Too Darn Hot - Saturday

I woke at 6 on Micheal's sofa, then again at 9, and then 11. Mick had a migraine, but still drove me to the station - an embarassing but very welcome act of selflessness.

On the uneventful train journey home via Brighton, I made a few entries in the video diary about how surprising Nick's friends were, and how their unforced generosity made me feel. Undeserving is one word for it.

I intended the video diary to be about the events before and after the concert, not a confessional or forum for self examination. But several times that's what it became, and I broke the promise I'd made to myself not to edit the footage, by obliterating some reflective monologues.

If it were just for me, I might be more open and self indulgent, but the idea was to send a VHS to Nick, as a kind of extended concert film. Even the personal bits that remain make me a little uncomfortable.

Back home, there wasn't much chance to doze before Paul T called about recording the band and Simon M called just wanting to gossip. And then...a date with H.

Both tierd, hot and sunburned, sitting in a pub garden as the sky grew dark. He doesn't really have the money to take the holiday he's been promising himself, but he's bored and restless in this dreary town.

Even though I'd miss him, I tried to persuade him to just grab a cheap flight to somewhere far away and see what happened. He may do.

Probably the last thing he needs is a partner right now. A friend, always, but not a ball and chain. And the strange thing is, a partner is probably the last thing I need too.

We're great as friends, but he's a lonely romantic disguised as a consumate professional, and I'm a soppy old dreamer disguised as a jaded socialist. We've almost fallen together twice, knowing it was a bad idea.

we talked about it as we said goodnight. It's odd how we rarely touch until we're about to part, and when we do, it's so difficult to stop the embrace.

Back home in front of the TV, I finished the day watching the finale of Doctor Who. Wonderful dramatic tension, awful dialogue, juvenile humous, quite good characterisation, and a piss poor deus ex machina ending. Just like everything else written by Russell T Davies.

The boards of Gallifrey One are humming with fans desperately persuading themselves it was a work of genius. Though the longest thread concerns a brief pointless scene of two men kissing.