Cool as a cucumber I've been, and calm. My words, a constant flow of reassurances, were sent down the telephone across five time zones to ease his anxious quaking heart. But the day is almost here, you see. And I've suddenly begun to nibble at my fingernails.

I think of his arrival at the airport, a scene he's been fretting over for some time and one which without warning has come to invade my daytime dreams, all vivid colour and stilted image. I can see myself making awkward gestures and vain attempts at conversation, and grow horrified at the thought. For the first time my confidence is slipping away, and in its place there's a kind of fear which is really just the exposure of my vulnerability. I don't know why that should seem less important, the result is the same.

And so another sleepless night, but perhaps my last.
He arrives tomorrow.

Happy New Year

I wish all of you a lovely Christmas.

See you soon,
John

For the past 20 years one man has consistently and quietly put forth his singular point of view in fashion. His designs have stormed the catwalks of Paris, won raves from discerning editors worldwide and personally changed my life. Tonight I raise my glass to Ennio Capasa of Costume National; maestro, visionary and friend.

We first met a decade ago after the triumphant debut of his men's collection. The slim silhouette, the rich fabrics and the sombre colours were, to me, revolutionary, and I was instantly devoted. The man behind the label proved to be, as Mrs. Thatcher would have said, 'someone with whom I could do business'. We share many of the same influences, philosophies, and ways of looking at life. We both categorically refuse to mellow with age, preferring instead to explore cantankerousness and idiosyncratic behaviour. We also happen to wear the same size which makes fittings a breeze. I can say no more in the way of tribute than to admit to all of you here that I happily pay full price for his clothes.

Happy Anniversary, Ennio. I look forward to another 20 years and more.

A hearty welcome to milktoast who has recently joined our little blogparty. She and her husband (he's the photographer who shot my blue-tinted profile photos) have been my good friends for many years.

Perhaps if are very good to her she'll bake us a nice treat.

Today a citywide public transport strike has left millions of New Yorkers stranded. Subways are shut and buses are not running. Those who keep cars here for pleasant weekend drives down leafy country lanes have dusted them off and taken them out to clog the avenues on their way to work. To contend with the traffic and parking problems commuters from the suburbs are forewarned: all cars with fewer than four passengers will be stopped at the city's gates and sent back across the bridges and through the tunnels whence they came. If you're like me and rely on those bright yellow taxis to ferry you about, well, just try to find one.

Teachers and businessmen are riding bicycles. The mayor dismissed his driver and in a show of something or other walked hatless across the Brooklyn Bridge. Susan Sarandon is doing what she's been doing for years, which is to ride her son's skateboard through Greenwich Village. And all along the pavements can be seen the good citizens making their determined way uptown and down.

All this in record low temperatures.

I do hope this stike is resolved soon, for the sake of the subway workers as well as the riders.

As for me, well, I did pop out to the shops earlier- the stew I'd planned to make required an onion, and then I remembered I was dangerously low on tonic. I'd confined my excursion to only a few streets in the neighbourhood and quickly returned to the warm and dimly lit rooms of my flat where, if it comes down to it, I could stay for a very long time.

To a man who although he may never look it will always be slightly older than me.

I wish you many happy returns.

X

All right ma petite, what shall we do now, hmm? Shall I tell you a story? Oh, you don't care to hear any of my... well how about a song, then? It's not everyday I get to babysit my gorgeous niece, is it? Let's see, here's a good one, 'Fre-re Jac-ques, fre-re Jac-ques, dormez-vous, dormez-vous...' No dear, you mustn't use crayon on Tonton's new trousers. Don't you like your colouring book? Yes, that is a very pretty picture and aren't you clever giving all the little piggies such full red lips, or are they sheep? And now if you'll just let go of my hand, you've a fierce grip for a one-year-old haven't you, no no no, just for a minute. Tonton's coming right back, okay? He's just going to put some more ice in his glass. See, here I am. Wasn't even gone a ... What's that, dear? Oh, you'd like some ice in your juice cup too. Well, of course you would. Please forgive me for not thinking of it. I'm sure your parents wouldn't object to a cube of ice, though Lord knows they seem to have so many objec... Oh now look, you've gone and spilled apple juice all over the coffee table. Here, let me just clean that up. There, see? Nothing to cry about. Sometimes Tonton spills his drink too. He does, and more often than you'd think. I tell you what, why not sit with me on the sofa, yes, just like I showed you with your little legs tucked up, the way Naomi does, and we'll have another of our happy little singsongs. Oh, you've already started, well let's see if I can follow. No I don't think I know that one. 'It's a lalalala, laaa-laalala, something something la, laaaaa'.

Today my gorgeous niece turns 1. She's already learned to flip her hair and I couldn't be more proud.

Joyeux Anniversaire!

Just the other day I was thinking of Ann Jones. She of the flowing curly hair and the throaty laugh that would fill the restaurant. I can hear her still, tossing off Edina Monsoon-like 'darlings' and 'sweeties' and administering little pressures to my arm when her words required emphasis. We've not seen much of Ann here lately but no doubt she's off not skiing in Jackson Hole or not swimming in St. Barts. Soon she will return to her table at Pastis wearing several strings of the most fabulous beads, and really you wouldn't believe how she had to haggle for them.

Well now I've always known that she was married to Mick Jones, and having never met him or even seen him with her, for some reason I'd assumed it was the Mick Jones of the Clash. It seemed logical, and for years I'd clung to the image of a punk renegade and his mascaraed bride gradually curling up into comfy middle age. Turns out I was vastly mistaken and the Mick that Ann had always referred to, often with a vague gesture and backward glance as if he was standing just over there turned out to be Mick Jones of Foreigner. This fact was gently pointed out to me by my very good friend who listened to my animated impersonation of that happy couple caught (for our amusement) in the throws of an imagined and juicy row. Naturally I played both parts and was having great fun with accents and attitudes and whatnot until my friend knitted his brows and wondered what in the saarf I was doing. I can't tell you how disappointed I am.

Foreigner. The 'I Want to Know What Love Is' band. And all this time I thought...

There was no movement in the fragrant living room save the stealthy steps of the sun's rays creeping by degrees through the windows. The young man dressed in the various shades of green that seemed to shout dash and youthful vigour, and had nothing at all to do with the season, shifted in his comfortable chair and lit a fresh cigarette. Rapture filled his eyes as the whorls of silvery smoke were exhaled and sent to drift lightly toward the ceiling. Then he took in his hand the glass at his elbow, full with rich dark liquid, and raised it to his lips. A moment later he replaced the empty glass mere inches from the table's edge. Then in waves of ecstasy he lay back against the cushions and listened intently to the soprano on the stereo and prepared himself for the high note he knew was coming. He released an appreciative sigh when this happy miracle occurred then turned to his guest and neatly dropped several verbal bombs.

It was unfortunate but in an effort to at once relax the tensions that had mounted throughout the day and stake a claim for freedom, there was no other alternative than to rush in with heavy artillery. The fallout was great and it pierced the heart to survey the wreckage.

Some time later, and in poignant silence, the young man rose from his seat and moved to the windows which overlooked the now snowpacked oblong of garden, so joyous in springtime. Again he sighed. But not this time for the beauty of a soprano's voice soaring sublimely to its incredible height, or even in regret for the destruction that lay about him. Time, that excellent healer would wave its reviving magic wand. His sigh at that moment was for something else altogether and he fixed his gaze on a point far beyond the horizon. Standing there framed in the dusk he fancied he could see the distant cliffs along the Irish coast.

The very good-looking man with the fur-trimmed hat pulled down over his ears emerged from the taxi and moved to stand on the pavement. Absently, he admired the rows of bright yellow taxis that continued procession-like along the wide avenue, adding a shot of colour to an otherwise grey landscape. Then he turned his gaze to the bundled pedestrians that milled about him, their dense parade prohibiting his own advancing steps. Then, in a happy calm, he scanned the towering blocks that soared majestically above him and, inhaling deeply, he allowed a smile to play across his lips, for the air foretold an imminent snow, and this pleasant event would be the perfect close to what had certainly been a pleasant day.

From the depths of his ample pockets he heard the tuneful ring of his mobile phone and glancing at the text message he found there, the very good-looking man did again what he seemed to be doing constantly these days- he smiled.

He's Coming to New York.

He's planned to arrive in time to ring in the new year at my side, leaving friends and relations and Dublin traditions to get on without him, not to mention the new production he's mounting which opens just two days before he leaves.

I've discovered that he is a man of many amazing qualities. He has effectively trumped me in the area of impulsive moves, and that is no easy feat. He also writes a damned good blog.

And so the countdown begins.

If nothing should happen to the self-portrait done in suitably sombre hued oils, there he will stand, hopelessly sentimental for the ages. A long neck heroically supporting a finely-drawn head of exquisite symmetry. Eyes like polished almonds that will forever gaze wistfully out at the world. The mouth, full and sensuous, momentarily silent yet ever ready to intone the tales of love and loss. A thick wash of sentimentality seems to glow through the varnish. It's there in every brushstroke, every line and curve, layered upon layer and tinged with the brooding shades of sad hope and indigo. Immortal.

For some time the elegant gentleman would sit up late at nights and stare for hours at his completed portrait. While immensely proud of his own mastery of technique and what he felt sure was an ingenious use of colour, he never was able to find the resemblance. There was something about the eyes, he felt, those proverbial windows to the soul, that caused an uneasiness to beat rhythmically in his breast. 'What a sentimental old fool', he mused thoughtfully, 'I hope to never know him'.

I have recently added the word madman to my list of terms of endearment.

The ringing phone brought his voice to me for the first time and though I'd waited and imagined and planned what I'd say, the reality of him on the line, the fact of it all, quite overwhelmed me and in the end I could only manage a few phrases. Curse this wretched shyness that leaves me speechless at the very moment I wish to say all that I dare.

Fortunately the silence that could have resulted was instantly, and to my relief, constantly filled with the sound of his voice resounding sexily down the line. Oh, he's a charmer. His written words had already captivated me but in no way did they prepare me for the sensation of hearing him speak. To me.

I'm quite taken with him and we've never even met.

A longish flight with a connection in the middle and the arrival in a city I've never been to before is all that is required to bring me face to face with this man and would you believe I hesitate?