seven seasons of The West Wing.

Such an enthralling drama, I have found;

it passed me by first time around.

How thoughtful of you to invite me

to this exhibition by contemporary artists

on ‘Post-Urban Space: Dislocation and Catharsis’;

it’s an important theme that resonates

deep within me. But I cannot make this date,

nor indeed the next six weeks;

I have to read ten thousand tweets.

Dear Lord and Lady Asquith, I was charmed

to receive in the post today, your card

inviting me to supper at Hedge End –

ever the magnificent setting.

Gustav’s profiteroles are legend.

I would love to come, I really would rather,

but I’ve reached a new level on Candy Crush Saga.

Thank you, world, for thinking of me.

I’ve never been much good at society.

Please do not think me rude

but I would rather hide my shyness

in solitude, behind a screen,

and use my own knife

to whittle down the hours of life,

to something barely seen.

Wednesday May 30th

Tonight was a new book group low for me. What with one thing (Liz) and another (Liz again), I hadn’t progressed further than page 12 of Money. I could sense the group’s disapprobation as I attempted to bring the conversation around from its very specific and limited focus on one particular novel written by one particular author at a very particular time, to a far broader and wide-ranging discussion of the whole nature and philosophy of money, along with the intrinsic flaws of the world financial system.

To illustrate my point, I showed how, through some strategic doodling and folding, it was possible to transform the Queen’s face on a ten-pound note into that of Amy Winehouse, but no one seemed to show any interest in this. What’s more, when I went up to the bar to get some more honey-roasted peanuts, the barman wouldn’t accept my money and threatened to report me for treason.

Thursday May 31st

I checked into Twitter to find a message waiting for me from Liz:

Want to meet up tomorrow?

It seemed that my spurious hard-to-get strategy had worked after all. There seemed little choice but to accept:

Sure. Where shall we go?

Please say somewhere with a ready supply of alcohol. Or, failing that, some place where talking is frowned upon, like the British Library. Or a Trappist monastery.

Betjeman Arms at 8?

Yes! A pub! Perhaps it was a Trappist pub. I could get there early and have a quick drink to steady my nerves. At 6.30, say.

OK. See you there!

I’d used the exclamation mark as a signifier of excitement. I hoped this wasn’t lost on Liz.

I shared the news with the cat. She gave me a look that was rather difficult to read but is perhaps most accurately translated as: ‘Try not to blow it this time, you idiot.’

June

Friday June 1st

Out of the Rain