Downhill

I have spent a most enjoyable weekend at my girls' house, feeding a neighbour's strokable blob of a big coal-black cat, and enjoying the welcome return of Ski Sunday, watching the skiiers scrape down the scary slalom course at Adelboden which drops at a precipitously sharp slope towards its finish. Back here in Acacia Avenue, none of my Muslim neighbours have said anything about events in Paris, but I've made a Je Suis Charlie badge and pinned it to my jacket and feel like shoving it in their mute, shunning, niqabed faces. Oh how I wish I could live in Kirsty's part of Lancaster, where you can feel more liberal and tolerant towards Muslims because you don't have to live with their sense of social boundaries.

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Around Christmas -- when things can come to a head -- Trina suggested she could rent a room off me in this house in order to have a ready escape from the increasingly stressful situation she finds herself in at her mother's. She has two borderline alcoholic brothers with whom she nominally shares the mothercare, whereas in fact she does the great bulk of it.

She moved in just after Christmas, but it hasn't worked. We went to the Blackpool Soul Weekender, and amidst a generally enjoyable weekend of dancing and chatting, I made the mistake, late one night, when she turned the drug-fuelled conversation to the depressing subject of "our relationship", of saying "Just friends, Trina."

She was rather upset by that. Next morning, she informed me that I am the most cold-hearted person she has ever met. "Excellent, well, let's start Sunday in an upbeat style," I said.

Last night, she came back from her mother's and rang, wondering what I was doing. I was at Kirsty's since I have the girls at the weekend, but they're sixteen now so I can easily get out for a night. I came back to mine and we spent a night round the coal fire, dancing and chatting. Again -- and only because she brought the topic up -- I did say at one point "You'll never be my girlfriend. You're too complicated. I don't like this kind of conversation."

This morning, at 5am, she texted saying that she was moving out. I spoke to her around midday. She told me she'd moved all her possessions onto her narrowboat. She said that she loves me and that she can't be friends with me. "I won't be able to stand it when you meet someone else. I'm going to be heartbroken, so I'm getting out now."

I do feel for her, but am unable to reciprocate her feelings. I've felt that myself, the other way round. But I'm glad she's discovering some self-respect at last. I'm disappointed that my dancing life will be greatly curtailed; and I will miss the financial subsidies, because she paid the lion's share for most of the things we did.

I sent her this email tonight.

Well, that's your two bottles of [name of wine] washed out and put into the recycling. There's the Luther Vandross CD from last night which is on the table in front of me, and countless other reminders of you around. It will be a long time -- if ever -- that you are out of this house.

I understand everything you said this morning. I've been in the same position myself, when there's a lopsided, unequal level of feeling, and I know that in such a situation it is impossible to be friends, however much one wants to try to make it work.

But I will miss you too, and I will only say that you are always --- this goes for my lifetime -- welcome here, welcome to ring, welcome to come round, welcome to go out with me, welcome to turn up unannounced any time in the future. I'm very sorry I can't give you what you would like. That can't change I'm afraid, but you've been a very significant person to me and have made changes for the good in my life that others have noticed. I've had some cracking times with you Trina and I will miss both you and them.

X

I'm not going to reopen the advert for the room just yet though. We've been through such palarvers before.

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In other news, Morgane, the new lodger, twentysomething postgrad daughter of a woman I had a fling with a few years ago, was sitting opposite me the other night. One blackly be-tighted leg stuck out towards the coal fire and another was tucked under as her cotton dress was riding tautly up her thighs she said "I'm enjoying this arrangement so far." She does give the bathroom floor a thorough wetting every morning but I suppose modern girls, pampered with luxuries like windows that you can open without separating the pane from its frame, expect at least a shower curtain.

At my New Year's Eve party. Erica and Rather Coarse Husband arrived with a generous flourish, opening two bottles of Prosecco and pouring it out for everyone. Italian Looking Woman turned up in an "I am desperate" dress with a wide purple frill tiding down to an isosceles of cleavage. I deliberately didn't look at her tits, because she was dressed in such a way as to tempt men to do exactly that. She poured herself one glass of wine from her bottle, then resealed it and took it with her to the next party. Kitty cut a lonely figure in the kitchen, chomping her way through the bread and cheese.

Once they'd all left, it was me, Trina, a long-standing reader of this blog, and his friend, dancing with a giddy hilarity till the early hours. I like it when a friendship arises from a blog. I'm still waiting for a passionate sexual encounter, but he's got the wrong colour of eyes for me.