Are you going to let these idiots make me miss my connection? Well, are you?

New York beckoned. Then winked. Then said, ‘I’m not going to ask you again.’ So I packed my overnight bag and hopped on the Metro-North Railroad from New Haven to Grand Central Station. Arriving in Manhattan mid-morning and stepping into the cathedral-like arrivals hall wasn’t a bad feeling. I went in search of coffee. Damn un-fine coffee. I then sauntered a little along Madison before meeting up with some New York friends at the The Morgan. What an amazing place. This incredible building houses the Pierpont Morgan Library and Museum and has to be seen to be believed – such opulence. More Gutenberg Bibles than you could shake a cross at, medieval and Renaissance illuminated texts and manuscripts by anybody who was anybody. And as for his study... Then there were the exhibitions: Dress in the Art of Medieval France and the Netherlands, Jim Dine’s Glyptotek Drawings and Lists. We headed downtown to the East Village and a cracking little restaurant called Westville. Delicious food and a good time was had by all. I was only sorry I had booked a hotel in the midtown – a soulless place, but cheap (you can’t knock $99) and that’s the thing folks. What was great about it was if you found the back staircase from the top floor you could make your way out onto a rooftop terrace complete with white picket fences, Astroturf and wooden benches. The perfect place to enjoy a glass of chilled Sauvignon Blanc before heading up to 60th street to catch the latest Woody Allen film, Midnight In Paris. This film has been very popular in New York (which is unusual these days for a Woody) – so much so that certain cinemas have been showing it on multiple screens with punters having to arrive early to secure a ticket. I wasn’t disappointed. The cinema was full and the film was a corker – I can’t remember the last time I was part of a cinema audience which burst into spontaneous applause at the end of a film – a great sensation for a long-time Woody Allen admirer like moi. Afterwards I retired to a bar where I pulled up a stool and drank some very cold lager and pretended to be interested in the rugby on the tv screens – not an easy one for me to pull off.

I was up with the police sirens and took my tea on the rooftop terrace before wandering across to the Morning Star diner on 57th between 8th and 9th for old time’s sake. Next stop MoMA. She told me not to come, but the German Expressionism exhibition was about to finish and I didn't want to miss this one. It was superb. I even had a free tour while admiring works by some of my favourite artists. Deeply moving. Afterwards I spiralled around the galleries to shake hands with a few old mates – Matisse, Chagall, Derain, Brancusi...they were all there like celebrities posing for the paparazzi as tourists armed with digital cameras snapped away – few people stopping to look at any art unless it was on the screen of their phone. I grumbled and mumbled and shuffled away.

Too much German Expressionism can curdle the brain, so I bought a wrap and a yoghurt and found a good spot to people-watch beneath the statue of Shakespeare (I know!) in Central Park. Revived, I carried on walking uptown to 86th street where I was pleased to find the Neue Gallery open and I managed another two hours in the company of Egon Schiele, Oskar Kokoschka – and oh yes, hello – don’t I know you from somewhere? Of course it is - Mr Gustav Klimt how the devil? My, you are looking well, and I love the way you’re working that golden look. Whoops – half an hour to go before my train so I whizzed down to Grand Central on an express train and then I’m on my way back to New Haven. There’s never a dull moment – a fight broke out in the carriage and it all became a little tense. Then the guard came and the driver stopped the train and came out of his compartment and the police were called and people who were going to miss their connections got all excited and started yelling and before you could say ‘I’m afraid of Americans’ there was a heated debate about displaced people and ‘...Oh my oh my oh my’ said Mole. The baddies were arrested and left us with a torrent of ‘motherfuckers and fucking faggots’ pleasantly echoing in our ears as we continued on to New Haven. And so to bed.

Monday and it's back to er, 'work'. My days consist of sleeping badly in the intense heat, getting up, walking 5 minutes down the road to the Yale Center for British Art, looking at amazing things, going for lunch, looking at more amazing things, going back to my apartment and writing up all my notes, making dinner, having a few cleansing lagers and then repeat to fade.

Tomorrow I must make a presentation to the entire staff. That’s the entire staff. All the staff. Every one of them. Even Rosemary the switchboard operator, and Henry the janitor. Hold on – could be!