A line under the matter

Trina drove my Mum back to Middlesbrough and collected me from there. Around Tebay we got a text from Chris wondering if we were out, and we had a testy couple of hours down the pub. It was easy to predict what would happen once the social brake of having Chris there was released. Chris is the wrong person for Trina to talk to about sex. Obliquely referring to the content of my steamy letter to Donna that she read the other day, she said "Yes but you just feel treated like a prostitute." "Oh yes please," replied Chris. Trina went to the loo and Chris said "She loves you." "Well, I can't help that."

Back at mine, we went searching again for something I'd dearly like to find. I deliberately set Trina to have a look through the kitchen shelves, on which is a jumble of letters, cards and paraphernalia.

It worked. She came up to my room waving a postcard Donna sent me from Paris, which she'd made from a picture of herself. "I know why," she said, about to lose control. "She looks like Kirsty. That's why -- she looks like Kirsty." I didn't look round, didn't look at the flapping picture of Donna. "Could you put that postcard back where it came from please?"

I heard her close the front door. An hour later, she sent a series of texts, one of which said "You are a cold-hearted, selfish perv." "I agree with your assessment of me. When you're sober let me know what we're going to do."

The following day she emailed saying that she'd still like to go dancing "as long as you haven't found anyone else by then." I replied saying that I was very pleased she'd said that and that I look forward to our Winter programme. As long as I manage her, she's fine.

Can't see us getting much of a swerve on at Huddersfield Contemporary Music Festival, but we're also booked into a full afternoon in which the Arditti String Quartet play a demanding programme of the complete string quartets of James Dillon, with a two hour break in the middle in which I'm going to have a couple in one of the finest cities for real ale in the north. At the end, I want to feel fucked, by intense chamber music.

I'm going over the day before for a concert entitled EEEEE, which stands for Early English Experimentalism (played by the) Edges Ensemble. I am going to enter into the spirit of things by taking some e shortly before it starts.

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When I got back from Middlesbrough there was a letter from the solicitors.

"Regrettably"?