Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word / Love Me Do

Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word

Lewes Garret. 9am. I need to focus on my poetry, rather than this blog, so less will be more. At least for the time being!

4.50pm. It has been another lovely day – I believe that, for once, I may develop a tan. I have been trying to work out what to do about the London Garret. One of the girls is leaving the house and we must examine our options.

I could take back the room and then do up the house, prior to selling it. But what is the Capital Gains situation? I tried to read a book about it this morning. Has there ever been a more boring or perplexing subject?

Just come back from a Circus Skills Day where my youngest daughter excelled at buskin stilt walking and tightrope walking. I am so proud of her. She was brilliant at the circus skills, whereas my circus skills were distinctly naff.

I finally got an apology from John. He texted me: 'I should apologise. I said some pretty unacceptable things. Wanted to say something the other night, but i (sic) ended up bottling it. See you monday.(sic)'

Better late than never, I suppose. The trouble is that it was not the first time he had said these things.

I cannot help but feel that on some level he believes them and now he is finally apologising (but no 'sorry') because, like me, he wants an amicable split and, unlike me, he wants me to continue paying half of his bills.' I don't know.

I have to confess I do not really feel any differently towards John after this texted, half-hearted apology. If you slanderously call someone a git and a sleazebag and falsely accuse them of feeding off you, you should try harder than this.

Love Me Do (Flashback to Wednesday, 30 May 2006)

Leamington Garret. 7.21pm according to Big Ken. Sunny and cool. Spent today obsessing about what John said last night.

I am still reeling from this extraordinary event. I spent all day obsessing about it. I kept coming to the conclusion that John had taken too many hard drugs in his life and they had affected the balance of his mind. Nothing else seemed to do the trick.

As the day wore on, I could not help feeling that I had to get John out of my life.

Had to work late and then sort out The Last Word for its long journey tomorrow. I tried to find a telephone number for the landlord or an address or contact details of the letting agent, but to no avail.

I am sure I wrote them down. I need to get them to discern my options in this awkward situation.

When I got into the flat, John was, unexpectedly, there. He had tidied up and pretended nothing had occurred, making small talk about my car and his day. I have to confess that I feel nervous around him.

It is that total unpredictability. He has set about me – verbally – twice. Once in the pub when we got drunk the other day, and last night. What is next?

I really liked him as a friend; yet now all that respect has evaporated and can never return. I can never trust him again.

I am playing the Beatles tape I picked up at the car boot sale on Sunday for 50p. A good and unusual compilation and surprisingly high quality recording. I do not agree with Francesca’s instant judgment that it was a pirated tape.

Love Me Do has just come on.

11.29pm. Returned from the Jug & Jesterjam night. Tremendous – as always.

I rolled up early to get out of the 'John Flat'. I bought a pint of their cheap bitter and wrote some poetry – for the first time in weeks – and read a bit of Alan Clark's Diaries. I felt effing terrible, really depressed and bad about myself.

When the jam was starting, I moved into that room and sat in the corner, continuing to compose poetry. Eventually, as it filled up, I left at a suitable moment telephone Francesca.

She was appalled by my tale, and said I needed to encourage John to give notice as soon as possible. I found her counsel enormously comforting, and it made me think of how precious she is to me.

Back in pub, it had become totally packed. A glorious early summer’s evening had turned into the perfect night.

Usurped from my corner, I colonised a cranny of the bar with a view of the stage (just) and everybody else. Liked this. The audience is always as – and usually more – interesting than the turn.

Some of the singers – particularly the white blackberry headed songstress – were naff. But I generally like the bands (a Jug band from another great night is pictured) and the finale – with the gravel-voiced Dylanesque man of Asian origin (who John hates) – doing House of the Rising Sun and Knocking on Heaven’s Door could not match it. Brilliant!

My dinner tonight was a small portion of chips which cost me £1.10 at the local (excellent) kebab house in the early evening. As I was eating my chips, a group of kids not much older than Marina walked up to the counter and started screaming racial abuse at the friendly man behind the counter. Of course he told them to leave.

‘F*** you, you c***,’ a boy whose balls had barely dropped screamed, before trouncing out with his mock bling jewellery, leaving three pubescent girls in his wake. One of them continued the abuse: ‘You’re a f***ing c***. You’re dirty.’ Disgusting Leamington youths. How did it come to this?

John and I were good mates. Why did he have to blow it ? He has not even had the grace to say ‘sorry’.

It is midnight. I need to get up early tomorrow to drive to Radnor Forest, in the Brecon Beacons. God, I am so looking forward to quitting this joint.

Midnight. Two Shags (John Prescott) has finally given up his country home. For once, I feel quite proud to have worked for the Mail on Sunday whose story helped to bring this about.

But, in my view, if he had an ounce of integrity in his body John Prescott would have resigned.

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