Do not get on the wrong side of my cat

I have mainly been opposing fracking.

The louche scene above took place at a picnic we held at Lytham windmill to celebrate Lancashire County Council's refusal of the first two fracking applications in the county. The councillors voted 9-2 against, despite what one article called "a morass of pro-fracking bias and legal and scientific misrepresentation from those meant to be providing impartial advice." It was a relief to do something purely enjoyable for a change, rather than standing around for seven hours outside County Hall.

They were long days, but not without their pleasures. And if anyone thinks that the reason I went and spoke to her had anything to do with her strikingly gorgeous face, the beautiful long bunches of the world's best hair colour on a woman, her lovely smile, her fantastic charity shop hat and secondhand dress combo, the latter of which slinked attractively over her lovely hips, well then, I pity you for how shallow you are in your evaluation of women.

We had Farmers Against Fracking drive slowly up the main drag to deliver a trailer-load of frack-free Lancashire produce -- strawberries, eggs, cheese and other things in which we excel. We had the police take over the percussion for a few minutes. I was interviewed by someone from a Norwegian newspaper, and had my fifteen seconds of fame on the news one night on that prominent media organ, Channel 5.

Mid-afternoon at the back end of last month, we all went quiet as the decision was about to be made, huddling around a computer which was relaying the live stream from inside County Hall.

This is how I wrote about it at the time.

I am absolutely exhilarated with the decision to reject fracking in Lancashire today, and am glossy-eyed with pride that Lancashire's county councillors have shown immense courage in the face of intimidation, verbal and written threats, and an Infrastructure Act which begins the task of dismantling planning law that the Conservatives passed as soon as they returned to power.

I am FUCKING PROUD today to be from Lancashire, because standing up to corporate power and the arrogance of these rich kid shits we are governed by, takes guts. We have shown that this county will not be a pushover.

A small socialist sherry was had afterwards, but it's far from over, and there'll be more on this story soon.

You will no doubt not remember my tall, blonde ex-work colleague and long-time neighbour, who sports a fine line in the tight trouser, who turned up on the dancefloor at Morecambe a few weeks ago and requested my complicity in getting rid of her date.

During some flirty banter with her and her mum the other day, I said that I'd bumped into her sister at the beer and wine tasting at the Town Hall. We chatted a while, my head ringing with the knowledge she was single. When I got home I had the idea of inviting her to our wine club meeting. I wrote a note doing this, in which I attempted to continue the flirtatious tone of the evening.

She texted back and said that her daughter was having an exhibition opening that night, in the local yoghurt knitter's bar, but if I were interested in seeing it she'd be happy to meet me there for a drink another day.

Both Tilly and her mum Renee turned up. I had made a bit of an effort, attempting to signal that was interested in something other than her daughter's photography. I was relieved that I had, since Tilly was wearing a beautiful and quite revealing dress in green and cream and a thin margin of black bra. They're both good fun to be around. Scousers, so I don't have to censor my speech.

"The art of wooing is dead," said Tilly. Hmm. Do you think so? She's away with work all this week but I might try to find something to suggest to her for the next.

Thursday was a good day. 1) My actual plastic Booths loyalty card arrived. 2) My youngest just casually mentioned that when she went to Morecambe on Saturday she bought an album by Sun Ra. 3) I concluded a brief meeting with a few young lads in the pub, who joined us on our table, by saying "Right we're fucking off, 'cos you sound like a right bunch of boring cunts," which resulted in laughter and handshakes.

This proves: I am proper middle class; I have finally achieved something as a father; and that I am from Lancashire.

But my most momentous news -- well, apart from a funeral and a wedding, which I'll leave till next time -- is that Trina went on a date.

It's someone we both know from the house music event we go to. Trina said that he talked about himself all the time --- I gather some men even set up websites in which to do this --- and smoked throughout. He made a tea of overcooked pasta on top of which he'd poured a tin of tomatoes, and the apple strudel was shop-bought and microwaved. He said that he bought a dozen copies of a book called "How To DJ." He doesn't DJ himself but in a helpful spirit he's given the book to some of the most practised and talented DJs in the north of England.

The date didn't work, but I'm hoping that this indicates -- finally, after three years -- that Trina is becoming more autonomous.