Hayley hoovers it up

I've just been to the dentist. I arrived with a bike ride glow. All downhill (it's going to be a fuck of a ride back) along cycle paths. Past a snug, smug eco-homes development, pure, white.

I was surprised to be asked for £22 before he'd even asked me to open wide. I can't remember once paying in any of my previous infrequent visits to the dentist. I declined the transaction. "Yes, so next time, if you can remember to bring £22." Reasonable enough, but then he made an attempt at sympathy which won't work with someone on irregular hours paid at the minimum wage. "Because now, I'm not earning any money for half an hour."

Saturday. Techno night at a club I frequent. DJs from Berlin and Rome, 6am close -- none of this 2am nonsense, leaving you looking for something sensual at a bus stop.

At Hayley's scoured and unsoftened new council flat, she is concaved over her phone to her abuser. A couple of half-hearted how are yous, trailing off; turning her head towards me, her eyes pivoting on her phone. She'd said she'd blocked him, and he knows her address, which she averred she'd not reveal. I've lost you, haven't I? You're his. I'm the social worker. Even then, I knew we were not to spend the night dancing together.

I put out two small lines of mdma. She took them both. "I've left you a rock, looby," she said, pointing to a speck. I had some more so it didn't matter, but by far the greater disappointment was having to be mistrustful of her in future with something valuable I'd have been willing to share.

Hayley scrolled on and on and on, green-framed sentences. We finally got out, and so did the Hayley I like. She told me about meeting an African bloke the previous night who had her over the meagre furniture in her room. "The Abuser asks me if I look at other men. I wasn't looking at him much." It was raining, and I did this ridiculous walk on my heels, because my shoes have holes in them.

I'd told her we needed to get tickets in advance, but she was confident she'd blag it. At the door she was asked for £25. I neither had £25 nor would have given it to her if I had. I made a sympathetic but unhelping face, and went in.

It was 1am before anyone asked my age. "This bloke's fifty-six!" he exclaimed to his mates. An elderly seal still performing. But the drunk people drifted off to have a good shout by two or three, then the e'd up people could claim the space and the harder, more serious DJs could come on.

I settled in a space upstairs with a couple from Merseyside who were on the same drug wavelength. There's a particular e-smile which a drunk can't fake. We got talking about how they met and why they're here; but mainly, it was dancing, with others like us, not doing all this checking to see if everyone's having a good time. Mdma is a fucking great drug.

The weak dinnertime sun here in Wetherspoons outside Temple Meads is amplified by the privatised composite stone outside. Chatty groups of work colleagues from DEFRA and something to do with taxation will have to get back to work soon. I am eyeing a plate of half-eaten nachos which I could legerdemain to my table once they've gone back to sort out post-Brexit fishing policy.

Nope. Fucking cunt of a waitress has cleared it away.