Fifteen minutes

To Preston, where the peasants are revolting, to protest outside the meeting in which the first two fracking licences for Lancashire were to be considered.

Just as I was feeling grumbly about my cold feet and the drizzle, after my gruelling fifteen-minute train journey, along comes a coachload of people from Edinburgh to humble me. I also met people from Pontypridd, Brighton, Wrexham, Sheffield, and several local people whose houses have been damaged by the test drilling that has already taken place.

Someone had arranged for us to have tea and coffee upstairs in the pub. Never has a cup of instant coffee been more gratefully received. We went back outside in time to catch a procession of tractors, from Farmers Against Fracking, who drove at a very slow speed through the centre of Preston. Afterwards, we all repaired back to the pub for a sociable pint or six. It's that side of demos that I like best, almost more than the political outcomes.

I was interviewed by a Norwegian newspaper, although unlike the girl from Sheffield I spent some time talking to, I didn't make the cut into the final article -- click on the image if you fancy practising your Norwegian. A TV crew from Channel 5 came over, saying that my cat had attracted their attention, and threw me a couple of soft questions. I've no idea if I made the news bulletin, but no-one actually watches Channel 5 anyway.

The bailiffs said they were coming round on Friday. Talk about taking away your advantage of surprise. To my relief, Morgane left the house early. Shortly afterwards, the doorbell rang. I stayed in bed for a good hour or so, wondering if they'd be coming round the back to check for open windows or unlocked doors. It was actually Wilma, on her way to work, returning my phone which I'd left at hers the day before.

Her computer wouldn't boot up, but I got it sorted. It took me over three hours, during which she got through a couple of bottles of wine and I got through several pints. She is keen to remind me all the time that she's an alcoholic, but I sometimes wonder whether that's an elective affinity than an actual condition.

Like me, she's a heavy, habitual drinker. Unlike me, she's a depressive, a textbook example of maternal deprivation and paternal violence. There's something appealing about her honesty though, and I nodded and hmmed through her oscillation between not wanting a man one minute and wanting to be "treated like a princess" the next. We ended up in bed once, a bizarre near-sex experience, with her alternatively pushing me off and then violently pressing me against her again.

Morgane has applied to go on Come Dine With Me. She's got through the initial sift and the TV company are coming round on Wednesday to have a look at the house. She sent me a text message the other day apologising for not mentioning it, and hoping it was OK with me. I replied enthusiastically, saying I thought it's a great idea.

I got home from the fracking demo, elated, and told Trina about the Come Dine With Me idea. She was relentlessly pessimistic about it. Morgane came in, struggling her bike through the front door, mud spattered on her legs, not reaching the hem of the latest of her gorgeous charity shop dresses. She is a great dresser. Morgane and me talked Trina's gloom down. I told Morgane that there was enough minestrone for her if she was hungry. Please come and sit here with me and counteract the miserable mood my patron is creating.