Knickers?

Trina has just left after arriving on Monday. She got very drunk that evening, and picked at her idées fixes at exhausting, inconclusive length. That is, how Kim wants to drive us apart; how I mustn't hide my financial situation from her and accept without baulking at it, the constant financial assistance she gives me; and the worst of all, the "where is this going" question, related in her mind to my "lack of commitment." A couple of weeks ago I was very cool about the idea of some kind of "public commitment party", where we invite our friends round for an afternoon in which they spectate upon our narcissistic self-congratulation; so, a marriage ceremony in all but name.

I shushed her, aware of the figure we are presenting: a Shaz and Daz who volubly rehearse their domestic disagreements over too much drink in cheap pubs. "I was that far just now, that far, from walking away," she said, once her emotional state came out of the nadir of the sine wave that maps its movements once she's on the second bottle. That tactic won't work Trina, because you'd be bereft; I'd be a bit regretful and would find another girlfriend fairly quickly. I just wish we could enjoy the good times and not analyse everything.

The following morning, alcohol's effacing work was done, and she was apologetic and unknowing, asking to be reminded of what she had said. I said that it doesn't matter, and "that was then and this is now", too weak to do anything other than postpone any further mining of her insecurity. "You were a bit withdrawn though, and grumpy," she said. "Mmmm. Well, shall we have some coffee?" Just go, just leave. I want to be on my own.

The following evening she was outwardly changed, chatty in that overlapping way that I do like with her, sociable, wandering off to talk to these two women we'd earlier given directions to. Even then, she raised the worrying prospect of her soon having ten consecutive days off, most of which she assumes I'll be happy sharing with her. She showed an entirely false interest in a lecture I'm going to on Tuesday, when Terry Eagleton will be discussing "Raymond Williams and Marxism." Please no. What do structuralist critiques of literature mean to you? This is my interest, not yours. And most importantly, I'll be desperate to escape by then. Which came out as "Erm... I'm not sure it would be of great interest, to be honest."

---

Out of my un-harangued ear, I picked up the following.

Man: You got me ex to cheat on me.

Woman: No I didn't.

Yes you did, you set me up with a fucking ginger.

(They both laugh)

Woman: Get it down yer. You let it happen.

Man: I had to have a fucking DNA test on my ginger child because of you.

---

However, she was handy in helping me assemble a futon I bought recently, a bargain at £27 off Ebay. At one point we had to support a strut while we screwed it in at the other end. I knew my Philosophy degree would come in useful one day. The futon, by the way, is the most comfortable bed I have ever in. Several nights in, I still marvel at it. By day, it folds up and gives you so much more space.

---

Kitty's having her birthday party at mine next month because parties at mine are of surpassing excellence. I sent the invites out:

Hello all. Just a reminder to iron your knickers and polish your cravats for Kitty's party at 44 Acacia Avenue [date] 9ish. Superfly soundtrack from DJ Barry. Be there or be talked about. Or worse, not be talked about.

Melissa replied "Knickers? What an assumption!"