I've been sleeping very poorly since getting to England. It's been a while since I've had such bad jet-lag. It hasn't helped, I think, that I've been taking long late-afternoon naps every day. On Wednesday, I got up around ten, after a fruitless but comfortable few hours of tossing and turning, and found out that we were going (Kirstie and I) for a walk in Hampstead with my Dad. I really have very little say on my schedule, I'm finding, but that's okay. I guess now that the business of the funeral is concluded, I can treat the remaining few days of my stay as a little spring vacation.

One thing I have been incredibly lucky over is the weather. Every day has been warmer than the day before, and most days so far have been almost t-shirt weather. Take Wednesday for example. I took my new Diesel thick wooly roll-neck sweater (the one that makes me look like I'm auditioning for a boy-band) with me just in case, but I never ended up wearing it. Hampstead is a beautiful, rich village a few miles from Central London. It's not really a village of course, since London has encroached around it through the centuries. But some of its quiet streets still feel somewhat like a village. We ambled along quite happily, browsing in bookstores, and eating lunch at an old pub called The Flask.

Pub Lunch at the Flask, in Hampstead

Typical English suburban architecture. Edwardian (?) Lots of chimneys, any rate.

Kirstie (who hates having her photo taken) in Hampstead

But my lack of sleep was telling, and I almost rebelled when my Dad "asked" if we should walk further to go into Hampstead Heath. It was really my feet that were the most reluctant body parts. I'm not a good walker; my feet feel tired very easily, probably because they have to support my 200 lbs. But I didn't have the heart to say no, so we walked, and walked. We ended up by one of the four lakes on the Heath, and finally were able to sit down and half-doze in the warm afternoon sun.

On Hampstead Heath

Finally, finally, I heard those magic words from my Dad: should we be getting going? And we commenced the long trek back to the railway station and home. Once home, I managed to avoid taking a nap, and spent a rather disappointing evening watching either the war starting in Iraq or my football team Newcastle lose 2-0 at home to Barcelona. The only consolation of the latter result is that Barcelona are one of the best teams in the world. The final consolation was that not having taken a nap all day yesterday, I finally had a good night's sleep last night.

Today was my day to give my sister and her boyfriend a break from yours truly, by packing up my bags and moving to London to stay with my brother. I spent the morning watching the news, where hostilities had finally begun against Iraq, working out at Kirstie's gym (my first complete work-out since when I had to go directly from the gym to the emergency room), and going running in the fields with the dog again. In the early afternoon, I lugged my inconceivably heavy luggage into London and to my brother's flat on posh Harley Street.

Neil was home from work, and I quickly settled in. Our rapport seems to have improved immensely over the last two times I've visited England, and I enjoyed lounging in his huge, high-ceilinged living-room, chatting about Saddam, his boyfriend (Neil's boyfriend, I mean, not Saddam's), and plans for the evening. I asked Neil if he has any club-going buddies (because I'm in the mood to go dancing Saturday night), expecting the answer to be no (because Neil's now of a certain age - going to be 40 in September) It turns out Neil's boyfriend Simon has a gay brother also, and he's 31 and cute, so I may try to invite myself out with him on the town, Saturday night. Tonight we're going to go out for a drink and then go to dinner at Rules, one of the oldest and poshest restaurants in London.

Right now I'm sitting at a cafe not too far from Neil's (near Hanover Square) writing this jaunty little journal entry, and all is well. At least, as well as is possible given we're now at war.