MK Dons 1 Morecambe 0

My unsmiling dentist, her face close to mine, asks "do you snack?" in the same tone of voice she'd use if she suspected me of wanking on buses. She hacks at my teeth for what feels like a long time, bits of wet, fine debris flying out and landing on my face, as I swallow repeatedly, trickles of spit trailing down my neck.

Halfway through, I feel a building fart starting to protest at its confinement. I wince at the pain of it, and she stops for a moment. "Bit sensitive there, is it?" "No, it's just I really need to do a stonking fart," I didn't say.

Afterwards, and all I really want to do is go home, she says "a toothbrush is the last thing that should go into your mouth at night." A lewd thought crossed my mind.

I am released at last. In the toilets, I let off a two-note cubicle-trembler, with added aftershocks as I walked down the street.

The new buffet steward I sometimes work with is forty-two-years-old but looks at least a decade younger. She's easy to talk to and we share a past employer. She's very attractive in a mannered way, and she hasn't been issued with all her uniform yet, so she wears this close-fitting grey dress. I catch the chef glancing at the hem-thigh interface as she cocks her leg on the ledge holding the shelves up, just as I have been doing.

She tells us that she's a part-time lingerie model. She shows me and the chef a couple of pictures of herself, hair tumbling over a black and red bra. I move the picture up and she's wearing a little triangle of cunt-knicker. "No!" she say, and snatches the phone away from me.

The chef shows us a picture of his niece, and I don't know what to say. She looks ridiculous, a doll, big tits pushed up in a silver dress and a doltish expression. As though we were now in a game, the model then shows us a picture of her daughter in a one-piece black garment, hand on hip, bum thrust out like she's having difficulty shitting. "She's trying to bag a footballer," she explains.

Weeks ago I suggested to my brother, who likes football, that we could go to see Morecambe, who were away to Milton Keynes Dons. He's teetotal, with the teetotaller's de haut en bas way of looking at others, but I get on very well with him as long as we observe some unspoken rules.

As we entered the stadium, there were the band of chanting and drumming Morecambe supporters with whom I wanted to stand, but I could feel his wanting to be distinct from their coarseness.

My brother sat down throughout and liked the padded seats. They've got a huge stadium but it feels a bit corporate, with giant screens showing irritating, banal ads. We were supervised by seven stewards, one of whom was a sour-faced woman who was itching for some agg, but who had to settle for staring hard at us for the duration of the match.

I stayed at his. His house was really cold. On Sunday I had a couple of pints in Paddington and met the sound engineer for Stiff Little Fingers, who was looking forward to his bed after three exhausting months on the road.

Opposite me on the train were an auditor and a teacher, both stooped in concentration over their computers. On a Sunday afternoon.