Sunday
It's 8.20am and I'm in Wetherspoons in Piccadilly in Manchester. I really enjoyed the techno night. I had my stash confiscated: emptying my bag at the door, they took my two bananas off me. It was a friendly crowd of mainly twenty- and thirtysomethings, one of whom came up to me, shook my hand and said "Hey! You're old school!" but that was the only instance of Well-Meaning But Slightly Patronising Young Raver Syndrome I encountered all night.
The "security" put a bit of a downer on things. Minutes after I arrived someone was bundled out of the club, and they'd wander onto the middle of the dancefloor and just stood there, spreading a testosteroned latent aggression.
Later on, a girl who'd slightly overdone it came with her friend to share the seats with me. Her friend was doing exactly the right thing, telling her to sit quietly for a bit, saying everything will be fine, and giving her some water. Up strides a female security guard who, instead of asking how she could help and whether she was OK, started going on at her, leaning over her and threatening to throw her out. When she was hardly in a state to defend herself, the poor girl had to apologise and deal with someone jabbing her finger at her. Eventually Little Miss Miserable stormed off, pointing to her own eyes and to the girl's, saying, "I'm watching you!"
Back on the dancefloor, almost everyone was on e. You can always tell when e is in the house, from the way people dance and the lovely atmosphere of calm and togetherness. We were harmless, and just wanted to be left alone.
I almost didn't make it. It was difficult finding everything I needed in complete darkness, as there wasn't any money in the gas and electricity meters. There was a big puddle on the kitchen floor from a seeping fridge.
Wendy texted me. "...and which girl are you taking tonight?"
"You over-estimate my allure. On me tod tonight. Surprisingly enough, I haven't been able to sell the idea of seven hours of Dutch techno to anyone." "Seven hours of Dutch techno sounds good to me."
I'm a bit wary of going dancing with Wendy. She'd look too desirable. We're going to the park in a couple of days, and I'll be able to tell her about my new personal best for Shortest Consumated Relationship: first date on Friday, second on Wednesday into Thursday, dumped on Friday.
I've very much been wanting to get in touch with Trish, but after such an unambiguous rejection, any further contact, however light in tone, is a form of pleading. It'd be demeaning for me, and disrespectful to her.
I still find what happened incredible. I can't make sense of it, her sudden volte-face after giving me every impression that she was becoming fond of me. She said that she's told me certain things about her past that she's never spoken properly about to anyone else. A couple of her sexual ideas have never been discussed with anyone before. She told me several times that she was falling for me. She told me I was "thrilling". Tuesday night, at 2am, she sent me a text saying that she was dying to see me. She said that she suspects I haven't had enough affection in my life and that she wanted to be the girl who provided it. The second, and last, time we saw each other, she made me stay with her until the last possible train I could get back.
If I think about it too much, it can still make my eyes gloss over that something so promising has been snatched away from me. She introduced me in the pub as her new boyfriend. She told her "visitor" that he'd have to stop coming round now, and she took her profile down from the dating site. And then, the very next day, she tells me that her feelings will not develop, that this is far as it will go, and that she wants to end it forthwith.
I was so stunned on hearing this that I didn't have the presence of mind to ask her what had prompted such a sudden decision. It is beyond me, and I'll never find out. Given that she feels the way she does, blame doesn't come into it, but surely we could have given it more than one week?
Anyway, it's 9am now, so time for a pint. I'll always think of her fondly, but it makes me sad that she didn't want to explore what appeared to be opening up for us.
Monday
I got back to Lancaster about 1ish. To my delight, I bumped into Wendy and Kitty. We went for a couple of drinks. They suggested that Trish might have regretted overdoing the drink and drugs, and that her knee-jerk reaction was to push me away. They said she might be repenting at leisure now, and might still ring. Wendy sent me a lovely text: "Petal, your resilience is astounding. You're behaving with dignity and integrity (despite a night out which would leave most people gibbering). When it comes, sleep well X"
Something good did come of it: they said I looked really good. I was wearing my nice dark blue cotton Italian trousers, a shirt with a sort of pale blue small repeated flower pattern on it (believe me, it looks better than that sounds) and a tailored short suede jacket. They said it made me look younger, and a bit like international beat music star, Brett Anderson.
Here is a shocking video of what went on inside that warehouse on Saturday night.
