I have been much provoked over the last couple of years, by the next door neighbour, who cannot resist muttering something insulting as he walks past me. Recently, it was "you're sick you are," after me and Mel had emerged from my flat and made the mistake of bidding him a good morning.

A couple of weeks ago, there was a dramatic escalation of hostilities. I was sitting outside my flat on the balcony, listening to the Test Match, when he walked past and muttered "fucking weirdo" in a stage whisper. I let that go without comment or reaction, as I have similar comments on many occasions.

But when he came back up and started taking photographs of me with his phone, I exploded, leapt at him and tried to wrestle the phone from his hand, which I intended stamping under my foot. Unfortunately he was taller and stronger than me, but I kept up a verbal barrage at him for a minute or so, conveying my opinion that he was a fucking miserable cunt.

I thought we had reached a détente, but he hung about on the threshold of his flat and asked me more than once whether I came from the north, as if we're all pals now and can start discussing our favourite films. "That's your flat, this is mine, now fuck off," I replied.

Although I haven't been troubled since, the incident unsettled me, and I sent an email to the scheme manager saying that I'd like it recorded. It happened a couple of days before she left (to work in a supermarket) and the complaint might have fallen down the cracks; and in the strange way that men sometimes respect violence more than civility, I hope we have arrived at a state of mutually-assured silence.

I've been offered an interview for the same menial job I'm doing now but in the Infirmary at Lancaster. It falls on an awkward day -- I'll have to go up and back in the same day, then do a day's work, before going back up the following day, because house music maestro Todd Terry is gracing our little provincial town. I just hope the place is packed for him -- I remember when Justin Robertson played Lancaster, at the height of his fame, and we had an acre of dancefloor each.

Mel is off having a couple of weeks on the Greek island on which she has spent most of her life, where she plunged two English boys into schools where they learnt Greek by immersion and the overwhelming desire that an eight-year-old has, to fit in.

A couple of days before she left I suggested a send-off for her which I designed around her likes -- a walk, a drink, and a home-cooked meal. We set off, with a map I'd copied by hand off openstreetmap, up the Frome, into the biodynamic half-marathoned suburb of St Werbergh's -- and got intercepted by a Guyanese woman who asked us where we were going, then immediately assuming the dom role and unconsensually lead us on a walk on a similar route of her choosing, which was enjoyable if rather disciplined and hurried.

We were deposited in the cafe next to the city farm, a curious building a bit like a melted adobe, popular with yummy mummies and their papoosed "partners". I was itching to get us to the Vic, the more working class pub of the two in the suburb. When we arrived one of my young hospital colleagues was serving behind the bar, with her glinting smile, managing the men, dispensing beer and bonhomie, and getting sexier with every pint.

I had promised Mel ratatouille-stuffed crêpes. I went to get us another drink while Mel sat outside. "I've promised me bird this fancy French meal tonight," I announced to the sympathetic group round the bar. "I'm not sure how far this plan's going to get to be honest." "Take her to the chip shop," was the advice.

When we got back, I forced myself to make at least the ratatouille and we ate it with homemade bread, and drained the wine. I'm not in love with her, but I'll miss her.

My move back to Lancaster has fallen through.

I resigned from my job at the hospital, and gave notice on my flat; I booked a removal firm and paid the £160 deposit, and told everyone who matters, before yo-yoing between happy anticipation and practical and emotional worries.

A week later I got two flat tyres whilst near Mel's, and the bike repair man said my punctures would take at least two hours. So we walked to the pub rather than boiling with plastic water outside. We didn't go there to talk about it, but the disinhibiting effects of her pints led to tears. "You've never once asked me how I feel about it," she said. The hard fact is that her being upset about me moving back has no weight in my decision; it's just something to be dealt with as sympathetically as I can.

She recovered, after some eye dabbing and the tissues in packets that women always carry, as the few other customers being tactfully uninterested, before we turned our minds to the racing, at which I won the afternoon's drinking back, on a horse called Kaleidoscope Eyes.

Two days later, I was sitting by myself in a cheap chain pub near hers, watching the theatre of a pub frequented by pensioned and pipped boozers, contemplating what I'd done through the clarifying darkness of Titanic Plum Porter. I've got under £1500 in savings, so given that the rent is £778 and the removal is £680, I'm cleaned out by just getting to Lancaster, and my last salary payment from the hospital has to sustain me during a job hunt of unknown duration.

That afternoon, I rang Mel and told her I'd decided to abandon the move. The following day, I had to claw back my job and my flat, and cancel the removal firm.

At this point, I composed and sent an email to the manager of the scheme in Lancaster, explaining I couldn't move in. She didn't reply, so I thought she was a bit annoyed with me.

A few days ago, she sent an email saying she was hoping I was looking forward to me moving in today. She hadn't received the email. And neither could I find it, so although I would swear I'd sent it, perhaps it didn't go. What a mess.

We had a good eclipse, thanks. Lovely weather and clear skies, on the rec on Mel's council estate, which is getting polluted, or improved, depends on how you see it, by young couples who talk in RP and are escaping London, who are thoroughly, impeccably, irreproachably, decent as they buy up ex-council stock. Our pinhole cameras were rubbish -- you get a tiny dot on the back of a shoebox -- but someone gave us a spare pair of eclipse glasses, which were much better.

Highlight of the night was a mischievous TEFL teacher who turned up with a group of mainly Vietnamese teenagers. He was holding a colander in front of a sheet of card, and was telling the kids that that the dots on the card were the planets, which you can't normally see because the sun's too bright. After a while they realised that he was taking absolute nonsense.

I'm grateful to Mr Mags for his enquiries about updates, and I apologise here for failing to meet my own deadline. Thanks for asking Mr Mags, I really appreciate it.

Kirsty, our girls and I went to our usual place in Brittany for our hols. Two-and-a-half weeks, which rushed by, like a few days. The eldest had to fly to France from Japan, via Hanoi. She'd been there for ten months with her girlfriend, half-working, doing campsite work were they put you up in exchange for a few hours' work a day. She arrived earlier than any of us and walked into the village and back (none of us drive) to get us pasta, a sauce and some wine, after a three-day journey and several time zones, wearing all her clothes and lugging a huge rucksack and a case.

At the beginning we stayed in a sort of half-caravan, half-tent, called by the campsite, a "'tit home" a small home, yes I know, makes perfect sense, colloquial French, but still, the phrase is amusing to us; in fact it makes us titter.

We were watching the England game against Ghana and at 11pm the German man in the motorhome next door came over and asked us to be quiet. I didn't think we were being noisy but it was enough to upset him so we were like church mice after that.

Then on Saturday we moved into a proper "mobil-home", one we've stayed in several years, with its garden with the trees and the birds who come pecking hopefully on your table after meals. It was very hot, and one night my eldest took some cushions out and slept outdoors.

There's a Dutch-French couple who for several years have stayed on the site near us. This year, we finally started chatting. The woman is very attractive, circa 60 maybe, wears above-the-knee skirts showing her lovely legs, and simple, buttoned tops, and she has the most gorgeous hair, dark blonde in a rough growing-out bob. She is the belle of the campsite, chatty, friendly -- as is he. They always have a little vase of flowers on their table outside.

At the end of our holiday we had some bottles of beer left over, so I went round to their caravan saying would you mind if I snogged your wife like the rest of these beers and some olive oil? He insisted on saying that they would keep them until we turned up next year, same time, same place. She said that when we all walk up the the village, we look "rayonnante."

On the morning we left I left them a note in my best French, which isn't great but it'll do, saying that I'd perfectly understand if one night they wanted to drink them and how it was a pleasure getting to know them a little. I then put a kiss at the end of it which I regret a bit, too American, but never mind, we've made a happy holiday relationship there.

I live in a housing association flat and you can put in for a transfer if you like, to a flat elsewhere. I've been waiting eighteen months after I requested to go back home, to Lancaster, and on Friday I got a phone call offering me a flat there. I went to see it. It's tiny and in a bit of an arse-end of Lancaster; I haven't got a job there, and it's £778 a month -- more than I'm paying at the moment. "Social housing", yeah right.

I'd be giving up a good job here -- 37.5 hours but all in three days, so lots of free time -- a decent flat in central Bristol and above all, Mel, who is struggling with what amounts to her abandonment. I can't say much really, apart from reiterating that nothing trumps my desire to spend my last few years working, and my retirement, in my home town. Not her, not the job, not the flat. I'll be diving into the jobless void but I'm not fussy about what I do, as long as I can pay this exorbitant rent. We're going to attempt to maintain the relationship at a distance, but four hours on the train is different to a half-hour cycle ride, and she doesn't think it's sustainable.

It makes me sad too. But we've arranged to go to see a DJ that I like who's coming to Lancaster in September, when she gets back from the island in Greece where she spent most of her adult life. Kirsty's coming as well -- the girls' mum -- so a bit of Tolstoyan social work will be called for, but we'll all be on the disco biscuits, which might make it easier, or turn it into a scene, one of the two.

Off to Brittany for three weeks with the gals. See you next month!

Me and Mel went to Weymouth for a couple of days. It's an old-fashioned family seaside resort, with proper cafes serving enormous breakfasts that come with chips. There was a civility about it that is unknown in many English seaside towns.

My Housing Association has a network of guest flats you can stay in for £15 a night. One day was hot and sunny -- ice creams on the beach; the next was freezing, and my hands went a pre-death blotch of dark blue and creme. We went to Chesil Beach, which is impressive if you like miles of pebbles. I was relieved when Mel called the expedition off. We sat in an old pub which had had its history scoured out of it, where they remove the cutlery and napkins before you have a pint.

Back in Weymouth I used my pubdar, which unfailingly locates the best pub in any town within half an hour. I had to do some gentle persuading to get Mel into the Looks A Bit Rough Inn.

We met a couple who used to drink in my local in Bristol, before it was ruined by the new landlord. He's already got a pub up the road, all rainbow flags and inclusivity, and took down the Irish flag over the bar, removed all the Celtic and Hibernian memorabilia and the Guinness, and replaced the Bass at £3.80 with ManBun Craft Lager at £5.25.

We bumped into them a couple of times later on. When we parted I went to shake his hand, which I don't think he was expecting. It was only a momentary awkwardness but it preyed on me a bit that I'd misperformed our parting. I don't like saying farewell by doing some sort of airy waving away, especially as we'd been sharing a couple of tales over a few pints. They've got a severely disabled son and they'd managed to get a precious three days away from all the saliva.

The following day we went there again, a couple of hours before the train left. There was a party of (white English) women there with balloons and cards, when a distinguished looking Indian man walked in carrying a tureen of something. They started laying out a buffet, and I wondered whether we should leave. The "Indian" man, who sounded like he came from Hampshire, said "it's my wife's 60th, and if you'd like to stay, please help yourself to the buffet." Alas, we had to get our train.

I had a leak coming through from the flat above me the other week. For several days I thought it was the fridge, but I couldn't find anything wrong with it. Eventually I traced the source to a hole around a pipe entering the airing cupboard -- which is where I store my flour. I have a breadmaker and buy 25kg sacks of it, for economy, and the leak had wetted the bottom of the sack.

Once it was all sorted the scheme manager sent me an apology, and said she'd ordered me another 25kg of flour. Later, she popped in with a £50 Tesco voucher. To be honest I'd exaggerated the extent of the spoilage and probably only a couple of kilos is unfit to be used; so now I have almost 50kg of flour in my flat. If you'd like an organic wholemeal loaf, just let me know. There's some rhubarb wine as well.