Cally and Ali

This morning I asked Liz if she fancied a pint, and she said she was busy all week. When I asked if she was around at the weekend, she explained that she was away with work in London for ten days, starting on Friday. I felt like such a prick. For the last few weeks, I’d been dead suspicious that Liz was deliberately avoiding me for some reason. No, actually it was because the biggest event of her working year was just around the corner. You dick! Doubt grows in the cracks between conversations, I guess. But I’m ashamed of myself too. What happened to assuming good faith? What happened to positivity? It’s been a tough old month, with all the flat bollocks going on, but I feel like I let myself down.



After work, I met up with Cally and Ali, who Milney introduced me to last week, and we went to the markets. Cally and Ali, who are Helen’s friends from Uni, are totally ace! We had hot buttered rum at the North Pole Bar, and then worked our way down through St Ann’s Square to Albert Square, then on to the Peveril for a couple with the end of the footy. We saw a man with tattoos all over his head and face playing the armpit bagpipes. The shipwrecked man from Monty Python sat next to him, playing the irish side drum, with a man whose quiff had escaped from the 1950s opposite playing guitar. Odd, but good odd.

Over the course the evening I called Emma and Nick to tell them about choosing Chorlton instead of Levenshulme. They were both dead nice about it. Emma even suggested that we should hang out in the future. Wonderful!