It was the wind that woke me. I had been dozing on the deeply cushioned sofa for what seemed like hours but in fact must surely have only been a few minutes if the candles could be trusted. All the electricity had gone out earlier in the afternoon and with this storm it was no wonder. I'd returned to my darkened flat reluctantly, certain that the boredom would kill me and set about lighting what few candles I had. Strange how accustomed we've become to our CDs, television, electric light. I felt like a Victorian but it was impossible to read by candlelight and naturally I fell asleep.

The wind was fierce now, causing tree branches to scratch across the windows and eerie sounds like whistles through a tunnel to float up into my rooms. A draft from somewhere blew out the remaining candle and suddenly the darkness was absolute. As I headed toward the windows to draw back the curtains a tremor ran through me. I hesitated. I was frightened and felt silly. What could happen? Courageous again, I flung back the curtains and heard myself scream. There on the ledge was Mrs. Fishman's cat come from next door. Immobile as a statue and all over black with its golden eyes staring straight at me.

I closed the curtains, preferring the darkness to the surveying eyes of a creepy cat and stumbled in the gloom back to the coffee table to try to relight the blown candle. After a few fumbling manoeuvres with a book of matches I managed to restore some light to the room and fetched myself a large whisky from the drinks table. Gin would have been better, but the tonic was in the kitchen and I didn't fancy the trip down that darkened hallway.

I sat in the upright wingback chair facing the still room and watched as the flickering candle produced macabre shadows before me. I became instantly aware of every sound in the house, some seemingly less natural than others. From somewhere I heard a faucet drip, and once the unmistakable creak of the stair just outside my door. Then I heard it again.

My mind was playing tricks on me, I tried telling myself, and took a generous sip from my glass. Instead of calming my nerves the drink seemed to put them more on edge and still the wind howled and the stairs creaked. I let my eyes trail about the room in search of a possible weapon, but there was nothing, save perhaps the heavy Murano bowl that lay on the coffee table. That it could conceivably cause concussion was but bitter comfort.

I dozed again but this time no noises woke me. The morning sun was now peeking through the curtains and the candle had long since extinguished itself and only a mound of melted wax remained in the silver tray. My empty glass lay at my feet where I had left it. I stood up and stretched and laughed at my own folly. My late night imaginings in the light of day were actually quite amusing- a grown man afraid of the dark. I moved to the windows to pull back the draperies and found a blameless though somewhat windblown garden.

Still chuckling to myself I began to tidy the room and while passing through to the kitchen I stopped dead in my tracks. It was impossible to scream, I could find no voice. But there was no imagining this. My front door stood wide open and staring back at me were the golden eyes of Mrs. Fishman's cat.

Happy Halloween

(Not very scary I know, but while writing it I got freaked out at every turn. All true, by the way, except the end and my feeble attempts at suspense.)

JHP

I know I never mentioned it but I did meet a charming young man while I was drifting along the peaceful current in Los Angeles. It was not my intention to meet anyone, and certainly not a 22 year old UCLA law student, but there you are. Who knows how these things happen. Or why. It was a Thursday evening, calm and warm, the way most southern Californian nights are and I was stirred by the remembrance of a similar night years ago when circumstances too lengthy to go into here found me in a West Hollywood nightclub grinding with the beautiful Mila Jovavich. I decided to return to the club and made my entrance amid the pulsing strobe lights in the pregnant moments just before midnight. Here I must describe for you the outfit I wore- green suede cowboy boots and the dyed jeans to match for which Roberto Cavalli must ever be praised, and a fitted denim shirt- suitably distressed and rakishly unbottoned. After all, this was LA. It was while approaching the bar and feeling very much like Lenny Kravitz that I perceived a smile beaming in my direction. The warmth emanating from this smile enveloped me, caressed me. The man behind it, when he spoke, said all the right things and I was immediately and utterly seduced.

I marvel at the youth of today who when they see a thing they want they go after it. Frankly I cannot remember if I was this way at that age, but I doubt it. Throughout the night we drank and danced and smoked and talked. We found a cosy banquette in the deepest recesses where it was quiet and dim and the heady scent of incense made us giddy. Undisturbed, we stayed there late into the night, and on a gentle wave our conversation flowed. The next day, bouyed by bliss, and exhausted by our protracted efforts at discovering it, we drove through the winding streets of Westwood and Brentwood touring the leafy borders of his university life, then off to a French bistro for lunch. My flight was scheduled for that evening and he'd wanted this day to be special, something I'd remember. Well it was, and I do.

Back in New York and I'm surprised that I still think of him. We speak on the telephone often and more often he sends text messages, managing through this strange medium to be romantic in one or two lines. I get a lot of pleasure from asking him to tell me what he's wearing. I never expect from him the rude responses this question would usually summon in others and his habitual 'shorts and a t-shirt' is exactly what I like to hear. I quite like my exaggerated image of him in his off-campus flat surrounded by the trappings of student life- computer, books, CDs, and clothes everywhere in messy mounds. In the parlance of his generation, I find it 'hot'.

He occupies my mind a great deal more than the judge I am currently dating here in NY. To be honest, my heart just isn't in it. Although he looks far younger than his fifty years and has one or two other qualities to recommend him, he speaks in fatherly tones, which perhaps are inevitable and which put me right back there with my own father. With him I fall into my unattractive childhood habit of constantly asserting my independence and capability of ordering my own life. He means well but I can see no future with the judge. But then do I see one with the law student?

Who knows. Only time (and perhaps a jury) can tell.

The man in the elegant camel's hair coat paused briefly at the door before making his zigzag way through the restaurant. His luncheon companion was already seated at the table, had been for half an hour, and was at that moment draining his second glass. It had been nearly a month since the two had met for their daily midday exchange of gossip, laments, news and views, but despite this lapse they were able to easily and without undue ceremony resume their habit. A great deal had changed at the restaurant. The same regulars were in place occupying their usual tables, but the autumn fashions they now displayed were fabulously rich and seemed to transform the decor as if new velvet draperies and sumptuous carpets were laid throughout.

The two men ordered quickly and somewhat rashly and settled in for a warm reunion over oysters and wine. There was so much to talk about. 'So where have you been hiding yourself? What have you been up to? Have you been out of the country?', Davide spoke first in his habitual way of firing off a barrage of questions, his diminished Italian accent only resurfacing in times of anxiety. But really, he'd not seen his friend in almost four weeks and the suspense was killing him. John's reply, when it came, was non-commital and therefore unsatisfactory, 'No, I've been around.' It was something even he could not yet define, and this bothered him as much as he knew his withdrawal had bothered Davide. Davide, who knew his friend well accepted this, and prepared himself for the explanation he was sure would eventually come. Perhaps today, perhaps next week, but it would come. It was over the main course that Davide gazed out of the window and sighed at the grey skies. He longed for a tropical getaway and said so. Autumn always did this to him. Thus the two were able to name the source of their general malaise.

Beyond the windows a fierce wind blew stirring the fallen leaves and bits of trash that lay scattered along the cobblestoned streets. 'The change of seasons', reflected John as he drew on his elegant coat and bade farewell to his longtime friend. It had been a good lunch, he thought.

Lately I have not been seen at the parties and little dinners that are the fabric of New York's social season. Plays at the theater have opened and closed and delighted or disappointed the audiences, but I have not been of the number. I have even given up my daily lunches at Pastis, by far the most dramatic move I've made. I don't miss it. I felt I was beginning to be a little overexposed and decided to retreat and well, re-assess.

This city is amazingly diverse. For a change of scene one need only cross the park, or venture a bit further east. I've discovered the haunts of artists (I thought they'd all been forced out by exhorbitant rents). They welcomed me and inspired me. It is because of them that I found myself in an art supply shop recently and under the kind direction of one of the salesmen there ordered all that I would need to become a dedicated painter. Apparently, one needs a great deal of things.

I chose to work in oil because I wanted above all the lengthy process. It was time I wanted, time to reflect and evaluate and make changes if necessary. I thought of the canvas as my life and in every brushstroke there would be heavy contemplation. This is proving to be a worthy experiment, and so far I'm quite pleased with the results.

.

Something is definitely wrong when I find myself alone of an evening sat with a plate of Pringles and a whisky-laced cuppa surfing the telly. A million channels, all of them promising the very best in the way of couch potato diversion and I fall on 'Love Actually', and actually stay there. I must have seen this little dandy a hundred times and it still hooks me. It's true that I've been a bit emotional these past couple of weeks, but is that any reason to spill copious tears all over my new dressing gown?

I cried like an old fool. More than that, I sat pitched on the edge of my seat racing to the airport along with the characters to proclaim my love before it was too late. I shared their every bitter regret and embarrassment; every joyful embrace and bold admission of love the actors so persuasively portrayed on the screen was mine.

I find that movies like these are a good barometer for my emotional state. Since I typically bury things so far beneath the surface, I often forget what's there and it's only being caught unawares by films like 'Secrets and Lies', or 'About a Boy', or yes, 'Love effing Actually' that I can properly exhume them.

The past few days have found me in the constant company of a very clever man- my attorney. As a rule he is never very jolly. Nor is he particularly interesting to look at. He cares little, if at all, about the vagaries of men's fashion (and really, this is such an interesting time for menswear), and at the lunch table his efforts at playing the racconteur sometimes pall. But you present him with your tear-stained copy of the daily rag wherein your own spotless character has been attacked and maligned and watch this boy fly. It was impressive and a little touching, I admit, to see a grown man run to my rescue and in an instant begin to fire off explosive missives all about 'slander!' and 'defamation of character!'.

In a not unrelated episode my longtime friendship with Jeremy is now firmly, irrevocably over (it was he who played fast and loose with my good name in the tabloids). Our once daily conversations shall now be continued between our esteemed attorneys.

But as flowers often bloom where dead things are buried, I've started dating a judge.

I needed a change of scene. It was all becoming too much for me and I felt as if the very air in New York was oppressing me. I fled to the west where there are grand vistas to remind me of the beauty of life, where there are sun-dappled tables on flowered terraces to take my healthful meals. Where a beach lay at the foot of a majestic mountain, and all around me, in a world completely foreign to my own, no one knows me. After a week of seaside contemplation, I feel renewed.

Tomorrow I return to all that I know and love. Tomorrow I’ll have a look at the messages that have accumulated and finally answer to those who wondered where I’d got to.

But today I must thank you my fellow bloggers for all the comments you’ve left like roses bound in jolly ribbon. It’s been a joy and a surprise to read your supporting words (with me at my worst- stroppy and vain). What I feel about you all is best said with a long embrace.

JHP

The tall good-looking man stood before the mirror and regarded with unalloyed satisfaction the image he found reflected there. It was only in moments like these, in the still privacy of his flat, that he gave full vent to the narcissism that ran rampant through his veins. Black velvet suited him. Dressed as he was he felt all the power and feline seduction of a panther and the feeling was particularly apt for this would be a night to preen, if not prowl. Greatness is never wholly the achievement of one, and with this in mind he had the grace and generosity to admit that his tailor was in fact due a large share of credit. But the body that obeyed his every command was his and his alone. The (as yet) unlined visage of smooth angularity could be claimed by no one but him. Were these treasures to be spoilt by the ravages of late-night worries and romantic neglect? The man in the mirror looked out with an expression of indulgence and the wisdom of one who knows to leave unworthy questions unanswered.

Hours later the elegantly-dressed man was spotted leaving a large gathering held in the sumptuous apartments of one of New York's most celebrated hostesses. He was joined by another guest who too had tired of the party and sought quieter environs more conducive to what was turning out to be a most interesting conversation with a most interesting man. Instinctively the two fell in step with each other and began to stroll toward Fifth Avenue, where at that hour they imagined (wrongly) that they would be quite alone. The midnight sighting of two fashionably-attired and attractive men walking along New York's most famous thoroughfare and speaking in rapidfire French drew animated stares from the many tourists that had flocked to that quarter. Once they were even detained by an inquisitive Texan made bold by beer and big city life, whose question was put with a forthrightness that was truly impressive, "Where're yew boys fru-um?" The two men whose bloodlines were a veritable soup and between them could have named half a dozen countries as home were guided by expedience and humour and replied, "New Jersey."

Eventually the two parted in a manner marked by sincerity and some silence and the lingering looks which often say more than they ought and are immediately understood anywhere in the world. Alone again, the tall good-looking man regained his rooms and ran his mind over the recent painful events that had threatened to crease his brow. How distant they seemed. And how utterly unimportant. It was only when his eye fell by chance on the blinking light of the answerphone that he remembered with a keenness the anger that had been his weekend companion. He paused for an instant before pressing the little button on the machine marked 'Delete', then he took from his jacket pocket the small engraved card with the private telephone number scrawled on the back and smiled as he laid it on the table. Noiselessly he put out the lights and went to bed.

Is this the cross the fates would have me bear? What have I ever done to them? And don't go telling me it's all my fault for falling incredibly hard and much too fast because really, that's the last thing I need to hear, at this hour of the day, at my time of life. Sailing! If you can believe that. What kind of fool operation is that anyway? Back and forth I've tramped across the carpet, my nights white with wild images of him lying wounded and unclaimed in some hospital, or worse. My mind blazing with the fiery notions of him starring in scenes of rankest infidelity. And all the while he was off in Miami sailing with his mates. Been there since Friday, if you please. Oh haven't you heard, the telephone has yet to be introduced into that glittering seaside oasis. In fact, the Delano Hotel may as well be the third world. Well if he thinks I've nothing better to do than putter about here while he's off sailing the high seas... Who does he think he is anyway? Oh sure, now that Captain Ahab is back in New York he's apparently found those much-needed coins for the payphone or remembered my exchange. Well that bloody phone can ring its head off for all I care. I have half a mind to run off into the hills for a spot of mountainclimbing. That'll show him. Or hanggliding. That's rich. And this was the first really beautiful weekend we've had here. New York in all its colourful, romantic, leaf-strewn splendour. Oh, I'm in a foul mood today. He can just leave all the messages he wants, let his mind race for once. Let him imagine me... well he knows I'd never go in for any of those adventure sports (he once suggested a kayaking holiday and I can tell you I gave him such a look). Let him imagine me going out to that party tonight all alone dressed in one of those dangerously sexy Costume National outfits that he loves, reeking of gin, and speaking volumes (as he says I do) with my eyes. Let his worst fears purple his night just this once. Maybe I'll phone tomorrow or next week with an excuse worthy of his.