Darling I have mooned about today.

I am tired and long for you.

There's a certain solace in imagining you.

I went out last night with friends, and it was fun. I should meet two of them today, but one is irritatingly infantile and I don't want to see her. There were four of us- two of us went out afterwards and the others didn't. She wears childish clothes from the eighties (though I acknowledge that I'm no fashion palate) and she's got a knack of attempting to top any story that you tell with one of her own, which invariably falls short; she is the helper of the inebriated that vomit all over her car, but never actually inebriated herself. She's our age, but last year lived with a priest and served at chapel. She seems from another era entirely.

The other friend and I went to a nightclub- we'd intended drum and bass, but it didn't happen, and we had to settle for somewhere else. We went to a ridiculous, mass manufactured place- everyone was performing the courting ritual thrust, even the porkier girls with the flesh spilling out of their tops that looked as if they wanted to be somewhere else entirely. I have never understood why these women go to nightclubs; if you're a sylph, and it's all you've got, then you want to go and show what you've worked so hard for. If you're the fat friend, you simply have to tag along and pretend to enjoy it purely in pursuit of being, 'one of the girls'. We do neither- we dance like idiots and laugh at each other, which is far more fun for both of us. People were confused by what we were doing- the friend is a man- was this an ungainly courtship ritual, were we friends, mutual schizophrenics? I like debacle.