Neil and I in Neil's living room

Last night, Neil, Simon and I went out for dinner near Covent Garden at Rules, one of the oldest restaurants in London. It's really one of the few places in England where you're safe eating English food, because they've been practising since the time of Napoleon, so they ought to have perfected it by now.

It must be odd meeting the gay brother of your lover. Throughout the evening, I caught Simon eyeing me contemplatively several times, as if by staring at me he could see Neil more clearly. He must be noting the similarities in our bodies, in the way we express ourselves, in the enthusiasms for the same subjects.

Spending time with Neil has the same effect on me. Although growing up with him I thought we were very diferent, I now see remarkable similarities I haven't noticed before. But it's the differences which are more illuminating. Neil surprised me by saying he hadn't slept well last night because he'd been thinking about our Mam. I haven't been similarly affected even once by our loss, so seeing Neil that way reinforced my private notion of myself as being the more emotionally cool. At least on the surface. I'm beginning to wonder if my recent attacks of breathing problems aren't indicative of subterranean stirrings.

Other ways in which we're alike; the shameless wearing of tight t-shirts (thought at least mine don't display the midriff - Neil dressed rather like a tart when we worked out at his gym today), we share the same favorite author Patrick O'Brien, we both hate motorbikes because of their noise (something we must both have picked up of our Mam).

Although we have very similar builds (he's the five-inch shorter version), he seems able to eat whatever he wants without gaining an inch of fat, whereas I have to be very careful about what I eat, and also have to run 15-20 miles a week to stay trim.

Brotherly relations are complex things. A couple of times he's surprised me with affectionate gestures, like when he gushed that it was really nice to have me around. I'm way more protected, and, since I'd spoken at the same time as he did, avoided returning his sentiment, pretending I hadn't really heard him.

Mind, there are other times when I'm reminded strongly about those parts of him I've never liked: his boastfulness, his moody silences, his overly zealous opinions. Still, I think right now we're closer than we've ever been.

A day of exercise today, mainly. As I said, we went to Neil's posh gym near Picadilly Circus, "The Third Space" (if any readers are members and want to give me a guest pass for Saturday or Sunday, please email me!) It has quite a gay clientele, but they weren't strongly represented this morning although I did have to suffer the shockingly boring Peter Mandelson, one of the most prominent members of Blair's Labor party, talk at length, in a voice calculated for the House of Commons, about race relations.

I had a good workout, but it was marred at the end because I hyperventilated again. It was odd because unlike all the other times, I hadn't been short of breath. This time I was able to control it by breathing into a paper bag for a few minutes. But it was an unwelcome return. Perhaps, then, I was pushing my luck when I went for a run in the late afternoon. I ran through Regents Park, where the bare trees where set against the pinkish haze of an early Spring day (much cooler than previous days). This was certainly the only time I've gone on a run and seen an Antelope. My run took me round the Regents Canal (never been there before, despite living in London for three years) which passes behind the London Zoo. Despite the scare at the gym, I ran five miles, the longest run I've had in months.

Right now I'm in a Starbucks just round the corner from Old Compton Street, London's gay high-street, waiting for the right time to head over to Leicester Square, where I'm going to have the pleasure of watching "Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers" for the second time. Tomorrow Neil and Simon are going to Paris for the night, so I'll have my own pad in Central London for a swinging, single's weekend. At least, that's the plan.