Friday, an uneventful Riesling tasting at the local wine company shop; then it was into town to up the average age a little at a techno night organised by a Society at the University. Pleasant young people, a bit bemused at someone so old being there; then, after you passing some invisible testing process, they start talking to you. "Where are you from?" -- the decades-old standard dancefloor opener.
But they can't dance. Their movements are forced, imported to their bodies; they stand about texting and facebooking on the dancefloor. Hardly anyone on anything. It was a flat, alcohol-fuelled night. I lasted two hours then left for a home disco.
Out of nowhere, or rather, out of two bottles of Prosecco, Trina unleashes another round midnight volley of texted bile. I am "self-centred", "destined to be lonely", "a fucking idiot"...and then I stopped reading them. The following morning, the cyclical apologies of the drunkard, promising me that she won't send any more nasty texts.
She's finding looking after her pissing and shitting, nappied, ninety-two-year-old mother a strain, so for the hundredth time, I overlook what she has sent me and offer to come over with a bottle or two.
We make chutney from apples from a neighbour before she starts getting wet-eyed, about my unwillingness to "commit" to her. Why the fuck would I do that, when I don't fancy you, and you've got the emotional maturity of a fourteen-year-old? It is a dull, circular subject.
She drives me back to the station. Back in Lancaster, there is some standard issue rock band in a local pub, but it's a relief to be superficial after Trina's intensity. At £3.50 a pint, I made one drink last all night.
I notice a succession of texts from her; do not read them.
In the morning, I get halfway through a series of texts following the same pattern as the night before. In a desert somewhere west of Quernmore, a straw breaks a camel's back. I find out how to change my mobile number, and do so. I inform Trina of the fact, but not the new number.
Another morning, another load of bile on my phone. I came over
yesterday to be sympathetic and to cheer you up, and this is the thanks
I get.
You are correct in saying that your latest tirade at me will be the
last, since I have asked 02 to change my number to finally stop
having to hear any more of your constant attacks on me, and your obsession about Wendy. And you call this loving me? If this is your idea of love then you can shove it up your arse. If it was a man doing it to a woman you'd be up in arms about it, calling it sexist harassment. However, I know how much you enjoy a teenagerish drama, so if you want to get any more vituperative bile out of your system, do it quickly because they have said that a number change takes up to four hours to process. I won't be reading anything further from you however.
I will tell my mum [who is visiting this week] that I don't know what your plans are or whether or not you'll be in touch. If there is an unavoidable need to contact me, please do it by email.
You say you don't want to see me except in "safe social social
situations". I'd rather not see you at all, in any situation, but I will
make an exception this week for my mum's sake. However, I don't want to
spend any more time with you than is absolutely necessary. If in the future we meet anywhere where we both happen to be you can expect
a brief civility and nothing more.
"Good." She replied. "Goodbye."
I distribute my new number. Later in the morning, Wendy rings and I outline what has happened. We arrange to meet in the pub. She sits down slenderly. She tells me that Trina texted Kitty at 1am saying that it's obvious I don't love her and love only Wendy, hoping that they can meet up at some point, and ending it "Girl power!" She hasn't replied.
I go off to meet my mum and take her to Kirsty's, where she is staying. We sit around chatting easily enough. Kirsty makes a fish pie for tea, to which I am not invited. I am cooking for all of them tomorrow. It wouldn't occur to me to exclude Kirsty.
I've got a date with an art teacher on Thursday. We should have spent more time emailing and talking on the phone to build something up. By the time I went to meet Trish for the first time, our written and spoken communication had turned very sexual. Walking into the pub and seeing her looking even sexier than I had dare hope, felt like a consummation in itself.
I'll never refuse being asked out by a woman, but my gut feeling is that it'll be jobs, family, children, holidays, thanks, goodbye.
