Eclipsed

Above is a sensational picture of the eclipse as it appeared in Lancaster. I avoided blindness by not looking at this dazzling spectacle directly, but instead through a pinhole projector that I made from instructions on the BBC. Special award goes to the students who turned up at Williamson Park without being arsed to get out of their 'jamas.

There were loads of people there; I went with Kirsty, but a female friend of mine had yesterday expressed an interest in going. Trundling along as I do on the hard shoulder of the information superhighway, I went to send her a message on farce book.

Talk about not being allowed to forget any more.

Afterwards I went back with Kirsty to hers, and we had a bit of a chat. It's always amiable. You fucking idiot, leaving her.

Then into town to meet my pal Vic, who's become quite a good drink-blether partner in the last few months. Wilma turned up. I said "You're not an alcoholic Wilma, you're a depressive." She's on day two of this pointless programme called "Journey to Recovery." She said "I've got to tell them I don't want to stop drinking."

A deaf girl I vaguely know turned up with her friend, and Vic got his Swiss Army knife out and cut down a photograph of her friend's recently deceased fiancé so that it would fit in a frame. Deaf girl was asking me if I knew anyone who could interpret the funeral on Monday. I wrote back "You'll get the gist, and most of it is quite boring." She showed it to the bereaved girl and I felt a moment of alarm, in case that'd hurt her feelings, but they both reacted with assent. Deaf girl screwed the paper up.

This gorgeous friend of theirs -- late thirties, darkish blonde hair in a bob that was strokably growing out, green eyes, a cotton green loose top -- came and sat with us for a few minutes. I saw Vic's look widen into an eye-smile, and I had a moment of self-disgust, knowing that mine had done the same. So fucking obvious. You're just the same.

Teaching Practice Colleague -- with whom I share an imminent birthday -- who I've known for thirty years -- rang late on tonight. Neither of us have planned anything, but I said that the one thing I would like to do is to see her. I suggested I could cycle over to her house in the morning, before Trina gets back in Lancaster at about 2pm. Trina would invite herself along and dominate the conversation; afterwards she would recast the chat as an accusation, dyeing it with jealousy about a girl who predates her.

I received a letter this morning: Donna's handwriting. I turned the envelope over and over. I thought it would be some precisely concise and honest letter about how she feels insulted by me having Trina on the margin while I was seeing her last year.

It was a birthday card, with kisses. She's happily seeing someone more propinquitous, both in terms of income and location -- and possibly in other ways too -- so I'm not going to interfere. I'll write a little thank you note, affectionate but light. It's understood now: gone.