I have been living in interesting times, in the Chinese sense. There is much that would not be judicious to reveal in public, but I will condense that which can be shared into what I hope is a narrative of untiring length. A further delay in posting this has been caused by my having to reinstall the operating system after over-reaching myself in trying to set up LUKS on my entire hard drive, thinking I was technically competent to avoid the dangers of using it on my OS, explicitly described on the project's website.
I should also point out that the second section of the post is NSFW.
One day last month, Teaching Practice Friend asked if she could call round at 8.30am, as her mother was going to be spending a few hours in hospital. Her knock seemed very loud for a lissom girl in her forties. I opened the door to a surreal scene of two plain clothes CID officers, and Teaching Practice Friend holding a budgie in a cage in one hand, with two dachshunds on the lead in the other.
With admirable presence of mind, Teaching Practice Friend suggested she takes the dogs for a walk. Plod came in asked me about a former housemate, Bela. There wasn't much I could say, as the last I heard she had abandoned her MA and had left to find herself in Thailand. "Lots of travel books, Mr Looby," one of them remarked. "Do you go abroad often?" They rang through on their radio to do a "body check" -- a name I'd not heard before for checking up on one's criminal background. It came back clear.
Running out of ideas, they were eventually forced to reveal their hand. They had intercepted "a very nasty substance" in the post. Opinions may vary as to how nasty said item is. They asked me for a phone number in order to keep in touch. Unthinkingly, I gave them my mobile number and immediately regretted doing so. Absurdly, I thought of how Vladimir Putin would have been trained in the KGB never to reveal such information.
My heart was pounding violently and it was only with the utmost effort that I was able to maintain a calm appearance during the conversation. They left, inconclusively, thanking me for my time. Teaching Practice Friend returned, and my mind swam in distraction and worry, and I was hardly taking in a word of her conversation.
A week or so later me and Trina set sail from Portsmouth for a week's holiday in St Malo. Trina was most anxious throughout the lead-up to the trip, convinced that a crack team of Interpol's drugs squad would see my pre-booked holiday as evidence of the guilt of a fugitive.
A couple of days into the holiday, I was sitting alone in a bar when a text came through. "Sorry to bother you while you're on holiday," said my neighbour, "but something strange has happened at your house." They said that there was a padlock and clasp hanging loose from the door, together with a notice from the police. I arranged for a locksmith to go round and change the locks. I did nothing to disabuse my neighbours of their misapprehension that there had been a burglary; and I did my best to banish the incident from my mind for the remainder of our holiday.
When I arrived home I expected the house to be in complete disarray after my unwelcome visitors. It was hardly touched at all. Nothing in my room had been moved. I found out that the new lodger had had to go down to the police station at 5am when she got back from work, to get the padlock taken off. Oddly, the only thing they confiscated was Tom's computer, which will be the most boring hard drive they'll have examined this century. At least mine has some pretty pictures on it.
The police had left behind a copy of the Search Warrant, which gave them authority to look for "methamphetamine and items related to the production of methamphetamine." Now, whilst my chemical romance has taken on various flavours over the past thirty-odd years, methamphetamine is pharmacopeia incognita to me. I learned that while I had been in France, an actual meth farm had been discovered round the corner from where Kirsty lives, in the heart of Lancaster's macrame belt. The next day, there was a comical coincidence. The police had delivered, to every household in Lancaster, a leaflet containing a scratch and sniff card, to enable those who have led a somewhat sheltered upbringing to recognise the smell of cannabis.
Nothing happened for a month, then yesterday I received a call from the police inviting me for a "voluntary interview", which will take place later this week or early next, but only after I've spoken to my solicitor. The old advice, that there are two people to whom you should never lie--your doctor, and your solicitor--is good counsel.
In other news, Kim came over and we had another of our paradaisical three day sessions of sherry, no drugs at all--of course not, because I detest all drugs--fish and chips and saucy postcards in Morecambe, and that special closeness that comes from sleeping in the same bed as a woman you love in a friendish sense. Her lovely, strokable, unkempt, dark-blonde hair melding into the sand as we slept off a bottle of sherry on the beach. I thought she was taking a bit long in the loos neat the Clock Tower, and I got a text "Just putting on me bikini." She'd found it earlier in B&M Bargains for a fiver.
Trina... that will have to wait for another time, but it's unravelled beyond the point of rescue. She described me, in an email, as "selfish, shallow, immoral and disrespectful but you are also great company and a good laugh," which is pretty accurate.
Donna paid for me to go to see her in Milton Keynes. She cooked a lovely meal, plied me with Prosecco, and then we had fabulous sex. She dressed up in black hold-ups, red fuck-me high heels, and this mesmerising black bra. My cock was rigid; I felt doubly liberated with sexual desire and the lack of worry about getting it up. I said "Right, I think it's time I put my cock in your mouth so that you can suck it," she replied "Any particular way?" which made me tense with delight at the precisely expressed miracle of submissiveness. We got detained on the stairs; and she showed me a new trick which sent me into an agony of pleasure and pure desire. Next night, we went to a pub in Tring and got pissed with her friends (everyone was way over the limit driving back). They were excellent company, all working in the legal side of pharmaceuticals. One of them said she goes "slug dancing", which means she gets pissed and goes out at night dancing around her garden stomping on all the slugs.
