My 24-hour grlfriend

Donna had been worryingly quiet for a few days, but at last, she sent a lovely, heart- and cock-melting email.

She explained that while it's been "fabulous", we should bear in mind that the original plan, settled upon when we decided to meet in Glasgow for the first time, was that she would be a 24-hour girlfriend. Obviously that was before I realised how I could gaze stiff-cocked at her, combing her body with my eyes, and the vivid recall of the things she said, my pleasure in her fabrics against her skin, the way we had this quickly understood power balance, the exciting sex and the constant wanking over her when she wasn't around.

We have exceeded twenty-four hours by a long way, but she -- like me -- wants someone whom she can see often, and can call in without lots of planning and expense. She thanked me for making her "feel like the sexiest creature alive" and said lots of other things in an email which, although I know will disappear in one of those frequent erasing calamities of the digital age, is something that in a previous time I'd have tied up with ribbon and kept in a shoebox. In my phone, she is not "Donna", but a sluttish nickname.

She rang at the time she said she would. We said a twenty-five minute end. For someone who has to lie all the time in order to maintain the life I want, it's paradise to be able to say lovely, truthful things to a woman who, were she nearer, I would love to fuck, cook for, dance with, chat with, go out with her friends, buy clothes to put her in and undress her, and fuck, and fuck... often.

Me and Trina went over to Middlesbrough for the day on Monday to see my folks. I'm looking after my Dad for a week next month while my poor put-upon Mum has a carefree week in Lancaster with her grandchildren and Kirsty, away from my Dad's endless self-pity and a death-wish I would only be too happy to indulge.

It was partly for my briefing about what's involved, how much help he needs with going to the toilet, how to do his insulin injection, and so on, and partly because I calculated that if I went up now I can avoid seeing them at Christmas.

My sister's boyfriend was there and we got talking, with a slight edge of that male competition in conversation and the restriction of the topics to "objective" ones. We were talking about food and cooking. I told them I'd be bringing all my own ingredients, knives, and the flour with which to make bread. It was clearly worrying my Dad, in case he'd have to eat something alien and repulsive, like a boiled potato.

"I like plain food, very plain food," said my Dad. I'm happy to heat up his Asda spinal cord and toenail pies that he eats with a side of white shop-bought bread, spread with "spread", but I said that I'll make two meals every night.

My mother was poorly and has got bronchitis. It would be a brutally unfair injustice if she went first. My Dad would follow soon therafter, but my mother deserves several years of life -- preferably in her beloved home town Lewes -- happy and unburdened and uncriticised.