Introducing Amanda...

"When you look this good, who cares if you're plastic?"-Carmen Xtravaganza

Amanda is the undisputed doyenne of every and all scenes in New York City. She descended, from humble New Jersey roots, in a breathtaking spectacle - dangling dangerously, seductively, from a rope ladder hung from the bottom of a helicopter. The city and it's people have been enraptured ever since.

Amanda is a blonde (but often times pink, blue and red) Venus with Jayne Mansfield's camp sexuality, Marilyn's breathless delivery, and Gypsy Rose Lee's wardrobe of rhinestones and plunging-neckline gowns. Since her arrival in the late 80s she has dazzled in various night settings, scenes as varied as Disco 2000, Jackie 60, Beige, Buckingham and C*NT (my old flatmate's night at Crobar)

I remember the night that I first cast eyes on her - Opaline, March 2003. There she was, gyrating suggestively on the bar, regalient in only a Jessica Rabbit wig and nipple tassels. I leaned in towards my friend, and breathlessly whispered "Who, prey tell, is that lithe temptress?"

"That's Amanda, darling. She's the talk of the town."

"Well, I think I'm smitten. I'm drained by the very nearness of her."

A Waltz For A Night

J'adore Julie Delpy (French actress in Before Sunrise / Sunset). The other day I bought her album and it is really very 'listenable'. One of my favorite songs is "Je T'aime Tant". I don't know what she is singing about but it sounds sexy. But this one (below) is my favorite. She actually wrote the song herself in the character of Celine, which she played in both the "Before" movies. She is singing about the one night stand that she had with Jesse in Vienna all those years before. Can you imagine if someone wrote a song like this for you?

(If you haven't seen either of the movies, go to the video store right now and get both out. They will reinvigorate your belief in love.)

Let me sing you a waltz
Out of nowhere, out of my thoughts
Let me sing you a waltz
About this one night stand

You were for me that night
Everything I always dreamt of in life
But now you're gone
You are far gone
All the way to your island of rain

It was for you just a one night thing
But you were much more to me
Just so you know

I hear rumors about you
About all the bad things you do
But when we were together alone
You didn't seem like a player at all

I don't care what they say
I know what you meant for me that day
I just wanted another try
I just wanted another night
Even if it doesn't seem quite right
You meant for me much more
Than anyone I've met before

One single night with you little Jesse
Is worth a thousand with anybody

I have no bitterness, my sweet
I'll never forget this one night thing
Even tomorrow, another arms
My heart will stay yours until I die

Let me sing you a waltz
Out of nowhere, out of my blues
Let me sing you a waltz
About this lovely one night stand

When you think your man might be gay...

This morning, at about 8.30am, I get woken up by a phone call from my friend (I'm going to change names here, because while I'm sure she won't mind me writing about the incident here, she probably would object to my naming and shaming her and her boyfriend - she knows who she is!). Meet Liz and Stan.

Me: "Ebluh…?"

Liz: "I think Stan might be gay."

I'm awake. "Ok. You need to back up a sec."

"Oh Chris, this is really embarrassing."

"Babes, I really don't think that you need to worry about embarrassing yourself in front of me. I have embarrassed myself in front of you plenty of times. It's about time we re-addressed the imbalance. Besides, you just called me, so clearly you're ready for some humiliation."

She considers this and says, "True."

I prop myself up in bed and rub my eyes.

So she gives me the low down, but not before going over something that she has already told me before - that her sex life with Stan has become slightly, er, limp of late. Fucking and passion has been replaced by TV and flossing.

"So we decided that we would try and correct things by adding some spice to the normal proceedings."

Oh Jesus. I can see it now. Liz and Stan have hired some gorgeous Amazonian hooker. The hooker eases herself down their plush white Heals sofa in the middle of their trendy Highbury pied-a-terre. Stan poised above, dressed only in a PVC thong and brandishing a riding crop, yells "On your knees, bitch!" Liz, in Sharon Stone / Basic Instinct mode, mock-disinterestedly watches the proceedings from the black leather armchair across the room, casually blowing smoke rings.

"We rented a pornographic video," Liz says. The way that she says "pornographic" as opposed to "porno" is so sweet and innocent that I immediately felt guilty for imagining her watching her boyfriend fucking the living crap out of some lady of the night.

"So we were in bed, doing it, and the video was on in the background. And we're both going at it, but watching at the same time. Then on the video, all of a sudden, this guy walks in on the couple screwing and sticks his finger up the other guy's arse. And then, without warning, Stan announces loudly 'Oh God! I'm gonna cum!' And then he cums."

This is far too much information for me to handle at this time in the morning. I usually love to hear about other people's sex lives, but I'm hungover and this is making me feel queasy.

"Chris! We'd been watching the video for something like twenty minutes and nothing happens. And the moment it turns gay, Stan cums! He's gay, isn't he?"

Poor Liz! I consider immediately biking her over some of Vix's Melatonin. But instead I say, "No. Liz he is not gay because he was turned on watching porn. It doesn't work that way. Occam's Razor - all things being equal? He came because he was doing you, his girlfriend. That tends to happen when you've been fucking your girlfriend for twenty minutes, with porn playing in the background."

A moment of silence.

"Yeah, ok. You're right I guess. I feel better now. Sorry to wake you up. Did I wake you up?"

"Yes."

"Oh sorry. How are you my love?"

We chat. And the whole time I want to tell her that Stan is gay. But not because of the porn. He's gay because no straight man would ever allow his girlfriend to carpet his apartment with a white shag pile.

Nosey Parkers

I keep getting emails from you little tykes asking three specific Chris related questions that seem to be taking up a lot of your thought space. Don't you people have anything better to do than think about me? What? You do? Oh. Well, er, why? Think about me! All the time!

Q.1 - What's going on with you and Jake?
Jake and I are just friends. I haven't seen him since Monday when I took him home from the hospital, but I have spoken to him a few times since on the phone. He is still a little sore but getting better. But as I predicted, he is unable to do anything too physical. Because of this he is only eating protein, so that he doesn't get fat (shakes head with despair).

Q.2 - What is the status with you and New York?
I have another interview (the final one) next week, either on Monday or Wednesday. After that interview, providing they still want me I will go in for a two week trial (unusual practice, but whatever) and providing everything is ok, I will sign a contract. But this is NOT in the bag yet, and I am not getting too overexcited because I don't want to be dissapointed if I don't get it.

Q.3 - What underwear do you prefer?
(cue 70s gay porn music. "Bam bam chica bam bam")
I like tighty-whiteys. They make me feel sexy. I'm wearing them today (suggestively pulls jeans down low enough to show you the waist band) They sit low on my hips and show off that diagonal line definition - the lines that snake down from the sides of my waist, all the way down to... And the whiteness of my tighty-whiteys makes me look tanned. And the stretchy cotton provides support in all the right places. Uh-huh.

Tighty-whiteys - because I'm worth it.

A Deity. Sure to be canonized.

Ol Dirty Bastard, aka Big Baby Jesus, dropped dead this week in a recording studio. Here's a quick comparison between him and his namesake, Jesus Christ.

Age of death:
Despite being called Big Baby, the Wu-Jesus lived to be 36, three years longer than Christ.

Good works:
Jesus Christ fed a lot of people with bread and fish, and also helped out at a wedding by turning water into wine. On the other hand, when a caller asked on an MTV talk show what Big Baby Jesus was doing to give back to the community, his instant response was: "Nothing."

Lady friend:
Jesus Christ: a ho called Mary Magdalene
BB-Jesus: Icelene (though he had 13 children with various mothers)

Cause of death:
Jesus Christ: crucifixion
BB-Jesus: crack

Wisdom:
Jesus Christ: "I am the way, the truth and the light"
BB-Jesus: "White girls shake your ass. Black girls shake your ass. Everybody shake your ass."

Ol Dirty Bastard, aka Big Baby Jesus - 1968-2004. RIP.

Robin Hood with no Merry Men

I don’t know what is happening to me! I seem to be becoming a Robin Hood-type character for the down trodden and oppressed!

I went to the doctors surgery this morning to pick up a prescription, the request for which I had called through yesterday morning.

I ask the nice receptionist if I can pick it up (my inhalers for my asthma). She goes to find the prescription but alas it doesn't seem to have been printed. She's very apologetic. So I explain that while I understand that the request hasn’t been processed, I do kinda need the inhalers because I have run out (I always leave it to the last minute to get refills!) Is there anything that she can do?

At this moment the doctor (Dr. Ashton) walks through the busy reception area (lots of old people, mums with babies and sick people, strangely) and up to the desk and starts fiddling with some papers. The receptionist quietly gets Dr. Ashton's attention and explains the situation. Dr. Ashton goes loopy and exclaims very loudly:

"Lisa! I have told you time and time again, not to bother me with this kind of thing while I have patients to see. I'm busy. It's not my fault that you haven't organised the prescription. I will have to do it later."

And with that she literally dumps her papers on the desk infront of Lisa and turns around to walk away.

"Hey!" (did I just say that?)

Dr. Ashton turns around and looks at me blankly. As do all the patients in the waiting room. Fuck.

"A few things. One, it wasn't Lisa who took my request yesterday, it was someone else. A man. Perhaps he is to blame for the request not being processed? Second, Lisa has been entirely helpful from the moment I walked in today. Third, like you, she is just trying to do her job. And finally, I think it is entirely inappropriate for you to humilate her in the manner in which you just did, to me and to a room full of your patients."

Dr. Ashton looks taken aback. Then she composes herself and takes a step towards me. Clearly she is itching to tell me to get the hell out of her surgery, no doubt by incorporating several expletives into the sentence. She opens her mouth to speak, then closes it, then opens it again and finally mutters, "I take on board your comments." And then spins around and departs. The waiting room is quiet except for the distant rustle of leaves in the courtyard.

I turn back to Lisa, the receptionist, and with a kind smile I mouth the word "Sorry." She grins at me says "No. Thank you. She can be a bit of a cow!"

I'm still waiting to hear if I'm gonna get my prescription. I'm not holding my breath (being an asthmatic with no inhalers that would probably not be advisable!)

Le Bulldozer

I've always liked the French president, Jacques Chirac. I imagine that he is like an imposing, yet deeply kind, grandfather. I can just picture Christmas with Grandpa Chirac at his home in Bastille, in Paris:

"Bonjour grand-père Chirac! Joyeux Noël! Où mes cadeaux sont (where are my presents)?"

One of reasons that I like Chirac is because of his vision of a "multi-polar" (not to be confused with "bi-polar") world - that eventually the superpower of the United States will be balanced against other large unions such as Europe, China, India and eventually a South American pole. His views are of course somewhat unpopular with the present administration in the US (Donald Rumsfeld recently spoke fondly, I'm sure with some kind of agenda, of the "old Europe". Not quite so much of a playground threat huh, Don?)

So in three days Chirac will meet with Tony Blair in London, for what will be his first official visit to our country in over eight years. Apparently Chirac is intending to be blunt with Tony about our relationship with the US - he does not feel that it is possible that Britain can be an "honest broker" for the US. Hmmm...not sure I agree.

I was skimming through the papers this morning (looking for fashion news, getting sidetracked!) and found two really amusing quotes from Chirac. Isn't it nice when a politician has a proper sense of humour?

Musing on the old Anglo/Franco relationship - "I think we have always enjoyed hating each other...it has been a kind of violent love."

The other quote was in relation to the period in the 70s when he served as Agriculture Minister. During that time he negotiated Britain's entry into the European Community. He still harbours guilt over a comment he made, in French, about the British minister back then, believing that he did not speak French. He later found out that the minister, in fact, spoke the language fluently!

"I thought, that's a real example of British hypocrisy, hiding for two years that he spoke French!"

I am the invisible man...

Bloody Drew! That Larry Kramer speech he sent round the other day seems to have been somewhat of a catalyst for something within me. Horror of horrors, I appear to be re-developing a conscience. All those years of consumerism, shopping, clubbing and hedonism have just been nullified. Damn you, Drew! (waves fist)

Guided by some unknown and irritating motivation, I spent most of Saturday on the internet, reading up on the current state of global gay politics, which led on to my researching gay direct action groups. It all got a bit out of control! Suddenly I was of the mind that maybe I needed to join in real time discussion. So I came across the Outrage! website. Of course I have been aware of Outrage! for many years now, but because of afore mentioned shallowness I kinda let them slip to the back of my mind. They have a meeting in the next two weeks in King’s Cross. I’m going to go and sit in the back and I’m going to absorb. And who knows? I may even learn something!

Recently I was out with some friends and one of my straight girlfriends pointed out to me that I don’t on the whole, come across very gay (she obviously hasn’t seen me at Shadow Lounge, after my fifth Absolut Mandarin and tonic, putting the moves down to a Donna Summer track!) Of course I was delighted! They think I look and act straight! Yay!

Then last night I was thinking about this and made a horrifying realisation. That’s actually not a good thing. Maybe the rest of you already realise this, and are going to go “Well, duh!” But I am sometimes slow on the uptake, so bear with me, ok? I believe this point I am going to make here is so fundamental to the concept of equality, recognition and acceptance in all it’s forms and yet it is an issue that I don’t think I have ever heard being seriously discussed.

There are ten men in a room and I add a woman. I then turn to you and say “pick out the woman” - it’s going to be easy, right? There are ten white women in a room and I add a black woman. I then turn to you and say “pick out the black woman” – again, easy, huh?

There are ten men in a room and I add a gay man. I then turn to you and say “pick out the gay guy.” Now it’s not so easy (not unless the gay guy is wearing a leather cap, chaps and a chest harness.)

Traditional stereotypes of what gay men and women look like are no longer relevant. It’s just not a dead giveaway any more. Straight men have started grooming, wearing nice clothes, working out, wearing sleeveless T-shirts. Straight men are looking like gay men! Eek! (Frustrating for us when we think they are gay and then they rebuff our advances!) And lesbians are shaving their legs, applying make up and wearing pretty dresses. It’s all so confusing!

On today’s modern high street we see certain groups of society everywhere. The black community has always been everywhere. They are in schools, shops, on the street, in nightclubs, hospitals, in the building you live in. They are your boss and they are the ever-helpful IT guy who shows you how to open a Word document (no, you can’t open a Word document in Netscape, silly!) The black community is everywhere. And we know this, because we can physically see them. And because they are everywhere, and we can see them, we have become familiar with them. And as a result we have started to see past the colour of their skin, to see the person underneath. And slowly we began to identify. And to care about them. And love them. Of course there are numerous other reasons why the black community, over time, has been embraced (arguably there is still oppression and there is still progress to be made). But visibility made the task slightly easier.

Gay people are in all those places as well. Gay people are everywhere. We know that. The straight community know that. But think about this - I bet if you did a straw poll of the average Joe’s and Josephine’s across the nation, in both cities and in rural hamlets, you would find that the majority wouldn’t remember ever having met a gay person. Sure they have seen them on TV and from time to time in the printed media. And no doubt they know that by the simple laws of averages they probably have met a gay person (or fifty). It’s just that the gay person wasn’t visible enough for them to realise.

And that’s the thing. And it’s a big thing. Huge in fact. We’re not visible enough.

A very common sentiment that I hear from straight people is that while they believe that caring, loving, responsible citizens should not be deprived of anything that they deserve, at the same time you don’t run around waving a banner that says “I’m gay!” And that has always been a sentiment that I could understand. I personally don’t want to have a label on my forehead that reads “Gay”. I want to blend in. I don’t want my sexuality to be an issue. My sexuality doesn’t and shouldn’t define me – I’m a complex soup consisting of many ingredients (Mulligatawny).

But that’s the most critical thing – equality in it’s very essence is afforded to the oppressed, in time (and it’s a slow, slow process) partly because the oppressed is visible. It’s so simple, yet so fundamental. And like I said, I don’t hear people talking about this.

In order for us to penetrate the mindsets of the average Joe and Josephine, to be recognised and accepted and identified with, aside from the fact that we are gay, we have to be visible. Our visibility will, in time, help to break down barriers and will make people familiar with us. And eventually this will help people to start to see past the sexuality thing and will start identifying on all the other levels. It’s not enough that for one day of the year (Gay Pride day) that we walk through the streets of our cities screaming at the top of our lungs “We’re here, we’re queer!” We have to be doing that every second of every day, everywhere we go.

But of course, we can’t. We can’t simply because our voices would give out. And we could wear banners on our back, but they might ruin the lines of our new and expensive Dries van Noten raincoat.

There are, of course, many other important factors in gaining credibility, recognition, equality and acceptance. But I think that this concept of visibility is incredibly important. And I have really been thinking about this, and I don’t have a clue – aside from us all painting ourselves hot pink and wearing leather chaps, 24/7 – how we go about making ourselves visible all the time. I think we really need to think about this.

Of course part of the answer is that it is important that those people in the public eye – politicians, actors, musicians, writers – step up to the mike and announce their sexuality to the world. So that everyone can hear them. I’ll concede that sexuality is ultimately a private matter. And in an ideal world, it wouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference to anything. But it’s not an ideal world, and it does. And I am starting to come to the point of view that if you have a public voice, in whatever form that may be, then arguably you have a duty to the rest of us, who don’t have that voice, to speak up on our behalf. It’s just a thought. Maybe I am wrong.

Again, you all probably know this. And I am the last to get on the bus. Wouldn’t be the first time!

Ok - to change the subject completely I went to the movies last night with some friends. During the ads before the movie we saw for the first time the new four minute Chanel No.5 commercial, starring Nicole Kidman, directed by Moulin Rouge’s Baz Luhrman.

I don’t really know how to put this.

After the commercial ended, my friends and I looked at each other and none of us could muster words. After a few moments I composed myself. “I think I’m going to cry. It’s just so… so…beautiful!!!”

Yeah - ok, ok. Gay to the core! ;)

Une Discussion Intéressante

I have been having what le French would call "une discussion intéressante" with a friend about a number of things, one of which is - when was the best time in history to be gay?

I believe, hand on heart that it is today. Not saying that today is a great time to be gay, but all things considered, probably the best. Although that shouldn't imply that us gayers haven't got a long, long way to go. Au contraire.

My friend Sally emailed me as to her pov on the matter and she put across an interesting point. Maybe I should rethink, after all:

"As to when is the best time to be/ to have been gay?  I think the best time may have been in America before the white man came when certain American Indian tribes believed that there were special people who were granted favor with the Gods.  They were men who stayed home with the woman to tend to the children, and tanning hides, and growing grain in the fields.  There was no shame in them not wanting to hunt, exactly the opposite.  You can read a passage in "Little Big Man" (Thomas Berger) all about them."

There was one small problem though. As she rightly says, "there were no discos to go to at that time."

(Drew - do not lament the lack of talent in Wellington too much. Joe and I went to The Two Brewers last night in Clapham and I was quite relieved to come home alone!)

Oh ma lord!!!

I think I just came in my pants!

But the question is, can I wait six months???!!!!

The patter of little Scottish feet!

Poor old Jakeyboy. He was a little bit sorry for himself last night. They whipped his appendix out in the morning and had been sleeping for most of the afternoon. By the time I got to the hospital he was making a bit more sense than he had earlier (not hard), but I took great delight in pointing out that he wouldn’t be doing too many sit ups in the coming weeks! Ha ha!

Anyway – on the way home my old friend Robbie calls me and says that he was some news. Given that he only just got engaged to another friend of ours, Julia, it can only be one thing.

“You’re a lesbian?”

“Idiot! No! We’re pregnant!”

Yay!

So guess what? I’m gonna be a godfather! Scary huh? I have spent much time today deciding what it is that I’m going to teach my new godson or goddaughter. I finally decided on two very important messages:

1) It is fine to be gay!
2) It is fine to not like soccer!

If I know Robbie he’ll be fine with the first point. He’ll surely kick my ass for suggesting the second point though!

Robbie said that they will also call it “Christopher”. But only as long as it’s a girl.

Christopher as parent (scary thought!)

I am about to go to bed and I get a call from Jake. He's in a whole bunch of pain, has been sick and wants me to go over. Eventually I jump into a cab and head over.

I get there and the poor boy is clearly not faking - he's all over the place with the pain, and is throwing up in the bathroom and...well I'm not particularly squeamish, but vomit, even my own is not great!!

I suggest that maybe I should call a doctor out, but because he's ill (and when you are ill all good sense goes out of the window) he insists that I don't do that. So instead I put him to bed with a bucket to throw up into, if he needs to. I leave him be and go and watch some late night TV special crap.

A bit later he staggers out of his bedroom (not in a manner completely devoid of comedy), wretches a lot and then pretty much collapses on the floor. Inside I'm going "shit shit shit!!!" but on the exterior I'm in saviour mode. He's only out for a couple of seconds, but this time I tell him that I am going to call an ambulance out.

So we go to hospital and he's completely ga ga. So I end up having to go through all the medical stuff. They do an examination and they decide that he probably has appendicitis. They gave him some morphine or something like that for the pain. Have you ever seen anyone on morphine before? It's hilarious! He was talking about all kinds of crap. So I just held his hand and kept saying "That's right. Yes. The nurse is silly isn't she?" in my best parent talking to his three year old kid voice.

Anyway, I left the hospital for work a little while ago. He's in theatre, having it out. I'm going to leave work early and go and see how he is later, but oy vey...now I know how my mum and Vix must have felt when they were looking after me when I broke my jaw.

I have had no sleep at all and am on an I.V. of coffee!

The fat lady has sung, or something like that

Jake and I are no more.

I met him at his office last night and we went back to his place. The plan was that we would have a quiet evening in, make some supper, watch a movie or something.

But as soon as I met him I could tell that there was something up. I asked him if he was alright and he kept saying yeah, but he seemed kinda sad regardless. We opened a bottle of wine and I did a lot of talking, telling him about my day: throwing up on the tube and a story about a client in Malaysia who hardly speaks any English. Still he seems kind of distant, which is unlike him because he usually has this way of listening to you, like you are the only person in the room.

Then just as I was mid-sentence talking about something inconsequential he blurts out “Chris, I can’t do this. I’m sorry but I just can’t do this.” I’m a bit taken aback but I say something like “Ok. It’s ok.”

He tries for a while to explain how he’s feeling but not really making any sense. So eventually I say that I don’t really understand what he’s trying to say. So then he just puts it on the line.

Basically Paris made him realise how much he likes me. He says that even though it’s only been just over two weeks since we met he can’t help how he feels. He says that he’s really starting to fall for me and that combined with the possibility, even though it’s not a dead cert, that I could be leaving means that he can’t allow himself to get more involved with me. He has to protect himself from being hurt further down the line.

I didn’t interrupt at all. I let him say his piece before I responded. I explained that I completely understood where he was coming from and if it were me I think that I would also have to do the same thing. Maybe it was for the best. After all one of the last things I want to do is hurt him. But I reiterated that meeting him was one of the best things to happen to me since I got back to London and that I was very, very fond of him and would always be glad that we met.

So we talk a bit more but with this kind of subject you can only discuss it to a point without covering the same thing over and over. Eventually I say that I'm going to go, to which he responds by asking me to stay one more night. I consider it but then say that I really think that’s probably a bad idea, cause this will all still be there in the morning.

So I get my stuff together, put my jacket on and we hug. And then I leave. Jesus! That is the hardest thing in the world! There should be no reason in the world that you should ever have to walk away from someone you care about. It just really sucks.

It’s not until I get outside and I’m walking towards the tube that it really hits me. I have known really for the last week that it probably wasn’t going to be a long term thing. He is truly one of the most amazing guys, and like I said, I am awfully fond of him. But there have been a few other nagging doubts in my head, aside from the New York thing. Yet still, for someone to tell you that they can’t be with you because they like you so much is kind of a weird one to hear. So I’ll admit that I had a little bit of a cry, but after a couple of minutes sorted myself out and went into the station to go home.

When I got back I sent him a short text saying that I would be here to call whenever he wanted. He didn’t respond but I don’t actually think that I was expecting that really. But it was still kinda sad, because up until that point I could guarantee that he would have responded in about ten seconds.

(After that I called Drew in New Zealand because he is wise and always knows the right thing to say. And as usual within about ten minutes we were gossiping and giggling like the true gay boys that we are. I LOVE YOU DREW! Come back home this instant. I'll even buy the ticket. Well, maybe not. But I'll meet you at the airport! What dya say? Huh? Huh?)

So another chapter closes. I'm not going to say that I'm not gutted, but I've had a night to sleep on it. The girls at work this morning, being girls (!), instantly knew there was something wrong and I have already had to explain things twice! But at the end of the day, this is the thing. It's not all bad. I’m sure that in a few days we’ll get back in touch again. And who knows, if I don’t get the job in NYC maybe we can pick up where we left off? Time will tell. More and more this year I’ve started to believe in fate and that if things are meant to be then they’ll happen. You have to turn a bad situation on it's head and like I keep saying, you have to keep the faith. Who knows what could happen in the future? If you told me a few months ago about Jake and how great he is and that he would really dig me I would have thought you were pulling my leg. So who knows what other cool stuff is going to happen in the coming months?

That’s what we have to keep reminding ourselves. It’s not that depressing really. In fact it’s actually pretty exciting. Life is full of this kind of stuff. Sometimes we just have to read between the lines and not stare at the sidewalk too much. It's like I wrote to someone yesterday, remember to look up and notice the world around you as you go through your day. And do it while listening to your bestest, most favorite uplifting song on your iPod!

And that's what I did this morning as I walked into work.

Me and viagra

I have had a load of emails from you asking if I really did order Viagra off the internet.

The answer is...NO! Of course I didn't! Without giving too much away, at this point in my life I really don't need Viagra to, er...well I just don't need it, ok??!!

Sheesh!

How to grab the attention of everyone around you in 10 seconds

I woke up late for work this morning because I had my ear plugs in and slept through my alarm call. So I skipped breakfast but still downed the multivitamins I have been taking recently in an attempt to be healthy, healthy, healthy.

Later I get on the tube and fortunately it's not that busy so I get a seat. Phew! Then after about three stops the realisation of what is about to happen sweeps over me and I must have gone as white as a sheet. In a flash I'm up and moving quickly over to the doors. And in about ten seconds it's all over. Yes. I just threw up on a commuter tube. And EVERYONE is looking at me. And the vomit is now casually forming little streams, rolling it's way down the carriage.

And if that wasn't bad enough, I continue dry wretching for about another 30 seconds. The train pulls into Kennington and I don't have to think twice. I need to get away from this excruciating embarrassment.

So I sit down on a seat and take a few breaths. And after a couple of minutes I start to feel ok again. I get on the next train to come in and continue to make my way to work.

Then when I am walking down Oxford Street it starts to happen again. Lots of dry wretching. I can't believe this is happening to me. People on the street are giving me a wide berth.

Now on the surface you might think that the multivitamins on an empty stomach prompted this malaise. No. I think that it is something else. For what other reason do people throw up in the morning, other than the fact that they are pregnant?

How am I going to tell my parents??!

Romance is spelt P.A.R.I.S.

Hot-damn! Like a libidinous sparkplug, everything in Paris seems to have one very suggestive intention: to make you want to go at it like rabbits! From the moment you step off the Eurostar it's all long stemmed roses, sex shops, lover's sighs and wafts of Grace Jones pulsing from the bars. I mean even the bloody food has suggestively raw phwoar!

To be fair it actually started the moment we got on the train. Jake hadn't told me that the tickets were first class! So we sipped champagne. We giggled like schoolgirls when the sexy French Chef de Train asked us if everything was "to our satisfaction". The food was yum! I quickly devoured a mini beouf bourgignon and Jake wolfed down the Fois Gras (gross.)

The train got into Gare De Nord at about 10pm, by which point we were a bit drunk. Well actually more so me than Jake given that I had hardly eaten anything all day because of excitement. So we jumped into a taxi and made our way through the city to our hotel (making the most of our first opportunity to snog, probably to the disgust of the driver!)

The hotel was just amazing. It was on the Place D'Concorde in the 8th arrondissement, so pretty damn central. The décor was really, really beautiful and it was indeed like a set from Dangerous Liaisons. We check in. We walk the long corridor to the elevators to take us up to our room. Along the way I soak up the lashings of suave insouciance by osmosis. Paris is making me feel sexy. Therefore I am sexy.

It gets better. The hotel room, while not huge is, again, pretty damn amazing. Where hotels and I are concerned I am more of a fan of stark Japanese minimalism, but this room was something else. Really, really sumptuous. Louis IV (or something like that) furniture. Huge windows with silk draped curtains. And the biggest bed you've ever seen. No worryingly soiled top cover on this momma – this room is the antithesis of seedy. It made me feel like reciting poetry. Or just belting out the theme tune to "Home and Away".

Maybe the feeling I was feeling was the lurvemic imprint from bygone lover's trysts (either that or the internet Viagra was kicking in) but I make it clear to Jake that tonight is indeed going to be his lucky night! Cue le gay sex.

Jake had to get up early in the morning to set off to his office out at La Defense (interesting trivia - did you know that when they built La Defense they had to erect a giant glass screen to stand in the arch, because otherwise, with the right conditions, the building would create a wind tunnel that would project right down through the Arc De Triomphe, over a mile away, and literally blow people over on the Champs Elysee?) This actually really worked for me because I love walking around by myself, exploring, blending in, pretending to be a native!

After breakfast and a prolonged sesh in the bloody MASSIVE shower I plucked up the courage to call Erin to see if she still wanted to meet me. Being a busy supermodel, I was fully expecting her to blow me out in favor of lucrative shoot for Christian Laboutin or a fan shopping outing with Karl Lagerfeld. But she said that was still free so we arranged to meet for lunch in Saint Germain.

After speaking to Erin I went for a wander around the area. I found a very cute café. I sat in the window, sipped a double espresso, listened to "Rapture" by Blondie on my iPod and did some revision for my next interview ("The Dummies Guide to Starting Up a Business"!). After making my brain ache with the digestion of a few chapters on economies of scale, critical business mass and corporate venturing I decided to have a mooch up the Jardins des Tuileries (the park leading up to the Louvre.)

The Jardin des Tuileries is long. It's also quite long. Did I mention that it's long? I thought that it's length would provide the perfect setting to really get things off your chest, their chest and then back on and off again. Chest perfect! And for what would be the first of many times that day, I felt a pang of self consciousness as everyone around me seemed to be in a pair. Oldsters sat together reading papers, young lovers feeding the ducks, kids running around chasing the ducks. Ducks chasing each other. Even the runners ran in pairs! Oh. And I learned something. Fat male Parisian joggers wear very tight shorts.

By the time I got to the Louvre it was about 11.30am so I tried to decide whether I should get the Metro to Saint Germain or whether I should walk. The map made it look as if Saint Germain was actually quite close by so I decided to walk via the Pont des Arts. The Pont des Arts is the only non vehicle bridge in Paris and is great in the summer. A few years ago my friend Sharon and I had a picnic on it. The benches provide a great position for a nifty vista up and down the Seine.

Was fashionably late to meet Erin (couldn't find the bloody place!) but she was too and I waited a good fifteen minutes before she eventually turned up. I slapped her hard. The place that she picked was not at all what I was imagining it would be like (I had something like Asia de Cuba in my head!) It was actually kinda divey. But I digged the fact that it wasn't at all pretentious – she is just a normal girl from Birmingham after all.

I had a bit of a problem ordering my lunch. I speak French well enough to get by, but I am by no means fluent. I was asking for some milk for my tea and the guy just couldn't understand what I was trying to say. I kept repeating "Lait! Lait!" over and over. And then eventually he realises and goes "Ah! LAIT! Mais oui!" pronouncing it in exactly the way that I had. Stupid French people. Erin thought it was amusing and we lamented the fact that neither of us can speak any languages that well. And the fact that fat running Paris blokes wear tight shorts.

Oh Erin, Erin, Erin! Erin is gorgeous! We chat about all kinds of stuff for a good couple of hours. I totally got the scoop on Jamie (but because Erin and I are, like, such good friends I will not be betraying her confidence. Not unless you want to pay me some hard currency.) I told her about maybe moving back to NYC and she said that I should let her know if I do go back cause she spends quite a lot of time there. Great! Another cool contact I can flaunt when I have my fourth interview!

After lunch we have a little mooch around the area. Saint Germain is just designer-shop-tastic! After procrastinating over what to buy for a bit too long I make a couple of purchases in this really cool designer boutique called "Come On Eileen" which Erin informed me is Kylie's fave shop in Paris. I decided that I should get Jake something to say thank you for taking me away for the weekend. Normally I would never buy anyone clothes for a gift, but I found this really sexy black Dirk Bikkembergs top that I knew would look great on him (he has the body for Dirk B) and would be a much needed break from his usual Gap / Banana Republic get up.

But get what I bought for myself: I found what can only be described as a fierce Sonya Rykiel Homme top. It's made from matte midnight blue silk with a same colored inch thick satin trim that goes all around the edges. Elbow length sleeves and rather than buttoning up, it wraps around the waist with a really long tie at the side (think the top half of a well-fitted dressing gown.) I wore it with a pair of really old tight bootcut jeans with my new black Dolce & Gabbana boots. Not only did Erin love it (it means something when you get the approval of a supermodel), but later when I wore it out I got comment after comment on how great it looked on me! Was glad that I had fake tanned up and spent all those recent hours at the gym (just don't ask me how much it cost!)

Finally Erin and I say our farewells and I jump on the Metro and head up to Abbesses to visit the Sacre-Coeur. Like Everest (or the Kicking Donkey pub in Bath) you have to visit the Sacre-Coeur simply because it's there. The main attraction is well worth the aching ham strings from walking up what seems like a million steps (I really was stiff in all the wrong places!) The incredible view of Paris unites the crowd in a bubble of warmth - cute floppy haired French boys strum out Van Morrison on their guitars as their girlfriends gaze on adoringly. The hippy bliss-out vibe made me want to cop a feel, or maybe even feel a cop. But instead I breathlessly call Helen and Will to tell them that the most perfect thing would be to have them sat there with me, to see this awesome view.

After I got bored I went back to the hotel to watch a bit of French TV (it's crap by the way – everything is in French). After a while I realised that I had spent about half an hour gormlessly watching a French-dubbed version of Law & Order, not actually understanding anything that was happening or being said. Jake got back at about six and I presented him with his new top which he loved.

Saturday night in the Marais. Dressed at the knife edge of understated cool (thanks Sonya and Dirk!), a group of hot young things sit taking well paced sips from lavishly branded cocktails, while discreetly monitoring each new arrival. No, this was not some hot singles night but Jake and me, Jake's colleague Sandrine, her friend Sebastiene and his boyfriend Matthieu being uber at L'Etoile Marocaine.

They were all really nice and fortunately didn't mind speaking English all night! Sandrine is 30, all French chic and another lawyer in the Paris office of Jake's company. Sebastiene and I had a lot in common as he works at the Shiseido press office and funnily enough lived for a while in New York too (Jake got everyone excited by mentioning that I might be going back to New York, which I then had to play down as much as I could). But the real bloody find was Matthieu: he's 24 and works as a model. He's currently in an ad campaign for a new gay TV network in Paris called Pink TV (here is the link - he's the guy on the far right). To not put too fine a point on it, aside from the fact that he's a bit of a looker, he…is…ADORABLE! He listens so intenty and thinks that everything is amazing, like a baby fawn – all wide eyed and in awe of everything and everyone. At one point I think I suggested to Jake that we adopt him.

Sandrine pays for the bill on expenses (Jake told me later how much the bill came to. A word of warning. If you ever find yourself at that restaurant, unless you have a parachute stored under your shirt, you're going to have to confront the bill without crying). Then Sebastiene suggests that we go to some club called Le Insolite. Jake has always told me thus far that he isn't really into clubbing (he kinda clubbed himself out when he was younger) but out of all of us seems to be the most excited by the idea (I am actually desperate to go to a club, but I'm trying to be all blasé and French). So we all squash into the back of a cab and head off to Etienne Marcel.

Sebastiene tells me on the way that Le Insolite was, up until about three years ago, THE gay club to be seen in Paris but that since then it has kind of gone down hill a bit, so I'm wondering really why he suggested going. But we get there and he knows the doorwoman and we get in without paying, which as far as I'm concerned always makes the evening go a bit smoother. And there seems to be a cool crowd in residency.

Now silly-billies Parisians are not. They can be absurd and post-modern. They can even actually be clinically mad. But as I had previously understood it, they will rarely opt to conga around a village hall with a pair of flashing devil horns on their heads. Passing balloons between chests simply for the chance of rubbing boobies against someone is not a lifestyle choice in Paris. This Anglo / Franco anthropological disparity occurs to me at the very moment that Jake leans in and, with a bit of Mojito mint stuck between his teeth, drunkenly slurs "Are you up for a bit of a boogie?" Aside from the fact that he just used the word "boogie" as a descriptor for putting the moves down, I look at him uneasily and reply "I am. But Jake…we're not among our own."

Ha! I should have instantly banished that thought, for it was very quickly made clear to me that Paris is full of the demographic which includes those of us (raises hand) who just want to flail about like our elbows are on fire.

So with the exception of Sandrine, because she's a girl, after about half an hour of arriving and getting even more drunk us four boys all have our tops off. Big...drunk...gayers! Yay! Even though he was drunk Jake was really, really sweet and kept putting his arms around me when we were dancing. And because he's gorgeous and I'm incredibly shallow, inside I was all like "He's with me, everyone! Go me!" The DJ even plays the tune I am currently obsessed with. It's an old French tune called "Blue" by La Tour, that has recently started being played at clubs again. I've put it on some of the CD's I've been burning recently for my friends (with my beloved iBook) - have another listen. It's awesome!

Jake and I left the club at around 4.30am and headed back to the hotel, where the two of us order a snack and un bouteille de vin blanc. Then we sit on the bed and he gets some stuff out that he's obviously been mulling over. He tells me that he knows that he has been intense despite the fact that I have wanted to take things slow. He explains that since he broke up with his last boyfriend he has dated numerous guys, but they were either idiots or they were freaked out by him. Then he goes on to say that out of all of those guys I am the most gentle, kind, natural, unpretentious (poor deluded Jake!) person that he has met in quite some time and that was why he was so keen to spend quality time with me. I think I nearly cried! It means something, even in my drunken state, that he's trying to make me comfortable with the situation. Although I could go over the same stuff again I don't. It's been said. I'm not going to keep hammering the point home.

Despite the fact that we have only had a few hours sleep and we are really quite hungover we made ourselves get up at a not too unreasonable hour, freshened up and went out to get a hearty breakfast. "So what shall we do today?" asks Jake.

I actually really want to go to Pigalle and check out the gay sex shops but that doesn't seem like a very romantic thing to do. So instead I suggest that we go to the Musee Rodin in the Varenne. After all, a museum visit raises no "What's your game?" eyebrows. So off we trek. I've been to the Musee Rodin before and love it there, but Jake hadn't and didn't know much about Rodin either. So I take him inside first and prime him with an explanation of "The Kiss" and that despite the fact that it is Rodin's most famous piece, it was actually his least favorite.

After touring the house we step out into the Orangerie garden, amongst the rose bushes and sculptures and the two of us marvel at what can be achieved with a decent set of chisels. The scattered benches offer various clinch points around the huge garden and after a while artistic reflection on the essential beauty of the naked body gives way to romantic rumination, aided by the spirit of classical lovers and utter peace. Well, that and the burgeoning animal lust given off by the rippling male torsos!

After a while all the staring into each others eyes, smiling, kissing, talking in hushed voices and holding hands begins to really push the button for me. So I make a suggestion:

"Jake? Can we get naked in the bushes? Can we lacquer each other up with bronze shoe polish? Can we let life imitate art for a change?

But he just looks at me and smiles. I take that as a no. Damnit!

After the Musee Rodin Jake says that he wants to go up to the Sacre-Coeur cause I had been raving about it. So we head on up again. And I walk up all those steps, AGAIN! He agrees that the view is pretty damn spectacular. After that we have a walk around Montmartre. It is without doubt the most unabashedly romantic district of Paris. I was reminded of Before Sunset when Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke find the lurve! So we just mooch about peering into alleys, explore little streets and descend quiet stairways. We have some late lunch at yet another cute little French café.

Later on we went for a spot of retail therapy and I made Jake buy this FINE chocolate brown cashmere sweater from Agnes b, which I am fully intending to borrow at some point. After that it was back to the hotel for a cup of tea and to pick up our bags in time to get the Eurostar back to London. Because I was still quite hung over I slept most of the way back, so by the time we got into Waterloo I was feeling pretty human again.

The plan had been that I would go home when we got back to London, but after the romance of Paris I couldn't face the idea of my little room, so I went back to Jake's and we made supper and curled up in front of the TV.

When I got to work this morning I got the cutest text from him but I'm not going tell you what it said cause it's sure too make you nauseous. But still...aw!

Oh guess what! Le fags! From the moment I got on the train to Paris, to the moment I got back into London, I did not smoke ONE SINGLE CIGARETTE THE ENTIRE WEEKEND! Do you know what an achievement that is, not least because I was in Paris, where it is constitutionally required that you smoke! Now I just have to try and keep it up for the next, oh, sixty or seventy years.

Honesty is the best policy

Jake and I went out for dinner last night to Axis at One Aldwych (my suggestion – one of my all time favorite restaurants).

About half way through dinner I go “Look Jake, there’s something that I have to tell you. And I want to tell you now, so that you don’t think I’m stringing you along or anything. And I want to tell you before we go to Paris. Just so there are no misunderstandings.”

He looks at me really seriously, and I guess he’s thinking that I’m going to give him the big brush off. “Ok. What’s wrong?”

I tell him all about the fact that there is a possibility that I could be going back to New York. I explain that I needed to come back to London to make me realise how good I had things there. I explain that nowhere has ever felt quite like home, the way that NY did. I tell him that the job is nowhere near in the bag yet, that I still have another interview to get through and that even after that there are still some hurdles in terms of visas and stuff. But ultimately, if I do get the job, then I will definitely be leaving.

And in his brilliant way, he just listens and doesn’t interrupt and takes it all in. “Ok. I understand better now why you need to take this slow. That’s ok. I’m glad you told me.”

I reiterate that it has nothing to do with him. I really like spending time with him and in many ways I think that he could be really great for me. But at the moment, where I am in my life, I just can’t commit to anything beyond what happens today and that I’ll totally understand if he wants to stop things now, before anyone’s feelings get any stronger.

And he is so sweet. He takes my hand and smiles and says “Whatever happens you’ve made a friend here.”

Then he looks serious again and says, “If you got to New York can I come and visit you?”

And I grin and say “Jake. Wherever I am in the world, you can always come and visit me!”

Again. I’m gonna say it again. I am the luckiest guy in the world to have so many beautiful, amazing, inspirational people in my life – Helen, Will, Vix, Drew, Wayne, Lindsay...to name but a few. I frikkin LOVE you guys! You mean the WORLD to me, And now Jake. How could I ever ask for more?

Check in on Monday for a full low down on my jaunt to gay Paris! Until then, HAVE A GREAT WEEKEND Y’ALL!

Erin is my new best friend!

About three weeks ago I was lamenting the fact that ever since I moved back to London my life hasn't had quite the same amount of adventure and all round fabulousness that had in New York. And then, as if by magic, about a gazillion brilliant and exciting things all come along at once.

So I am sat at my desk and suddenly get a craving for a Starbucks, so I decided to run up to the one round the corner on Oxford Street. I get in the queue and after a few seconds realise that the woman infront of me is none other than the supermodel Erin O'Connor. Now I've worked with Erin quite a lot in the last couple of years - we spent two days together two years ago for a project she did for a car brand. Then I hired her for the launch photocall for London Fashion Week and then about two months ago we spent a day holed up in some studio in Islington for a photoshoot. So we are already pretty well acquainted.

So I tap her on the back and say hello and she is all like "Oh! Hi Chris! How are you?" So we start chatting and she asks if I want to sit with her to drink my coffee. Of course I'm like "Sure!" because who am I to say no, right? Work can wait for Erin O'Connor! So we sit down and she's really lovely. I ask her how things are going with Jamie (she's dating TV presenter Jamie Theakston) and she tells me that it's all good. And then she asks me about my love life, so I tell her about this great, cute guy that I met recently. And then I mention that he's taking me to Paris this weekend. "No way!" she exclaims. "I'm in Paris this weekend too! We should meet up."

So I explain that on Saturday I pretty much have the day to myself cause Jake is working, so that would be really cool. Maybe we could have lunch or something? So then we exchange cellphone numbers and agree that I'll give her a call on Saturday morning and we'll arrange a time to meet.

I'm sorry to be massively big headed but my life ROCKS right now! Seriously! So not only am I now being taken to Paris for the weekend by a gorgeous hunk to stay in a top hotel but I'm also having lunch with one of the most successful models in the world!!!

(Pinches self)

Look Where I'm Gonna Be Staying!!!

Look at those rooms!

Ok...I'm really excited now. If he hasn't booked the Suite Due de Crillon, then I'm really going to kick off!

I'm conjuring up all kinds of nasty situations. It's gonna be a gay porn version of Dangerous Liaisons - I will be like John Malkovitch and Jake will be Keanu Reeves.

Grrr!

The Verdict

Ok - I have had about a million emails from a bunch of you, the main jist being that I am a cold hearted, ungrateful bugger - how many people get taken to Paris by some hot stud?

Katie, the wise woman, summed it up best.

"Wooo! How romantic! Bloody go and stop being a lamo. You do need to let him know that it is likely that you are going to be going to NYC, but in the mean time you would love to spend some time with him and have lots of fun together - why not? After all, he hasn't asked you to move in with him!"

Yet! He hasn't asked me to move in with him YET!

Ok, ok - I went and bought a Paris guidebook at lunch and am now quite excited about this little jaunt. So I'll shut up now.

I wonder if I'll meet Julie Delpy or Juliette Binoche? Hmmm...

HOLY COW! (Arret!)

I feel like I'm going to be sick.

I get into work and I'm here literally five or ten minutes when this courier turns up with a package for me. I've only been here a week and am not expecting anything, so it's kind of unusual.

So I take the package and instantly I know it's from Jake, cause the address label has his firm's logo printed on it. I sit down and open it up and there is a note accompanying what looks like a plane ticket booklet. Deep breath. So first I open the note and all it reads is "Meet me at Waterloo, Friday, at 6pm. You can get out of work early, right?" Then the realisation of what this means starts to sink in. So I open the booklet and sure enough there it is. A Eurostar ticket to Paris.

I actually exclaimed "FUCK!" out loud, which pretty much grabbed the attention of everyone around me. So then I have to explain what has happened and all the girls just literally dissolve into puddles on the floor, obviously empathising with the romance of the situation.

I grabbed my phone and cigarettes and ran outside to call him.

"Jake! Are you insane?"

"I thought it would be a nice way to spend the weekend. You do want to come don't you?"

"Er..yes. Of course I'll come, but Jake? It's like SO big. I mean I thought we talked about taking things slow?"

Then he explained that he has a meeting on Saturday with some clients out at La Defense and that the hotel is paid for, for the whole weekend. So all he did was buy an extra ticket, which he assured me that he didn't pay for it himself, that he put it down to expenses (which is incredibly bad because I got caught out myself once doing something similar when I was a PR nipper and really got my fingers burned!)

So my initial shock was lessened somewhat. But I'm still freaked out! Isn't it funny - the idea of meeting some incredibly sexy, kind, genuine, thoughtful man who whisks you away to Paris for a romantic weekend together, well, it's the stuff of fairytales isn't it? But I guess it's testament to the fact that I have grown up a lot recently, that I'm actually standing back and looking at the situation objectively. And I have reiterated to him now a few times that it is really important to me to take things slow and I still haven't told him about the job thing, because I really don't know what the score is there. But now I think that I may have to tell him.

But do I tell him now, or do I tell him at the weekend, and possibly spoil things? I think I'm going to have to tell him now, which I really don't want to do, because I don't want to be jumping the gun (even though I've told everyone who reads this!)

Ok...calm, calm, calm.

I guess I'd better go out at lunchtime and buy a beret.

or maybe that should be...

Je suppose que je dois sortir a l'heure du dejeuner et achete un beret.

I Love Pussy

So last night I was just sat in the living room minding my own business. Fire was roaring away, Little Britain was on TV and I was contendly nursing a cup of tea.

Then the cutest cat in the world saunters into the room, jumps up on the sofa and starts rubbing it's head against my chest. Is it possible to die from cuteness? Seriously - I'm actually more of a dog person, but all it takes is for someone or something to show me the slightest affection and I MELT!

Turns out that Vix found the cat meowing sadly outside and thought that she would bring it into the flat for some milk and lovin!

So we played with kitty for a while. We contemplated wheter it was a he or a she. I eventually decided to found out for sure by performing a little examination. Definitely a she. I christen her "Celia".

Then Vix says that she supposes we should put her back outside. NOOOOOOO!!! Much crying, feet stamping and histrionics on my part. So Vix sits me down and gently explains to me why it is oh so wrong to steal someone else's pets. Well she should have thought of that before she bought the bloody thing into the flat!

So I decide to be the man, scoop Celia up and take her outside for a final farewell.

"Goodbye Celia. It's time for us to part. We had good times and I'll always remember them fondly. But now you must go home. Farewell."

And she just sits there and meows. Eventually it becomes clear that I'm just going to have to walk away. It was the same feeling as when you take someone to the airport and you keep hanging around until you see them go behind the screen in departures.

And then half an hour later I looked out of the window to see if she is still there - AND SHE IS!!! And she looks up at me like I have comitted an injustice on a massive scale.

Stupid cats. Stupid Vix. I wonder if I could hide her in my bedroom (the cat dumbass, not Vix!)

Getting to know faith

I used to live in West Hampstead and after seven years of riding it twice a day I knew the Jubilee Line like the back of my hand. Every station, how long it took it took between the stops, where to stand on the station to get the best seat. In fact before I moved to NYC I pretty much had the whole of the tube system etched onto my brain.

Then of course, I moved to NYC and had to learn a whole different system, completely different from the one in London. For a start the subway runs all day and night, but there are also express trains, so if you are going from uptown to downtown you can just jump on one train and skip all those annoying stops in-between. Oh and the cars are air conditioned which is great in the summer. The confusing thing with the NYC subway is that all the lines are named with numbers – 1,3, 9, 7, A, C, E. I like that our underground has names.

My job interview was in St John’s Wood, which was unusual because the company is actually off Oxford Street. But I assumed that we were meeting there because Alex and Raoul wanted to take me out for dinner. But it turns out that it was only there because Raoul’s wife is having another baby and he was going to be at the hospital in St John’s Wood prior to my interview.

Because I no longer seem to have the tube map in my head quite as clearly as I used to have I completely misjudged how long it would take me to get there. I left at 5.15pm to meet them at 6pm. It took me fifteen minutes. So for half and hour I was waiting around on a busy high street, freezing my ass off, trying to calm my nerves by listening to soothing classical music on my iPod.

Now usually I don’t get nervous about job interviews. But I REALLY want this job. So bad that I can taste it. Alex turns up at 6pm on the dot and we sit down while we are waiting for Raoul and have a little catch up.

Now on my second interview Alex mentioned a particular brand to me that the agency will have as a client in NYC. And because the world is so bloody small it turns out that the client on that brand is no other than someone I knew very, very well in NYC. When everything happened in March that friend was a pillar of strength. But then very suddenly he turned his back on me. At the time I was very angry with him for this. But now I understand how hard it must have been. And who am I to judge anyway, right.

Nonetheless, the two of us don’t speak to each other anymore and I know he has a strong opinion on my health and where I should be in the world. It’s a point of view that I absolutely don’t subscribe to, but I guess we’re all allowed our opinions. That said, I had to tell Alex that there could be a potential issue there – that if they gave me the job and I ended up having to work with this person, it might be an issue.

Alex went to NYC last week and told me that she was going to speak to this person about me to see what they had to say. And to start with I convinced myself that it was all over. That the person would spill the beans and scupper any chance that I might have of getting this thing. But then I did something I find very hard to do. I let the thought go and put faith in it being ok. To really believe that it would be ok. And if it wasn’t – well I would deal with that if and when it happened.

Then last week they call me and say that they want to see me again. And I was so pleased. So back to Alex and I talking. Alex tells me that she did meet with the old friend, but that I had made such a good impression previously at my other interviews, that she didn’t think that it was appropriate to bring it up. As far as she was concerned she thought I was great, professionally experienced and very clearly up for the job. And the non-professional personal point of view of someone else wasn’t of interest to her. Awesome!

Then Raoul turns up and we go off to some café. Raoul is a tough cookie who really knows his stuff. He throws some very direct, blunt, but important questions to me and I think that I handle and respond to them well.

So in a nutshell, this is the job, should I get it…

Alex and I would essentially be starting up a new business – an arm of the London agency, in New York. Together we would spend the month of December, in London, creating and then fine-tuning a business plan for the new NYC office for 2005 – how we want the agency to look, feel, what the client offer is, what our strategy will be for winning business, what we want the agency turnover to be, who we want to work for.

This would be different to anything I have worked on and would challenge me enormously. But at the same time, without exception, it is the most exciting opportunity that has ever come my way. And I know I can do it. That’s the thing with me – when I put my mind to something I make great things happen. To be part of something that is in it’s embryonic stage, to nurture and watch it grow. And the best bit is that, with Alex, I would be the boss. I could shape it in all the ways that I think it should be shaped. To be part of that is a once in lifetime opportunity.

We end up talking about so many things that I won’t bore you with here, but the crux of it is that at the end of two hours of discussions Raoul laid it on the line. He told me that he thought I had amazing experience, that my knowledge of the NYC market place was really invaluable and that for the most part he thought that I would be a valuable asset. The last step is that I have to meet the finance director of the company, so that I can explain my thoughts, top line, on what needs to be done to make the company a success. Easy - can do that standing on my head.

And then this morning I got an email reiterating that they think I'm great and that providing everything is ok in the meeting next week, they will want me to start in as soon as three weeks time. We have agreed a salary figure (a very nice one!) and we’re talking about a relocation allowance. And I don’t want to jinx it, but (and I’m going to knock on wood again!) Alex and I could be on a plane on the 2nd of January. And NYC would once again be my home.

I know now that I needed to come back to London to make me realise what is important to me. Sometimes you need to come home, physically and spiritually, to remind you of all the things in life that are great and good. It took coming home to make me realise that nothing here is going anywhere. And that my friends will always be here. So with that knowledge safe in my back pocket I want to be back in New York, with all the craziness and laughter and good friends that I know it can give me.

Faith is a hard concept to grasp. And one of the things I find hardest to accept is that there are some things that I am not in control of. At the moment all I can do is put faith in the fact that I can present myself well enough for them to give me this job. And then, if I get it, I work massively hard to make all the other stuff happen.

My single mindedness is my greatest gift. But at the same time it’s my Achilles heel. Because there are still some things that you can’t make happen – matters of the heart for example. And to date one thing that I have never seriously really invested in is my career and I think now is the time to do it. I’m going to be ruthless about it. And I’m going to put faith in the fact that wonderful things are going to happen because of it.

And if this one doesn’t work out. Then I’m going to have faith that there will be other opportunities. Loads and loads of them. Cause you know the worst thing that can happen is that I never get a job I want and my Mum has to teach me to be a hairdresser. And I think I’d make a GREAT hairdresser!

So this year I have learned that it’s good to be single minded and efficiently focussed, but sometimes you need to put things aside and just believe that if things are meant to be, then they are meant to be.

I’m reminded of that billboard I saw a few weeks ago, that I wrote about here. Maybe it was a sign? I don’t know if I believe in signs, but again…watch this space!!!

Life really rocks sometimes, don’t it?

Stop Calling Me!!! (but don't completely stop!)

Email from Jake on Friday (I have no doubt that he’d kill me if he knew that I was sharing this kinda stuff with the world, but I tell you guys everything else, so...)

“I just wanted you to know, even though it's only been a week (today is our anniversary!), I really like you and I'm sat here thinking about you and it's making me smile. I know that's a bit full on, but if you feel like you want to say something then you say it. Have a good evening my sexy PR man.”

This should fill me with warm fuzzies and I guess in a way it does. I mean it’s really awesome that someone can feel that way about me in such a short space of time. But at the same time I'm a little like “Whoa boy! Whoa! Down!”

Katie (Hi Katie – you wanted to be mentioned in my blog so here you go!) gave me some excellent advice. “That is possibly the most adorable thing! And you know what, I believe him. Look, fucking live for the moment, don’t think too much coz guess what? You could pop ya clogs tomorrow. But stick to one small rule. It is OK for you to like him back, but play slightly hard to get, not as a head fuck but in the fun way. Flirty is the best part. As my dear step mum, Cathy, said '”Darling run and they follow. Follow and they run”

On Saturday afternoon I took Drew’s younger sister Amber out to the pub for drinks. She moved to London from New Zealand shortly before Drew moved back and is still getting used to the craziness that is London. I met her in Covent Garden and she had just bought a rather heavy hoover and I was the perfect gentlemen by throwing it over my shoulder and lugging it through the crowd.

Because she is a kiwi I thought it would be amusing to take Amber to the Walkabout Bar, but she soon pointed out that there was a flaw in my plan, and that the Walkabout Bar is actually for Australians. Anyway, she got chatted up at the bar, so I think she was happy with my choice.

So Kate had already called me earlier to ask me if Amber and I fancied going to this night that she was DJ-ing at in Kings Cross – a free ticket only party that promised to be good fun. Jake and I had originally had dinner plans, but that had fallen through, so instead we had planned to stay in and watch movies. But seeming that I haven’t really seen Kate or the Scoobie’s in a while I thought that it seemed like a better option, so I called Jake and left a message that I was going to go and would he like to come as well?

During my catch up with Amber he calls me no less than four times in the space of an hour. First to say that he’s not coming, but that it’s cool for me to go (Good, cause I was going to anyway!) Then he calls me again to say that actually he might come after all. Then he calls again about ten minutes later to say that he might come into Covent Garden. And then again to say that actually he’s not – he’s going to go to the gym. If there’s one thing that annoys me it’s people who can’t make up their mind! Just pick something and do it! Anyway – by the last call I was starting to lose my rag with him. I answered the phone with a stern "What?!" and he was all like "Are you getting pissy with me?" I mean damn he’s cute and hot and nice as pie but...oh but nothing.

So I go back home and have a nap and then get changed to go and meet Kate and Joe at some promoters house near to the club. On the way he calls me yet again to say that he isn’t going to come. Then at the house he calls me again to say that he is bored and is now considering it again. He’ll call me later when he makes up his mind. Argh!!!!

We all pile down to the club and it’s a really nice space, quite small and the guys have done a great job of making it look like a Halloween dungeon. Joe is dressed as a stylish zombie. Me? Well I kinda forgot that the evening was themed and just wore cargos and my new Andrew Ibi sweatshirt. Joe pacifies me by saying that I could be a homicidal maniac because they could look like anyone. Oh – and Lorna wears THE most inspired outfit…a dress made from cereal boxes, with blood splattered all her over (Serial killer – geddit?)

No one really turns up at the party so I guess officially the night was a failure. But we all had a good time, got drunk and danced our asses off to a great set courtesy of Kate.

At about 2.30am Jake calls me to see if I am still at the club and wants to know if I fancy coming back to his to keep him company. Things are really starting to slow down, so I decide to make my exit and jump into a cab to go over to his. I’m a bit of a drunken mess by the time I get to Blackfriars and am not much good for anything or anyone. I fall asleep fully clothed on the bed.

Lounge around in bed for a few hours in the morning and he's really sweet and I quickly forgive him for being a ditherer on a grand scale (without giving too much away, I would just like to share with you that the boy has a body that would put Marcus Schenkenberg to shame. Not a six pack - we're talking an eight pack. I do feel slightly self conscious when I compare myself. I mean there is just no way that I can compete! Some people really luck out in the genes stakes)

We get up properly around lunchtime and mooch off for a walk (gorgeous day!) and then get some late brunch at some brasserie near to the Oxo Tower. We have a really nice chat about all kinds of stuff, but I kind of spoil the mood slightly I think by reiterating something that I had already hinted at a few days before. The need for me to take things slow.

Cause the thing is, there is something that I haven’t told him yet. Tonight I am being taken out for dinner by a couple of people from this company that headhunted me for a potential job working in their brand new New York office. The gig is definitely not in the bag yet, although I am quite hopeful. I would go back to New York in a heartbeat and if I (knock on wood) get the job then it could even be as early as January (two months away!!)

I’m not going to tell him this yet. It’s really early days between us and I and if it comes to the crunch I know that I’m going to pick NYC over him. But because I don’t know I’m just gonna ride it out for a bit and see what happens. Isn’t it typical that two great “opportunities” come along at once and that you are forced to make a decision.

There is of course every chance that next week Jake will drop me and I won’t get the job in NYC.

In which case I will be setting my sights of my newest potential venture – celebrity dating. I have decided that I would make a really great “kept” boyfriend. I guess I should start saving up for my membership to Chinawhite.

I must be a nice person, because...

When I was younger my parents really disapproved of kids coming to the door on Halloween, trick or treating. Halloween in England isn't quite the same institution that it is in the US. I remember a few years ago there was this scare about people giving kids apples laced with razor blades. Only in England. People can be so bloody miserable in this country, that they feel nothing about maiming little kiddies. Infact, maybe I'm wrong, but it's probably written into the British constitution that maiming kids on Halloween is actively encouraged.

I am one of these people that gets a real kick from publicly displaying that I am for the most part a happy person. This probably sounds really odd - I love it when I'm on the tube in the morning on my way to work, surrounded by a bunch of people who have yet to kickstart themselves with an IV of v.strong coffee, and something comes to mind that is so funny (Joe dancing to Thriller last night) that I actually laugh out loud and grin uncontrollably. I'm not being immodest (well yeah I am), but I know (from being told) that I have a really good smile. And occasionally, when I have that kind of outburst I catch other people in the carriage smiling back at me. Yeah - they're probably thinking that I'm a bit retarded (because they are British and cynical) but it can't be a bad thing that I made anyone smile, for whatever reason! I guess that's why I'm not a typical Englishman.

Earlier I went to the off license to buy a bottle of wine for an evening spent infront of the TV watching The X Factor (LOVE LOVE LOVE Sharon Osborne!) and on the way back I was suddenly surrounded by about twelve six or seven year old boys and girls wearing witches and wizards outfits. And maybe it's just cause I'm a big old softie, but I was just overcome by the cuteness! They were so LITTLE!!! And sweet! And the way that they went "Trick or treat!?" and the fact that I didn't have anything to give them except for wine - well, it just broke ma' heart!

So despite the fact that I had been trained as a youngster to shun kids asking for candy ("It's a form of begging!" my Father informed me) I turned around, walked back to the store and bought a whole bunch of Haribo's and other candy, should any other little witches and wizards turn up at my door tonight. The chances of this happening are actually quite slim, cause we're on the second floor. But you never know!

Bruiser!

Last night my friend Tyler and I went to Kazbar in Clapham. Got quite drunk (obviously).

Before we retire for the evening we decide to have one more for the road and mooch up to The Two Brewers. So we're just walking along the street and Tyler puts his hand in my back pocket. No hidden meaning there...he's just being friendly.

Then behind us these three guys start yelling "Oi! You fucking poofs!"

With my time in NYC aside, I have lived in London for over eight years now and I have never been accosted on the street which is quite incredible really because I've made out pretty intensely with guys in doorways and the like all OVER town. So the fact that we are getting hassled simply because Tyler has is hand in my back pocket is really something.

Now I am a lover not a fighter, but Tyler is a different matter. He's an East End boy, not at all gay looking (he's a bit of a rough diamond) and hard as fuck. So I instantly know we're in for trouble. Tyler turns around and goes right up to the guys, like right up in their faces and starts yelling "What's your fucking problem?" A big exchange of words follows and things start to get a bit heated. People walking by are speding up and then looking back over their shoulders. So I decide to step in and grab Tyler's arm to lead him away. "C'mon Tyler. It's not worth it"

And then one of the other guys just lunges at me so hard that I am knocked to the floor. Tyler then launches himself at the guy who pushed me and gets him in a head lock. Then the other two guys are on Tyler and it's a MESS.

Fortunately these other two guys who are walking past pull the two guys away and I grab Tyler. It all happens so fast. And there's some more shouting and stuff. And then Tyler and I just LEG IT!!! I don't think I have ever run so fast! We run down this side road off the high street and into a garage area to catch our breath. And then it must be the adrenaline and stuff, because we both start laughing - so hard that we can barely talk and tears are literally running down our faces!

So I was in a fight! Go me! I do have a rather nice bruise forming on my ass! I think I might start a Clapham South Fight Club.

Got home and drunk dialed practically all my friends to tell them about my right of passage! And almost no one was in!

Suits, Grown Men Crying and Drunken Kleptomania

Last night new boy took me to an exhibition opening called "Crying Men" at Jay Jopling's White Cube in Hoxton Square. White Cube has, for four years, been THE uber-cool place for young trendy-somethings (like me!) to see and be seen. Yet sadly, until last night, I had never darkened it's doors.

Before we get onto the "art" can I first pay homage to "the suit"? To date I have only seen Jakester in T-shirts and jeans (and, granted, a bit less than that! Ha!) He's a bit of a Gap / Banana Republic boy. But last night he had come straight from work and well, it was a whole different story. Let me tell you - the suit definitely maketh the man! "Look at you! You look like a GQ model!" I exclaimed rather uncooly as we met at Old Street tube. Most of the male guests, like me, had opted for the Urban-Hoxton look (unwashed, unshaved, messy hair). But, apart from the fact that he's quite tall, Jake really stood out for all the right reasons. It amused me that the girls really trip over themselves for him - although I'm sure he is completely oblivious.

Ok...enough about my suit and Jake fetish. The art:

The opening was to showcase a new collection of celebrity portraits taken by Sam Taylor-Wood - celebrities like Robert Downey Jr, Paul Newman, Michael Madsen, Jude Law and Laurence Fishburn. The theme was related to the concept of "inverting masculine stereotypes" - all the portraits featured each of the actors crying. When Taylor-Wood wrote to the male celebs she omitted to mention that she intended to make them cry. It was only when she got them on the shoot that she told them of her plan. Apparently each of the actors was able to blub on command, with the exception of Clint Eastwood.

Jake and I work the room. Neither of us really know anyone there. Now I don't know if you have ever been to an exhibit opening before but there is this real pressure to be "arty" (more so when you're dating someone new.) By this I mean adopting a critical pose infront of art(doesn't hurt to wear a pair of black horn rimmed Alain Mikli's), spouting meaningless crap about technical composition and aesthetics. Think Camille Paglia ("I am now devoid of adjectives"). So for a while Jake and I dance around each other, offering up meaningless comments on each of the portraits, each trying to appear to the other "artistically enlightened".

After a couple of minutes it becomes apparent that neither of us really knows what we're talking about. Jake cuts straight through the bullshit by leaning in and whispering to me, "So shall I buy something? Shall I ask what the prices are?"

I fold my arms and give him a mock-disapproving stare (inside I'm deeply impressed - any kind of wealth does that to me. I was definitely a gold-digger in a former life). "You're just showing off now."

"No!" he replies wide-eyed, "I'm serious! They must be for sale."

I think "fuck it" and I ask him the really inappropriate question. "Exactly how much DO you earn?"

No, I'm not going to tell you what the answer was, but I will tell you this - I'm wondering what the hell I'm doing in PR when I could be working in financial law! And you know what pisses me off? He's only a few months older than me!!! How does that happen?? Apart from being, er, born a few months before me.

Anyway - he didn't have to buy anything because, like naughty girls on a school trip, we each stole an exhibition poster from the shop! Isn't it amazing how a few glasses of champagne can bring out the kleptomaniac in you?

I Feel All...Loved!!!

I just looked at the bottom of that last blog entry and there are no less than FIVE comments! Can I just say how much I appreciate your kind words? I really didn't know how I felt about being so candid, but I'm glad that it struck such a positive chord.

So now I feel very loved. I walked to work today and felt really, really sorted - there was a definite spring in my step! And then when I got to the top of the stairs at work I saw my reflection in the arty mirror thing. I am wearing my pink ripped T-shirt that shows my chest off to full advantage, ripped jeans, and my hair (the longest I've had it in about eight years!) was falling sexily infront of my eyes. And I thought "Wow Kinsey! You're a bit sexy, aren't you!?"

OH COME ON! I'm allowed to indulge myself once in a while!

Milking

I have a blocked saliva gland. When I eat anything substantial it swells up to the size of a golfball and sticks out of my neck. Fortunately after about ten minutes it goes down again but while it's enlarged it's not an attractive sight. However I am informed that it is not a big problem. The doctor said yesterday that all I have to do, and these are his words, is to "milk it."

Last night Jake rubbed it for me. Yes - I know what this means.

Jake "milked" me.

The latent humiliation I am experiencing is quite profound.

What's It All About, Chrissy?

Have you ever been somewhere, like a doctors waiting room for example, and said something really funny to the receptionist? She laughs and you laugh, yet the joke seems kind of hollow. And you think to yourself “I wish that there was someone I know here, so that they could see how funny I am.”

After I started my first blog, when I was in New York, I remember my friend Matt emailing me. He told me that it seemed obscene to him that I would write down so many personal things about myself and others for all the world to read. What exactly was it that I thought I was doing? And why did I think that anyone was remotely interested in what I had to say? He bought it up again when we were having dinner the other night. I think he even said something really melodramatic about it being “betrayal on a grand scale.” Hmmm. I guess we’re all entitled to our opinions.

I was having drinks the other night with my friend Rachel and she said that she really enjoyed reading my blog and I was glad. Because you see the thing is, obviously I don’t just write this for myself. If I wanted to do that I would keep a diary and hide it under my mattress. I used to do that actually. I found that diary recently and, to not put too fine a point on it, it made really depressing reading. I would only ever write entries when I felt depressed which actually was not that often. The diary is actually quite a thin notebook and yet contains over five years worth of sorrows. So for the most part I guess I was quite happy, because I never wrote about it!

So lately I’ve been thinking to myself “why do I write my blog?” Well, I guess there are a number of reasons. But before I explain why I just want to say that I think most of us at some point in our lives have kept some kind of journal or diary. And I believe that deep inside we were, or are, hoping that someone might find it. Why else did we store it under the mattress, when that was the most likely place that it would be found? I don’t know if anyone ever found my diary but I’m pretty sure I must have entertained the idea that someone would do, one day. And because it makes such depressing reading I now hope to god they didn’t. I know I can get the odd bout of melancholy, but on the whole I think I am a pretty happy, well adjusted person (in my own special way!)

The first reason I have a blog is because of Drew. He started his blog in September of 2003, just after he came back from his summer working in Ibiza. They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, so I am sure that he is flattered that I started my first blog soon after reading his. Of course now I am well on to my second blog. I like to think of the first one as a kind of chalk pad for the second act. Most of you won’t have read it, which is kind of good, because it was really wasn’t me at my best. I was warming up!

The second reason that I write this is because it encourages me to think about things that I wouldn’t normally pay attention to. Sometimes it might be a funny joke and I want to record it here for the record (I, like so many of us, can never remember a joke.) Quite often it is because I want to share a personal, touching moment with you all. When you know that every day a whole bunch of the people you care most about in the world, not to mention the readers you’ve never even met before, are waiting anxiously for the next installment of your little view of life, as you see it (and I am touched that for some of you I am the first thing you ‘do’ when you log on at work in the morning) it makes you look around and focus on the smaller moments in life. It makes you ask questions. It makes you think things like “What if they discovered a new colour? Would we be able to see it?” And it sounds way pretentious, but you start to see the bigger picture. I have always maintained that the big moments in life are masquerading as the inconsequential, smaller moments. In the last few days, for me, it was a trip to the gym.

The third reason is that I guess I want to create something that is about me, but that is also bigger than me. Raise your hand if you have ever wanted to be famous. If your hand isn’t up right now (do it mentally if you are at work) then you’re a liar. We’ve all considered it. Rock star, actor, presenter, author. Why is Drew in New Zealand writing a book? Why did Will go on Big Brother? Why did Helen do Changing Rooms? Well I guess to answer those questions properly you’ll have to ask those people yourselves - but let me hazard a guess, at least for part of the reason. Most of us don’t crave fame for fames sake. We seek it because we want to make a profound, indelible and unique stamp on the world. It’s about documenting that there is more to us than meets the eye. That we can write really well, or that we have a caustic and clever wit, or that we have excellent taste in interior design, or even that we can be, unprompted, really funny in the doctors waiting room. I’m not kidding myself that I am anywhere near famous for writing this blog, but the other day I got an email from an American girl living in France who said that she thought I was really “insightful”. Do you know how much it means to hear that from someone you have never met before?

I’ll admit that there is an element of exhibitionism in this thing – I’m putting myself on a stage for the time that you read this. I’m making a big assumption that you are interested in what I have to say. And maybe, Matt has a point. Maybe it is wrong for me to document conversations that I had with Jake. But I’m not that convinced. If you want to be really moral then I could say that you are all voyeurs – I mean, you keep coming back for more, don’t you, you sickos! But we all know that’s not true (*hugs you all*). I think that the best thing about being a human is the ways in which we can express ourselves. And what’s the point of expression if there’s no one around willing to listen?

Ted Hughes wrote and published a book called “The Birthday Letters” which was all about his tempestuous, and for the most part, distressing relationship with Sylvia Plath. I’m sure that there were, and still are, some people who think that it was an inappropriate thing to do. But I’m guessing that there were a lot more people who read his poems and stories and found hope or similitude. I am NOT, for the record, aligning myself with Ted Hughes. But maybe, in a much smaller way, when I tell you all about my meeting a really nice, kind and handsome guy at the gym I can share with you a bit of my warm, fuzzy glow. We all like to hear stories. They can make us happy or sad, but above all they make us feel human and connected. How many times have you heard a truly terrible story about someone else’s suffering only for it to remind you how lucky you really are? Or listened to a story about two old friends falling in love, making you realize that it “can really happen”?

So I’m not going to listen to Matt. I’m going to continue to write this blog and share my little life with you all. And I’ll try to be faithful to the twists and turns.

But seriously…can you imagine how cool it would be if they DID discover a new colour?

Broken Hearts, Merlot, Komodo Dragons and Bruvvers

Wayne broke up with his boyfriend on Thursday, so decided to come to London to in some way drown his sorrows. He’s doing ok in the unique way that Wayne deals with things – he just gets on with life. I admire him for that. He’s a rock in every sense of the word.

Anyway - it was Ollie’s birthday today so Wayne went with the other Scoobie’s to see The Barber of Seville in the afternoon, followed by dinner. The idea was that I would meet with them all afterwards, mainly so that I could see Wayne. Only Wayne calls me at about 8pm and says that he is feeling “old” (I quickly point out to him that he is in fact the same age as me) and is going home to bed. I think he misses Vince. I know how that feels, so I offer some words of encouragement and then we text each other for a bit afterwards.

So then of course, I was at a bit of a loose end. Earlier Jake had texted me and asked what I was doing. I was quite glad to have already made plans with Wayne, so that I could truly sound like I had a life beyond sitting at home waiting for sexy lawyers to call / text me. Except that now my plans had fallen through I began to devise means with which I could muscle in on what Jake was doing (entertaining friends at home.) So I sent a mournful text, explaining that my heartbroken friend had decided to turn in for the night and that I would now be at home lamenting the demise of a night at TooTooMuch by nursing a cheap bottle of Merlot.

It worked. Within two minutes he called me and ordered me round (like a pizza!) I offered to bring the bottle of Merlot, but he said that it was ok, cause he had loads of other wine. I have a sneaking suspicion that he was being a wine snob.

So within 24 hours of properly meeting Jake, I was now meeting his friends. It hasn’t escaped my attention that the seemingly consequential events in my life seem to have incredible inertia, propelling themselves forward at light speed! Or maybe I just move too fast. If you think about it, it’s kind of true – everything about me is fast…the way I move, speak, eat, drive. I’m kind of, um, “rapid-fire”. It’s an endearing quality, don’t you think?

Jake’s friends were Annie, a very attractive lesbian, and Jason, the guy I forgot I met at the Shadow Lounge. I still didn’t recall him upon re-meeting him, which was quite amusing to the three of them. Apparently it was the night of my birthday and I hadn’t seemed to them to be that drunk (although I know I was!) Anyway - Annie is the manager at Comme des Garcons (I was glad I changed into my Donna Karen shirt – I wanted to rectify the gym-disaster outfit I had been wearing previously) and Jason is a VP at Credit Suisse in Canary Wharf. And they were both super lovely and seemed to be very interested in me – I did seem to get a bit of a grilling when I arrived. Twenty questions. I got the distinct feeling that I had been “discussed” in some detail before I got there.

And so the evening went – the three of us stayed up talking and drinking until about 2ish, at which point Annie and Jason decided to share a cab home together. And after they left Jake and I carried on talking. This led to us going through his books and we discovered that he too is a big fan of Douglas Coupland (my favorite author.) This, in turn, led on to photo albums and I pretended to be really interested as he tried to find pictures he’d taken of Komodo Dragons in Indonesia.

In the morning we got up at a respectable hour and at Jake’s suggestion we went out together to get some breakfast things and some Sunday newspapers. He lives right next to the Millennium Bridge (the one that used to wobble) and I hadn’t walked over it before and was eager to find out if it still shook. So we walked across to the other side, decided that it definitely didn’t wobble, and walked back again. After we walked to the grocery store and got all the bits and pieces we sat down by the Tate garden so that I could have a cigarette (he doesn’t smoke in his apartment.) And we got to talking about our brothers.

I have never had a particularly close relationship with my brother. There was always this fragile age gap between us of two and a half years, where it was just impossible for us to find any middle ground where we be able to get on. There must have been some times when we were really young and we played together, but I can’t remember them. Mum does say that when my brother was born and he was bought home, I would try to hold him and would say that he was “my baby”. That makes me smile.

My brother and I are chalk and cheese. I think with my heart. He thinks with his head. I am good at communicating. He is good with his hands (he is a really skilled carpenter.) We are alike, however, in that we are always being told that we are very good looking boys, albeit in different ways. I’ve always thought that I’m cute in a kind of smiley, “grab his cheeks and squeeze them” kind of way, whereas my brother is just dark, moody and handsome!

The only times I remember between my brother and I are the times that we would fight. And it’s funny, because my brother is much stronger than I am, yet I would always win. This had a lot to do with my fighting dirty. Stephen would always go to punch me in the face. Meanwhile I had picked up the breadboard and was already prepared to bring it down on the top of his head. I don’t know to this day how I didn’t ever end up seriously hurting him. I remember this one time where he was annoying me by changing the TV channels, so I literally frisbeed a plate of food at him, cracking him sharply on the side of the head. And this was the other thing with Stephen. As children he was always the one who cried. I would never, ever cry. My Dad says that when I was really young they could smack me and shout at me but I would remain completely dry - although my bottom lip would sometimes tremble!

So anyway – Jake and I sat and recounted tales of our relationships with our brothers. It’s funny, because not only are we almost the same age (give or take three or four months) but our brothers are equidistant in terms of age to / from us (Jake’s brother is older than him.) And both of us have no functioning relationship with our brothers.

I told Jake something that I have always felt. “People always think that it’s strange that I don’t get on with my brother. I mean our relationship is limited to me asking him to put Mum on the phone - that’s pretty much it. I always get the impression that people think there is something dysfunctional in the way that I, as an adult, don’t communicate with my sibling.”

And Jake said something like, “But the thing is, you and I know that we’re not coldhearted. And those people who judge us didn’t have our relationships with our brothers. So they don’t know, do they? It’s like people don’t know about or 'get' a lot of things.”

And then he turns to me and says with real seriousness, "We kind of get each other, don't we?"

It felt that he had hit on something irreducible here and talking much beyond this point would have betrayed the moment. So I just smiled and nodded. So we got up and walked back to the apartment. We set out the breakfast stuff – muffins and croissants and juice – on the floor in the living area and we sat and read the papers. And for a couple of hours that was all we did. We just read and didn’t talk much.

And it was just two people who have acknowledged some random connection not feeling uncomfortable in the silence.