Anything you want

"I can't be doing with any..." He doesn't have to search long for the completion. "I just want some slag that'll do owt." The people at the accreting table next to me are, I think, bikers. Therefore, despite the vulgar tongue, there will be no aggression.

Two birthday parties: the first for someone with whom a night out can feel like a multi-agency social services case conference. I sat for a long twenty minutes with a soda water (no real ale, despite three pumps advertising it), while the birthday girl and another woman preened their nails in a feminised performance of togetherness, and talked to another about her son's shoe size. With as much conversation as there was ale, I thought I would increase the proportion of those to whom she would like to talk by leaving. Handily, I had to collect my daughters to take them to their birthday party.

Frocked and hairbrushed, they walked ahead of me and the rain. Once there, they settled themselves into one of the best pub interiors in Lancaster, a kitsch and sensuous constellation of blue fairy lights and red neon. Their bohemian, female teenage friends arrived at intervals to occupy the other places at their table. I retreated to a remote corner and realised I'd left my computer at home. I walked home to fetch it, before realising that I'd forgotten the cable, so did the journey again.

Kirsty and boyf turned up at the end of their usual weekend together. I assumed that the protocol was for me not to interrupt its tail, so after greeting them I went back to my table, but after a minute or two boyf asked me over. Kirsty had red lipstick on and had had her hair done into an attractive uneven bob; she was wearing a moss green cardi and a flared dark brown leather miniskirt.

I hesitatingly picked at their leftover bread. "No, no, go ahead," said boyf, as they were talking about having gone to some fancy gastropub in Cartmel. Jenny came over and asked them if they could have a pudding, "Of course you can," said boyf. "Have anything you want." I felt inferior.

Both the lodgers moved out this weekend. Last night, I didn't know which of my worries were keeping me awake. The sudden lack of their rent, yanking away the fingers they stick in the financial dam, my inability to pay for the train fare up to Middlesbrough on the day after Boxing Day for what will now be the memorial meal for my Dad, finding a way of talking to Seriouscrush about the rent arrears and what will happen to my housing situation, were all contenders.

And then I got an email response to my ad about the rooms from Felicity's daughter Morgane. I've got previous with Felicity. Three or four years ago almost to the day, me, Morgane, and Felicity were sat at their kitchen table wrapping Christmas presents. Then, Morgane went off somewhere, and Felicity dragged me into the spare room and ordered me to fuck her, which act consisted of a soft-dicked half-unclothed frottage which satisfied both parties: she came easily and I was grateful for getting my tea and some sherry, and it was fun being with Morgane at that age when daughters are only half with you, but good company, not needing you.

Morgane's in China at the moment with her brother, but is coming round on Tuesday to look at the hovel. I'd like to share the house with her but I've not got my hopes up; it's the bathroom that puts women off. I've told her to pass on my mobile number to her mum. It'd be nice to wish her happy Christmas.