8.20

At the girls' house last night, me and Kirsty were ambling through a bottle of cheap plonk. Melanie, my youngest--by six minutes--said "I think self-esteem is too low in women and too high in men."

My mobile beeped. "Where are you? We're ready for you :)" I had completely forgotten a dinner engagement at Csilla and Stefan's, the former lodgers. I swigged my wine and rushed to the railway station, rang Csilla, and made up an excuse based on childcare. On the train I met an old friend, a Catholic priest now, who was telling me about bereavements in our former shared Department at the university--Religious Studies. I did Music and Philosophy, but dipped a toe into "C19th Protestant Revivalism in America", a course I expected to dislike but which I thoroughly enjoyed, our now deceased Texan professor, John Clayton (real name), leaning back on his chair with his feet on the table, giving seminars which I didn't want to end. Second to my parents, I am most grateful to my teachers, all of them, from primary school to my brilliant and attractive postgraduate supervisor.

Csilla and Stefan have a flat in a visually pleasing area in an otherwise ugly city--Preston. It's decorated in a Wilko stylee: pale yellow wallpaper with names of herbs in serif script, heavy curtains with the word "Renaissance" printed on to make it look like embroidery, bare bulbs poking from cheap Chinese black metal chandeliers.

As a greeting, Csilla gets out a plastic bottle and pours out the pálinka. It's made by her father on their dacha about 100km north of Budapest. and is delicious, a hot slide of sloes. "Egészségedre", we all say, the first word of Hungarian Csilla taught me. We get through several bottles of wine. "Seriouscrush," I gabble, with drunken emphasis, "is the most physically attractive woman I have ever, ever, met." Is she more attractive than Trina?" says Csilla. "Well..." I stammer. "Well, that's a.. a difficult question." "No, it's not a difficult question, just one you don't want to answer." I sleep on a voluptuously hard sofa bed. I sleep best on the floor. Beds are for sex, not sleeping.

They have to get up for work, so I leave the flat at half past seven. I arrive back in Lancaster shortly after eight o'clock and with a feeling of being naughty, I go to Wetherspoons, which serves from 8am. "Hiya how are you?" says the barman. "Yeah, just got off a night shift." "I think that deserves a pint then, what are you on?"

I sit down and turn my phone back on. Beep beep. It's a text from Erica. I was a bit nervous about what she would say as I sent her an amorous text in the early hours on Sunday morning after we'd been dancing at the --- Hotel at which we'd had a bit of Pepsi, saying how gorgeous and well-dressed she is. "I love you looby! Up at 6 for work. Not good!" I relaxed with relief and sat back with silent contemplation of nothing in particular, physically thrilled with the feeling of beer seeping into me, while outside, people busied about, presenting themselves with the harsh punctuality and the performance of commitment that low-paid work requires.