then I thought that when one's been caning the phet a bit one can underestimate the arsiness of one's actions. Lack of sleep, unacknowledged tetchiness. "Do you want to go and have a dance?" she said, and then finally, I understood that they wanted to have a chat by themselves. I think. I think that's what it was, but I wasn't sure.

It didn't matter. We were all chatting again after a while, but with Kitty still urging me onto the dancefloor. "I can't do it as an exhibition," I said. Northern Soul isn't really my cup of tea, but it's the nearest available relative in Lancaster to my first love, Modern Soul, but no-one outside of the subculture knows what Modern Soul is.

I got talking to the people at our table. The bloke was telling me about his thirty-five year marriage to his wife, who was to my left, and about the transience of contemporary relationships. I told him about Trina, and how I have no idea how long it will last.

Kitty and Melissa left to go down the Yorkshire House, which will be all heavy rock and serious music. I've got a bottle of Ch. de Londis and am rather tempted by what's on the table over there.

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There are plenty of bastards who drink moderately. Of course, I don't consider them to be people. They are not our comrades.
Sergei Korovin, quoted in Pavel Krusanov, The Blue Book of the Alcoholic

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