Finally, it was Boxing Day, and there could be an end to the dreadful peace and silence of a family Christmas. I worked out at Kirstie's gym again, then had lunch with my Dad at a pub. And then I was free to go to London and escape for a while. I went to the taxi rank downtown so that I could get a ride home to Kirstie's to change. There are basically two types of taxis in England's small towns: big London-type taxis, or piddling little compact cars. I don't exactly fit into the latter type, so when I saw the second car in line was a bigger one, I tried to take that one. The driver told me I had to take the first one. I explained to him the size issue, and he shrugged and gestured me in. But as he tried to pull out, the guy in front turned his taxi into the road to block him. My driver got out to try to explain to him, and the next second they're in a no-holds-barred fist fight. All the other cabbies (all either Indian or Pakistani) rushed to separate them, but a long argument ensued. Eventually, unnoticed, I made off to try my luck elsewhere, feeling a little bit guilty.

In London, I'd arranged to meet a guy named Naren I'd chatted with online in Leicester Square to finally see "The Two Towers". All the photos I'd seen of him showed him with his shirt off, so, of course, I'd no idea he'd turn out to be such an extravagant dresser; he was wearing a long, double-breasted, tight-fitting, patterned, trench coat, with the collar turned up. However, he was a friendly, amiable, kind sort of guy, so I decided to put aside the instant prejudice formed by his attire, and he proved enjoyable company.

The movie was mostly magnificent, although I don't think it succeeded as admirably as the second one. Some of the special effects were overly ambitious and didn't quite work seamlessly, I thought. And the neverending ending (something like the finale of a Mahler symphony with all its fake endings) left you feeling the tiniest bit deflated. Still, there were some scenes that still stick in my mind even now a couple of days later; like the aerial battle between the huge dragons and the giant eagles; and the beauty of the language - Aragorn addressing the troops before the final battle: "There may come a time when the courage of men fails ... but this is not the day."

I'd pretty much missed the last train back to St Albans, so I spent the night with Naren, and made it back to St Albans by 9.00 a.m. the next day, feeling rather tired, and hoping that my Dad had decided against spending the day in London with me, like we'd discussed. I had lunch with him and my sister Sally, and since Dad wasn't feeling very strong (after all, he had his first heart attack only a month ago), we decided to call it a day. And I was free to pack my suitcase, and finally flee to London, to stay at my brother's flat in Harley Street (my brother Neil and his boyfriend are away in Florida for the New Year). It was a cold, wet afternoon, though as I waited at the dismal St Albans railway station for the train. It was difficult to be in high spirits.

Once in my brother's flat, though, I relaxed and had a bit of a snooze. I woke up around nine in the evening, and had a bite to eat before heading out to meet Naren at Charing Cross Station to go to Heaven, the famous gay club. It's been years since I've been to Heaven, and I was half expecting it to be dead. London at Christmas isn't the most exciting place. But even by 11.15 there were long lines, so things started to look promising. Naren and I hung around and danced together for a while. But I don't think we were kindred spirits on the dancefloor. He's a generous, warm-hearted guy, but he's the kind of guy who likes to go rather crazy on the dancefloor, with all kinds of wild spins and gyrations. And since he knew plenty of people, we ended up parting company after an hour or so.

One mildly unpleasant note. A tall black man stopped me and shouted my name. It took me a second, before I recognized a guy named Jeremy I'd met for lunch one day in New York. We'd met on gay.com, and although I'd enjoyed our conversation, I was left with the impression of a self-confident, successful man with too large a social circle in which to find a place for me. Tonight, he was a little bit drunk, and seemed bitter. He said I'd crossed paths with him a few weeks ago but hadn't recognized him. It's odd how your perception of somebody can be so wrong. It served to remind me that not only am I probably forming many wrong conclusions about people, but also other people presumably form similarly incorrect ideas about me.

Later, I was dancing by myself on the main dancefloor when I made eye contact across the top of the crowd (there are some advantages to being tall) with a very masculine, muscular guy I'd noticed earlier in the evening. I went over and introduced myself. Although he looked German, he turned out to be from Brazil, here on business. In the manner to which I've grown accustomed lately, we were soon dancing intimately together, and, of course, one thing led to another. We spent a very affectionate, passionate night together, and he departed late this morning. I still never quite get used to this way of being. Such a night of physical intimacy; then the cold morning, and the stiff goodbye, neither of us really knowing a thing about the other person.

Despite not having enough sleep, I decided to go to the Tate Modern to see the huge installation my Dad had told me about in the Turbine Hall. And it didn't dissappoint. A huge, glowing, semi-circular "sun" occupied one end of the hall, and the ceiling had been lined with mirrors. Smoke machines increased the atmosphere, and in the vast space, with the long shadows cast by the red-orange light, it was like an eery, post-apocalyptic scene.

The installation in the Turbine Hall at the Tate Modern. On the ceiling, you can see the reflections of people lying on the ground, basking in the "sunlight."