Head girl

Trina came round on Wednesday, after fishing hard for why I couldn't make a different day reserved for Karen. "You've got a thing about Karen, haven't you?" "Yeah, I like her a lot."

I cooked us some tea, and things were going well until we plunged into the familiar vortex of her drunken, despairing interrogation into why I don't love her. "Please, Trina, can we not do this?" but she's not to be dissuaded.

We went to our separate beds. In the middle of the night I heard a lot of banging and slamming of doors downstairs. I didn't go down. In the morning, she'd left for work, after ripping up her New Home card she sent me and strewing a pile of my clothes around the living room. She left a note with an arrow pointing to a card from Kitty. "You have so much support. It's a shame you don't deserve it!" The usual apologies a few hours later to complete the cycle.

The following day I met Wendy for a drink. She was radiant, autumn sun glossing her beautiful, untouchable brown hair; her loose dress waving as she walked to the bar.

We got drunk, at that accellerated rate that lunchtime brings, and with that unattractive tint of self-pity that I can fall into halfway through the second bottle, I told her that she's the perfect girlfriend I'll never have.

Her dress was riding up little by little, until she noticed that I was finding it difficult to stop flicking my eyes to her legs. "Don't pull it back down Wendy, please," I didn't say. "I'm sorry Wendy," I did say, insincerely. She told me that she'd bought two new dresses.

Next morning I texted her. "It's always a pleasure to see you -- using the word "see" in every sense because you are breathtakingly gorgeous (and I can't wait to see you in your new dresses) and thank you for the advice re Karen. She's texted a couple of times so has started my day well. Have a good day my darling. You are constantly so kind to me, and I love you Xx."

Of course I was going to some trouble: rose hip soup, the amusingly named orata all'acqua pazza (sea bream in crazy water) and Apple Charlotte. She cancelled in picturesque language. "Don't be mad at me but can't come today love, it's coming out both ends!"

I didn't know what to do with my evening. It occurred to me I could jump on a train and acquire anonymity. On the train to Preston the woman sat next to me was reading an email with the subject "What do you want to achieve by the end of 2017?" "Karen," I thought.

In the pub, I found a brightly lit table, and enjoyed a holidayish pleasure of being left undisturbed with a novel and good beer.

I waved the last of my little girls off last week. "Don't come back posh will you?" I said. "Don't worry Dad, I'm a povvo through and through." I thought our family had coined that word, to mean a poor person of low social class, but in fact it's Australian slang.

She told me of the final question -- undisclosed in advance -- posed to the candidates when they were being publicly interviewed at her old school for the Head Girl position. "Describe yourself in three words." Every candidate but one hitched together three self-aggrandizing adjectives. The winner said "just like you."