Kitty and Helen said that they were going to be in London for a few days and that I was coming down to see them. I told them I would love to, but couldn't afford it. They wouldn't have it, and Kitty paid my train fare of 76 [sic] pounds.

I strolled up to the bar in Covent Garden, where they were with the incredibly attractive Melanie from Reading. They had already bought a caiparinha for me, which was a good job, because in what was to become a theme of the evening, the waiter came out and asked us if we'd like anything else as they were closing. At 8.15, on World Cup Final night, in central London. At the sushi restaurant, the waitress warned us they were closing in half an hour. On the bank of the Thames, where there are some bars on boats, everything was closed, at 10 o'clock. "For God's sake, it'd be easier to find a drink in Doncaster," said Melanie from Reading, who by then had to get a train home.

It was a warm night, and hundreds of exultant Spaniards were running around with flags and vuvuzelas, beeping their car horns, jumping and shouting every time they encountered another celebratory party. Dutch people shook their hands. We just about managed to get into a pub, where the barmaid served us then turned the music off and the lights on full. Helen came back to the table with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot. In a nightclub, Helen opened the champagne and hid it behind a menu. As we were finishing it a security guard shone a torch on it, said something into his headset, and Kitty and Helen had to turn on the fluttering eyelashes to avoid us getting chucked out.

Back to the hotel: one bed, two girls, and me. "We've decided you should sleep in the middle," said Kitty, so I did, and woke up spooning Kitty, my arm draped across her thigh. I could fancy Kitty, and it was a delicious test not to move. I lay there thinking how beautiful she is. Then I came round a bit more and realised it was Helen. "Looby, you've been spooning me for about two hours," Helen said. "I know, I'm sorry, I didn't realise I'd got into that position." "No, it's alright; it was nice." I had my "best" white Primark underpants on, and glancing down at myself I thought I ought to invest in some better underwear.

I got the train back to Lancaster. It had been sultry and humid, I'd had champagne, I'd been laying next to Helen, I'd been in a hotel room with Kitty walking around in her underwear, I'd been staring out of the window on the train thinking about taking photographs of Melanie from Reading for a girlie mag... so I sent Felicity a text, the nature of which cannot be revealed on a family-orientated blog such as this. "Some time soon!" she replied.

Tomorrow, off to Leeds for my fictitious appointment at the University, my cover for meeting Kim off the internet.

The night at the avantgarde art and music event with Felicity went very well.  I got the times a bit wrong, so we got in without paying, to a room with a stone flagged floor where everyone who had been at the preceding academic conference was about to sit down for the dinner they'd paid for. That is, "dinner" in Lancaster University's understanding of the term, so it means motorway service station-standard catering. Fetch it yourself and enjoy the warmth of the heat lamps nurturing the bacteria on aluminium trays of lasagne. The man sitting next to us asked the waiter for a second glass of wine and was told he'd have to pay for it.

Firstly we had a flickering set of cartoons being displayed to a dance-lite soundtrack, then a multi-vocal poem about walking through some North American city, then someone who looked a bit like Giant Haystacks who played an electronic drum kit whilst an only slightly less plump girl in black jogging trousers did an abstract painting. In between there were long gaps while people fiddled interminably with leads and settings. I felt very working class and said out loud at one point "Get on with it". Felicity shushed me.

Felicity got talking to Helga the Milkmaid, this German woman from the Uni who turns up at everything in her blonde plaits and a dirndl.

Yesterday I was the only male helper in my daughters' class's night out: pizza place and then cinema. The women were brilliant, herding them all in, getting money together, settling the bill, sorting out who's having Margherita and who's having Quattro Formaggi. I managed to get a sit next to a married acquaintance Olivia: a beautiful Suffolk accent and ragged blonde hair, an asymmetrical grey dress, possibly black underwear, black tights and purple heeled shoes. Walked with her back to her car, wishing I could ask her out for a drink.

Off to London tomorrow to have 24 hours with Kitty (from Dubai) and Helen (from Lagos) where they are teaching. They're going to have to sneak me into their Travelodge room. If previous form is anything to go by it will involve drugs, overeating, talking to strangers, and them drinking me under the table.

Looks like I might have solved The Frances Problem.

Frances emailed last night saying that she finds this "stop-start business" disconcerting and wants more "continuity". I wrote back saying "It's not through lack of desire to see you, it's just that I have to make advance plans if I'm going to get everything else that I have to do done." (I omitted to tell her that I'm meeting someone off the dating site in Leeds on Wednesday.)

"I don't really want to keep explaining myself like this. I'm sorry but there's bound to be times when there are gaps in between us meeting up."

And to her credit and my relief, she sent a kind reply saying that perhaps we could just have a nice evening, and that in case case I owe her a few meals.

Memo to self: take a leaf out of Bridget's book and make it clear at the outset that instant monogamy isn't on offer, nor, necessarily, is a relationship, unless it develops in those directions of its own accord.

Tonight I'm off to a night of experimental music and performance art with Felicity. The sex is a bit unengaging, and she's an hour (rather than five minutes) away; but she's uncomplicated.