We cannot go on like this

This morning, just as I'm going round to the girls' house, I get a phone call from the D*ck*ns event organiser. I let it ring; I hadn't the energy to pretend and be lively and responsive. To my relief, it has been postponed. The whole thing, from its inception to its postponement, has been a reification of N's self-absorption, the cost of which has been a constant inattention to the practical details of its presentation, which has now proved fatal.

The piece still isn't completely written, even at rehearsal stage, neither have we secured anything like the funding we need. Instead, N delightedly, repeatedly announced "I've found another young man!" (for the cast), wasted endless days and weeks on meandering around the text, and rehearsals were largely a vanity project rather than a planned programme of concentrated work. Even before this announcement, I'd made up my mind not to work with him again.

The lovely, out-of-time, weekend with Kitty and Melissa ended with some drinks under the grinding kitchen extractor fan in the Borough's beer garden on Sunday afternoon. The previous night they'd gone to the Yorkshire House for a long-running gothy night called Dark Side of the Lune (the Lune being the river that runs through Lancaster). The night bore up to its name.

Melissa warned Kitty about the toilets. "There's a smell in there. Of fetid vag", before she got talking to an enormously fat girl who was sitting with a bucket of popcorn (in a pub?) wedged between her splayed legs, feeding herself and then licking her palm. At the end of the conversation she proffered her saliva and sugar coated hand to Melissa. Meantime, someone was vomiting all over the bar.

I said goodbye to K and M, and the chemically postponed sleep won over for a couple of hours, defeating my attempts to see how Dorothea was dealing with Casaubon in Middlemarch. At the girls' house, we watched Usain Bolt win the 100m, and Oscar Pistorius come last in his heat. I was glad about both. How is Pistorius allowed to compete with able-bodied athletes? The man has artifical legs, which gives him a ground on which to compete denied to others.

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