Rock-a-bye my baby with a dixie melody

Television heaven

The rain has stopped and so I ventured out to the Museum of Television and Radio on W52nd Street. Extraordinary place. First of all you go into this room and sit at a computer and make a selection of up to four programmes from a database of everything that ever been on television or on the radio in America. Then you go up to this desk and they give you a printout which you take downstairs and they show you to a booth where you can sit and watch your selection. So much to choose from I was like a kid in a sweetshop. Finally selected an episode of Andy Warhol TV, a Woody Allen Television special and - what else - oh a Judy Garland concert and television show. All splendid stuff.

The museum also has several screens showing popular stuff and documentaries. I watched a documentary tracing the way television has been used in presidential electioneering since 1952 to the present day. Much more interesting than it sounds - what a lot of dirty tricks those Republicans have used - most distasteful.

Feeling so confident using the subway I jumped on a V train, sat down and read a book. I became aware that the stations were further apart than usual - and then realised I was at 23rd Street in...Brooklyn. Oops - not as good at this as I thought.

A double-bill of Cary Grant films on the telly - they don't make them like that anymore.

The Surgeon General was right and I was wrong

Today has been cancelled

Tuesday
Due to exceedingly late night, a dab more Stolichnaya than would be recommended by the Surgeon General, plus continuous rainfall - today has been a day of quiet reflection and rehabilitation. Caught up with Radio4 and Radio2 shows and contemplated my navel.

Bridge of size

Excuse me - are we getting anywhere near to the end of this story yet?

Monday
Another day of borough exploration as I took myself off for a seven and a half mile hike around Brooklyn. Started off by walking across Brooklyn Bridge which is always worthwhile for the fantastic views. The last time I did this the twin towers of the World Trade Center were very much there and you notice their absence more than ever from this viewpoint. I kept getting stopped by tourists asking me to take their photos. Infact, if I'd had a cent for every time I was stopped, I would have three cents.

In Brooklyn I followed a walk which took me into the centre of the town, and then tracked around so I ended up underneath Brooklyn Bridge - stunning views from here. I wandered through row after row of old brownstones in leafy streets and out to the old harbour. Hopped on a subway back to 14th Street to cool my heels.

Cooked some dinner - still remember how to do it - and then decided to go out for a couple of drinks about 10.30pm. We stumbled across a small, cosy bar call 'Cubbyhole' which was very nice and so we stayed awhile. We got chatting to a lovely lady called Christina who went on to show us a good time in another bar called Chi Chiz. It was quite a night - funny where going out for a quiet drink can lead you in New York.

Two eggs yesterday

Two eggs sunny-side up

Sunday
What a luverly quiet morning so a bit of a lie in - you have to take the opportunities when you get them here. Off for a late brunch at the rather fantastic Waverley Diner which is always busy but worth waiting for a table. Your breakfast is served in a frying pan - still think that's a great idea. Obviously wouldn't work so well for cornflakes or grapefruit segments.

Greenwich Avenue was bustling with market stalls and the wafting aroma of many a kebab filled the air as the sun beat down as if it was July. Browsed for a while in some shops along West 8th Street and then set up camp (titter ye not) on a patch of grass in Washington Square Park. There was a great atmosphere - some entertainment going on in the central fountain area attracting the crowds, and a four part jazz band set up nearby providing some unobtrusive background music. Even the dogs were happy and grinned from ear to ear to see their little mates cavorting in the special dog enclosures. Squirrels bounded around us burying their nuts hither and thither. Just lay on the grass writing (I'm getting somewhere with this now - quite excited for myself), reading and chatting. When the sun dipped below the yard arm, meandered back to the apartment via a rather good CD store where you could pick up and scan any CD or DVD for sale and listen to or watch extracts - hours of free fun.

Blimmin' hot again this evening, and not a glimpse of Mrs Slocombe on t'telly. Resorted to more jottings in my collective notebooks.

One week left in New York and a zillion things still to do. Please send your suggestions on a postcard to: Blue Peter, BBC Television Centre, London W12 8QT.

St Johns of Perpetual Construction

Ding Dong!

Saturday
Finished reading ‘Up The Junction’ this morning. A superbly written book full of beautifully described snippets of dialogue such as:

Sylvie pisses in the road. ‘Quick Sylv, there’s a car comin’ in ter park!’ The headlights beam. ‘Pull your drawers up!’
‘It’s all right,’ she jumps to her feet, ‘I don’t wear no drawers on Friday nights – it’s ‘andy…’

A few months ago I met a chap at a party who was the spit of Leslie Phillips. Indeed, there was something of the cad about him. In the course of our conversation it transpired that he had spent many years living in New York, so I asked him if he could recommend something off the tourist map. Without hesitation he said, ‘The Cathedral of St John the Divine on West 112th Street'. Apparently he had been involved with the choir there. I didn’t inquire as to what form that involvement took because he was wearing a cravat.

Today I set off to explore the Upper West Side and took an express train up to 125th Street – set high up on a viaduct it’s one of the few elevated stations in Manhattan no less. Somebody once told me that to be safe, tourists should not go above 100th Street – what nonsense. I walked through a park of cherry trees given to the city in 1912 by the community of Japanese residents, and on to the colossal General Grant National Memorial. When this mausoleum – one of the largest in the world – was erected in 1897 it was one of the most popular tourist attractions in New York. Eerily quiet on my visit, I wandered inside where there’s a small museum and you can peer at the massive, polished granite tombs.

Onwards to the Riverside Church, but there was a wedding taking place so I couldn’t go inside. They wouldn’t let me up the bell tower either as, I was informed, it’s under repair. Pity. So on to Columbia University – the oldest institution of higher learning in New York with a very smart campus. I wandered into the Roman Catholic Grotto Church of Notre Dame with an incredibly kitsch stone replica of the grotto at Lourdes behind the altar, complete with artificial ivy – a sight to behold. I steered clear of Morningside Park – the most notoriously crime-ridden park in Manhattan (blimey, and there’s me forgotten to put me bullet proof undies on) and turned a corner to be confronted with the monumental folly-like edifice that is ‘St John’s of Perpetual Construction’ more correctly known as the Episcopal Cathedral of St John the Divine. It is the largest cathedral in the world – no, it really is – although they haven’t entirely finished building it since construction was interrupted by Pearl Harbor and America’s consequent entry into World War II. I strolled around feeling completely dwarfed. It wasn’t until I was walking out that I realised I should have paid an entrance fee – still sinning after all these years. The gardens outside were supposed to have wandering peacocks, but there were none. Strangely though, the gift shop was selling pens made out of peacock feathers. I put two and two together.

Another block on to Tom’s Restaurant. I’ve never got into ‘Seinfeld’ so its significance there was lost on me, but it also featured in Suzanne Vega’s ‘Tom’s Diner (‘I am sitting / In the morning / At the diner / On the corner etc.). Along Broadway to a bar called ‘West End’ where I had lunch on the terrace. This is the place where Kerouac, Ginsberg and Burroughs hung out when they were at Columbia University. I knocked back a bloody mary and felt a little giddy.

Further down Broadway I took a seat in a little park dedicated to the memory of Ida and Isidor Straus, elderly residents of the area who lost their lives when the Titanic sank. They refused to take up space in the lifeboats on account of their age. On past a statue outside a Buddhist Temple – the statue survived the atomic bomb blast in Hiroshima. I continued through Riverside Park and finally down to the banks of the Hudson where I risked life and limb amongst the roller-bladers, cyclists and skateboarders. A woman stopped me and asked me if I had a dime. Instinctively I said no - she didn't look like she needed it - but she persisted, saying 'What? You haven't got the time?' Doh!

I sat there for a while writing and watching the world go by before catching a subway back to the apartment. Owing to the sunshine, I had developed a rosy complexion.

Later, went out to the Chelsea Piers to watch the sun go down over the Hudson before finding an Indian snackerie for some delicious nosh, then back to the apartment for cheesecake, wine and a foot spa. Penelope Keith on the telly – introducing Mollie Sugden (‘You should see the state of my pussy Captain Peacock’), Prunella Scales, Patricia Routledge and other ‘Queens of British Comedy’ – phone in and pledge $150 now and we’ll show you more 70’s sitcoms and send you a DVD and mug! What a great deal – public access television – how do we live without it?

Started reading the huge tome that is Ben Okri's 'The Famished Road'. I think this will keep me going through October.

Shimon Attie and his spooky photos

All rise for Dame Thora

A little respite today from the treadmill of constantly doing things. Woken by the splendidly thoughtful men with pneumatic drills who decided it was a jolly good day to dig up the solid concrete pavement in front of Chelsmore Apartments. As if we didn't have enough to contend with - the continuous sirens and bleeping horns - not to mention the solid metal plates they've considerately put down on 7th Avenue which go 'kerboom' every time a vehicle drives over them, which is approximately eight times a second.

Bleary eyed morning spent in the pursuit of domesticity - washing me smalls and hanging them up in the window. To dry of course.

Stumbled out into the early afternoon sunlight and took myself off to the plethora of galleries to be found in Chelsea. I spent the afternoon wandering in and out of private galleries, looking at works a diverse as Jane and Louise Wilson's video installation entitled 'Erewhon' of 1950s-style gymnasiums in New Zealand and Shimon Attie's wonderful photographs of projections onto old buildings in Rome. There's such a diversity of art on display and a smorgasbord of galleries - I've probably only seen about a fifth of them. Call me thrifty if you will but there's plenty more free entertainment there.

This morning's rude awakening by those workmen and their oversized powertools had left me feeling a little flakey, so some food and wine and an evening in to recharge the batteries was called for. When Dame Thora in 'The Last of the Summer Wine' came on the television we stood up and saluted good old Blighty. Next up the lovely Dame Judi with Geoffrey Palmer in 'As Time Goes By'...gor blimey it brings a tear to me eye. Oh I've got myself going now...cripes it's Donald Sinden!

Unisphere leftover from 1964-5 World Fair

Lee Bontecou's fish

Don't tell MoMA

Thursday
Off to Queens today on the 7 (that's the subway line). I alighted at 33rd and Queens Boulevard (!) and figured out where the Museum of Modern Art was. They moved the collection to this temporary home in Queens more than a year ago while the Midtown museum is being renovated. Seeing as the Queens gallery closes next week, there wasn't a lot left, except for a brilliant retrospective of Lee Bontecou. There was also an exhibition called 'Tall Buildings' where there were architects' models, of amongst others, the Swiss Re building, 122 Leadenhall Street and the London Bridge Tower. In addition, all the entries for the World Trade Centre were on display.

It was still bright and sunny when I came out of the gallery, so I decided to take the subway all the way to Flushing Main Street. This was a little scary - and got scarier the further I travelled away from Manhattan. At Flushing, I followed a four and a half mile walk passing some fairly historic property dating from the 17th Century.

Eventually made it to the botanical gardens and Meadow-Corona, the site of two World Fairs. Saw some turtles the size of dinner plates in a ditch, got scared by some freaky people in an underpass, and then came across the huge Unisphere constructed for the 1964-65 World's Fair. This was pretty impressive and I was taking some photos when I was approached by a young lady who asked me to take her photo. She then asked if she could take some photos of me. She was Brazilian and I think she wanted to be my friend. She couldn't believe I was British because, she said, all British men are ugly. This made me nervous.

I wandered through the huge parkland in the early evening and looked out at Manhattan, just a tiny silhouette on the horizon. Eventually I found my way to the subway station passing the National Tennis Center and Shea Stadium. It was a long ride home in a carriage full of would-be hip hop rappers. I chose not to join in.

Watching us watching you watching them

All this fuss about sleeping together. For physical pleasure I’d sooner go to my dentist any day.

Wednesday
Spent the morning in the apartment, apart from popping out to the deli to buy ingredients for breakfast.

Took the subway uptown and went to see an exhibition of photographs by Garry Winogrand tucked away in the Pace/MacGill gallery on the ninth floor of a building on East 57th Street. These pictures, taken in zoos in the 1960s presented a quirky view of humans visiting the zoos in relation the animals they were observing and being observed by. Every picture is a gem - and they are also hilarious.

Back to Central Park for a laze, and then took the subway downtown to Bleeker Street. Now I'm not saying I have any sense of direction on a good day, but between emerging from an unusual subway exit and trying to work out which way was west by the sunset and holding the map upside-down I managed to guide us up the Elephant and round the Castle then back to the Italian Cafe on Mercer Street before catching 'Bright Young Things' at the Angelika Cinema. Slightly disappointing film based on Waugh's 'Vile Bodies', but worthwhile to see Peter O'Toole hamming it up as only he can. The Red Lion beckoned on the way back, as did the G&Ts with a Nick Cave/David Bowie soundtrack.

Bring the boys back home!

'I'm Pooh,' said Pooh. 'I'm Tigger,' said Tigger. And that's the beginning of some very bouncy stories

Tuesday
Well, I woke up in the right apartment so the old homing device is still performing well.

Started reading 'Up The Junction by Nell Dunn:
"We went by the laundry to collect our wash. On the door was pinned a note: 'Owing to the passing of Mrs. Hardy the bagwash won't be ready till Wednesday."
And on the subject of mounting a motorbike:
"'Here, I'll never git on there, I can't get me knees apart.'
'Hitch yer skirt up under yer coat.'
'Help, me grandmother'll catch cold!'"

I got on with some writing, and then set out in the early afternoon. I took the subway uptown and popped into the Donnell Library Center on West 53rd Street. Up on the second floor, tucked away in amongst all the children's books I found the glass case which imprisons the original Winnie-the-Pooh, Tigger, Piglet, Kanga and Eeyore. It was quite a moment, coming face-to-face with the toys given to Christopher Milne between 1920 and 1922 which inspired the much-loved books. Pooh was a little on the wan side, and Kanga, who was lost in an orchard for many years looks slightly sorry for himself. The controversy which surrounds the fact that these icons of English children's literature are in America is as big as the Elgin Marbles - even Tony Blair has intervened but to no avail. The library had some pretty cool books on the Beat Generation writers and I spent an hour or so browsing.

It was a beautifully sunny afternoon, so I made my way up to Central Park and found a pleasant spot near the outside ice rink (currently closed) to sit and write and watch the sunset behind the colossal skyline. It turned out that I had chosen a place where dogwalkers with pets of the small yappy-type variety gather and by 7pm I was surrounded by a menagerie of cheeky fellas vying for my attention. As the shadows grew long and it started to get dusky, I made my way back to the apartment for a quiet evening in.

Tompkins Square Park - still gritty!

Wigstock

Monday
I spent most of the morning in the apartment finishing reading 'Sky Burial' - a beautiful story - and writing, darning, ironing and painting my toenails. Around midday I set off to explore the East Village in daylight and not under the influence of...anything. I took the subway to Avenue 2 and walked from there to Tompkins Square Park which is a bit of a local landmark, not least because of the Wigstock Festival which was originally held there until it got too big. Pleasant little place, but you don't want to sit in the same place for too long if you catch my meaning. I explored all the streets around St Mark's Place and before long found myself back on the familiar territory of Washington Square Park and its environs. I walked for miles, all around Union Square and the many shops that beckon and then back across to 8th Street and finally Greenwich Village. Well if I haven't managed to get my bearings after all that then I will have to send back my Duke Of Edinburgh's Award and no mistake.

Picked up some food from the deli and retreated to the apartment to refuel before hitting the town again. I soon realised that by going out at 9.30pm I was way too early, and ended hanging about in half-empty bars trying to look inconspicuous by earnestly reading the emergency evacuation procedures. After three New York style vodka and tonics (a highball filled with ice and vodka and a teaspoonful of tonic) I was swaying in the draft from the air-conditioning and when an Amazonian drag queen winked at me from across the bar I decided it was time to find somewhere else to hang out. I trooped down to a bar on West 16th Street called XL which was extra large in size as opposed to the people in it being on the wrong side of ample. I made quite an impression, especially when I confidently walked into the foyer and opened the door to the broom cupboard in a Peter Sellers stylee. I then walked into the bar and for some reason I took the stairs down to find myself inside an open-plan ladies' lav. As entrances go it wasn't one of my more outstanding efforts. I managed to haul myself up onto a barstool and order a vodka and tonic but by now my head was lolling around like a bladder on a stick and everything was becoming a blur of dry ice and raunchy video. I got my coat and set my automatic pilot to home.

Nighty nighty...bitey bitey! Meet Harold.

Let the bedbugs bite

Sunday
If you are at all squeamish then I suggest you do not read this!

I woke up this morning after a particularly bad night's sleep. The itchy rash I've mentioned before had been getting worse and worse - and I have been waking myself up scratching my arms and neck which are covered in raised red marks. I had put this down to the occasional mosquito we have found in the apartment - but I had felt that the relationship between the number of welts I have (I look like I've got the pox) and the number of mossies was illogical captain. Well, as I sat in bed this morning enjoying a cup of tea and a jolly good read I noticed something journeying across the sheets. On closer inspection it looked like a flea, but without the long back legs. I tried to squash it but it refused to die so I crushed it between my fingernails and splat - claret all over the counterpane! Then I found another one and did the same - more crimson blood. I showed J who checked out a website on bedbugs on the internet. Bedbugs we learned, are quite big fellas - so we dismissed that idea. Now here comes the horrible bit. I decided to look further and removed all the bedding and lifted the mattress off the bedframe and there was a whole thriving family of fat, swollen, bed bugs, scurrying around in surprise at being exposed to daylight. I started squashing them with a tissue until it was soaked in blood - my bloody blood! When it all became too much like a horror movie, I called down to reception who offered us two choices - another apartment or fumigation. We have become rather attached to the apartment, so chose the fumigation option. We quickly packed up all our worldly goods and left the critters to their doom.

Brunch at the Waverley diner, followed by a stroll down to Broadway and a spot of retail therapy. We headed back across town to the Chelsea Piers and wandered around there a while and the Sunday markets around the West Village.

Back in the apartment now, and apart from a slightly disorientated cockroach and a strong chemical smell in the air, everything seems to be OK. I have a whole new bed and mattress - sweet dreams.

Bruce Dellsperger's video installation - but is it art?

High on a hill lived a lonely goatherd

Saturday
There are approximately 200 art galleries in London - in New York there are over 200 in Chelsea alone so I set out to explore a few. As a complete novice, I joined a guided tour which met at 26th Street between 10th and 11th. Aptly named Raphael led the tour, and amusingly got the group's attention by sounding a pink tubular bell he kept in a holster on his belt. I wondered what I had let myself in for as we piled into an original 19th century freight lift up to the 10th floor of a warehouse to look at a ceiling installation all about death, and then on to another gallery showing a video of...well, I don't think I should say here. We carried on around six more galleries taking in a whole selection of drawing, painting and scupture. It was an excellent tour, and Raphael with his pink bell did a tremendous job.

In the evening we found a very pleasant Italian restaurant on Bleeker Street, and fortified with red wine we went on to Marie's Crisis. Now this place has to be experienced to be believed. A small, crowded basement bar where everybody is around a piano singing along to show tunes! We walked in as they were going through the Sound Of Music repertoire, and I couldn't help but join in with 'How Do You Solve A Problem' and 'Edelweiss'. The piano was surrounded by some real musical luvvies and their faces, a picture of sheer earnestness in belting out the numbers (accompanied in falsetto by a big hairy bloke in the corner), will stay with me for quite some time. We stayed through Chicago (I thought my 'Mr Cellophane' was inspired) and Cabaret (tiddly-dee-dee-dee - 'Three Ladies') before it all became too surreal and we had to get back to reality and burst onto the pavement feeling slightly giddy. Only in New York!

If you're trying to do this at home ask a grown-up to help you

East Village rocks

Friday
Jeepers creepers - it's my two week anniversary already.
Wandered down to a bit of a favourite diner on Waverley and 6th for a slap-up breakfast and a spot of mooching around the shops before grabbing a subway uptown to the International Centre of Photography. There were four exhibitions on and I spent over three hours exploring them. First up, photographs by Cornell Capa covering the presidential electoral campaign and the first 100 days of JFK's presidency. Then 'Looking at LIFE' - over 200 prints tracing the history of the magazine including some iconic images of war. There was also a display of Iraqi prison photographs from Abu Grahib which was extremely disturbing, and a film of some people re-enacting the assassination of JFK as well as driving a car through a bank of televisions, which was actually very funny.

Afterwards I sat writing in Bryant Park for a while before heading back to the apartment and an evening out on the Lower East Side and the East Village and some fine bars. I had never explored this part of town before - it looks a little intimidating to the wary tourist - but the streets below East Houston are alive with small bars, cafes and clubs spilling out onto the pavements. I think another visit is on the cards.

Well I'll be blown

No wristband. No beer. Period.

Thursday
I've been reading a fair bit about this Vincent Gallo film called 'The Brown Bunny' which caused a bit of a stir when it opened, so being a bit of a fan of Mr Gallo's work I headed down to Avenue 1 and the Sunshine Cinema. Rather a seedy little place, I became a little troubled when I saw the sign saying 'Over 21's Only' and realised the only other people in the cinema were single men 'of a certain age'. Not one to pass up on an experience, I gamely found a secluded seat and watched the film, described by Time Out New York as "...very, very, very bad." The story follows a motorcycle racer who drives from New Hampshire to Los Angeles with a blow-by-blow (literally!) account of the journey. "Monotony reigns supreme here; won't something - anything! - please happen?" - I disagree - I thought it was a blinding pieces of film-making - edgy, stripped-down and honest. Not for the narrow-minded though.

Afterwards I hopped on an uptown subway and travelled to 42nd Street and the library for some more furious jotting business.

We walked down to Irving Plaza in the evening for the sellout gig - The Thrills supported by the Zutons. Another supercool venue - although having to prove you are over 21 years of age in order to get a wristband stating 'Over 21' before you can buy a can of lager from the bar was a little crazy. We took up our positions in front of the stage and enjoyed a blinding performance by The Zutons (it's true, the saxophone player does dance like a monkey) followed by a lovely set by The Thrills. Tremendous entertainment - and all within 15 minutes walk of the apartment and a fridgeful of beer. Mustn't grumble.

Sorted for Es and whizz

Peach Flavor Shrimps

The New York Observer is the equivalent of The Guardian, except for two things: it's published only once a week and I'll be jiggered if I can do the crossword. I grabbed a copy and headed off to Washington Square Park for a comfy bench and a quiet read. Back in the good old 1980's, the park was notorious as a drug dealing centre and had a dangerous reputation. Disappointingly, not so today - but by the way the squirrels were acting I have my suspicions that they took the precaution of burying a stash along with their nuts. I was sitting near the dog enclosure and watched the cheeky little mutts cavorting with each other - New York dogs seem so happy and sociable unlike their British counterparts - it must be the way they're raised or something in the water.

I wandered along 8th Street all the way to 1st Avenue, exploring all the thrift stores and 'alternative fashion' shops. An outfit for every occasion! Back at Union Square I hopped on a subway train uptown to 59th Street and then headed west along 57th to the old Morning Star diner H and I have frequented many times over the years. The waiter recognised me which was something, and I had a hearty lunch - enough food for four. Flicking through TimeOut New York I saw 'Farenheit 9/11' was playing at a cinema down on 42nd so I wandered along to that. A great cinema - and a very moving and disturbing film. It really got to me. Plenty of food for thought there.

Back on foot via trendy 8th Avenue to 15th Street and a quiet evening in.

I urge you to read this book

Modigliani dies at 35

Tuesday

Horrible itchy heat rash kept me awake, so felt all weary this morning. But unstoppable, I pulled myself together and headed off on the subway up to 96th Street and then walked down 4 blocks to 92nd Street and The Jewish Museum. The queue was even longer than when we abandoned the idea of visiting the exhibition last week, but this time I had my determined hat on and I joined the long line of little old Jewish ladies heavy in jewellery and make-up. Blending in well, I read my new book as I waited – ‘Sky Burial’ by Xinran which was a very generous gift given to me when I left London. It’s beautifully written, and I was totally absorbed for the hour it took me to reach the front of the queue. The Modigliani exhibition was stunning and fascinating and I spent over two hours over it. Just as fascinating were all the incredibly ancient people in the exhibition - average age 93. Afterwards I explored the rest of the museum but it wasn’t really for me.

I had planned to return to the library, but the sun was shining and there was Central Park so I found a leafy glade and settled down for a couple of hours to write. I watched the dozens of people walking dogs and got all sentimental missing my little Sammie back at home. One man was walking eight huge dogs on individual leads – quite an undertaking I would have thought – imagine the number of poop-bags you’d end up with!

It was getting on for 6pm so I walked back through the park to 59th and took a subway home. Negotiating the entrance/exit barrier was a challenge in itself – I was rebuffed by a terribly indignant New Yorker who pushed me back as I tried to go in, “I’ve been stuck in here for ten minutes! Ten minutes!” she shouted at me, as if it was entirely my fault. I apologised - because I’m English.

Neil Hannon reflecting on my blog yesterday

But it's hard to get by when your arse is the size of a small country

Monday

I felt like having a bit of a home day today – can’t keep this mad capering going without the occasional pause for reflection. In addition, the wretched humidity was kicking in again, and that tends to bring on the old lethargy in buckets. So, I spent some time emailing all the lovely people who have been so kind to write to me. Feeling stickier than a stickinsect, I whacked up the air-conditioning in the bedroom, shut the door for half and hour and then went in there and did some ice-skating. It was like being slammed in the cooler. I did some incredibly deep and moving writing for a couple of hours, and then slipped into unconsciousness, and woke up with frosted eyebrows.

Then off to the Bowery Ballroom to see the divine Divine Comedy. After some seriously good support acts at the Electralane gig last week, we decided to get there in plenty of time to catch the two songstresses Amy Correia and Polly Paulusma. Talented people though they were, after the joys of Scout Nibblett we were left feeling short-changed. Never mind, an extremely good excuse to sip beer in the funky old bar downstairs. By the time we went back upstairs for The Divine Comedy, the place was heaving and we had a spot of bother finding somewhere to stand with a clear view where we weren’t stepping on anybody’s espadrilles. Success was ours, and the gig was highly enjoyable. A lot of tracks from the Absent Friends album, every one a gem, and some quirky old stuff too. Marvellous. An amusing ‘request spot’ included Blur’s Song 2, We Are The Champions and even a touch of the Scissor Sisters – inspired madness and tomfoolery.

On leaving the venue, we completely failed to find the subway. As a result, we walked the whole way home and collapsed with aching corns and running pustules – not pretty.

How's that for an air vent?

Sunday Morning

Up with the lark (who thankfully also slept in) and popped out for the Sunday edition of the New York Times, which surely must be the heaviest newspaper in the world. A wheelbarrow would have been invaluable.

Took a wander down to the Chelsea piers – an area I had never previously explored but which has been radically ‘cleaned up’ in recent years I am told. We walked there via the Meatpacking District but the packers had long since packed up their packing and been sent packing (had to get that in) and wandered along the banks of the Hudson from Bank Street all the way down to Rockerfeller Park. Every patch of grass (real and artificial) was covered in sunbathers like seals basking on a rock.

There’s a picture here (somewhere) of the Holland Tunnel Air Vent with a sculpture installation in the foreground based on Brancusi’s bird in flight works. Nice.

More twisty than a twisty-twister.

Through Tribeca and then on past Ground Zero where street-hawkers would happily sell you disaster pictures of the attack in every format except tea-towel. That display of macabre exploitation I found more disturbing than looking at the crater itself. Also slightly unsettling was the guidebook I was using which was clearly written pre-9/11 – get this - written about the earlier foiled bomb-attack: “It would have been almost funny to see such an immovable thing crack in half like a Twix bar and fall into the river.” I wonder if TimeOut have since revised this!

From there we headed back up north along Church Street passing all the crazy cast-iron buildings built in the 1850s and 60s, and the totally weird, huge, windowless, reddish-brown concrete structure that looks like a giant gun turret and is alleged to house a secret government centre designed to be resistant to nuclear attack. Spooky thing.

It wasn’t until we had to walk back to the apartment that we realised how far we had travelled. A bite to eat and then off to the cinema on Bleeker Street to see French director Cédric Kahn’s ‘Red Lights’ – a film both menacingly-exciting and amusing. A man with a big head was sitting in front of me, which meant I couldn’t read the subtitles, which was probably good for my French language skills!

It would have been churlish and rude to pass the Red Lion without taking a beer on the gin terrace, so we didn’t and we did. Next thing it’s midnight and we meander homeward for a nightcap and pyjamas.

All quiet on the eastern front

It goes without saying that it was a delicious dinner, served with panache and a bottle of Italian red. The rest of the evening was spent in a futile attempt to make this site even sexier than it already isn’t. Oh well, Rome wasn’t built in a day.

Being the historically significant date it is, all was fairly quiet this morning, which meant I got to sleep a little better thank the lord. Some time after midday I wandered out into the real world and took the subway from 14th Street up to 42nd – no more block-walking for me thank you very much – not since I’ve had my feet surgically removed for charity. I browsed for some time in Coliseum Books, something I’ve been doing a lot of lately. I’m sure they think I’m a shoplifter – oi, no giggling at the back.

I stood momentarily spellbound in front of a marvellous mural by Lichtenstein at 42nd Street which I’ve never noticed before – is it new or have the scales fallen from my eyes?


Little picture but the best I can manage for now.

Where was I? Back to the NYPL (library in your parlance) and up the marble stairs to the reading room where I spend two and a half hours scribbling in notebooks and occasionally writing something until the air-conditioning got the better of me and I went outside to thaw out. I watched the hip-hop dancers on the steps for a few minutes before heading along to the Virgin Megastore to take a look at what Woody Allen DVDs they had available. I became completely entranced by a DVD of ‘Family Guy’ playing on the screens, and must have watched it chuckling away to myself for almost an hour before being forcibly removed by security. Have I been missing out on something here? It was hilarious. I walked briskly back to the subway at 42nd Street, past the stage in Times Square being set up for Broadway On Broadway which I think must be tomorrow night.

Revived by tea and biscuits I popped out for an experience in the deli, then made garlic bread and reheated yesterday’s leftovers with salad for dinner. Streamed through the Internet we had ‘Just a Minute’ and the weekly ration of Jonathan Ross. Much radio hilarity madness.

Dot P

You may now turn over your papers and begin

Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses

Another incredibly noisy night on West 15th Street resulting in much tossing and turning. At least the humidity level seems to have subsided a touch. After breakfast I headed off up 6th Avenue all the way to 42nd Street and the New York Public Library where I made myself comfortable in the amazing reading room for a couple of hours of concentrated writing. At 2pm, I joined the library tour for a very interesting hour and a half look around the building. Afterwards, I decided to set off on one of those literary walks taking in the salons and saloons of Dorothy Parker, billed as one of the shrewdest and and most elegant satirists of the 20th century.

Starting off on 44th Street at the Algonquin Hotel, home to the famous Algonquin Round Table - the queen of which was Dorothy Parker who produced such wondrous witticisms as the title of this entry, as well as such gems as: "If all the girls who attended the Yale prom were laid end to end, I wouldn't be a bit surprised" and "If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to." My current favourite wee poem is:

Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love is a thing that can never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Roumania.

The walk took me along 47th Street through Hell's Kitchen to 9th Avenue where I found the birthplace of the New Yorker magazine visited by Harpo Marx, George Gershwin and Scott Fitzgerald. I carried on back to 6th Avenue and all the way up past Radio City Music Hall to Central Park where I rested up and wrote a postcard by the lake. Back down 5th Avenue via Tiffany & Co, St Patrick's Cathedral and the Rockefeller Centre. I continued on foot all the way back down 7th Avenue and home. Then my feet fell off with a kerplonk. I managed to screw them back on in order to fetch some wine from the liquor store. Meanwhile, J cooks dinner and the air is filled with sweet smells. Even George the flying cockroach is rubbing his feelers expectantly. Full review tomorrow. The final quote from dear Dot Parker though could be deemed to be poignantly relevant:

"This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force."

Hey Modi - why the long face?

There's a huge flying beetle above my head

Wednesday
A bit of a late start to the day but it started nonetheless. Breakfast turned into lunch and outside the hot, balmy weather turned into hot sticky and rainy weather. Going out was not particularly appealing. I thought I would take the opportunity to send emails to all my buddywoos when J came up with the inspired suggestion that I should start my very own webpage. Being new to all this stuff, the beginnings were shaky and wobbled dangerously on their lallies, but after a little patient coaching I was soon on the right track - and low and behold...I gave birth to a bouncing baby blog. Thank you for all your kind emails and encouraging comments - I'm happy to report that mother and baby are fine. But no cigar. I finally ventured out between showers (of the rain variety) to buy food, and then spent the rest of the evening writing away. I really did.

Thursday
How can these people be so noisy? It would appear that they custom design all vehicles to rattle and crash after 11pm and every single alarm available to anybody in New York City must be sounded by law between 2 and 4am. And if your car's fitted with an alarm - oh what the hell - let that go off too. On top of this, the most dilapidated rubbish carts in the world must be driven by maniacs and all trash thrown at maximum velocity to create the loudest noises know to man at approximately 4.15am. Apart from that, I slept very well. Went out onto the damp and humid streets to buy milk, juice and the New York Observer (a most excellent newspaper) and after a leisurely breakfast (broadcast live by webcam - guaranteed to cause indigestion) we headed off to 50th Street on the fantastically airconditioned subway. J had arranged to purchase a gizmo-gadget from Manny's - probably the most famous music store in New York. Keyboards and guitars from floor to ceiling, but what fascinated me were the signed photographs of all the famous customers - from Lou Reed to Samantha Fox - and everybody else in between. We took the subway up to 96th Street and made our way to the Jewish Museum on 92nd and 5th to see the Modigliani exhibition. There was a queue winding around the block, and given the extreme heat and melting J, we decided this would be best left for a rainy day. So instead, we followed Dustin Hoffman's Marathon Man footprints around the reservoir in Central Park. We passed many a sweaty jogger running in a 'for gawd's sake get me to the church on time' stylee (bless them) before we flopped down with a chilled drink by the lake. A couple of hours passed in a blink in the company of Jack Kerouac who has the delirium tremens now. We took the cool subway back to the apartment. In London, you dread getting on the Underground in hot weather. Here, we are using any excuse to step onto those fantastically cooled trains. It's worth paying $2 just to cool off a while. After a while, we headed off down to Bleeker Street and back to our old favourite - The Red Lion where the waitress (who previously gave us grief) is now our friend and even remembered our order from...how ever long ago it was. We sat outside, and braved a torrential downpour which sent less hardy drinkers scurrying inside to witness the delights of the rather poor cover band bashing out 'Born In The USA' and other standards indoors. Back to the apartment for supper and G&Ts via Greenwich Avenue. Yesterday I saw a mouse (where? there on the stair - literally) and tonight my midnight typing is watched over by a super-size me cockroach type affair which isn't a cockroach according to J because it can fly and moves like a tiger on vaseline on the ceiling as opposed to scurrying around on the floor. Bedbugs and failing airconditioning aside, all is well in the city that never sleeps (that'll be Stomp performing in the back of that dustcart again then).

I'm the one in the hat

LON-NY

Probably for the best if I put things into perspective.

Friday
On 3 September J and I flew to Newark and took the train to Manhattan where we checked into our Chelsea apartment for a month. We walked around in a jet-lagged stupor looking for a bar to hangout in and managed to wander in a circle approximately three times, bouncing off shop windows, street furniture and each other. Sleep was prescribed.

Saturday
A sunny day in New York town. It's hard to sleep with all the noise on the street. It sounded like Stomp were giving an impromptu performance under the window, and I don't like Stomp. I sat up in bed, and unaware it was on casters, it shot across the bedroom and I ended up in a never-before-attempted yoga position. J set up a web cam on the apartment to give that Big Brother feel – check it out at http://www.yuka.co.uk/. Hello mum. We took the subway to Columbus Circle and wandered through Central Park. We were fascinated by turtles in the lake, and sat and watched amateur rowers play bumper-boats. After a couple of hours, we took the subway from 77th Street to Bleeker Street where we dined in an old Italian café. We had planned to take in a movie, but lingered too long over our wine and missed the start so we found a bar on Bleeker Street called The Red Lion where we upset the waitress and caused a scene by ignoring protocol and wandering from the bar, drinks in hand, to an outside table. Rounded off a most pleasant day with G&Ts back in the apartment.

Sunday
I took myself off shopping which was fine in the Chelsea indoor market - but soon regretted the decision when I got out of the subway at Times Square and the whole area was heaving with people. Spent some time in the Virgin Megastore, and bought some sheet music in Colony Books – there’s a piano in the apartment and I’ve challenged myself to learn Kurt Weill’s September Song (appropriate huh?) by the end of the month. I walked all the way back down 7th Avenue to the apartment, picking up a copy of the New York Times on the way. Went out to a restaurant on Bleeker Street for dinner, but the pizzas were not so good. Finished reading John Steinbeck’s ‘The Moon Is Down’.

Monday
Started reading Jack Kerouac’s ‘Big Sur’ and loving it. We left the apartment about midday and walked down to Washington Square Park and on across Broadway and along East Houston to Lafayette. Found David Bowie’s loft apartment and skulked about furtively on the sidewalk, but he wouldn’t come out and play with us. Caught the subway all the way to Coney Island and explored the post-Soviet delights of Brighton Beach. I threw caution to the wind and bought a CD called Ivan Kypala (traditional folk songs, sung by babushkas from the countryside north of Moscow laid over modern beats) and we munched on pirogi as we wandered streets of houses tucked in under the railway and inhabited by a mainly Middle Easterners and Mexicans. We planned to take the boardwalk to Coney Island, but the sun was beating down relentlessly, so fearing sunstroke, we took the subway instead. We took in all the gimcrack attractions of the ‘fun zone’ – sensory overload with stalls named ‘Dunk the Creep’ and ‘Shoot the Freak’. I couldn’t be tempted onto the rickety Cyclone roller-coaster, so we played crazy golf in a crazy stylee. Paddled in the Atlantic, then ended up in the Freak Bar, beer in hand watching a man push ice-picks up his nose and snap mousetraps on his tongue, an Indian rubber-man contortionist and Eek the Geek on a bed of nails. On the long subway journey home, a man sitting opposite us pissed in his trousers and a trail of urine trickled up and down the carriage. Being English, we didn’t like to say anything.

Tuesday
Everybody should read Kerouac. Sadly his cat, little Tyke, has died. In a letter his mum tells him: "I never did anything in my whole life so heart breaking as to bury my beloved little Tyke who was as human as you and I. I buried him under the Honeysuckle vines, the corner, of the fence. I just can't sleep or eat. I keep looking and hoping to see him come through the cellar door calling Ma Wow." After a morning of intensive writing activity (in my mind) we wandered out to do a spot of shopping. I found a couple of decent shirts, which were going for a song. Circumnavigated Dave’s place again – nothing. Bought some 'best cheesecake in New York' at Eileen's and then ate heartily at a diner on 6th Avenue. In the evening we took the subway to Franklin Street and despite neglecting to bring out a map with us, managed to find The Knitting Factory – a very cool venue for band watching. Up first was Scout Niblett who sang and played the guitar accompanied by a drummer. She was fantastic – I was rooted to the spot, except when more beer was called for that is. She occasionally plays small venues in London – look her up on the Internet. Next on was Miho (Of Cibo Mato) who we also loved a lot. Finally, sometime after 11pm Electrelane (the band we had come to see) took the stage by storm with their exciting, climatic music. I thought they were great, but J wasn’t so keen. Back home by 1am, then sat up sipping G&Ts and listening to great music until the early hours.