July 18th – My bags are packed, I’m ready to go, I’m standing here outside your door.

Cleaned myself: 0
Monkey see, monkey do: 0
Tics: see below
Believe in God? She never answers when I say, Please God forgive me.

I’m in London at Roger’s flat, I see myself at a pivot point. Going to get Frances round. It’s a shot to nothing, and I’m sick of waiting for life to start. A moment of shame traded for a lifetime of regret; so of course I must do it – unless the moment of shame itself becomes the reason for a lifetime of regret. Mmmh, now that I put it like that …

Il était une fois

Are you actually allowed to meet people in your house? I mean, you can fly round the world sitting next to a stranger, you can go on a demonstration and have a fight with anyone who does not hold exactly the same views as you, and I think that brothels got the go ahead to re-open this week, but I’m not certain that you can invite someone round for a cup of tea.

If only our relationship was a few weeks older – I’d be suggesting that we run away together and build a homemade camp in Mozambique; live like Jacques Cousteau and become marine biologists, maybe with a bit of crime fighting thrown in. But I want to find a way to take our nascent relationship to that land of trust, and freedom, and madness, without scaring her off first. Perhaps my opening gambit should be to make a den in Roger’s flat and let that speak for itself?

I’ve decided to open up to her – you know, get her onside – laugh at the pathetic job I’ve ended up in, get her to conspire with me to get me to a better place – like she keeps me on meagre rations in the garret of her interesting apartment, while I write comedy scripts. That sort of thing. Have you noticed the decline in standards in the R4, 6.30 p.m. comedy show lately? I mean …

Hey, I know. I’ll take her out for a non-alcoholic experience – like we’re children in an Enid Blyton adventure, just having crazy innocent fun. Though thinking about it, it’s impossible to buy a seltzer in the UK, or a proper milkshake. I know because I have this other plan too – to go to the Mediterranean and get a bar job, learn the basics, and eventually get a shack of my own – I can probably buy something cheap that’s currently considered out of the way, but which, by dint of global warming and rising sea levels, will be bang in the new riviera by the time I reach middle age.

I think I’ll WhatsApp a picture of a bivouac and see how she responds. Or a glass of sarsaparilla.