Thanatos (Shiraz and Amphetamine remix)

Tonight it was the girls' birthday party, held at the local pleb controllers' cafe. Upstairs, Kirsty, boyf and I laid out a nutritious tea of hydrogenated vegetable fats, sugar and refined carbohydrates for the guests, all girls. My eldest went as a flapper, in a shimmying black dress, a feather in her head band and Poundshop pearls; my middle one wore this beautiful pale blue flared polka dot 50s-ish dress, and my youngest went as David Bowie with that lightning thing painted across her face. I tried to avoid smiling too much at them, or even looking at them much at all; I think it can come across as a bit patronising.

This time of the year feels delirious, timeless, abandoned. I'm still cognizant of the privilege of having all of the period off; it was not always so. The streets of my city are currently strewn with happy tablets and extra strong caster sugar. But neither of those conditions fully account for the other-worldly atmosphere here, of sex and death and licence.

Yesterday afternoon I met my old friend from the railway, the one who sent me the card with a horse on it. Ned rang asking what we were doing and came down to join us, as did Trina and Tess a bit later on, and my friend Roger. We also acquired a recovering alcoholic who Ned met outside. With the deft tact I can deploy in such situations, I said "I think there's a link between alcoholism, self-absorption, and depression." I am on heat at the moment, with this intoxicating, careless atmosphere, and Trina's tits looked lovely in her purple top with the black ties crossing. I asked her if she likes sucking my cock; she took this as a cue to usher me home and limit the damage. We went straight to bed. "Oooh, I wanted you in the pub," I said. "Yes, I could tell. You were doing that funny smiley face."

We were fast asleep when I heard the bedroom door open and awoke to see Ned standing in the middle of my room. "Oh no--you're really asleep! I thought you'd still be up. Why don't you come downstairs?" "No," said Trina, "I'd rather fuck him," a remark which took me aback somewhat, in contrast to the way that publicly talking about cock sucking and diagnosing strangers with depression is unremarkable. Ned advanced upon us and lay down on the quilt in between Trina and I, wrapping himself around us with drunken effusiveness. "Yes, right, you can go away now," I said, turning my face away from his prickling stubble.

The following morning, Trina woke me with the flutter-eyed come-hither announcement that she needed to go for a massive fart. Deflated, she came back in. "Shall we go and get in bed with them? she said.

This evening, Ned apologised; I told him that nothing had happened that required an apology.