Should I stay or should I go

I've just got back from seeing Seriouscrush and her boyf. Seriouscrush owns this house and lets it to me at about a hundred or so below a market rent, which is a reasonable sum given that someone else might quibble over fusspotty details, like seeing one of the window panes separate itself from the frame if one does anything as selfish and luxurious as open it.

Her invite probably stemmed from an email I'd sent them on Christmas Eve whilst I was pissed saying that I'd like to move out of here at some point in 2015. I'm not sure if that was a good idea really, as I've nowhere to go. I was hoping that saying that might persuade them down a bit with the rent, but they showed no interest in that.

We met in by far the best cafe in Lancaster, converted from an old Salvation Army hall wherein my Dad used to deliver the sermons. A triptych of scratched, defaced monochrome blue works on paper, a bit like Clyfford Still's "torn" paintings, hangs unframed on the wall. Gap year Grammar School girls in little woolly hats sat by themselves and propped up computers; you're served by young men in pork pie hats and art-fundamentalist beards. A girl perched herself on a stool, wearing a dark tartan skirt so short she had to have her arm as a permanent pixellation between her crossed legs, and type one-handed. It's good that middle class people have somewhere to go, to enjoy the social isolation in public that they favour, away from the scary collective atmosphere of more working class venues.

Boyf asked me about an artwork I possess. The wallpaper in my front room is a violent, shouty navy blue fleur de lys Laura Ashley pattern. I'd like to shut it up by draping a large sheet of muslin over it, and then in front of it, hang the artwork, which I bought off someone who was doing her PhD when I was doing my MA. It requires float mounting, and he offered to cut the two sheets of perspex necessary to frame it, and to drill the spacers to clamp the work away from its enclosure.

I left after an hour to have a pint in a common pub. I'd got the impression that Seriouscrush and Boyf are happy for me to stay here, and I think, if I could somehow dredge up another say, two hundred pounds a month, that would be the best solution.

I sat down to read a chapter of my book, about the Futurists' performances, and what they called "synthetic theatre", in which brevity was valued, and individual elements of performance were presented in isolation. It would have been engrossing, but I was repeatedly interrupted by people I know and I gave up and got bought a pint, an air of him buying me away from my book. This is how it should be.

I like my life. I like being cultured and common at the same time. I like being able to speak two social languages fluently. Could just do with a tad more cash. I went into the corner shop, which is advertising for staff, and I've got to go back for "a chat" on Saturday.