another bank holiday weekend

Spot the signs.

The kids - I say kids, but the boys never even come here any more, they've realised there are too many rules, and besides, their father lets them lock themselves in their rooms - anyway Mlle B, plus the others, are all at their dad's for the week.

All my friends are busy. One's in St Ives. lucky thing, and others are not answering their phones. They all have kids who can't run away from them, so they're busy, and also they all have boyfriends. Or even more extreme, they have husbands! Some of them managed to keep theirs, and some did the impossible and managed to find new ones. I've gone through the whole thing of wondering why I'm the only person I know who doesn't have a partner - in fact, the attempts to have one, the stupid relationships and ill-advised what-have-I-got-to-lose peccadilloes, have gained me such a reputation that everyone laughs if I complain... anyway, English men (apologies if you are one, reading this) just seem to want to get drunk and drag someone up to their bed, and then forget about it till next time. (They also seem to have such an increbible penchant for adultery that they'll even pretend not to be elsewhere engaged, in case you spoiled their fun!) Eventually anyone would get bored. I'm still waiting for a single guy who'll talk to me sober.

One friend's parents have just arrived in town, which is lovely, except I was firmly put in my place on their account when suggesting a coffee. There was a time when it would have been, "Oh, my parents would love to see you!" so I'm not sure what's happened there. It's not just this weekend, either. It's like my kids, I guess: she's grown out of me. Maybe I'm not fun enough.

Everyone else must just be busy. And they only want to get together evenings, midweek, anyway. Right now I'm too knackered to do that. And anyway it wouldn't solve the problem of the interminable weekend.

And now, halfway through yet another one, boy am I bored! No one will help me move the bookcase that's stuck halfway across a room (I've been trying to get them to help me for almost a year, and finally yesterday I just thought fuck it, and started - but I just can't do it). There's nothing happening later today - or indeed tomorrow - to look forward to. I could go to the cinema, I suppose, alone. I could waste yet another day trying to ring people only to be told everyone's busy.

I should be writing, I wanted to be writing, I planned to write - but I can't. I'm restless. Writing is not best done as a displacement activity.

Rain! The vital ingredient of any long weekend. I could "go out for a coffee" - take the laptop, feel like I'm accomplishing something - but I'd have to get a bus there. I could go to the cafe in the park, but I'd get soaked. Not ideal with laptop, or notebook, or whatever. And it's just so boring, constantly having to do it all alone, pointlessly, aimlessly, for no reason except something to do.

If I go into town I'll just be the same and anyway, I can't eat anywhere on my stupid low-fat diet, and I get this lassitude descending on me after being out for a couple of hours. It comes to something when you're actually looking forward to an operation. (And even being sick, I have to say, does provide an excuse for being alone in the house, but it isn't the reason for it! I was alone in the house before.)

Yesterday I came out of the supermarket and thought I'd just sit in the pub with the Guardian and a glass of wine. I did; and that was when it set in, as I sat there like the invisible woman for an hour while everyone else smoked and drank and talked to all their adorable, amusing friends. There was a guy with amazing blue eyes and a smiley face at the next table, but he looked right through me.

Who could stand the certainty of living all alone forever? There's no distraction from anything, no one else's ideas, no one to give you moral support for the hard stuff like bills and Ikea - no one to DO any of the hard stuff - you have to go out if you want even the slightest bit of company - you can never relax, you have to be always interesting and fun, because you're having to earn people's interest. And you don't get to just have some reassurance or whatever, because friendships aren't like that in the city. It's not like TV where people get a phone call - they answer their phones - and, in response to thier friend's distress, drop everything and go to their actual flat. You have to book in a date. Thursday week," for example. And you meet up in public, for a pizza or a movie. You want a bit of company, it'll cost you £20. All that will happen is one will get older and more decrepit, and less interesting, and with less and less right to anyone's attention and, as you presumably will retire, less and less money for doing nice things.

People say I should relish my independence, but I don't. I take independence for granted - which may be silly, as men don't seem to like it. I used to take affection, company, a helping hand, and the feeling of being wanted for granted. Now that WAS silly.

Hm, well that's killed an hour. Maybe I should get dressed and go for a coffee.