Well, I found my bank card…

 

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…in my diary on the next page. I was trying to book an event next week. The page got turned, I couldn’t see it ’cause my desk was an epic tip as usual, and I assumed I’d lost it in Manchester.

 

 

Fuck’s sake.

 

So I cancelled it, then found it, then cut it up. New card has arrived already, thankfully, but get this: Before I went to Silks last week, I drew out a fuckload of money thinking I might go crazy on lap dances. That didn’t happen, so I’ve coasted on cash since. And I’ve hardly spent anything anyway. I’m saving for a holiday (the lurid exploits of which I hope to detail here on return) and none of my mates are going out at all, as we’re all getting old and massively boring.

 

After the holiday I’m going to make further fresh attempts to meet new people.

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