The last parents' evening I'll ever go to. In the school's foyer is a box marked "Bullying and suggestion box." "Well, you could post an anonymous note on her desk saying that with tits that ugly she's bound to get breast cancer," I didn't write.

Teachers are arranged at desks in the hall in a serried exam grid formation, sitting in front of leaves of stats. "Nothing to worry about, except that I'll be sad to see them go," said Drama. I went with Jenny to speak to the teacher of her weakest subject, Maths, and was relieved to hear that she's on course for a B. I was attentive to what she was saying to the extent that Ms Thornton's grey shift dress, taut against her thighs under the next table, allowed. Jenny's eyes glazed over at the offer of lunchtime revision sessions to improve her grade. "She just needs a C, never to visit an equation again," we were both thinking.

Me and Melanie took ourselves off to scoff on the buffet. Spring rolls, cheese and tomato sandwiches, that sort of thing. In the any other comments box in the questionnaire afterwards, I wrote "I am very appreciative of everything that the teachers in this school have done for my children." When my girls leave, we must do something for them. It's a proper comprehensive school and the best school in Lancaster. The Girls' Grammar really only has one subject, How To Avoid Associating With the Coarse, the Poor and the Over-Sensual.

Slightly fucked it up with Wendy by pushing the sexting a bit too far at a drunkenly turned-on half past two in the morning. "I do apologise," I wrote in the admonishing light of day. "I will attempt to recover whatever shreds of decorum I once possessed." She's my project.

The plan was that we would be dancing together on Saturday. But instead it'll just be me and Trina, in Lancaster Castle for a short overnight sentence. It had been a prison for hundreds of years until it closed in 2011, and now an enterprising group of yoof run events in it featuring music "wholly or predominantly characterised by the emission of a succession of repetitive beats," to use the definition in the rave-phobic Criminal Justice Act of 1994. It's not cheap (£27) but I bumped into someone who helps run it and he said, with enough detail to convince, that they hardly make any money on it. Derrick Carter was the guest last time round and the builders of Lancaster Castle, can't have anticipated this back in the eleventh century.

Today, Wendy told me that she's not going on Saturday because of a close friend's bereavement. That's a great shame, although a triangle with me, Trina and Wendy would have been a bit of a diplomatic challenge.

Jenny's off to an audition with the National Youth Theatre in a couple of weeks -- an audition just to go on a course with them. While reading a bit of the play from which she's chosen her monologue, I came across this.

I pray you, do not fall in love with me,
For I am falser than vows made in wine:
Besides, I like you not.

To Blackpool, where I am arraigned before the magistrates to explain a slight technical misunderstanding of what one should do with a gas bill.

It's a slab of a building, determined to be grim amidst the surrounding gaiety: in four foot-high plastic letters, the building next door advertises "Funland".

The Court Clerk had no record of me being summoned. I showed him the letter calling me there and he told me to wait. A partially-toothed, heroin- thin girl muttered to herself. A nice-looking boy was being fussed over by his mum.

The bailiff's agent, standing out from the legal sleekness about us in cheap black shoes, jogging trousers and a navy blue fleece, came over and said the same thing. The Clerk said that if no-one from the correct firm of bailiffs had turned up by 10am, I could go. He asked me for my phone number, just in case he was stuck in traffic.

I took a long time over a small breakfast in Wetherspoons, then wandered over to my favourite pub in Blackpool. I got in with the owd fellows at the bar. The man next to me went to the loo. "He has to go every fifteen minutes," said another. "I think it's all in the mind." I told them my Desperate Toilet Anecdote, about coming back on the bus from Keswick after drinking all day, bladder-pressed tears in my eyes at the driver refusing to wait for me to go to the loo when we stopped at Kendal Bus Station.

"Are you from away?" asked the landlord. Not hostile, just clocking an unfamiliar face. "Yes, I'm from Lancaster. I've just been to see a friend of mine in Victoria Hospital. She's a bit poorly with breast cancer." This was true in November.

"If you hang on another half an hour, there's a quiz and a buffet." We talked about shift work and his former job as bus and coachmaker and came second in the quiz by one point. We filled our plates with mini samosas, egg and cress sandwiches on white bread, pork pies, and an unpopular salad. Then it was the bingo. We won nothing, again. It was a rollickingly good afternoon, for which I have to thank Churchill Recovery Solutions Ltd.

In bed, I started thinking about Donna, and Wendy. The married Wendy and me have been flirting for a while, since New Years Eve before last, when we were up in my bedroom powdering our noses and talking about Murakami. We are going, with Kitty, I think, to a ravey do on Valentines Day night. Unfortunately Trina invited herself along, which will put a brake on proceedings, but I'm sure my non-verbal communication can get round that obstacle.

I texted her quite sexually. She responded this afternoon, wittily. I replied:

I'm very glad you took it like that. I would be mortified if I gave you the impression that when I got into bed last night I imagined raking my fingers through your lovely hair and running my hands very slowly down over your tits and on to your beautiful waist and gently kissing you whilst easing your dress off your shoulders and on to the floor. That would be to descend to a level of filth and vulgarity with which I am unacquainted.

For once, I am happy with something I've written.

To Preston, where the peasants are revolting, to protest outside the meeting in which the first two fracking licences for Lancashire were to be considered.

Just as I was feeling grumbly about my cold feet and the drizzle, after my gruelling fifteen-minute train journey, along comes a coachload of people from Edinburgh to humble me. I also met people from Pontypridd, Brighton, Wrexham, Sheffield, and several local people whose houses have been damaged by the test drilling that has already taken place.

Someone had arranged for us to have tea and coffee upstairs in the pub. Never has a cup of instant coffee been more gratefully received. We went back outside in time to catch a procession of tractors, from Farmers Against Fracking, who drove at a very slow speed through the centre of Preston. Afterwards, we all repaired back to the pub for a sociable pint or six. It's that side of demos that I like best, almost more than the political outcomes.

I was interviewed by a Norwegian newspaper, although unlike the girl from Sheffield I spent some time talking to, I didn't make the cut into the final article -- click on the image if you fancy practising your Norwegian. A TV crew from Channel 5 came over, saying that my cat had attracted their attention, and threw me a couple of soft questions. I've no idea if I made the news bulletin, but no-one actually watches Channel 5 anyway.

The bailiffs said they were coming round on Friday. Talk about taking away your advantage of surprise. To my relief, Morgane left the house early. Shortly afterwards, the doorbell rang. I stayed in bed for a good hour or so, wondering if they'd be coming round the back to check for open windows or unlocked doors. It was actually Wilma, on her way to work, returning my phone which I'd left at hers the day before.

Her computer wouldn't boot up, but I got it sorted. It took me over three hours, during which she got through a couple of bottles of wine and I got through several pints. She is keen to remind me all the time that she's an alcoholic, but I sometimes wonder whether that's an elective affinity than an actual condition.

Like me, she's a heavy, habitual drinker. Unlike me, she's a depressive, a textbook example of maternal deprivation and paternal violence. There's something appealing about her honesty though, and I nodded and hmmed through her oscillation between not wanting a man one minute and wanting to be "treated like a princess" the next. We ended up in bed once, a bizarre near-sex experience, with her alternatively pushing me off and then violently pressing me against her again.

Morgane has applied to go on Come Dine With Me. She's got through the initial sift and the TV company are coming round on Wednesday to have a look at the house. She sent me a text message the other day apologising for not mentioning it, and hoping it was OK with me. I replied enthusiastically, saying I thought it's a great idea.

I got home from the fracking demo, elated, and told Trina about the Come Dine With Me idea. She was relentlessly pessimistic about it. Morgane came in, struggling her bike through the front door, mud spattered on her legs, not reaching the hem of the latest of her gorgeous charity shop dresses. She is a great dresser. Morgane and me talked Trina's gloom down. I told Morgane that there was enough minestrone for her if she was hungry. Please come and sit here with me and counteract the miserable mood my patron is creating.

I've just got back from seeing Seriouscrush and her boyf. Seriouscrush owns this house and lets it to me at about a hundred or so below a market rent, which is a reasonable sum given that someone else might quibble over fusspotty details, like seeing one of the window panes separate itself from the frame if one does anything as selfish and luxurious as open it.

Her invite probably stemmed from an email I'd sent them on Christmas Eve whilst I was pissed saying that I'd like to move out of here at some point in 2015. I'm not sure if that was a good idea really, as I've nowhere to go. I was hoping that saying that might persuade them down a bit with the rent, but they showed no interest in that.

We met in by far the best cafe in Lancaster, converted from an old Salvation Army hall wherein my Dad used to deliver the sermons. A triptych of scratched, defaced monochrome blue works on paper, a bit like Clyfford Still's "torn" paintings, hangs unframed on the wall. Gap year Grammar School girls in little woolly hats sat by themselves and propped up computers; you're served by young men in pork pie hats and art-fundamentalist beards. A girl perched herself on a stool, wearing a dark tartan skirt so short she had to have her arm as a permanent pixellation between her crossed legs, and type one-handed. It's good that middle class people have somewhere to go, to enjoy the social isolation in public that they favour, away from the scary collective atmosphere of more working class venues.

Boyf asked me about an artwork I possess. The wallpaper in my front room is a violent, shouty navy blue fleur de lys Laura Ashley pattern. I'd like to shut it up by draping a large sheet of muslin over it, and then in front of it, hang the artwork, which I bought off someone who was doing her PhD when I was doing my MA. It requires float mounting, and he offered to cut the two sheets of perspex necessary to frame it, and to drill the spacers to clamp the work away from its enclosure.

I left after an hour to have a pint in a common pub. I'd got the impression that Seriouscrush and Boyf are happy for me to stay here, and I think, if I could somehow dredge up another say, two hundred pounds a month, that would be the best solution.

I sat down to read a chapter of my book, about the Futurists' performances, and what they called "synthetic theatre", in which brevity was valued, and individual elements of performance were presented in isolation. It would have been engrossing, but I was repeatedly interrupted by people I know and I gave up and got bought a pint, an air of him buying me away from my book. This is how it should be.

I like my life. I like being cultured and common at the same time. I like being able to speak two social languages fluently. Could just do with a tad more cash. I went into the corner shop, which is advertising for staff, and I've got to go back for "a chat" on Saturday.

Teaching Practice Friend got married on Saturday. A marriage always feels like losing someone, nothing to be happy about. During the service, hail showered like a bad piece of electro-acoustic music against the windows of an ordinary rural church, but cleared away for us to stand shivering on the village green for photographs for as short an interval as politeness could excuse, before we sloped off to the pub.

My friend has married into the minor landowning classes of Westmorland. We sat down with elderly dowager-looking women in grey, ruched hats, one of whom's cups runneth over like a pair of double chins in an over-optimistic dress. I caught some sour notes of complaint towards the waiting staff, pronounced with the hauteur of old money; and as they turned graciously away from feinting them, I saw the inward-breathing, get thee behind me, biting of lips, of the minimum waged staff, who showed better and quieter manners than any of the endowed ladies of The Lodge.

Luckily, me and Trina got sat next to the only other middleaged couple in the room; one of these couples who, from one fairly ordinary middle class job, have enough money to do up half a redundant primary school near Kirkby Lonsdale and to fund the woman's fannying about with what she called "worn art in felt". "What, Fuzzy Felt?" said Trina. I was glad of them though. They were our saviours.

Kirsty is down south raving, Chemical Brothers and Justin Robertson headlining, and she's booked today off for recovery. I got the girls off to school and popped back to mine to put the recycling out, such is my desire to make sure that my onion tops and beetroot peel don't end up mouldering indistinctly on a tip in Fleetwood.

On the mat was a letter with no stamp. The bailiff informs me that "I will re-attend at your premises on 23/1/15 and may REMOVE goods even in your absence. This will incur additional costs of £110.00 plus disbursements for which you may be liable ... FAILURE TO CONTACT ME WILL BE INTERPRETED AS WILFUL REFUSAL TO PAY."

I have sent them a letter. It's written in a long-practised tone, poised between politeness, a gentle indication that I am aware of the main points of bailiff law, and a hint of contrition. I wouldn't worry, except that Morgane is here now, and I'd rather her not open the door to a bailiff.