I pull the pillow over my head, but it's no use.

There was a time when nothing would raise me from my pit before Sunday lunch. The QE II coming in to dock, Led Zeppelin jamming next door, an organised dog fight on my lawn - not uncommon around here, though never on my lawn - still I would not have roused.

That was before Katy came along, in the days when I still had a modicum of freedom despite the confines of wedlock. Freedom to get out on the lash now and again and when I wasn't, Becky and I would do a damn good job of shifting a crate of Vodka on our own. Then Wham! Pregnancy. Bam! Fatherhood. Oh, and is that your freedom, son? I think I'll have that. Thank you, Mam.

I swing my legs out of bed and pick up the picture of Katy taken in Ibiza two years ago. Just before the split. She is sat in a darkened restaurant, her face painted, but her beauty still shines through.

When Katy was born I wept. Not at the loss of my independence, I'd had seven months to get used to that. No, I wept because she was the most beautiful, completely perfect bundle of love that a heart ever beat within. And from the second her curious dark eyes looked in to mine I knew that my old life was over. That was the curtain-fall on act one. I was a father now. I had someone to guide rather than following a leader or hunting with the pack. And I could not have been happier.

Initially I had wanted a son. The thought of a daughter had me quantum-leap-stressing that some scumbag would one day be dropping Rohypnol in her Mojito while putting his hands up her skirt. And I would be at home, worrying and watching the clock, waiting for the 2am phone call to pick her up. But the moment she arrived I was overwhelmed with love and hope and purpose.

Bedroom routines changed dramatically. Katy's cot was positioned at the foot of our bed and whilst her breathing would lull me to sleep, I became conditioned to subconsciously listening for it, and leaping from bed should there be any suspicion that her gentle hum had ceased.

This fear made me a light sleeper. And the Sunday morning slumber a thing of the past. I've tried getting hammered. OK, not recently, but after splitting from Becky I got battered on Boddie’s regularly. But still I would wake with the larks. Society's number one anaesthesia for Sunday mornings had only the effect of making me ill when what I needed it to do was keep me unconscious for twelve hours... a bit like a controlled coma.

I pad across the landing to the bathroom, not prepared for the sorry sight that greets me in the mirror. But I'm up now and I'm thinking 'get out and do something'. Anything. I'm sick of being a sad case. Other people live for the weekend and I work as hard as most. Well, I'm 'at work' for around fifty hours a week which entitles me to a bit of decent leisure time and after spending Saturday night feeling even sorrier for myself than usual - after being used as drive-by-Mega-Gulp-target-practice and arguing with Becky – I’m determined to shake off my lethargy and break the monotony of another weekend living like a hermit.

I shave, shower and dress quickly, descend the stairs and log on to my Internet Banking. I check my Hollyoaks Babes calendar; commission is paid on the fifteenth, Thursday. I've got a bit of cash left, but three direct debits are due out before the end of the week, accounting for all bar a fiver of my available balance. After a bit of mulling I decide that the good people at TV Licensing and Powergen will be gracious enough to accept a late payment over the phone next week. One of the redeeming things about my job is mid-month commission. It won't be much this time as I've had 'motivational challenges'. Generally speaking I couldn‘t be arsed last month, but I’m still due about three hundred quid. I cancel the two direct debits. That gives me sixty quid to go at. Now where shall be my playground?

* * * * * *

The beer is as warm as the weather outside, but the atmosphere in The Drake and Drain is decidedly cooler. I've been consistently gawped at by a succession of pensioners seated across the bar and others making their way out to the Bowling Green. I think I should write off the first of my spends and move on. I can't believe that after an hour of deliberating where to go I ended up in a boozer as bleak and soulless as this.

I'd been through the local paper to see what was on in the region. I'd also contemplated popping down to the football club for the first time in a year and a half and looking up some of the lads that used to be good mates before I turned my back on them.

I'd even been on the Fathers 4 Justice website to see if they had a local enrolment officer or any 'events' happening today within an accessible area. But nothing was being promoted. I suppose they have to keep their plans underground.

Instead I've ended up sipping room temperature bitter in a dead-end dive with arguably the lowest socio-demographic in the North Wes; adult male knuckle scrapers and kids who drink blue pop.

Perhaps there is a mystical magnetic force at work. The Drake and Drain is a symbolic lodestone to me. I’m here for a reason; to see that this is as low as I can allow things to get and that I need to break this downward spiral.

I pick up my pint and push through the door to the other side of the bar. This time there is no 'freeze-frame all eyes on the stranger' moment, which is encouraging. I adopt a nonchalant stance with my back to the bar and a look of casual interest in the pool match in progress. A lad, early twenties, is taking on a girl who only looks nineteen, while another girl, maybe a little older, watches.

I can't help thinking I'd like to take the girl player on myself... but not at eight-ball pool. No, I'm not talking fifty pence’s in slots here. There’d be an entirely different slot involved.

Her mate's not bad either in a sort of trailer-trash version of Keira Knightley kind of way. Quite different to the ample charms of her pool playing buddy who, to my mind has already fouled a striped ball twice with her double D's. I don't know which one, if either, is matey’s girlfriend, but as far as I'm concerned there's one girl surplus to requirements.

The non-playing girl has said something, which has made the other two laugh. I didn't pick it up above Shaun Ryder on the jukebox, but it's led to glances in my direction and I'm suddenly feeling uncomfortable. I've been kidding myself. There‘s a generation gap here. I'm twelve years out of my teens and still think the word hip is hip. My attire today is hardly cutting edge fashion. It's more end-of-line Primark. And my Skoda badge key ring sits proudly beside my pint of bitter, a middle-aged man's drink. I must look a right plum.

Fuck, Keira Knightley's coming over!

`Hi.’

She's definitely talking to me. The barman is up the other end watching the Grand Prix on the telly. Plus there was that little thing called eye contact when she spoke. I'm caught in the headlights. She's put her right arm on the bar to my left. To get away I'd have to swerve right and disturb a barstool. But why the hell would I want to get away?

'Hi,' I reply, barely able to keep the tremble from my voice.

'You on your own?' she asks.

'Yeah, I was waiting for someone through the other side when they called,' I tap the breast pocket of my T-shirt, which houses my phone, 'to say they weren't going to be able to make it.'

The ease with which I can produce a credible lie from nowhere is shocking really.

'Bloke or bird?'

Bloody hell! This one's upfront! I find myself shifting awkwardly in front of her.

Oh, a girl,' I say as though I’m a seasoned player and it’s ‘easy come, easy go’.

She smiles. 'Her loss then.'

'Yeah, course it is. So I thought I'd just have a mooch...' MOOCH! Oh how cool must that sound? ... 'through here.'

'Fancy a bit of mixed-doubles?'

'You what?'

'Pool. You and me against those two.' Her tongue pokes delicately between her lips. All I need now is for her to bite her bottom lip and look at me doe-eyed and I will definitely pass out on the spot.

I shrug, feigning indifference. 'Yeah, OK.'

I follow trailer-trash Keira over to the pool table as Double D's goes 'in off' her last ball. Matey retrieves the white from the guts of the table and positions it to give himself an easy shot on the black. Only once he has safely deposited it in the middle pocket does he look at me.

'All right, pal?’

Up close Matey would be best described as rough and ready. I doubt he'd dispute the rough bit and I dread to think what he's ready for.

'Hello. Nice to meet you all.' I make formal nods in the direction of Double D’s and Matey.

Double D's looks as though she's about to piss herself, which doesn't surprise me, I sound like I'm addressing the board of ICI rather than three rejects from Pendleton Tech. They must think I'm a complete prick.

'You up for a game?' she asks.

'I'm a bit rusty.’

‘Not had your cue out for a while?’

‘Something like that.’

Matey rolls his eyes. I think he thinks I'm hustling them, but there's been no suggestion of this being a money match.

'You rack 'em up then. I got a call to make,' he says before promptly disappearing.

I'm left with the two girls.

'What's your name then?'

I look up from the pattern of balls I'm haphazardly designing in the triangle to see Keira pouting seriously.

'Andy.' I manage a smile, which I hope exudes confidence.

'I'm Donna,' says Keira, 'this is Karen,' she adds nodding towards Double D's.

'Right, Hiya,' I reply, feeling a pained expression breaking out on my face. It would have been so much easier if Double D’s had been Donna and Keira was Karen. There’s now every chance I’m going to mix them up and blow any chances of this progressing beyond the baize of the pool table.

‘We’re sisters’, she adds, as though that should fuel some sort of fantasy in me. It does.

The table is set and I've even chalked mine and Donna's cue.

'Right, sorted,' declares Matey bursting breathlessly back in to the Games Room.

Donna didn't tell me his name and it feels awkward asking now so I leave it.

'You gonna break or what?' he adds.

I get my head over the cue and ram the pack hard. There's nothing down off my break so I step back from the table and pass the cue to Donna.

Matey moves in and quickly pots two stripes before looking up at Karen, grinning inanely and missing an easy shot. Strangely, he's not the least bit vexed.

Donna miscues completely, handing two shots to the opposition. It's a shot that tells me everything about her competency around the pool table. She's fucking hopeless.

'Oops,' she says, gormlessly.

'Don't worry', I reply.

'You got any ciggies?' she asks.

'No, I don't smoke. Here,' I say delving in my pocket and producing a fiver, 'get some from the machine.'

'It's OK, thanks.'

I put the fiver back in my pocket. I must have insulted her. A girl I've known five minutes asks me for a cigarette and I start waving money at her like she's Spearmint Rhino's top pole dancer.

Karen's still at the table and we're now four balls behind as a car screeches to a halt outside. I look out to see four lads in a black Peugeot 307 jutting their heads to a bass line so fat it's threatening to burst the sub-woofers. I notice something else about this crew. The two in the back are munching KFC and the front passenger is sucking on a large Pepsi.

* * * * * *

It's got to be a coincidence. How many thousands must get food from KFC every day in the North West alone? So I really should stop shaking now. Donna hands me the cue and I approach the table. The balls are well spread. I should be able to pot three spots without thinking about it, but that's the trouble, I'm not thinking about it. I'm thinking about the occupants of the hatchback through the window behind me. I pot one, but miss the next when I hear one of their car doors shut. I turn to see the driver has got out and is now leaning on his open window and talking to his front passenger. He's got the lot this character. He's fucking text book. Burberry baseball cap, Bench tracksuit, Adidas trainers and a totally unsporty pair of checked socks that his tracky bottoms are tucked in to. He half-turns and, yes, earring, chunky chain and cold sores. The identikit Chav.

Donna nudges me.

'Your go.'

'So soon?'

I know I haven't been paying attention, but I don't think Ronnie O'Sullivan could have played three shots as quickly as they have. I survey the lie of the balls as the bass continues to thud outside. I've got one spot on, but the others are now tied up in difficult positions, which are going to require a bit of thought if we're to triumph. Not that victory is a priority. Preservation would be a priority. I roll the easy one in and something rather pleasant happens while I'm considering my next options, the bass fades away. I turn to see the Peugeot has vanished. I play my next shot in a totally carefree manner. Then curiously the others all take an age over their next visits.

Before it's back to me the Peugeot glides over the stone chippings again, returning to its previous position and I get a nasty sinking feeling. I'm staring down one of our five remaining spots, trying to focus on getting this game over with one way or another as quickly as possible when Matey's phone bleeps with a text message. I pot two and leave Karen on when I miss with my next shot. Matey and Karen, punctuated by another atrocious shot from Donna, mop up their remaining stripes, but Karen misses the black, as does Matey after my next unsuccessful shot. Defeat looks imminent as Donna pointlessly chalks our cue. She slams in the last three spots seemingly in one movement and plays a flashy screw shot to dispense the black.

'Wow!' I exclaim. 'You found your form.'

'Just in time too,' she says.

'Come on,' Matey tells her, 'we've got to be going.'

Donna smiles at me. 'We’d love to stop, but Mam always serves Sunday lunch at half two.'

'Well I'll catch up with you again sometime. Thanks for the game.'

I'm left alone with a pint I don't want to finish. Even the barman has disappeared somewhere. I pick up my car key and glass and move down to the telly. Three racing drivers are on the podium spraying champagne, I'm sipping a bitter that was pulled over an hour ago. That says it all. So much for getting out and doing something.

I leave The Drake and Drain and head over to my Octavia. As I near the car I notice a mark along the paintwork. It’s been keyed from wing to back bumper.

'Bastards!'

I glance around, but the car park is otherwise empty. I press my key to unlock it. The buttons shoot up and I climb in. I stick the key in the ignition and notice my Blaupunkt 54 DAB Radio and CD player isn't fucking there. I open the glove compartment - which I have the option of locking, but never do - and my heart sinks. I had five CD's in there including Katy's personal favourite, the Grease soundtrack, and they've all gone.

I bang my head back on the headrest. Wankers! Then I notice something. Nothing I can see... it's a smell. An unmistakeable odour recognised the world over and it's definitely inside my car.

It's Colonel Sanders' Southern Fried Chicken.