Head banging

Trina took me to a hotel in Lytham for my birthday; it almost didn't happen. I rang her when I got back from Kimtown and thoughtlessly mentioned Kim's new love affair in the course of the call. This raised her antagonism towards her, to the extent that she hung up on me. I got home and there was an email saying that we should "leave it for a while." I'm used to Trina's fits of insecurity now, so ignored it. And the following morning, another one arrived asking if I was still coming to Lytham.

She apologised but even apologies are too tiring sometimes. I waved them away with one of my stock phrases: "No, no, Trina it's OK. That was then and this is now." She was very generous with my presents: six elegant, thin wine tasting glasses, and two books by Raymond Williams, Culture and Marxism and Literature.

We went for sushi and jasmine tea, then coming back to my social and financial level we went to Wetherspoons. Outside the pub we got talking to two homeless people. I gave them a pound each and said "I'm giving you this on condition that you only spend it on drink or drugs."

Next day, it was straight to Manchester, where a couple more of the Klavierstücke by Stockhausen were being performed at the University. Additonal accompaniment was provided throughout by the noisiest piano stool in Manchester. The pianists's own programme note referred to "head-banging serialism".

I went with my friend Tony who put me up when I was at a conference there last year. He'd not heard any Stockhausen before and said he enjoyed it: "it made me laugh." He insisted on buying me no fewer than three pints afterwards in a cosy little pub thronging with elderly people, and a fourth in the bleak bar at Piccadilly station, which has hardly anything potable.

The following day, I was running on empty. Tess, Trina and me were supposed to be going to Barry and Chris's party, but people seemed to be dropping out rapidly. Chris's friend cancelled, and Trina said point blank she was too tired after working from 8am that day; so the "party" seemed to have dwindled down to me and Tess, having to get a bus out to the nondescript village where Chris lives. And all this for only a couple of hours, since I had to get back as I had the girls.

Given all the cancellations, I was hoping she'd postpone it, but she indicated she was keen for us to go. At the last moment, I texted her. "Listen Chris we're both really knackered and I'm sort of conscious about the girls and it's too far to come for two hours. I'm ever so sorry but it's too far and I'm too tired after a really big few days in Kimtown." I have now probably given the impression that I can only be bothered to go to my own parties, but it would have been work, not pleasure.

The night ended where the week had began. "Your friends are gitty," Trina said, referring this time to Neil. Well, they were there before you turned up and will be there after you've departed in the distraught tears we're enjoying postponing. A few days ago, Tess had passed on a remark her new boyfriend made: "You always know right at the beginning the reason you'll split up."

Trina went off in a strop again, complaining about how "your friends" (read: Kim) don't want to meet her; then she realised she'd forgotten the key to my house, and came back with a black mien which I found more comical than anything else. "Ok, well, let me know if you can't get the futon up."

This evening I came home, not for the first time half-hoping that there would be a valedictory email; and then tactically erased that thought, as it would be advantageous if we didn't split up until after we've been to France next month.