Over here

I was supposed to be on my way to France this morning with Trina, but my new passport hasn't arrived. I sent the application off over a month ago but the payment bounced, and I had to send them the money again. Trina, understandably, was utterly pissed off with me, and has told me that this is the last straw, that she can't cope with my "chaotic" lifestyle any more, and that we must realise we are incompatible. But she added still like to keep in touch for boozy afternoons and nights on the dancefloor. She's also managed to rearrange the holiday for June.

It's such a relief. This is what I've wanted for a long time. I think I just need to make it absolutely clear from the outset next time, that I am not relationship material.

I was down the pub recounting my passport woes to someone who features on this blog often. She told me this story of jumping bail in the Canary Islands after she and her then husband were charged with drug traffiking, for which she was told she should expect something like ten years.

When they went to court, her husband had been so badly beaten up by the police that they were granted bail for him to get medical treatment. The police had their passports. They got an internal flight to Madrid, got a train to Paris on which no-one checked the passports -- and then Calais. They wandered round the lorry park and persuaded a driver -- for a fee -- to stow them away in his lorry, which was full of booze. They created a tiny little space right in the middle of the tins. It was stiflingly hot and cramped, but they got to Dover OK. They stayed in Dover for a few months, making a living from running consignments of cigarettes to Lancaster and elsewhere. She says she daren't go back to Spain now.

As I finished my story, three loudmouths were getting chucked out. As they left they were yelling "He's a cocksucker. He sucks cock!" A moment after they left, a customer said, across the surprised silence, "He's over here", and the whole pub laughed.

My youngest went away to Harrogate for a week with her friend Sophie's family. They accidentally drove into and killed a pheasant. Sophie's Dad stopped the car, scooped it up, and they plucked and ate it that evening. When Melanie got back home, she told us that Sophie had said "you've got a trendy Mum and a poofy Dad."

Down the Yorkshire House with Tess and her workmate Briony, a bright and interesting girl. They keep going out for fags. We're all collectively talking about how to manoeuvre Tom out of the house and getting Briony to move in. Briony lives in a house owned by an architect and his wife in a crap part of Lancaster. The woman, especially, is a hoarder, and the only space in which to cook in the kitchen is an about the size of an A4 piece of paper. Every room is full of mounds of litter and junk. Briony found a plastic bag of potatoes which had liquefied in the vegetable rack.

"Let's talk about sex," said Tess, and we did. Tess said that she was at work the other day and Briony was slightly bent over and looked as though she was in pain. "Are you OK?" said Tess. "Yes," said Briony. "I just feel so fucking horny." At home, I got into bed and sent a filthy text to Chris.