Gazing along the beach on our last evening at La Trinité was almost painful. Those annual partings never lose their poignancy, the scene illustrated by a sky that I imagine always saves its most delicate compositions for our departure.

Back in Bristol, and the noise. The ugly grey din of pointlessly urgent cars and their unnecessarily loud horns; drills, hammers, angle grinders and the unplaceable drone of mystery machinery at a volume quiet enough to become more and more irritating as it moves from the periphery to the centre of one's attention; I am very hungry God bless in București serif stationed throughout the city centre while the more ambulant beggars approach you with the jerky walk of the homeless; and the way that the bus company has thrown in the towel over people using mobile phones as broadcasting stations.

I was pleased then, when my eldest rang asking me if I was free to meet her in London on Friday after her visa appointment at an embassy. She had a lot of needless running about in the heat to to get various documents printed off (because embassies don't have printers) -- and then again because the official had told her to get the wrong stuff printed. I waited for her in a pub in a street where a three-bed mews house was sold three years ago for £4.85 million.

In the printers, the man serving asked if she was an artist. "Yes!" she lied. "Oh in what medium?" "Sculpture." "Oh right, what do you work in? "Clay." "Well, for a fellow artist, I'll do it for free." We had a good natter, so much that she changed her train, at some expense, to stay longer. I had some "Thai fish cakes" that were the size of draughts pieces and had the texture of a mattress.

My niece, whom I hardly know, gets married to her girlfriend in a pretty Bedfordshire village.

The train was full of Oasis fans going to Wembley. I asked some lads if they were able to open my bottle of beer, and one of them deftly clipped it off using the edge of a tin of cider. "Hey, look at that," I said, to anyone in general. "He's done that before." I smiled at the 50ish woman in the next seat, who smiled back, causing a jolt to go through me. Fuck, you're good-looking. She wore a beautiful white broderie anglaise blouse. I can't think of many other fabrics that can be as understated as they are sexy on women around that age.

Given my brother's family's somewhat austere diet, I was a bit concerned that we'd be served some sort of yogic tea made from grass and bits of twig; instead we were welcomed with Pimm's, and, as is often the case with events one's not looking forward to, I enjoyed myself. They wrote the vows themselves, and my nephew did a witty speech that had the additional merit of brevity. As I circulated in the room, I was trying to model myself on Becky Sharp in Vanity Fair -- an impossible intensity of shimmer for me, but something worth aiming at in social occasions.

Appropriately enough, I have arrived at chapter 36.

I wrote you a letter whilst I was on holiday in Brittany. I hope you can read it OK.

I'm on Eurostar, on my way to our holiday in Brittany. We've had to reverse and take a diversion to get round a fatality on the track. I also somehow managed to leave my belt in the tray that goes through the x-ray machine, so I'm wearing my trousers in a hiphop style somewhat unbecoming to a sixty-one year old.

Recently it's felt as though my sole occupation has been my appeal to go part-time. The whole process should have taken a month at the outside, but three months in, I finally know that it has been refused; and therefore, having told them that I'd rather resign than continue working under the present conditions, bcI have worked my last day with Transport that Fails.

My supervisor made an error in thinking that I was off to France a few days earlier than my actual schedule. I didn't disabuse her, and enjoyed a couple of days with Trina while Mel was on a coach holiday with her mum. We're still chaste at the moment.

I'm on Eurostar, on my way to our holiday in Brittany. We've had to reverse and take a diversion to get round a fatality on the track. I also somehow managed to leave my belt in the tray that goes through the x-ray machine, so I'm wearing my trousers in a hiphop style somewhat unbecoming to a sixty-one year old.

Recently it's felt as though my sole occupation has been my appeal to go part-time. The whole process should have taken a month at the outside, but three months in, I finally know that it has been refused; and therefore, having told them that I'd rather resign than continue working under the present conditions, bcI have worked my last day with Transport that Fails.

My supervisor made an error in thinking that I was off to France a few days earlier than my actual schedule. I didn't disabuse her, and enjoyed a couple of days with Trina while Mel was on a coach holiday with her mum. We're still chaste at the moment.

I have two main problems in my life.

1) working out how to cope with a loving girlfriend when I want to be with Trina. Mel has accepted that I don't feel sexually attracted to her any more, but is gamely going along with it, accepting what she's given. She throws her arms around me on the settee and when we're out. We have good times. We laugh and go out on day trips and we both like food and cooking. We never quarrel.

2) My job. It coats me with gloom. However, there may be progress. I had an online meeting on Thursday with my supervisor and some bloke from HR, about my application to go down to two days a week.

He asked me to set out my case. Well... I'm too old for all this. I'm creaking. I can't stand up for seven hours a day. (I often come home knackered and pissed off, muttering complaints against my employer); my aged mother lives in Middlesbrough and all the work looking after her is falling on my sister's overwrought shoulders; I can't cope with the roster being issued ten days or a fortnight in advance, not being able to plan anything.

I didn't mention wanting to spend more time with Trina, with Kitty and Wendy, and Kirsty and our girls, my ain folk, the Lancaster gang, where I'm from. You should be able to say that you just want to fuck work off and spend time with the people who are part of you.

Me and Mel went for a day out in Gloucester.

In a pub, it was bugging me that the man a few yards away looked familiar. As we were leaving, I went over to him. "Excuse me, I'm sorry to interrupt, but could I just ask -- have you got any connection with Lancashire?" "Yes." "Lancaster?" "Yes." Did you used to go down the John O'Gaunt?" "Yes. Do I owe you any money?"

The cathedral was overrun with children and their reasonable parents, all crayons and the considered argumentation of middle-class parenting. We gave five pounds to get in, but you had to pay another fiver for a guide, so we walked round having a gormlessly impressionistic visit; it was a bit shallow.

The Pelican pub afterwards was the best part of the day. We had to shift up as people snuggled into places near to us. You had to talk, not that I need any encouragement to do that. They had Dunkerton's organic cider on, which they had to fetch from downstairs. I would like to tell you about some of the conversations we had, but I can't recall them. It's a cracking pub.