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Death and the maiden

  Mon 2nd October 2017

"She's carked it," emails Trina. I offered to go over, and asked if there was anything I could do, but she said there wasn't much point. I told her that Kitty and Wendy sent their condolences.

At half past two in the morning, I was informed that I am a "selfish twat". "My mum dies and all you can think about is telling Wendy. You are oblivious to the effects your behaviour has on others."

"I apologise if passing on someone's best wishes was inappropriate."


"I'm sorry," she said a couple of days later, "I just feel I've lost everything, including you."

I'm not sorry, but there might be a bit of a wave of Karen-related posts for a bit. I'm excited, and I don't find keeping things to myself rewarding, so a few more details about last night.

"If you want to see the fittest girl in Lancaster," I said as I was leaving work, "come down the Shipbuilder's Arms." One of my colleagues did turn up. Whilst I was at the bar, she said to her "you know looby's got a massive crush on you, don't you?"

We were on our own for a while during which she started on some complaints about her ex (I hope I am not being premature in ascribing him that status). "He never...pleasured me." "That's handy," I thought, "because you might be getting involved with a bloke who likes just that." I held her look for a couple of teeming seconds and glanced briefly at her lips. "I've got ideas for you," I said.

"He said he could go and get a different girl every night. It's me that could get someone else every night," she said, correctly. But you're choosing to sit with me! I shouted inside.

"He never wanted to dress me up." I could hardly believe my ears. I would love to go out shopping with Karen, her darting in and out of changing rooms all afternoon, trying on clothes that fulfil the dual function of being stylish and intended for sex; for sitting on trains, hardly able to keep my hands off her.

Tonight we were texting about meeting up tomorrow night. "You will indeed see me Karen... and I slightly hope you remember what you mentioned you might wear....XXX"

"Bloody hell what I can't remember a skirt? X"

"Yes you mentioned a shortish one but just come in what you like. I love how you dress Xxx although I suppose if you did fancy wearing a skirt.....XXX"

I had the most expensive haircut I've ever had -- a bit of a waste of fifteen quid -- and took a change of clothes, my toothbrush and my Chanel scent to work.

At three o'clock, she texted to say she couldn't come out, as her dad was struck down with a bad case of diarrhoea. She's coming round on Thursday for her tea. I can't wait to kiss her again, kissing which will be infinitely more enjoyable than the kiss I had in Burnley on Saturday.

I was meeting Trina at our friend's 60th. I couchsurfed with an attractive, charming late twenties supply teacher. I got changed and went to meet my friends for a pre-bop drink.

In the middle of Burnley's bleak shopping centre, there was a woman -- probably homeless -- dancing to a silent music. Being a curious chap, I started dancing with her. She shared some of her tinned lager, me wondering what fluids other than lager we were commingling.

As I walked away, a second woman came after me. "I'd be careful of her you know. She can turn. Anyway love, do you want sorting out for a tenner?"

"No thanks. But I tell you what I would like. I'd like a snog. I'll give you a tenner for a snog."

People who end up as prossies have had any capacity even to fake intimacy beaten out of them, and it was the most expensive and passionless couple of seconds I've ever had. But she needs ten pounds more than me and I'm sure it will be spent wisely.


She’s just now getting around to feeling she’s lost you? Late to the show.

Cock-blocked by diarrhoea. I had a chuckle. Hope you don’t mind.

So you paid 10 for a snog and 15 for a haircut? Diamond Jim.

Still the best writing out here. I always feel sorry for whoever I read after your posts. They seem inadequate.

Mon 2nd October 2017 @ 11:55 Reply to this comment
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

Trina’s a tragic figure. I wish she could meet someone. But the quality of men around 60 in the Southport area is dire.

Yeah, didn’t quite think the snog through really. Kissing’s the last thing a prossie wants to do.

Karen’s just texted me about Thursday. “And I’ll be looking forward to your cooking as well lol xxx” She gets better by the day!

And flattery will get you everywhere Exile, thank you.

Mon 2nd October 2017 @ 13:06 Reply to this comment
Comment from: Homer [Visitor]

Looby! I can’t get past sharing a can with a homeless stranger.

People I willingly share drinks with: my husband.

People I unwillingly share drinks with: my sister, niece, nephew, at a push my parents if I’ve surreptitiously wiped the top.

The rest of the Venn diagram contains the other 7 billion people on earth.

Mon 2nd October 2017 @ 18:38 Reply to this comment
Comment from: daisyfae [Visitor]

i’ve gone from having some sympathy for Trina to wanting to poke her with a sturdy stick to assist in waking her up from her Looby-stupor! Although “carked it” is now my favorite phrase for dropping dead…

Mon 2nd October 2017 @ 20:39 Reply to this comment
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

I don’t like sharing drinks with anyone really Homer! Still, I can’t see any eruptions or pustules yet.

Me and Trina are meeting up tonight in Preston, so I suppose she’ll doggedly persist in this hopeless attempt to turn me, I don’t know. She definitely needs an arm round her shoulder at the moment though.

Tue 3rd October 2017 @ 09:39 Reply to this comment

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looby, n.; pl. loobies. A lout; an awkward, stupid, clownish person

M / 58 / Bristol, "the most beautiful, interesting and distinguished city in England" -- John Betjeman [1961, source eludes me].

"Looby is a left-wing intellectual who is obsessed with a) women's clothes and b) tits." -- Joy of Bex.

WLTM literate woman, 40-65. Must have nice tits, a PhD, and an mdma factory in the shed, although the first on its own will do in the short term.

There are plenty of bastards who drink moderately. Of course, I don't consider them to be people. They are not our comrades.
Sergei Korovin, quoted in Pavel Krusanov, The Blue Book of the Alcoholic

I am here to change my life. I am here to force myself to change my life.
Chinese man I met during Freshers Week at Lancaster University, 2008

The more democratised art becomes, the more we recognise in it our own mediocrity.
James Meek

Tell me, why is it that even when we are enjoying music, for instance, or a beautiful evening, or a conversation in agreeable company, it all seems no more than a hint of some infinite felicity existing apart somewhere, rather than actual happiness – such, I mean, as we ourselves can really possess?
Turgenev, Fathers and Sons

I hate the iPod; I hate the idea that music is such a personal thing that you can just stick some earplugs in your ears and have an experience with music. Music is a social phenomenon.
Jeremy Wagner

La vie poetique has its pleasures, and readings--ideally a long way from home--are one of them. I can pretend to be George Szirtes.
George Szirtes

Using words well is a social virtue. Use 'fortuitous' once more to mean 'fortunate' and you move an English word another step towards the dustbin. If your mistake took hold, no-one who valued clarity would be able to use the word again.
John Whale

One good thing about being a Marxist is that you don't have to pretend to like work.
Terry Eagleton, What Is A Novel?, Lancaster University, 1 Feb 2010

The working man is a fucking loser.
Mick, The Golden Lion, Lancaster, 21 Mar 2011

The Comfort of Strangers

23.1.16: Big clearout of the defunct and dormant and dull
16.1.19: Further pruning

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63 mago
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