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Through the square window

  Tue 23rd July 2013

Out of the blue, Seriouscrush (who owns this house), suggests "Beer? It's been ages."

Why? Perhaps the answer might come if I stare at the screen hard enough. We never go out any more. I ring Kim and tell her, trying to dilute my worry about what they might want by saying it out loud. She takes me laughingly away by telling me about her successful date with a Politics postgrad and some crap drugs.

In the pub's slanting garden, the wooden seats aren't levelled off, and I sit in a vulgar open-legged straddle across the plank, presenting a laddish 90 degree angle to Seriouscrush and her boyf which is not the sort of pose one wants to present in polite Lancaster society. I am nervous and am drinking quickly, becoming a bit animated.

Boyf goes to get another round. The beer, from Kirkby Lonsdale, is first class. We give their two-year-old a little sip. She puckers a little, then asks for more. Good girl.

"Yes," says Seriouscrush, sitting up a little, announcing the topic. Her beautiful tits arch slightly towards me. Everything about her looks and clothes, her estuary colours, her skirt hemmed on the bias, her black square editorish glasses, her expensively untrammelled black hair, her gorgeous body, those thin, prematurely-old fingers that I used to silently shout at in desperation, to touch me, is still beautiful; but I don't want to be consumed, burnt away to something she could breathe on and make disappear, again.

Oh get on with it. Have you found out about our affair, or are you chucking me out of the house?

"The window frames and the door really need taking back to some good wood, or down to some decent paint, and repainting. It would be easier if, er, you could do it."

I wasn't expecting that. So this is where is has ended, discussing window frames. Giddy with relief, I fetch another round and we settle into a English Sunday Pub Chat about varnish and kitchen units and what has happened lately to people we know and friends stuck in rubbish jobs.

In further house news, I receive an enquiry about the room which will become vacant at the beginning of the next academic year. It doesn't make any difference whatsoever to my objective and impartial housemate selection process that she is mid-twenties, very pretty, and a PhDer. She's Canadian, but we all have our crosses to bear in life.


Is that what it’s come to? Crap drugs + politics post-grad = successful date?

Dodged another one, I see. How many lives do you have left, brother?

I do believe that I would find living with a very pretty Canadian in her mid-20s to be problematic, to put it mildly. Best o’ luck with that.

Wed 24th July 2013 @ 02:17
Comment from: furtheron [Visitor]

I’m with Exile - living with a pretty mid 20s PhDer would be a problem… as I’d be living with my sons girlfriend… I’m all very confused now.

Canadian - one thing, she may not need to have the heating on full blast surely a Canadian will be acclimatised to colder climates?

Wed 24th July 2013 @ 10:04

Sorry, I’m getting a bit confused again. Seriouscrush owns the building, but YOU decide who gets to live there?

It must be rather exciting, having a touch of the wobbly-knees syndrome every time somebody knocks on your door. BTW, how’s that rather serious and deadly business partner of yours, the one with the decidedly shaggable gf?

Wed 24th July 2013 @ 17:33
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

E: Kim and Mr Politics had a good time. She said it was a nice change to meet a bloke who had interesting things to say (which is a bit of a sad reflection on our sex!). The drugs were a bit watered down though, apparently.

I think I’ve got about five lives left. All will be ok in the future; there’s just these odd patches of black financial ice to negotiate.

F: That’s a thought. I don’t want another one living here who thinks about 25 degrees is normal.

TSB: Yes, that’s the deal. I sort of manage it for them, since they had a terrible time with a heroin addict who used to rent it. He almost turned it derelict, lighting fires on the wooden floors and breaking the toilet and letting it all leak, that sort of caper. I’m sweetness and purity compared to him.

Business Partner is abroad, doing what he does with skyscrapers. Stunna Wife is still around, and I see her from time to time. Steering clear of her though. I quite enjoy having two legs.

Thu 25th July 2013 @ 10:37
Comment from: Homer [Visitor]

“Doing what he does with skyscrapers”

Is he King Kong?

Thu 25th July 2013 @ 15:49
Comment from: [Member]

He showed me some photographs of his last job. It makes you dizzy even looking at a two-dimensional inch-square picture of it.

Thu 25th July 2013 @ 19:36
Comment from: [Member]

i often find that my imagination treats me far more harshly than others do… must have been quite a relief!

Fri 26th July 2013 @ 01:49
Comment from: young at heart [Visitor]

oh my……..double phew!!

Fri 26th July 2013 @ 10:03
Comment from: [Member]

DF: Yes I’ve heard about you getting treated harshly. But you should try to remember the safe word.

YAH: Yep, it’s never boring chez moi.

Fri 26th July 2013 @ 12:08
Comment from: Smacked Face [Visitor]

Greetings Mr Looby - haven’t been around these parts for a while. Good to see you’re keeping, erm, well! :)

Fri 2nd August 2013 @ 10:53
Comment from: [Member]

Well well, hello Ms F, how nice to hear from you! I will restore you to your proper place on the mantelpiece on the right hand side. You fell off for some reason after (during) your sojourn down under.

Fri 2nd August 2013 @ 11:44

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looby, n.; pl. loobies. A lout; an awkward, stupid, clownish person

M / 57 / Bristol, "the most beautiful, interesting and distinguished city in England" -- John Betjeman [1961, source eludes me].

"Looby is a left-wing intellectual who is obsessed with a) women's clothes and b) tits." -- Joy of Bex.

WLTM literate woman, 40-65. Must have nice tits, a PhD, and an mdma factory in the shed, although the first on its own will do in the short term.

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

I am here to change my life. I am here to force myself to change my life.
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The more democratised art becomes, the more we recognise in it our own mediocrity.
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Tell me, why is it that even when we are enjoying music, for instance, or a beautiful evening, or a conversation in agreeable company, it all seems no more than a hint of some infinite felicity existing apart somewhere, rather than actual happiness – such, I mean, as we ourselves can really possess?
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Terry Eagleton, What Is A Novel?, Lancaster University, 1 Feb 2010

The working man is a fucking loser.
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The Comfort of Strangers

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