Standing at the cashpoint, trying to influence the ATM into giving me a final tenner by being insouciant. My magic works. In the pub, I meet Neil and Kev. A phase of talking to Kev and wanting to kiss him, and letting his words go in parallel with imagining his cock in my mouth. As I left I kissed him on the lips. "Don't do that," he says. "You'll tempt me." "It crosses my mind," I say. I wish you could do this with women, without it being all significant.

Before that, I get pleasingly detained by a train driver with whom I used to work. I sometimes miss the culture of the railways. It's an intelligent, working class culture. We stand at the bar and I like how he starts swearing in a way which I know indicates friendship rather than aggression.

We chat with some young, keen but rightwing Lib Dem councillors saying about how people go to Preston to shop. No they don't. And a translator from Toulouse and her Canadian boyfriend, who clasped hands on the table. I don't want any girlfriend to whom I have to be so demonstrably fond in public. The sense of needing a third party, an audience, in order to certify "love" (whatever that is). It's the physical equivalent of using your mobile phone in public. It says "There's something more important than you."

In the streets afterwards, everyone's declaring Easter drunken. Branded men wear logoed T-shirts. High heels and minidresses on women, who are suffering with the angles. "He's a nice bloke, a regular," I overhear from one of them, and I'm vainly happy as I go home.

But not pissed enough. Not a pleasant feeling, and wondering whether I should resort to the medicinally harsh black Hungarian "tonic" that is unloved in the kitchen. Supposed to be going to see Kitty and Melissa in Lytham tomorrow but won't be able to do that now.

I went to meet Kathryn. Everyone says "be yourself." Yes, but which one?

I had a haircut (Moorgate Barbers, 4.50), polished my new shoes (Save The Children, 4.99) and dusted myself with the expensive perfume I found on a train a while ago (along with a bra). I mean, I found a bra at the same time, not that I put a bra on to meet her. We can get round to that when we know each other better.

She walked in; a friendly hello kiss. Tallish, and wearing a loose grey top in an artificial material which she kept wrapping about herself, something I wanted her to stop doing, as she had an attractive front elevation; and jeans. I banished the fleeting thought that that's not really how you dress for a first date by looking at her lovely reddish-brown hair flowing onto her shoulders. When I came back from the bar I noticed that she looked quite shapely from behind.

I was curious about how a middleaged American mother of two ends up doing a PhD in Lancaster. She's from Rhode Island, and followed her husband over here for his job, before they split up. We talked about how surprised many people are that one can remain on good terms with one's former partners after a break. When she said that some men she's met though the dating site find that a bit odd, I wondered if I had just acquired a competitive advantage.

Talking about academic interests has great potential for the bland restatement of shared political positions and slow sage-like nodding of leftwing heads, but she's got an interesting topic and was disarming about her lack of knowledge about it. More of it though was about how children acquire traits not present in their parents, culture shock when arriving in London, the advantages for single parents of home deliveries from the supermarket, and why Americans can never pronounce "Edinburgh" correctly.

She was drinking halves of cider. It got better and a bit more sweary as the drink took hold. "Would it be artificially extending the afternoon to have another?" I ventured, suggesting a third. She readily agreed and went for her purse. "No I'll get these," I said. "You're a cheap date."

At the end there was no hesitation about suggesting a return fixture. The "where to put the valedictory kiss" problem was fixed with a spot about an inch to the left of her lips. I went to another pub to write some notes for this blog entry, where my mood was flattened by a friend's monologue about a croft he's purchased, the building work necessary on it, and the intricacies of planning law in the Western Isles. He'd bought me a pint so I felt a bit trapped.

In the evening, I went to a wine tasting and manfully soldiered my way though six wines of Tuscany, one of which, being entirely beyond my means but utterly delicious, I bought. A man on our table was translating the labels for us and it emerged he was learning Italian in order, so he said, to try to move things on a bit with an Italian female friend of his.

I was probably being a bit chatty with my friend's girlfriend, and at one point I thought I saw a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. But then he's a psychologist so a professional person watcher.

Back home, Csilla was being friendly and chatty as ever. I opened the wine (a little lip-bite of regret that my £18 wine was being used for such a routine occasion) and Csilla indicated for me to sit there as "we have something to say." She called Stefan down and I quavered with worry.

They are moving out at the end of next month, being seduced by Preston. Preston! But it's nearer their jobs, and as Csilla gracefully said, chapters in life come naturally to an end and this is ours. I'll be sorry to see Csilla go; less so Stefan. Promises to keep in touch, offers of holidays on the Adriatic coast, and the wine wasn't wasted after all. "You should tell Kitty to move in, and fall in love," she said.

Temperatures are soaring into the teens here in Lancaster, and with this, comes the depressing spectacle of the English male in its summer plumage: the Cargo Pant.

Combined with little white trainers and ankle socks just peeping above the top of the shoe, I cannot think of anything as ugly and unflattering for the typical hairy legged English man-youth. There are even worse examples than the one illustrated, covered with the company logo in huge flourescent lettering, but there are limits to what my eyes can stand.

If anyone wears these horrors, a note of what I am missing about a baggy muddle of pockets and flaps, on a trouser at half mast (presumably to mark the passing of style), would be appreciated.

Maintaining similar standards for the female sex, is this lass, spotted in Lancaster this morning. It's not just me getting old is it?

I've had a lovely afternoon in which I told a barrister--whom I met in a personal capacity, I hasten to add, not a professional one--that she has a beautiful cleavage, the details of which I will record later. I mean, not the details of her cleavage, but the situation in which I ended up saying that the way that her necklace draped into her tits was making it a bit difficult to look at her face. She had a naughty cackling laugh.

Spoken for, so nothing happening, but she asked for my email address. I was hesitant about that because if friskiness is not even potentially on offer, I'm not sure if I want to spend drunken time with an attractive woman, but I gave it her anyway.

Halfway through all this, The Anthropologist rings. She's American, which I didn't expect at all. You can usually tell Americans: they're all happy. She sounded nervous, which put me at my ease a bit, because I was nervous too, trying to sound more confident that I felt. I was glad that I'd had a couple by the time she rang.

This is more like it. First contact: Thursday. First phone call: Friday. First meeting: Tuesday.

Muslim neighbour in the window opposite doing something practical with his windows while I blog with a glass of Syrah. This is why they will rule us in fifty years' time.

I tried chopping it up because it seemed to take a long time to come on in tablet form. Bad idea. It burns your nose.

I went round to Kirsty's last night, so that we could go to see Jenny in her show, a series of selections from musicals, at her school. It was a most professional show, a credit to the school. Her school is a rare thing nowadays, classless. Academics and bus driver parents mingled in the foyer.

The tickets said that you had to go in evening dress. None of us have evening dress, but Kirsty looked most sophisticated in her beaded creme and brown short-sleeved top and straight creased brown trousers. I thought I looked OK too in a narrowly tailored suit which I got when the University of L---- gave me my maintenance grant, most of which I spent on clothes and getting pissed in Glasgow.

Legally Blonde came on, and there was my daughter, in the chorus. I couldn't believe that my daughter could possibly get herself involved in such degrading sexist material. If she wants to be an actress, I want to see her in obscure university theatres in works by ignored C18th Austrian dramatists. But she was great, she's a natural. I straightened my back to attention, looking at Jenny on the stage and Kirsty with shared parental pride.

When we got home, I said about the lyrics. Jenny, in an exasperated tone, explained to me, as though I were a fool, that the dialogue in Legally Blonde is a pisstake. We got them up to bed and me and Kirsty had a bottle of wine. I like being part of my family.

I'm banned from all Marks and Spencers in the UK after a misunderstanding of the provisions of the Theft Act, but I went into there tonight anyway and found a Herefordshire cider. It's been in the fridge for a bit and I will drink it now. "Single variety", it says on the label. Single variety is very rarely a recommendation in cider. It's good that they're trying though.

I've decided to delete the bit that was here last night. Not really fair on the other person, and have started worrying now in case she finds the blog. Probably not presenting my best side in this post!

It's coming up to 6 and I'm in the back room of the Sun, with the glass-covered well in the middle of the room. You can stand on it and peer down and look at the source of the water which residents here drank before mains water arrived. We've had a planning meeting for our Dickens event, which New Business Colleague thinks is "fucking shit" because he's uneducated and needs help. It's good working with Kev and Neil. You can be honest and question things without them getting all prickly.

I'm drinking the lovely Ross-on-Wye dry cider. Every batch they make is different. They grow forty varieties of cider apple on their farm and every time you drink it it will be different. It's all unpasteurised, it's all pressed and made in their orchard. We should get the EU to limit the word "cider" to the kind of things that Ross-on-Wye are doing rather than this placcy bottled shite that teenagers get pissed on in bus shelters. It damages the name of a drink that should be part of English gastronomy.

Bit of an awkward meeting with Seriouscrush and boyf last night (the owners of my house). They seemed to think I am profiteering from their lease. They own two other houses, each worth about 450 grand. It was a managed evening; a spontaneous laughter about something we were saying corrected by the cloud of the issue before us. I didn't want to appear too grateful about their generosity towards me; and always, the receding memory of my affair with Seriouscrush. They were saying that the honesty with which they deal with me isn't being reciprocated. No, maybe not, but honesty is a privilege of the wealthy.

Mary-Ann texts this morning. It's a surprise. I reply, saying that I'm missing her, which I am. I miss her tits and the way she gave herself to me (and I to her) as a sexual recreation ground one Sunday, while Stefan moved about in the bedroom opposite and went for a noisy piss, failing to do what any person with an atom of sensitivity would do, which is to fuck off down the pub for a few hours. I suggest ringing her. She replies cautiously. "I'm not very good at doing the casual as a sequel to the intense x."

I just want a bird I can go out drinking with, go dancing, get pissed, chat with the first thing that comes into your head, easy selfish skin touching, which doesn't mean fucking each other in seven equally satisfying positions, fall asleep, bother her in the morning, massive fry up, fried eggs and black pudding.

I'm torn between wanting to reply and thnking she's too deep for me. On my dating profile it says "I've got the spiritual depth of a puddle, so while you're off finding yourself in Peru I'll find the corkscrew." And I'm not sure if I fancy her that much.