My flight was at 8 AM, and for some reason the car to the airport was due at 4.50, which meant I had to get up at 4.00. I was so tired when I got up, after just four hours sleep, that I cut myself shaving, and missed a few spots, all without noticing until I first used the bathroom on the plane. All this meant, of course, that it was rather a tiring journey to England, via New York, made even worse by my almost complete inability to sleep on airplanes, apart from during the last twenty minutes. Still, I was flying business class all the way, so at least I'd be tired and crabby in comfort.

My emotions have been unusually close to the surface recently. I found myself tearing up while reading my book, "An American Tragedy". It's by Theodore Dreiser, a wonderful early twentieth century American writer I've just discovered. He writes with a meticulous, detailed, unsentimental precision, documenting the modern American psyche; modern despite the fact he was writing over seventy-five years ago. His characters act, then second guess themselves; are aware of their own hidden motives, and are always striving for something: completeness, wealth, sex, a better life. What moved me about the book was the plight of the secondary figures caught up in the backdraft of the protagonist's relentless drive to succeed.

I put my book down to watch the in-flight movie, "Seabiscuit", on the leg to JFK. I'd never gone to see the movie in theaters because it had sounded overly sentimental. But when I started to feel emotional even in the opening establishing scenes, I realized that it was going to be difficult for me to get through the movie without bawling. I don't recall ever having to struggle so much to retain my composure during a movie. I reminded myself a little of a character in a movie who found herself crying at television commercials.

I had a three hour stopover in JFK, which stretched to over four due to delays. Once in the air, I ate everything that was put in front of me, despite not really feeling hungry. I devoured a couple of hundred more pages of my novel, and watched another decent movie, "Open Range." I'm a fan neither of Kevin Costner nor Westerns, but there was something appealing about the plain-spoken characters, forced to fight for their lives and self-respect against the backdrop of huge Western landscapes.

The various delays worked out in my favor in that we arrived at Heathrow around nine in the morning, rather than the usual seven. There are not many more dispiriting sights than Heathrow on a cold, grey Winter early morning. The late arrival also meant I wouldn't have to compete for taxis with the sharp-elbowed business men at Paddington Station, and also meant that I'd arrive at a decent hour at my hotel. I'd dreaded getting to my hotel at 8.00 a.m., finding my room not ready, and having to camp out bleary-eyed in the lobby for a few hours.

The view from my hotel room.

The weather was quite mild when my taxi pulled up at the hotel just off Park Lane. I'd gotten a steal of a price, which I still don't completely understand, exchange rates being so bad for U.S. visitors to England right now. After settling in, I took a walk round the neighborhood, a frightfully posh part of London (the second most expensive property on the Monopoly board) which I don't know at all well. Just down the street from the hotel there was a perfect collection of shops called Shepards Market which distills modern London: a mix of traditional, tiny British stores which retain a feeling of yesteryear, and the chic boutiques and cafes which have sprung up all over London since I was a student here in the early Eighties.

But I was horribly tired by now, so I retired to my hotel, put in my earplugs, took a melatonin and tried to sleep. Five hours later, I was awoken by a phone call from my brother. I struggled out of bed. Although it was only four, the daylight was already drawing to a close. But I was so glad I'd gotten a good sleep, because in the morning I have to get up early again to make an 8 a.m. flight to Athens. I pulled myself together and joined the evening rush-hour, taking the Tube over to Oxford Circus. Since going Christmas shopping two weeks ago in falling snow in New York, I've had a Saks 5th Avenue bag full of gifts for my family. I carted it home as carry-on from New York to San Franciso, then back to New York on my flight yesterday, and here to London this morning. Now I carried it over to my brother's place, so that he can take it up to my sister's on Christmas Eve, where we'll all be gathering.

I've had a rocky relationship with my brother, Neil, over the last few years. Currently, you could best describe our relationship as one of detente. We're nice to one another; we hugged each other; but at the same time, there's no deep level of trust or communication. He was going out for drinks with friends this evening, and there was no pretence of even inviting me. Not that I had the energy to be social, in any event.

Mission accomplished, and it was back, with a shopping bag of snacks from Marks & Spencers, to my hotel, where you find me now, watching Top of the Pops on BBC1. There is nothing else on after that. It's a choice between the long-time, working class soap opera "EastEnders" on BBC1, an hour of gardening shows on BBC2 (can you imagine having a prime-time gardening show on NBC?), more working-class soaps on ITV, or "Friends" and "Will & Grace" on Channel 4. It's going to be early to bed for me, I guess.