Ooh the police, the police are here. Downstairs, because there was an assault last night and did we hear anything?

Mum phoned the police on Monday because the kids Sister A went to school with, some 12 year olds- who when they're not skiving still barely fit in their blazers- and some older kids (but still younger than me) who congregate in the road by our house were blatantly dealing/ buying. At the weekend there had been another fight- same kids- I watched in my dressing gown looking out of my window. A big sprawling fight; a car drove away with the back window smashed. We saw a few arrests (my mother watching from the front door being told to go away by a policeman), shouting, disorder. Several police cars, a police van too. The people inside the police van banging on the walls, as if that's going to help. And this is such a nice area...

You can never hear the details, it sounds like dogs fighting. A litany of fuck yous. Language, language my disaffected youths. Still better way to spent a Friday than watching Jonathan Ross.

They were always little shits, even at primary school, the ones that knew my sister.

AC came round yesterday because she still hadn't seen the puppy. After dinner we sat in my room, my dad's records spread all over my bed like it's 30 years ago. We listened to a few of the bettter ones. A time machine to my father. I love his records, even the terrible ones. He turns 50 this year, the records I like he bought in '72/'73 when he was 15 which is impossible. Glam rock. It all got bad in the '80s (Genesis, father? Genesis honestly, what is this American Pyscho?).

I know my father quite indirectly, I'd probably know him better if he were dead because then at least people would tell me about him. Although of course that's worse than standing on pavement cracks. Cryptically on the back of an Alice Cooper album is a note from his ex-girlfriend, who he lived with before he met my mother. When they broke up she took half of everything in the house. Half the cutlery, half the curtains. That's all I know about my father when he was a young man, and that he had a good friend who might have died of AIDS, although that's not something I can ask about; he only mentioned it once. I don't know anything my my dad's friends now, or if he's happy.

I don't mind not knowing very much about his life, but I'd like to know whether or not he actually likes me at all. And if he's happy, that's the mystery.

('Manfred, the Man?' suggests CA, who I haven't seen now for months although I need to- but she has first year exams, rent to pay and a fiance- the last time I saw her in a pub by the river that we don't normally go to but have no choice since the barman at our usual is in love with her and her fiance doesn't know. Our usual pub has a DJ, here they pipe in inoffensively not terrible music, you can't hear it anyway. "What? Manfred Mann? No that's not it. It's something the something, something the something stupid", "Are you sure it's not David Bowie, MT thinks it is", "No, I think he wrote it but it's not by him, someone else sings it", "Mott the Hoople!" "That's it.

This song makes me feel sad and I don't know why")