

Of course, that was before I lent it to a gay primary school teacher with a drink problem. Since walking off with my lovely jacket two weeks ago, Lisa's friend 'L' has informed her that he was so drunk, he can't actually remember borrowing it. Much as he can't remember the name or address of the one-night-stand at whose house he left it. Fortunately he's promised to reimburse me for my loss, but being a senior school teacher on thirty grand a year, he apparently "has no money", so hasn't actually managed it yet.
But on the bright side, there's a lot more room in my wardrobe now, and the bracing sea air was quite invigorating as I walked along the pier in a t-shirt yesterday afternoon.
Anyhoo, it's two months today since I moved to Brighton, the cumulative effect of which has built up (as cumulative effects often do) and hit me harder than Geoffrey Boycott with a new girlfriend. Resulting in a week of introspection, melancholy, and eating crisps in my pyjamas. Admittedly they're not on the South Beach Diet, but then technically neither am I. Which is probably why I've put back on five of the eleven pounds I'd lost since July. So frankly my jacket wouldn't fit me any more anyway. I don't know what I'm complaining about.
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