As seems to happen one time in two when I fly through Dallas, my flights were delayed, and I didn't even make it out of Dallas until close to eleven. At least I secured an upgrade to First Class, which made things a little more comfortable. I'd woken up on Thursday with a sore throat, and by this time, I was starting to feel some body ache too, so really, all I wanted to do was get home.

Just before take off, the seat next to mine was taken by a woman of about my age, dressed in the way that a sophisticated New York woman dresses when she wants to appear dressed down - that is expensive jeans and leather sandals, and a white woolen sweater. She was clutching a book by Virginia Woolf to her lap, which caught my attention. But I guess neither of us wanted to break the ice, so I buried myself in my own book as we took off.

It was our simultaneous reaction to the dinner that was served us that finally got us to start talking. Mine was a very strange salad, which had no dressing, and was topped by breaded chicken, while hers was a few slices of processed cheese and some assorted vegetables. This was First Class, mind you. I can't imagine what the common people back in steerage where eating. So we laughed a little, and started to chat, with the usual polite questions like "Do you live in San Francisco?" and so on.

Mirka was her name. She had a kindly face, with deeply creased laugh wrinkles about her eyes, but a rather weak chin. Our common interest in English literature, however, turned out to be just about the only thing our lives had in common. She was married, with two children, to her first sweetheart, and she was a New Jersey housewife. Her husband, whom she was rendezvouzing with in San Francisco, was a Wall Street merchant banker, obviously well-heeled. She lives ten minutes from her parents, and fifteen minutes from his parents. Her sisters too live nearbye. In fact, the more we talked, the more her life began to sound like the ideal family life, almost like in a movie.

We talked non-stop for a couple of hours, and it brought up for me again thoughts I've had on and off over the last few years about the almost complete absence of familial feeling in my life. I live a life of freedom and independence, a life where I can do what I want when I want, and I admit, I'm lucky. Yet I wonder, at times, what life would have ben like if I'd stayed in England, and kept my family in my life, and been surrounded by the friends with whom I grew up. Would I feel more fulfilled? I'll never know, because I don't think I could go back. I'm too used to this way of life now. Moreover, recast things anyway I like in my mind, I can't remake my family into the close-knit, understanding one of my mind's eye. My parents, loving though they are, are scared of real life, and avoid confrontation at all costs. They could never have come to terms with me being in their lives daily, knowing, as they do, that I'm gay, and that they would have had to deal with my boyfriends (or lack of them!)

The family Adams twenty years ago, minus my brother who presumably took the photo

But the lack of people around me in whose lives I'm fully invested does rob me of full contentment. Yes, I'm enjoying my life, mostly. But there are distinct times when I have the strongest feeling of lack of purpose. Yet I'm too comfortable to do anything about it, not that I really know what to do about it. I've thought that perhaps if I involved myself in a worthy cause, I'd find a deeper purpose. But I think something like that has to come from the heart. I don't know - I'm rambling aren't I? It's probably the medication I'm taking for my sore throat!

I have a whole week's worth of episodes of the Waltons saved up, and, since I'm off work sick, I just watched one of them, which left my eyes brim full of tears. I suppose it's no mystery why I love this show so much.

I try not to write journal entries like this too often. For one thing, I don't want people writing me with advice. If I haven't found my own answers, I don't believe I'm going to learn them from someone else, arrogant as that might sound.

And for another thing, I ask myself if I'm being too open, leaving myself open to abuse. It would be all too easy for someone to write to tell me what I already know - that my life is pretty good, what do I have to complain about. So, yes, I don't have much to complain about. And that, in the end, is why I let myself occasionally write something like this. Because there are many people who don't have it as easy as me, and maybe they think they're alone. And I naively hope that reading this might help someone to feel less alone. It's one contribution I can make.