Funland

To Blackpool, where I am arraigned before the magistrates to explain a slight technical misunderstanding of what one should do with a gas bill.

It's a slab of a building, determined to be grim amidst the surrounding gaiety: in four foot-high plastic letters, the building next door advertises "Funland".

The Court Clerk had no record of me being summoned. I showed him the letter calling me there and he told me to wait. A partially-toothed, heroin- thin girl muttered to herself. A nice-looking boy was being fussed over by his mum.

The bailiff's agent, standing out from the legal sleekness about us in cheap black shoes, jogging trousers and a navy blue fleece, came over and said the same thing. The Clerk said that if no-one from the correct firm of bailiffs had turned up by 10am, I could go. He asked me for my phone number, just in case he was stuck in traffic.

I took a long time over a small breakfast in Wetherspoons, then wandered over to my favourite pub in Blackpool. I got in with the owd fellows at the bar. The man next to me went to the loo. "He has to go every fifteen minutes," said another. "I think it's all in the mind." I told them my Desperate Toilet Anecdote, about coming back on the bus from Keswick after drinking all day, bladder-pressed tears in my eyes at the driver refusing to wait for me to go to the loo when we stopped at Kendal Bus Station.

"Are you from away?" asked the landlord. Not hostile, just clocking an unfamiliar face. "Yes, I'm from Lancaster. I've just been to see a friend of mine in Victoria Hospital. She's a bit poorly with breast cancer." This was true in November.

"If you hang on another half an hour, there's a quiz and a buffet." We talked about shift work and his former job as bus and coachmaker and came second in the quiz by one point. We filled our plates with mini samosas, egg and cress sandwiches on white bread, pork pies, and an unpopular salad. Then it was the bingo. We won nothing, again. It was a rollickingly good afternoon, for which I have to thank Churchill Recovery Solutions Ltd.

In bed, I started thinking about Donna, and Wendy. The married Wendy and me have been flirting for a while, since New Years Eve before last, when we were up in my bedroom powdering our noses and talking about Murakami. We are going, with Kitty, I think, to a ravey do on Valentines Day night. Unfortunately Trina invited herself along, which will put a brake on proceedings, but I'm sure my non-verbal communication can get round that obstacle.

I texted her quite sexually. She responded this afternoon, wittily. I replied:

I'm very glad you took it like that. I would be mortified if I gave you the impression that when I got into bed last night I imagined raking my fingers through your lovely hair and running my hands very slowly down over your tits and on to your beautiful waist and gently kissing you whilst easing your dress off your shoulders and on to the floor. That would be to descend to a level of filth and vulgarity with which I am unacquainted.

For once, I am happy with something I've written.