Circles

Another letter arrives from the bailiffs. No visits yet, as far as I am aware, although I have been avoiding my house somewhat.

I think I know their game. Assuming their letters are copied to the Council, they're claiming for "visits" which they haven't made so that they can add more money on to my bill. If they've done any research on me whatsoever they'll know I'm a complete financial basket case and not worth pursuing.

In such situations, there is only one thing one can do.

We checked into our room, where Trina tried on the three outfits she'd brought with her. We got half through the second one before my stiffening resolve meant that my assessment of them had to find a mutually enjoyable form of expression.

Trina's a natural dancer and it was a joy to be on a dancefloor with her. I introduced her to several people. "Everyone knows everyone, don't they?" she said."

In the morning, while she was asleep, I had my hand on her cunt and was working a couple of wettened fingers into her. I like sleepy surprise sex and not asking. "Oooh!" she said, as she came to. "There's a mouse," which wasn't quite the response I was expecting. I fucked her with my fingers and then my cock. It was a lovely sexy night away.

This morning we took a peramubulation round the Ashton Gardens, donated by Lord Ashton of Lancaster, whose firm was the world's largest manufacturer of linoleum. Trina pointed out the different types of berries and shrubs and posed for a picture on a little wooden bridge. She stood there awkwardly, trying not to squint in the sun, and I kissed her and stroked her, desirable even under a sibilant anorak.

She went off to Manchester to see a girlfriend. I sat in the pub and became involved in the next table's conversation. (St Anne's is very friendly). Three men, and a good looking thirtysomething blonde with a grey and orange woolen dress which stopped halfway along her thighs, black tights and boots.

It was an afternoon of refined conversation at a level befitting one of the Northwest's most elegant watering holes. A mentally disabled woman came in with her carer and was talking rather loudly. "That's the kind of bird you'll end up with," one of the men said to his friend. "You'll end up with a turkey--a fat bird that doesn't gobble any more." Blondie said that a woman in a club in Blackpool the previous night had been after one of the blokes. "Yeah," I said, "that's what he's telling you. He probably just went back to the room and had a wank."

I stood up to leave "Well, let us know when you're coming back to St Anne's because the entertainment is fucking funny."

Not one for the dating site

There was time for one last pint so I went to Fifteen, voted the best real ale pub on the Fylde and had a superb pint of Dark Star Espresso. I was flagging a bit by now, as the photo suggests. I got talking to a bloke who seems to have cornered the local market in right wing Protestant T-shirt printing. He showed me one of his T-shirts, printed for the Preston supporters of the Ulster Volunteer Force, with a design of the red hand, British Legion poppies, and the Union Jack.

But now, as Trina will be round in a little while so that I can give her a good seeing to her tea, I must leave you and prepare for her reception.

Track of the night