Sunday 9 December
A chap walks by me on Whitworth Street, his face mauled by ten years of booze. Am I to become him? Am I he? Ye Gads! I go to Crow 2 and drink seven pints of ‘Canal Juice Export.’ And then salvation arrives in a most unlikely form – my ex-wife’s pigeon flutters down, all lipstick and sarcasm. Jill has invited Swarthy Erick and I to take dinner in Chorlton. I hop on a cart and sleep off the booze in the hay. The ex now lives with Conrad, not a bad sort at all and, after a few jugs of wine, I am soon finding it deliciously ironic that my two wonderful ex-wives and these two wonderful Conrads should now be offering me such natural & unknowing comfort & counsel. If I can get over Jill, I stammer to Erick on our way home, then surely one day I can get over ‘my’ Daisy.