Wednesday

I'm on the 1235 to Ormskirk. I'm going to a meeting about fracking. I mentioned it to Trina when she rang a week or so ago and asked me what I was up to. Saying that I was thrilled about meeting Trish in Manchester for our first date the following day, and worrying about my clothes and hair, might have been an honesty too far; so, plucking something out of my diary, I told her about a planning meeting for anti-fracking groups.

She invited herself along, offering to buy me my dinner in the pub first and give me a lift to the place where it's being held at. She's calmed down lately and this is the latest of her peace offerings. She's trying to stop loving me.

The conductor has just had to go to get the disabled ramp out at M--- to help El Gordo on. He's the massive unambulant blob who started chatting to me and Trina in the pub a few weeks ago and who prompted me to say to Trina -- in what was an inadequately sotto a voce, since he heard it -- "Yeah right, you can fuck off now if you want." I've nothing against massive unambulant blobs, but being disabled doesn't give you a licence to bore strangers in pubs.

Me and Trina in the pub for the first time since what is our definitive split-up. Two bottles of Prosecco. She sent me a text later saying "I don't understand your life."

---

Me and Wendy met up in the pub. I told her about the six-text sex series I sent Trish at half past four in the morning. She told me to ring her and just ask for a bit of an explanation about why I've been ghosted. Afterwards, she texted: "Darling, my gut feeling is that you'll get nowhere with her. Her loss, it has to be said Xxx."

"Her loss". I fucking hate that phrase. It's only ever employed by girls who don't want to be with you.

Later that evening, I got Trish's answerphone again, so I left a message.

Hiya Trish, it's just looby, sorry to bother you. What it was, I was just wondering whether there'd be any chance you could do me a favour and perhaps just tell me a little bit about why you had that sudden change of heart, when, from certain things we'd said, I was starting to get the impression that there was at least the potential of something good for us. It's just going round and round in my head a bit, but I'm getting nowhere -- it's got to come from you. Anyway, you know I'll only ever think of you fondly, and I just want you to be happy. Night night darling.

I rang Wendy, recounted this, and we chatted away about everything for an hour or so. I texted her afterwards thanking her for being so lovely with me lately. "But I hope you'd expect nothing less? And you're pretty lovely to me too Xx." That doesn't mean anything to me.

---

Thursday

And now I can finally put Trish to bed. In the brief time things were sexual and chatty, she asked me to take her to something that I really liked. So, without her now, I went alone...

To Manchester, for a concert by L'Ensemble imaginaire. They are on tour round England, playing the music of Richard Barrett. They were introduced by the University's Head of Composition -- I might have misremembered his self-description -- who inverted the words in the group's name, which was a surprising mistake even given the allowances one must make for a Canadian.

I stood around in one of the shit outsourced cafe-bars that even the best universities provide nowadays, envying a Music Department that is central, recognised and funded.

The concert hall was full. Students; older men with a sartorial style halfway between homeless alcoholic and emeritus academic, and the younger balding ones with Manchester Jazz Festival T-shirts on. During Fold, a piece for solo clarinet, Philippe Koerper jerked around like he was badly in need of a piss. He turned his instrument into something animate, in what seemed to me like an impossibly difficult central section of breathy harmonics, fluttertonguing, circular breathing, and key clicks. The piano piece (the title of this post) had as its idea a disjunction between the right and left hand, like two close friends simultaneously talking to and ignoring each other.

I enjoyed it very much but it's half six now and Piccadilly Wetherspoons is getting a bit laddish, so time to try to blag the fare home.

Half past four in the morning, and I am aching with desire for Trish. So as an effective way of abasing myself in her eyes, and losing the respect of Wendy and Kitty at the same time, I sent a series of six texts to her, describing in detail what I'd like us to be getting up to.

At 5am, she replied. "What's happening? Those messages surprised me."

"Sorry darling. You make me think of sex. Sex with you. I'll shut up now Xx"

"It's OK."

"I'm sorry Trish. Just started thinking about you, as I often do, and didn't have the self-control to keep it to myself. I fancy you a bit, as you know. I think about sex with you all the time. Just manage most of the time not to say it."

I put the phone under my pillow, willing her to reply. But why would she respond to the incontinent sexual fantasies of a man after she's rejected him? I tried finding a position in bed which would lessen the physical craving for her, a longing which was melding with teary-eyed dejection. In truth, I couldn't care less about losing my self-respect; it's losing Trish that makes me sad.

---

Wendy and I went up to the park the other day, taking our usual narcotic picnic and my current monomania. We were throwing the ball for the dog using one of those instruments which picks up the ball in a scoop on the end of a plastic handle. Everyone I know calls such a thing a "wanger", but I'm not sure that is the canonical term.

We sat in one of the little shelters near the lake. "I'm quite a good shot with this, you know," she said. "Me and [ex] and [daughter] were up here once a while ago, and he was being very annoying, really getting on my tits, so when he wandered off a bit I thought I'd crack him one on his back with the ball as an "accident". So I put one shot in, to get my aim in. It narrowly missed him. He laughed and threw the ball back. I put it back in, aimed it at his back, then fired it off as hard as I could."

"And just then, right at that moment, he turned round and it cracked into his goolies. He fell down as though he'd been shot. He was in agony, but when he'd recovered a little, he just about managed to croak out 'It's OK Wendy, it was an accident'." When he got home he sat there with a packet of frozen peas on his nuts. 'How about that,' he said. 'You couldn't have done that if you'd tried.'"

She told me about a time she and Kitty went to Blackpool. They were waiting for a pizza, and asked the assistant if there were any toilets. On being told that there weren't any, she walked past the counter and into the kitchen, and did a piss against a fridge.

I took the wanger off her and fired the ball off for the dog. It ricocheted around the shelter above our heads. "Fuck's sake Wendy, I think this thing is better in your hands." Why can't we be lovers, Wendy? -- and immediately I dismissed the thought, and was glad to sense it expunged. Don't sabotage a lovely day, you fucking idiot.

Sunday

It's 8.20am and I'm in Wetherspoons in Piccadilly in Manchester. I really enjoyed the techno night. I had my stash confiscated: emptying my bag at the door, they took my two bananas off me. It was a friendly crowd of mainly twenty- and thirtysomethings, one of whom came up to me, shook my hand and said "Hey! You're old school!" but that was the only instance of Well-Meaning But Slightly Patronising Young Raver Syndrome I encountered all night.

The "security" put a bit of a downer on things. Minutes after I arrived someone was bundled out of the club, and they'd wander onto the middle of the dancefloor and just stood there, spreading a testosteroned latent aggression.

Later on, a girl who'd slightly overdone it came with her friend to share the seats with me. Her friend was doing exactly the right thing, telling her to sit quietly for a bit, saying everything will be fine, and giving her some water. Up strides a female security guard who, instead of asking how she could help and whether she was OK, started going on at her, leaning over her and threatening to throw her out. When she was hardly in a state to defend herself, the poor girl had to apologise and deal with someone jabbing her finger at her. Eventually Little Miss Miserable stormed off, pointing to her own eyes and to the girl's, saying, "I'm watching you!"

Back on the dancefloor, almost everyone was on e. You can always tell when e is in the house, from the way people dance and the lovely atmosphere of calm and togetherness. We were harmless, and just wanted to be left alone.

I almost didn't make it. It was difficult finding everything I needed in complete darkness, as there wasn't any money in the gas and electricity meters. There was a big puddle on the kitchen floor from a seeping fridge.

Wendy texted me. "...and which girl are you taking tonight?"

"You over-estimate my allure. On me tod tonight. Surprisingly enough, I haven't been able to sell the idea of seven hours of Dutch techno to anyone." "Seven hours of Dutch techno sounds good to me."

I'm a bit wary of going dancing with Wendy. She'd look too desirable. We're going to the park in a couple of days, and I'll be able to tell her about my new personal best for Shortest Consumated Relationship: first date on Friday, second on Wednesday into Thursday, dumped on Friday.

I've very much been wanting to get in touch with Trish, but after such an unambiguous rejection, any further contact, however light in tone, is a form of pleading. It'd be demeaning for me, and disrespectful to her.

I still find what happened incredible. I can't make sense of it, her sudden volte-face after giving me every impression that she was becoming fond of me. She said that she's told me certain things about her past that she's never spoken properly about to anyone else. A couple of her sexual ideas have never been discussed with anyone before. She told me several times that she was falling for me. She told me I was "thrilling". Tuesday night, at 2am, she sent me a text saying that she was dying to see me. She said that she suspects I haven't had enough affection in my life and that she wanted to be the girl who provided it. The second, and last, time we saw each other, she made me stay with her until the last possible train I could get back.

If I think about it too much, it can still make my eyes gloss over that something so promising has been snatched away from me. She introduced me in the pub as her new boyfriend. She told her "visitor" that he'd have to stop coming round now, and she took her profile down from the dating site. And then, the very next day, she tells me that her feelings will not develop, that this is far as it will go, and that she wants to end it forthwith.

I was so stunned on hearing this that I didn't have the presence of mind to ask her what had prompted such a sudden decision. It is beyond me, and I'll never find out. Given that she feels the way she does, blame doesn't come into it, but surely we could have given it more than one week?

Anyway, it's 9am now, so time for a pint. I'll always think of her fondly, but it makes me sad that she didn't want to explore what appeared to be opening up for us.

---

Monday

I got back to Lancaster about 1ish. To my delight, I bumped into Wendy and Kitty. We went for a couple of drinks. They suggested that Trish might have regretted overdoing the drink and drugs, and that her knee-jerk reaction was to push me away. They said she might be repenting at leisure now, and might still ring. Wendy sent me a lovely text: "Petal, your resilience is astounding. You're behaving with dignity and integrity (despite a night out which would leave most people gibbering). When it comes, sleep well X"

Something good did come of it: they said I looked really good. I was wearing my nice dark blue cotton Italian trousers, a shirt with a sort of pale blue small repeated flower pattern on it (believe me, it looks better than that sounds) and a tailored short suede jacket. They said it made me look younger, and a bit like international beat music star, Brett Anderson.

---

Here is a shocking video of what went on inside that warehouse on Saturday night.

This will have to be done in parts because I've got to get the girls' tea ready, but Trish has just dumped me. You're fucnin dumped, indeed.

I am absolutely distraught. I feel like just crying and crying. I know how important the sex was but there really was something more to it for me, when I stared into her eyes after sex, wondering how I had ended up with a girl like her, thinking how wonderful it is to have feelings for her that went beyond her sexual attraction. I loved being introduced in her local as "my new boyfriend".

I texted her this afternoon. "I wish you were here. Failing that, I'm going to be in Manchester tomorrow. Do you think I could come round late afternoon? I'd have to get off at about half ten as this [techno night] is in Ancoats."

"No not tomorrow."

I waited as long as I could - fifteen minutes -- for her to elaborate on such a bald statement, but nothing arrived, so I texted her again. "OK that's a shame but OK," Eventually she replied "I've been really ill, still am."

I rang her. "Hiya, what's the matter petal?" "I'm really ill, I have been since yesterday. I don't ever want to touch that stuff again. I'm shaking." "Oh fuck." And then, a lurch I hadn't at all seen coming.

"Looby, this isn't a decision I've taken lightly, but I want to end it here. My feelings for you aren't going to develop beyond this. It's reached its limit. I'm not going to feel anything more than this for you, and it's not enough."

I was stunned. My breath became unreliable. When I'd gathered myself a little, I said that I appreciated her honesty. "I understand what you're saying. I just felt that there was a possibility for something good with us. I am absolutely distraught Trish and I'm going to off for a cry now, but I understand what you've said and appreciate you saying this now."

"Thank you looby."

"So, there's nothing more to say, is there? Trish, I will always think of you fondly, and I have loved every minute of us being together, and I will only ever feel fond of you in the future. I'm absolutely devastated Trish, but if you can't reciprocate feelings it's never going to go anywhere. I understand." I was on the point of tears.

Silence.

"So this is goodbye isn't it?"

"Mmm. Thank you for being like that looby. Yes. Goodbye."

"Bye."

I walked my bike back up to the girls' house. I felt, and still feel, like crying my eyes out. I'm a bit concerned about going to this techno night tomorrow because mdma makes what one feels inside more clear and apparent. Drugs are not escapism, they're about intensifying experience and self-knowledge, and I wish I could have a night dancing with the wordless joy Trish made me feel until this evening. When I arrived at hers on Thursday I gave her a card, which amongst other things said that there is this track I like called A Beautiful Beginning. "I hope this is ours."

And now the stew is ready and I'm going to serve it up for the girls and go upstairs for a sob. Kitty and Wendy will help me, I know.

Five o'clock and I'm in The Turk's Head in Victoria in Manchester. I've come here from the station bar where I ordered a pint of Jaipur and walked out after it had been poured when the barmaid asked me for £4.85.

I went to Trish's yesterday morning. A pub lunch made by someone who would be better off working in a coal mine. My "feta cheese salad" came in a colander with a kilo of lettuce and a small portion of grey sugar solution as the dressing. She was looking fuckable, and I told her that I'd like her to come out to a restaurant with some of my friends and to wear a dress and no knickers; we'd shift the table a few inches closer to ourselves to prevent any risky sightlines from our friends. Ten minutes in, I'd inch my hand onto her thigh and then up to her cunt and let it rest there for several minutes, before bending my middle finger inside her, and all the time she would have to talk decorously and give nothing away.

We drank constantly; brandy and rosé wine for breakfast. I fancied a little optical brightener. "If I ask for any of that stuff you've got to refuse me." After her fourth line -- I think -- a gentleman never makes an account of shared amphetamine -- she drove us to the offy for another bottle of brandy and some bottles of cider. "Use my card, but you'll have to go in. They know I'm a pisshead there."

The offy is next to a beautician where she has her nails and bikini line done. (Thank fuck she doesn't have The Modern Abomination -- what me, Kitty and Wendy call a shaved cunt. She's got the lovely soft, slippery cunt hair of a sixty-year-old. I love her cunt.) She said me that she'd told them about me. "Well, he takes care of himself, he smells nice, and he made an effort." As I returned to her car, clanking with drink, I saw one of the girls mouthing and gesturing to Trish "Is that him?" Back at hers, tea was abandoned. "Do you want to stay over?" she asked.

I love it beyond measure, that sex (and drinking, I suppose), is the central element in our relationship. I am fed up to the back teeth with meeting women who say we have "shared interests" -- as if I give a shit about anyone's taste in film -- or worse, suggest "going out for a walk." The only walk I'd be interested in with Trish is to some hidden dell where I could fuck her under a tree.

Today she had a prior engagement. "I'm supposed to be going to my Mum's to make these fucking curtains. You're good at lying, what could I say?" "Tell her that I stayed over last night and I want to take you to Rochdale Literature Festival." "I'm too drunk to say 'literature'."

I left hers an hour ago after a fucking good afternoon, literally, and sat on the train with that delicious fading delirium that you can only get from sex. I find her exciting and I fancy her. I think she's pretty and sexy at the same time. Like all reckless, educated, borderline bipolar women, the kind I always go for, she goes on and on about herself all the time. "Fucking hell you do witter on Trish. The only way I can shut you up is to fill your mouth with my cock so you can't actually talk, isn't it?" "You can do that whenever you want." "I will Trish, and don't think I'll ask your permission first either. Honestly love, you're going to get it." She says things more colourful than that that I would write as a fantasy script for the kind of adventurous but submissive sexual partner that she is turning out to be.

I texted her from Victoria. "I've just passed a poster for Rochdale Literature Festival. I'm so glad we skipped the talk on Themes in Modernist Danish Literature. P.S. I think you're a bit fabulous. Only a bit. I want to turn you into even more of a dirty slut than you already are, and to fu...er, I mean see you again very soon X"