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Bra straps

  Wed 11th June 2014

It's bra strap central down Wetherspoons tonight. Lovely. No complaints whatsoever.

Catweazel, who is not wearing a bra, is standing at the bar, which is unusual, both for the hour, and his positioning; normally he passes his afternoons on a table nearer the door, cursing to himself, punctuating his interior invective with a twitching tic of the head.


The new girl, Deb, moved in yesterday. She's in her mid-twenties and has a tough, night-time job in town. She burns these scented candles which gives a thick, dominating scent to the house. Seems pleasant enough though, as they all are at the beginning.

I'm always surprised and inwardly apologetic that anyone has chosen to live here. There's the gaping bit of wallpaper in her room and the ineradicable brown stains on the radiator, the lack of a shower, the ugly water-sodden bit of greyed wallpaper at the back of the kitchen sink... but I suppose she's chosen this over other places, and the rent's cheap for this area.

Goaded into activity partly by this feeling, and while listening to Warwickshire v Lancashire on the radio, I cleaned the bath, bleached and cleaned the shelves in the kitchen, did the shopping for the beetroot and feta soup I'm making for when Trina comes round tomorrow, then made a minestrone, for whatever meal it is you have at twenty past three, to go with the bread I'd made earier. Lancashire are 48 runs ahead with 8 wickets remaining.

I've got to warn Deb about, and invite her to, a party here on Saturday. I don't want to give her an implied licence to use the house like Party Central, despite a houseful of house music and people who are bright and chatty at 8am.


I'm getting quite to like these Sunday nights when Kirsty and boyf come back from their weekends away. There's always alcohol involved and occasionally it's quite comical to see Kirsty, especially, twitching with whatever's still in her system. All of us sit around and talk and drink for a couple of hours, me, my former girlfriend and our children, and her boyfriend, who's played a fucking blinder in how he's dealt with it. The girls really like him, which gives me a sense of calm and togetherness, for which I am grateful.

Boyf was upstairs and I asked Fiona, eldest, how the weekend went. They'd spent it at Boggle Hole Youth Hostel near Whitby.

"...It was very middle class though. Boyf was in the kitchen one evening and told Mum 'get doing that washing up, bitch', and a man said 'Oh, that's rather... harsh'."


Last Sunday morning, me and Donna were in bed in Glasgow. I was prodding my teeth, trying to find the source of a droning, blood-pulsing toothache. The potentially awkward subject of how we wrap this up turned out to be surprisingly easy to sort out.

"Donna, it's been a great weekend -- and it's not over yet -- but just to be honest, I've already got a girlfriend, to whom I should stop acting like an utterly selfish twat it's too far for a relationship. That doesn't mean we can't have nice times at things of shared interest. And also," I added, faking a bit of selflessness, "I wouldn't want to stop you meeting anyone else."

"That's OK. That'd work." I kept stroking the inner bit of her upper arm because I've worked out she loves that (don't we all?) "So, a non-exclusive -- whatever -- where we just meet up for things we'd like to do? And perhaps stay overnight, you know, given the distance?" "That'd be great." I said, and we did some more of that humpy bum-cock non sex, given the no sex rule we'd agreed on.

Now, or rather, at some plausible interval, I can introduce Trina and gradually remove the layers of duplicity.

3 comments

Comment from: Jonathan [Visitor]

The communal beachside kitchensink vignette (observed and noted as a summary of the whole weekend by Fiona, who has obviously inherited some of your distillational talents) is perhaps the most middle-class retort in history. And I think I may have come across the dishwasher in question (as a stock character in every youth hostel I’ve ever stayed in, playing opposite the equally ubiquitous sixstrong gang of impossibly wholesome Germans- if he didn’t turn up I would most likely ask for my money back).

Thu 12th June 2014 @ 00:57

Nice of you to go the extra mile and tidy up for Deb. And I’m sure the party invite will be appreciated. Is she cute? Will she prove to be a distraction?

I had to look up “played a blinder” and the internet dictionary gave me: “1. a person or thing that blinds.” Thanks for nothing.

I’m sure Donna already suspects. Women are smart like that.

Thu 12th June 2014 @ 12:15
Comment from: [Member]

Hello J. Yes, boyf has got that eye for the easily wound-up Guardian Family section reading Dad, and they enjoyed a little sport during the weekend of goading the poor lad into his brand of ineffectual, reasonable protest.

Exile –

Yes, she’s quite pretty, but I have absolutely no interest in women of that age. I just want her rent, nothing else.

“To play a blinder” is to do something in a deft and accomplished way that exceeds the ability of most others. I mean, boyf has done a very good job of forming a relationship with the girls. It can’t have been easy, and a great men just wouldn’t have the emotional intelligence to do in as patient a way as he has done it.

Donna – yes, possibly she does, but that will work to my advantage now because I can slowly confirm her suspicions.

Fri 13th June 2014 @ 14:59


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M / 56 / Bristol, "the most beautiful, interesting and distinguished city in England" -- John Betjeman [1961, source eludes me].

"Looby is a left-wing intellectual who is obsessed with a) women's clothes and b) tits." -- Joy of Bex.

WLTM literate woman, 40-65. Must have nice tits, a PhD, and an mdma factory in the shed, although the first on its own will do in the short term.


There are plenty of bastards who drink moderately. Of course, I don't consider them to be people. They are not our comrades.
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