I had the most loquacious, inquisitive potential future tenant come round today. I felt like the interviewee. "So how do you spend your free time?" she asked. "Well, I see my friends, and I have my girls some of the week," answering the question whilst wondering why I was doing so. She's from Malaysia, finished an MA in HR Management, and now runs a "coaching" business (what?). She asked if she could see her "clients" in my front room. When I said yes I didn't know what I was agreeing to.

After a couple of false starts of her leaving, when I started to stand up, but which she wound back with new questions, she finally left. I ran down to the station, late, ringing Trina on the way. "Don't rush," she said. "I'm on platform three with my book."

She was sitting there with Lawrence Durrell and a vacant seat next to her. "Is this seat free?" I asked. "No. I'm waiting for someone." We kissed, shouders hunched. "I didn't want you to feel all flustered," she said. "Hang on, I ran here partly out of selfish reasons, Trina. It's not all about you, you know."

We went to the Ring O' Bells, which has a garden the bees and blackbirds think they own. Then to the Sun, where she bought us salami and cheese and pickles and bread. We walked with our drinks into the garden. Neil and Kev, whom I'd put off yesterday, were there. "Oh I see," said Neil. "You say you're busy..." "I am busy," I said, with a head nod towards Trina. "Well pull up a chair..." "No, I am not going to pull up a chair. Trina, this is Neil, Kev, Tamsin. Now, we are going to politely fuck off."

After the Sun we went for a walk through a rampantly weeded field by the Priory Church, down a grassed hill and onto the Quay and into the George and Dragon. "Hello looby," said the barman. "How are you?" "All the better since I've been going out with this bird." "Oh really?" said someone at the bar. "Yes, I'm his bird," she said, I want to kiss you for saying that and we got into talk about her origins--Welsh and Scouse, but in which she said her grandfather was Russian, something I didn't know.

But I wanted her to myself. I ushered her away to sit down. We chatted and snogged, hair-raking, kissing, with the knowing indulgence of everyone else in the pub, who will report this on the bush telegraph. Cliff's got a bird. It's a small city, and people talk about each other here.

Snogging goodbye, cock-stiff against her on platform four, her untouchable tits. She got on her train and I had to stop in the station entrance, a wave of druggish, deep breath-y, physical, pleasure.

I don't want to stop feeling like this, and told her so. "It's in our hands," she texted back.

Gillian said she'd move out on Wednesday, but I don't trust a word she says. I get back home, knock on her door. No answer, so I go in. The room is empty, apart from a couple of bags of rubbish and a polysytrene tray containing a half-eaten burger and some flaccid chips. What a relief.

Yesterday, a garrulous late afternoon down the pub, a comic spectacle of everyone walking in drenched by the torrential rain we've had. A man came to sit at our table. Asked permission. "No no, go on," me and Keith said. He's from Bury and is in hiding in Lancaster for a few days because he's fucked some bloke's wife and the jealous violent hubby is looking for him. "She's a dirty bitch," he said. "I'm fed up of women just laying there. I said, 'move your leg like this and go like this.' 'I know what I'm fucking doing,' she said. I thought my cock was going to snap off."

For money, he's using a criminally manufactured set of credit references for which he said he paid 100 pounds, on the basis of which he can obtain loans which he'll never repay. He showed us a credit reference purportedly from a well known Spanish owned bank which looked completely convincing. If it's been provided by the two people recently rumbled for doing this, he'll be wanted by the police and well as a cuckold.

The barmaid came round asking us for 50p for a raffle for some charity involved in death postponement. "You've got to think of a name for that teddy. Anything," she prompted, as my mind was blank. "Hairy Cunt," I said. She looked silently to the floor with distaste. Stan shook his head and tapped his wife on the shoulder. "Hey, Rach... he's just called it 'Hairy Cliff'. That cracked me up that did."

I snapped myself to sobriety and came home to show a young man around Gillian's room. He's about to start teacher training. We chatted easily, and it is agreed, with a handshake at least, that he'll move in at the end of next week. A small unfortunate detail is that he wants to keep the double bed in there as he's got a girlfriend. I was hoping to purloin that for the possibility that there might be a Welsh in it shortly. But as he left, I felt a wave of physical relief that I'll now be able to pay the money I owe Seriouscrush for May.

Trina emails, wondering if I'd be free for a day out in London with her next month. Kitty rings and we have a good chat, partly about her new job in a dog-rough school in a Lancashire seaside resort. Bill Bryson visited it and wrote "The Council have spent half a million pounds cleaning up [the town]. Now the turds sparkle." Talking about the pupils, she said "I wish you could hit them."

Trina. I saw her from a distance on the railway station and thought what a lumpen, stooped walk she has. She was wearing a thin low-necked blouse in something synthetic with a diagonal pattern of small brown squares on a white background with a white cotton scooped necked vest top underneath, and jeans. We walked through town and I introduced her to Keith. "This is that mixed race bird I was telling you about the other day. Half Welsh, half Scouse."

As a girl who has bravely borne her immense handicap in life of being from Rhosllanerchruogog, and therefore finds Wrexham an exciting, edgy city, she hadn't seen anything like the Merchants before. It's a pub fashioned from vaulted stone C18th wine cellars, something that would sink under the weight of money or pretention down south. I was proud to to present it to her, an example of why I am proud, in some ways, of my city.

We were on our own under mellow orange lights set into faux copper housings. Delicious snogging at a shared, unspoken understanding of the speed of sex. She sighed and parted to indicate a rest. "You got my heart going there." "You got something of mine going as well," I said.

She said "I think I was born as a cat in another life. I love being stroked." It reminded me of Mary-Ann once describing me as a kitten. When she said she loved dancing, I lit up, then was immediately cautious. "What to?" "To 'dance music'"--which was the term everyone used to use for house or techno. She knew that. So start cringing youngsters--there'll be a 48- and a 57-year-old on a dancefloor near you soon.

At the railway station, pressed together, we chatted with commas of kissing.

I rush back to my house. I'm running because I have to show someone round Gillian's room. She's one of those semi-autistic, over-disciplined, future anorexic girls that universities like Lancaster hoover up.

The washing machine is stalled, knobless. Neither May nor June's rent has been paid. Having to see Seriouscrush to explain why this is so. An overdue and very boring article to finish. Drinking on a credit card, questionnaires I should have pestered people about for the anti-fracking campaign, and Gillian's quiet, parasitic presence. But it's mine and Trina's afternoon and nothing's going to spoil it.

I bumped into Keith, who showed me the metal stiches in his lower back from an operation, and said that he got 64 for a dissertation I helped him with. I bought him a pint and told him about Trina. "She's a nice mixed race bird," I said. "Welsh Mum, Scouse Dad."

She rang to say she'd got lost and was outside a pub. "Right Keith I'll have to go--she's outside the Brown Cow." I went to the loo where a jailbird I know saw me brushing my teeth. "You know, if you want to get rid of the smell--chocolate. Just get a little bit of chocolate, you know, them squares, bite a bit off, and it'll get rid of it."

We walked hand in hand through town and we met one of the couple who cooked for me the other week. It felt like a declaration of sorts.

In the garden at the Sun, the air is of stolen luxury. Glinting glasses and bottles of wine, long slow lunches that feel illicit. Why is no-one at work? A young man in a suitably existentialist uniform of scruffy jeans, jacket with rolled-up sleeves, and white plastic sunglasses was at the next table, earwigging perhaps, and reading something by Jean-Paul Sartre.

Trina and I fall over each other with talking, two chirruping chatterboxes knotting conversational threads where only what's of most immediate interest survives. "It's so simple and straightforward with you," I said. "I don't have to think," reminding myself of Furtheron's wise advice to avoid doing just that on this blog a few days ago. Slow and gradual kissing, her biting my lips. It feels as though she's witholding something; I find it very sexy.

She said she'd still like to come to the the wine club in three weeks' time. "Well, there won't be a bus back," she said, "and I'll just have to stay over, won't I?" I sleep on a long cushion, on the floor. I haven't got a bed at all, let alone a double one.

In the bus station, the ugliness of the scene in front of us is almost miraculous. Line-painted pockmarked tarmac, the Co-op supermarket in a grey metal prefab, a bit of wasteland picked over by gulls, and a gaudy fruit machine and bingo place, staffed by buxom women in polyester tuxedos. "We've snogged in some romantic places you and me," she said; and we'll be doing so again tomorrow.

Gillian has: failed to keep repeated promises about the rent, been an irritiating mental interference while I was on holiday with the girls, caused me a great deal of financial problems, (which now involve Seriouscrush), and violated Section Eight of the Housing Act 1988.

I serve a Notice To Quit on her at the pub at which she works. It won't be any more effective by embarrassing her, so I folded it and put it in a folder marked "Guest List". She looked at me blackly. "Hello, I've got to give you this," I said. Our mutual friend was in there, which was to my advantage, as I have a witness for its presentation.

She's now avoiding me. This morning, as I was in the kitchen, she crept downstairs (you know how silent old Victorian houses with wooden staircases are) and out the front door, not locking it behind her.

I put all my bedding and the clothes worn on holiday in the washing machine. The dial for the programs is missing, there's a load of congealed liquid in the bit where you put the powder, and it does nothing if you turn it on. I can't afford to have it repaired.

A quarter of hour on the phone with a sympathetic, patient, but slightly exasperated official who explains that I am required to produce a more accurate record of my income from 30 September 2010 to date. Who keeps train tickets or receipts from eighteen months ago? They're all on my accounts, which I've sent to them, but that's not enough--they need to see the receipts. As I walked home today I started thinking what the worst case scenario would be should I lose this house.

I went to the bank and was refused a loan of 900 quid to pay the rent for May and June. In their open plan offices, every fucker could hear everything.

A good looking and witty girl, who might be feeling a bit isolated in The Lesbian Capital of the North, has struck up a conversation. I've told her about Trina. She offered to go away but I don't see any reason for that.

Strange how the material aspects of my life have worsened as the affective ones have taken flight. Last night, after a drunken night on champagne at our book club, I tried to send her a text about diacritical marks. Her real name is a Welsh one which requires a circumflex. It was probably a good job my battery expired mid-composition. She is flirty, funny, chatty, and appreciative, every day.

I've floated the idea of me, her and Kitty meeting up one day. I want any girlfriend I might have to meet my girl friends and I think the alchemy would be good. Although given how much both of them talk, I'd have to remember to pack a book.