What a mess. Everything. Me and Wendy and Kitty, money, house, job; then this site decided to come out in sympathy with a virus.

I'm in Middlesbrough, at my mum's house. The cricket is on the radio. My mum is reading the paper and my mentally disabled brother is tirelessly pacing round the room. We've all been down Wetherspoons spending some of his disability allowance on a pizza for me and mounds of wet, shit-coloured, shit-textured meat, for the others.

My sister rang up asking if I'd like to go out tonight, but even round here, you can't get tipsy on 7p. I have an interview in Gateshead next week, but I can't afford the fare to get there.

The cricket's ceded to the football against Nigeria. "I love their exuberance, those dark people," says Mum.



My relationship with Wendy may be finished; that with Kitty hangs by a thin thread.

I was supposed to be returning to Lancaster for a few days last month, the highlight of which was going out with them both to a ravey do with them both on 18th for Wendy's 50th. The tickets were a prohibitive £44, so I said that I would meet them at the after-party.

For days beforehand, I could not stop ruminating on the likelihood of a repeat of what happened last November, which both Wendy and Kitty think is nothing, but which ground like salt into a wound, the detestable fact that The Injunction still bears heavily upon me. After a few drinks with Helen, she innocently said that she was going up to Kitty's to see her and Wendy, and assumed that I would like to come to, to have a couple of drinks with my closest friends. Kitty had to remind Helen of The Injunction, and that I wouldn't be allowed in her house, on the ground that Wendy's daughter was there too.

In April last year, when the Injunction had already been in place for months, Wendy said "I will sort all this out." Nothing's been done.

On the back of a few pints, I snapped, and told her, a week before I was due to come over, that I didn't want such a thing to happen again, and that I was breaking with her. Kitty informed me the following morning that she hoped that "one day [I would] reflect on your poor and selfish behaviour" and that Wendy did not want to hear from me again.

On the night of the rave, Wendy texted me. "We'll miss you tonight, you fucking idiot." "I'll miss you too. I'm sorry, pet." And that's been it. More than a fortnight's passed now. I regret falling out with them, very much.

A few days prior to all this happening, Wendy casually mentioned that she was in bed, "...and no Modern Abomination" (she's adopted my term for a shaved cunt), and a train of fantasies involving a unclothed Wendy accelerated onward, even whilst the higher court of appeal in my head urged me to stop it.



A long time ago, I had agreed to go to the wedding of the bloke who made me an illegal proposal a while ago. I had nowhere to stay, and "slept" under a bush in a car park until about 2am, went to McDonalds until I was asked to leave at 4am, then went to Lancaster's all-night bar until 8am, where about twenty of us talked the night away, all social barriers gone. We had conversations about low temperature physics, why we forget things, and a coded one about drug policy (which meant "I'm on something, are you?"). To complete the night, two little boys had a fight.

I went round to my girls' house the morning after, the day of the wedding. "Where are you staying tonight?" asked my eldest. "The bush is still there." "No," she said, "let's go on airbnb. I don't like the idea of you sleeping under a bush," and she booked me into a room in the city centre where I broke the key safe at the entrance as I left, slightly pleased to have done so, the better to irritate the Chilean landlord, who was would only communicate reluctantly.



I've been spending some time with Kim. She's been inviting me to spend a few days at a time with her -- practice for if we end up sharing her house in Durham. Most of the time, we're like an old married couple. Companionable evening silences. I clear the yards of washing up she manages to produce; I "cook" for her, reheating something from her vast store of frozen meals. Down her local, she is the desirable cynosure of all men, and the object of a look sometimes more envious from the lumpen female proletariat of suburban Durham; she manages her performance expertly. I'm the same as all the rest: I love looking at her.

After my Wendy fall-out, I texted her. I told her all about it. "Don't *you* chuck me will you? Because I'm down to one close friend now."



My sister wasn't to be put off. She came round and offered to lend me a tenner if I'd go out with her that evening to one of the attractive small towns in Middlesbrough's hinterland. She's thrown off the yoke of an unsuitable husband, and turned up in a little black dress, black tights and black heels; red lipstick; long, kinked and un-hairdresser-ed blonde hair. I felt uncomfortable with her at first. I've spent little time with my sister, who is fourteen years younger than me and looks even younger; I had to train myself out of my instincts. Within an hour she'd got chatting to a video producer who asked her round his "for a drink in the garden one afternoon."

This morning, I get sent a recommendation of "someone you might like" from the dating site. She's got the same name as Wendy's ex, The Injunction's author.