All out

I'm in Really Late's offices, being a receptionist. Across the corridor a couple and their problems; should be all quiet for about half an hour. Just been down to see Kitty and Sixth Form Girl at the Duke's. They're going to Dog at Nightime or whatever it's called, relayed from the National Theatre. I'm working this evening so Kitty gave the ticket meant for me to Sixth Form Girl. It's a pleasure to see friends formerly connected only through oneself getting on autonomously. Kitty drove me down in the car. "You're fucking beautiful," I didn't say.

The more yesterday approached, going to Nottingham for the cricket, the less I was looking forward to spending four hours on Birmingham Coach Station, starting at 4.10am. I bent the last twenty-five pounds out of my flexible friend and went down on the previous evening instead. My friend lives in an attractive village a few miles outside Nottingham, in which one expects Janet and John to appear, gaily running behind their mother as she fetches provisions from the butcher to put in the wicker basket on her bike. It reminded me of where Mary-Ann lives. I think of Mary-Ann often, and wonder how she'd react to a suggestion of a friendship.

Booking late for a sell-out match, we had the best and most expensive seats in the house, high up behind the bowler's arm, above where the commentators sit. The man behind us, in a pink check shirt and navy trousers like the ones I used to wear in my disastrous three months at the Bank discussed, without bragging, his ownership of "a few care homes." Next to him, a man who was something in law, discussed how he sometimes would poach or tempt into freelancing, someone who's "shit hot at that kind of contract."

"Would you like a hot drink? Or?" My host snapped the last syllable off sharply, letting me know that a request for a drink would be impolite. They've got a two-month-old daughter, and the house felt like hers and her mother's when we were there, which is perhaps why Brendan reacted with alacrity to my suggestion of a day at the cricket. On the train back from Nottingham, the trolly dolly came round and gave me a Stella when I was 14p short for it.

At Manchester Piccadilly, I tried to get money out of my credit card, progressively downgrading my requests at the ATM until even ten pounds was refused. It was unsettling, all my cards exhausted. I circled Sainsbury's, thinking about shoplifting, but poked my fingers into the seldom-visted little pocket above my main one and found three pounds twelve: just enough for two bottles of Stella Cidre, a drink I would criticise others for drinking.

In less than eight hours from now I will be at the --- in Lancaster for what N, in his imperious manner, calls a "call" for this fucking D**kens thing I've got myself involved in, while I will miss my daughter performing in Preston. The last day in which he can exert his will over us, so he sends a schedule of fifteen hours.

It's not all bad. The not bad things are about Trina, and planning going out dancing, ("I just don't want to look like someone's mad aunt") which I will relate once this ball ache of a spazmodically organised show is over at midnight tomorrow.