Ah me dinner jacket

A police car draws up outside. I riffle through my mental Rolodex of illegality, and I can't find anything outstanding. The policeman, to my relief, goes to the house opposite and I nosey out with Schadenfreude. There's no-one in. The policeman makes some enquiries of the people on the street, who know him well. "No, I don't know--I'm just here to park my car." They start talking in Gujerati and the policeman drifts ineffectually back to his car.

I draft a letter to the former lodger, and send it to Trina asking her to have a look at it for tone and content.

[...] Overlooking a few odd pence, the amount due, under the terms of the agreement, witnessed and bearing your signature, is £360.

Failure to pay this amount by 1700 on Friday 6th October will result in an action being commenced against you in the Small Claims Court. This will incur a Court Fee of £35, which will be added to the amount owed. Following the service of the order, a court hearing will be held. Should you not appear in court or not respond, enforcement proceedings will be commenced, which will involve a bailiff attending at your property.

I look forward to receiving your payment shortly.

Trina said to put the exact amount he owes in. I'm also going to ring his Dad and tell him what I propose to do. They live in a little village in the rural southwest of England. There's £360 quid somewhere down that sofa.

I'm supposed to be off in five minutes to Seriouscrush' s birthday party. She sent me this invite for it, a copy of a screenprint of a blackbird, which looks like something Aubrey Beardsley would have done had he been a birdwatcher.

"Party," what a flexible word. "Oh really, zoology and journalism at Exeter?" "So where do you source the wood for the coffins?" "Yeah that's a tricky one, I've thought about that all the time. Have you read that book---sorry, can't remember the author, it's called 'Models of Individualism and Communitarianism'." Wishing I could just be down the pub. Wishing I didn't have the feeling of tugging my forelock at my rentier patrons. Worrying about how I'll behave. I haven't bought her a card, or wine or anything.

I had an Iranian taxi driver round this afternoon to look at the spare room. He's finished an MA and is how applying to do a PhD in Politics. I was caught mid-shave when he knocked on the door and Ned had to show him in and occupy him for a minute. He's seeing a few rooms today and he'll let me know. Please fucking move in. I'm desperate for money and you seem OK.