I'd felt another minor depression settle in on me last night. The functioning of depression is still a mystery to me. After days of feeling great, last night, for no obvious reason, the blackness came down again. It wasn't a bad depression - just a sort of murky grey darkness, not the full out deathly black.

Today, it's mostly gone again. As I drove out of Somerset towards New York, listening to Mahler's Ninth symphony, I started to feel excited about the next stage of my adventure. But I wish I could come to the root of what it is that sends me into depression. From what I've read, and through therapy, I've a fairly good idea that it's some internalized critic, probably based on my father, who starts reminding me of my failings. But he whispers so quietly that I can't figure out what he's saying to me. My guess is that some minor interaction is enough to trigger buried judgements which I've never quite shaken myself out of, and this mechanism is what sends me into a funk, as my heart relives the misery of some of my early years.

Anyway, like I said, I'm feeling a whole lot better today. I got into the city around 11.00, and dropped off my luggage at the apartment where I'll be staying, in Chelsea. I was only inside for four minutes, but came out to find I'd been ticketed for double parking. I drove off to return my rental car, and let the wind take hold of the ticket and blow it away, although it will probably catch up to me sooner or later. Gassing up the car, and returning it to Avis on 42nd street was another chore, though I felt completely in my element weaving my way through New York's impressionistic traffic flow on 6th Avenue. I was born to be a New York City driver.

I took advantage of my location to check the Times Square half-price ticket theater ticket booth to see if I could get tickets for a show I've been dying to see ("The Play What I Wrote"), but found it to be closed. Times Square seemed busier than ever. To a first-time New York visitor it must be overwhelming. Walking through, I saw no fewer than three separate television crews, no doubt interviewing people about their anxiety given the current state of high alert.

Times Square

Then back to the flat in Chelsea to pick up my gym gear and work out at the New York Sports Club, which is only one block from where I'm staying. I had a good workout, but there was something chilling about the atmosphere in the gym. New York gay men are more socialized than in any other city to avoid making eye contact. An understandable defence, I suppose, given that you're always on top of each other here.

My host has a pair of beautiful siamese cats (I resisted the opportunity of calling them twins), which snuggled together on the sofa.

I returned home to finally meet my host (he'd left me the keys earlier with the elevator guy). We chatted for a while, before I took off again, this time for South Street Seaport, to try the other half-price ticket office. No luck there either, however. And it was even more cold right there on the East River than elsewhere. I hadn't bought any warm clothing with me at all on this trip, and I shivered in my t-shirt. Surely it's appallingly cold for the second half of May?

South Street Seaport

Now I'm in the Starbucks, back in Chelsea, doing some writing. It's a small Starbucks, but there are no less than three muscular young men in tight black t-shirts artfully ignoring each other. Tonight, I'm having dinner with my host. I'm going to attempt to persuade him to have dinner at my now favorite restaurant in New York, Tea and Sympathy on Greenwhich Avenue. The reason I might have difficulty in persuading him is that the restaurant serves English cuisine. I've a particular soft spot for their deserts; such delights as sticky toffee pudding, and rhubarb crumble with custard. No doubt I'll go there every day since it's right round the corner.