I was at work when it started. I don't have a window view, so didn't notice until somebody came and asked me if I'd seen the snow. I ran to a window, and there it was, swirling around between the canyons of skyscrapers outside. At lunchtime, I had my first experience of it swirling around in my face. As I saw people trudging through the early snowdrifts, it brought back to me a sudden electric tingle of excitement and familiarity, the vestiges of the thrill we'd feel as kids when it snowed for the first time.

I went home early that afternoon - not because of the snow, but because our network was down. Even after only a couple of hours, my balcony bore a couple of inches of fluffy snow. It suddenly began to sink in: this was my last weekend in New York, and I was going to be snowed in because of what turned out to be the heaviest early December snowstorm in the city's memory.

Yes, I'm still here. My stay was extended one final week at the cost of canceling my trip to Austin next week. Which is good, because I've barely even begun to pack. I'm going to ship lots of stuff in boxes, so I have to get that out of the way first. I half-heartedly made a start on it on Saturday, but soon got distracted by the idea of Christmas shopping.

If it seems strange that I would chose the stormiest Saturday in memory to go Christmas shopping, there was however a perverse logic to it. Most people would chose to stay home, so it was a way of avoiding the crowds. And things did look darned Christmassy - particularly Rockerfeller Center, with the huge, glowing tree and the swirling snow. It was a bit of a chore, though, particularly when I had to walk several blocks up 5th Avenue against the snow fall, which had increased to almost blizard-like proportions. Many of the crosswalks have inadequate drainage, so crossing the street was a bit of an exercise in wading. I slipped only once, and nearly went flat on my ass.

Since I haven't been home with my family for Christmas in a decade, this is the first time in a long time that I've had to do major Christmas shopping, and I have to say I'm enjoying it. I went for original gifts. I bought my sister Sally a pencil case from Burberry. She's a girly girl, so she'll love it, I hope. It's always nice to have a bit of luxury in your life. My only worry is of her vast ignorance; she may not even recognize the distinctive Burberry plaid. For my sister Kirstie, and her boyfriend Paul, I bought them a New York City snow globe from Saks, and a cast-iron coin bank in the shape of a U.S. Postal Service box. They can fight over who gets which. For my brother Neil, I bought eau-de-cologne from Diesel, in a frosted green can with an elaborate spray mechanism. I'm not sure if his boyfriend Simon is coming for Christmas or not, so, just in case, I bought him some Burberry boxers. If he doesn't show, I'll wear them myself.

I bought my Dad's gift several weeks ago, at an art sale, benefitting AIDS, called "Postcards From the Edge". It's an original, post-card sized pencil and tinted paper work, showing a naked tree branch sillouhetted against the sky. All my life I've been impressed with how keenly Dad notices the trees, the sun, the beautiful skies. It wasn't until I opened the package at home that I read the words the artist had written on the back: "I spent a lot of time as a child laying on my back in the grass and watching the clouds through the trees." I know that will speak to my Dad. It's something he might write himself. He's not good at expressing himself verbally, but he writes wonderfully. This will be his first Christmas without my Mom, who died in March, so I'm glad I found him something which seems so right for him.

On Wednesday, I got to go see the gala opening of the new Alvin Ailey season at City Center for free, because an acquaintance's boyfriend had bowed out, leaving the spare ticket free. There's a kind of exhilaration and joy in their dancing that I've not seen in other modern-dance troupes, and their work never fails to leave me brushing away a couple of tears. And the men are so beautiful; Lord they're beautiful. The women too, I imagine. Earlier that same evening (and this is a complete non-sequitur, I've just realized), I saw Donald Sutherland in Duane Reade (the local drugstore chain). I followed him shamelessly so that I could hear his milky smooth voice addressing the clerk. Speaking of instantly recognizable voices, I heard a nasal croak eminating from a squat man ahead of me in Starbucks in Chelsea, and sure enough, when he turned round, it was Wallace Shawn.

Last Sunday night, I did something I haven't done in years, and that is to go out late on a Sunday night. The superclub of the moment is Avalon, which occupies the storied Limelight space on 6th Avenue (or is it 5th, I don't recall) in Chelsea. I went there with Chris. Sure, they've gussied the place up a lot, but the space was still recognizable from the last time I was there, probably fifteen years ago or so, when I was a young twinkie. I went there with my best friend Niju, an Indian straight woman (who's now married with kids in Chicago). I was wearing, I believe, a black-and-white checked suit, and I thought I was the thing. In my defense, I can only say it was the Eighties. Anyway, last week, when I went there, I was not wearing a suit. I wasn't even wearing a shirt, so times have changed. Chris and I had a great time, involving lots of dancing, and the downing of numerous cocktails. I went straight home at 3.30, set my alarm for 9.30, duly climbed out of bed at 9.30 and went to work without showering or shaving. I was initially surprised I didn't have a hangover, until I noticed that it was because I was still slightly drunk. Well, I'm going to repeat this tonight, this time with Phoenix, whose birthday will chime in at midnight. As a precautionary measure, I've taken tomorrow morning off work. It is, after all, my last weekend in New York, pout, pout, sniff. Wow, six months of my life have been spent here!