Fucking Westmorland cunt

Wendy pulls her dress up one-handedly while we're kissing, takes hold of my cock, and starts stroking it up and down along her cunt. I want so much to move my hands away from her beautiful waist to rake into her hair, but I am immobilised.

As I unbutton her blouse as slowly as I can, Diane asks "So what's your favourite position?" "That's like saying, 'which do you prefer, cats or France', but how about you lay on the edge of the bed and put your heels on my shoulders?"

Meanwhile, in the unitalicised world, Diane cancels the 11am party in Blackpool. She'd had a long and tiring day at the anti-fracking protest at Little Plumpton. They walk very slowly, almost at a standstill, along the access road to hinder the progress of the infernal machines about to chew up rural mid-Lancashire and spit out millions of gallons of liquid radioactive waste. In their test drill a couple of years ago, they simply poured the waste into the Manchester Ship Canal.

"I'm an anomaly," she texts. "Church on a Thursday, serious drugs on a Friday, Narcotics Anonymous on a Saturday then back to church twice on a Sunday." The only place that really helped her when she was homeless was a local church. "Or a well-rounded person x," I suggest.

---

The new lodgers, Nadia and boyfriend David, moved in yesterday. A few evenings ago, I got back to find a group of yoof in the living room, playing Leonard Cohen, on vinyl. Nadia was wearing a stripy black and white Breton-y T-shirt and a short brown suede skirt that rode up over her blackly-tighted thighs when she crossed her legs. Thank goodness I have arrived at an age at which I do not notice superficial and irrelevant details about young women, such as their musical tastes.

A previous lodger, who owes me £150, turns up to collect his stuff. I heard through a third party that he is particularly anxious about an expensive Japanese chef's knife, so I hid it behind the bookshelves. I let him in and tell him that I have taken the knife hostage until he pays me the money he owes me." "That's OK," he says, deflating my challenge somewhat.

---

To Appleby, the town with the cheapest loo roll in England. Can your town beat 16 rolls for £3?

It's a creaky, classy, self-confident hotel, way beyond me at over £200 a night; no canned music, and not a single sighting of a bearded hipster and a girl wearing plastic dragonfly hairgrips, both of whom will end up working for KPMG once they get over their sensitive phase. It's won some award for the best hotel in England for those interested in hunting and fishing, so hipsters in Westmorland probably end up as roadkill.

Trina and I had a bottle of Prosecco when we arrived, peach schnapps (me) and manzanilla sherry (Trina) as aperitifs, and an Alsatian Pinot Blanc with dinner, after which I asked the owner if he had any Calvados. He fetched back two bottles and a magnum of it, the youngest of which was fifteen years old. Back in our room, we opened a bottle of Yellow Tail, which was like drinking nail varnish after such refinement.

Luxuriatedly relaxed, I wasn't expecting Trina to flip so suddenly. She went on a journey round in the same old groove: sniping, tendentious questions to which there is no answer that would please her, a sour mixture of jealousy, aggression and self-dislike.

"Right then Trina, this isn't working for me any more. I'll see you tomorrow," and took myself off to bed. She stayed up, pacing about, talking, sometimes shouting, to herself.

She came to bed three times, wriggling about and talking all the time, masochistically adding sexual desire to the cauldron. I pretended to be in a deep sleep, which wasn't easy, as I was amphetamined, in the mood for talking into dawn. Inconveniently, I was also getting turned on thinking about sex with Wendy and Diane. The fourth time, she drew herself up foetally, and collapsed into sobbing. I put my arm round her, carefully concaving my cock from anywhere touchable.

The following morning, I wanted a clean slate. "Trina, I've been looking forward to this. Could we just have a nice day today? Please, all the drama and stomps and moods -- can we do that in Lancaster? When we get back? Please, Trina, not here." I must remember that Trina has a lower tolerance for alcohol; I don't want either of us to go through this again.

She calmed down as suddenly as she had become unhinged. She genuinely had no recollection of what she had said or done the night before. "You are the kindest and most tolerant person I know." "I know I am, I'd just rather not have to prove it very often." She's in a vortex of unrequited love and desire, and the stress produced by the almost intolerable burden she bears of looking after her demented, doubly-incontinent, 96-year-old mother, all fermented by alcohol. Once her mum dies, we'll see a different Trina.

---

I count the day a success when you bid farewell to a woman you met three hours earlier in the coarsest language possible.

We spent the following afternoon in the pub, in the ribald, demotic company of three locals. The middleaged woman, especially, was good fun, testing us with her swearing. "You," she said, pointing to me, "are a bell-end. Fucking wind it in." "Here are love, I've got some cream here. Rub it on your tits, might make them a bit bigger."

I'm putting you on tripadvisor," I told her. "'Attractions in Appleby -- ones to avoid'." Somehow they got the idea I was a dentist. One of the party was somewhat gap-toothed. "Tell you what mate, I could make a fucking fortune out of you." A policeman wandered in. "Look, I'm sorry officer. I apologised to her Dad, and I replaced the lawnmower."

At the end they were very warm in their farewells. The woman's Dad said that it had been a great afternoon, "and you made it," which is one of the most pleasing things anyone has said to me for ages.

Missy wasn't finished with me though, landing a kick on my arse. "Fuck off, you bell-end." I went to kick her, missed, and told her she was a fucking Westmorland cunt.