Not for the first time, I am interpellated by a loon

Trina has been here since Monday. This three days a week is far too long for me. Yesterday she said, with what I suppose she thought was a magnanimity for which I should be grateful, "Well, I was going to give you some 'me time' today anyway," as if my free time is now her monopoly, to be gifted to me for finite periods at times to suit her.

Which is a shame, because when we do things of mutual interest together, we have a great time. On Monday we went to the launch night of our Dark and Winter Ales Festival. The landlord, handsomely dressed in one of those palely coloured shirts with patterns of small flowers or curlicues, that would have seemed a bit poofy ten years ago but which look quite good now, was a bit jittery, eyes roaming the room while we were talking, carefully tending, like a Tolstoyan hostess, to the social success of the evening.

Yesterday we were chatting away in the pub. Someone who thinks I'm his friend latched onto us. I met Larry two years ago when he overheard me saying something and asked if I had any work to give him. I explained that a man who earned £7775 last year hardly has a richesse to share with others, but unfortunately he hasn't been put off. His conversation is an account, at limitless length, of his crap life. Like many people with this brand of solipsism, his one real talent is turning any known or theoretical topic of conversation back to himself within seconds.

Trina and I plotted our escape by pretending to text, showing each other our unsent messages. The last message I wrote reflected the extent of the naturally sparkling compassion I effervesce towards others: "Fucking victim".

I had to go to work for a short time, then came back to hear Trina talking incessantly at the lodgers. I later discovered she had availed herself--which I have told her she can do any time--of the Extra Strong Mints hidden behind the unread Saul Bellow novel. I cooked a hurried tea, then suggested, with what I hoped sounded like an imperative, that we go upstairs, to give everyone else a rest. We danced about a bit for an hour or so to some house music and then we had rubbish sex.

This won't work, and I need to broach the issue. She thinks I want to spend as much time with her as I can. I've already started lying about the amount of time I am required to spend with the girls. I feel stifled and controlled, having to give a performance of delight at spending more time than I want to with her, which occludes the enjoyable parts of that time. If only she could just turn up, we could drink, dance, fuck, take drugs, go to concerts and pubs, and then if she could--you know--sort of, bugger off.

An odd moment the other day when I was out with Chris and Barry. I was on my way to attend to my ablutions, when I saw Erica, out with some of her colleagues. I went over to Erica, just chatting amiably, pleased to see her as I always am, and without design, put my hand on the upright of the chair on which the mental woman to my left was sitting.

I turned to her and smiled, as an invitation into our conversation. She slowly recoiled, shrinking from her chair, making a look of disdain. "Don't touch me," she said, and slid off her chair. Erica reached across us with her hand, and gestured and said to her "It's alright, stay there." I was bemused and surprised, but composed myself and turned to Erica and said "OK lovely, I'll see you later."

For the next day or two I practised better responses, talking to myself. The winning candidate was "Listen, I'm sat down there with a beautiful, clever, well-dressed woman. Why do you think I would want to touch you?" But she's a bit unhinged, and I think struggles with the pop, so probably best that my insult was only retrospectively available.