My Mother.

She was born on this day in 1940 in a small Southern town lined with majestic live oak trees. Spanish moss curled in hypnotic tendrils from their branches, and everywhere the air hung heavy with the scent of magnolia. A picturesque town it was, and filled with a romance that would forever crowd the corners of my mother's memory. When she was still a young girl she moved with her family away to the towering blocks and bustling streets of New York City. There she grew, managing to retain in this new world, gleaming with sleek modernity, all the grace and simplicity of the well-tended magnolias she'd known so well.

My mother's life has been rich and full, and painstakingly documented. The stories are legend and the photographs cram books and boxes. Nights at the Appollo Theater in Harlem where along with the other young girls of her set she would tear at her fringe and scream her heart out at the sight of Sam Cooke singing on stage. She grew an Afro and went all over town in short shorts, a halter top and skimpy leather sandals with bits of tourquoise woven in the straps. She discovered discos and crossword puzzles and high-heeled boots with chains round the ankles, she piled a dozen silver bangles on her wrist, and smoked a pack a day. Throughout all these activities, which would prostrate a lesser woman, she still found time for the more basic elements of womanhood; a husband (here's a shot of my parents at a party circa 1974, both dressed in beige and wearing 'shades'), children (days I spent in the charge of that horrible Ruby Houseworth whose constant claim that I was the worst child she'd ever known would send me rushing into my mother's arms), dogs (a terrier called Lady and a Chow called Brewster- he died while I was away at school and it wasn't until the end of the term that my mother broke the news), the running of a large house, and even a career.

It's been 20 years since her dramatic triple-play. She divorced my father, retired from work and turned her back on cosmopolitan life. She returned to the simpler ways amid the arboreal beauty of her childhood town. In matters of dress and decor she was determined to adhere to the local customs. And while wearing khaki and delicate cotton jumpers she caused a jungle of floral prints to hang from windows, lie upon sofas, and snake across the carpets. Her children grown and her cigarettes abandoned, she took up gardening and set about remarrying, and today is still the most jovial, even-tempered, non-judgemental, gigglehappy, fiercest opponent you'd ever face across the Scrabble board.

Happy Birthday, dear.

Just another word for shameless self-promotion. But really poppets, I do these things for you.

Lisa. It was a name my mother had always liked. Perhaps she had a childhood friend of that name or some devoted and kindly aunt who fed her sweets and encouraged her ambitions. It could even be that Lisa was the pluckish heroine in serialised novels that offered suitably diverting entertainment for young girls in the 1950s. Who knows. But it was the name my mother had always dreamed of bestowing on her daughter, should she ever have one, and on this day 27 years ago she did.

I can think of nothing that so transforms a household like the introduction of a baby. Everything changes. Routines are upset, peace quickly disappears, and suddenly people begin to move with an urgency brought on by the soft whimper, or more often the piercing cry of a tiny thing no bigger than that. As an observant and somewhat bookish ten-year-old I did some research and was prepared and emotionally well-equipped to handle the intrusion. Books on child psychology and child-rearing were all the rage in the 70's and I didn't even need to hunt for them in the local library. There they were, prominently displayed, endlessly harping about the jealousy the older sibling feels when baby comes. They were laden with ominous words like 'trauma' and 'resentment'. This was natural, the parents were assured, and some sort of 'acting out' was to be expected. But we Palmers were not made to suit the statistician's mould. My sister was a gentle and loving baby who cried little, smiled easily, and could squeeze my finger. I loved her instantly. There was some jealousy on my part, to be sure, but it came years later when as a teenager my sister was given much more in the way of freedom and material things (a car!) than I was at her age.

Because of the difference in our ages we never really lived together. I was away at school for much of her young life, and then I went off to Paris. My parents had already divorced and my mother returned to her native Georgia, taking six year old Lisa with her. She would grow up in a world so foreign to me, a small town in the American south. At the time I had little regard for small towns in the American south and worried my sister would develop the bad habits I'd seen displayed there. That she would absorb the backward ideology that seemed to be so prevalent (I had seen movies set in the south, and shuddered). That she'd develop some unintelligible accent. She didn't, fortunately, and we've ended up more alike than I ever thought we'd be.

She's a married lady now (to her high school sweetheart) with a baby of her own. I've seen her pass, like lightning, from pigtails and maryjanes (and a quick temper) to that horrid tomboy phase when she hid herself under baggy t-shirts and baseball caps. How it warms my heart to see her today when she meets me at the airport or somewhere in her new incarnation, wearing stilletoes and a bit of curl in her hair. She's turned out to be an exceptionally good mother, a great lady, and my most trusted confidante. Last year Lisa asked me to be her daughter's godfather and I was very touched. She went on to say some complimentary things, calling me her hero and the constant source of inspiration throughout her girlhood and beyond. Her favourite storyteller. Would I be that for her daughter as well? Through tears I accepted. What a priveledge it will be to watch this tiny being grow and someday perhaps have children of her own. Another link in the chain.

The day will come when my niece begins to look around for heroes and inspiration and I shall be prepared. I have many stories to tell. But perhaps the most fascinating one will be the tale of a flower that bloomed overnight, a beautiful flower that was the pride of the garden, how I watched it grow, and how a seed from this flower grew yet another. Who doesn't love a good nature story?

Happy Birthday Lisa

It was almost midday when the tall and very good-looking man finally rose from the sofa where he'd fallen asleep the night before. He stretched his aching limbs and padded into the small but efficient kitchen to prepare his habitual cup of very strong Colombian coffee. While it brewed he walked through the hallway and into his bedroom, along the way peeling layers of wrinkled clothes from the day before. His eyes immediately fell on the large bed dressed in fine linens and ornamented with plush cushions that had always given him uninterrupted nights of blissful sleep. It had been a long time since he had any desire to lie there, so empty and lonely it now seemed. He preferred to sit up late at nights in the dim gloom of the living room near the telephone and his computer. Set amid the gateleg tables and Chippendale chairs that filled his old world rooms these two modern machines had become the most precious of all his posessions. They clashed horribly with the decor but brought his newfound love to his side instantly and totally, and could therefore be forgiven. Abandoning all semblance of elegance in the emptiness of his flat he yawned loudly, draped a sarong round his waist and returned to the kitchen for his coffee...

MSN, IM, Skype, Orange, T Mobile, blogs, text messages; a few short months ago none of these things meant any more to me than the man on the moon, and the mention of them would have been met with a blank stare. The mobile phone was an annoying thing that I all but ignored. I used it primarily as a directory, storing the numbers of important contacts such as my tailor, the reservationist at my favourite restaurant and my mum. It was also useful for taking pretty pictures of this and that. As for the computer, well there were many days when I never even opened the thing, and knew little what I was about when I did. But these days both are in constant use, and daily I thank those technogeek visionaries who now make transatlantic communication such a breeze. If pressed (or drunk) I can cast my mind back a decade or two and describe a time when international telephone calls often had to be postponed as there were too few operators to deal with the volume. A time before mobile phones, before answering machines even (it wasn't that long ago), I think I still have clothes from that era. Certainly I was already a grown man before the internet and e-mail and its ancillaries had found their way into the average home.

Carefully the very good-looking man sipped his steaming bitter brew. Then he lit his first cigarette of the day. While savouring the moments of this homely morning ritual he marvelled at the increasingly vital role modern technology plays in that most ancient of all phenomena- love.

Order your copies here

Another of my friends in life has joined our little community here and I beg you all to say a cheery hello to Jared Alexander. Our paths first crossed more than a decade ago in the DJ booth at Folies Pigalle in Paris. Since then we've crashed parties, dated supermodels (more him than me), come this close to being arrested, toured the byways of two continents and provided that necessary shoulder to lean on when our various loves have become complicated.

Welcome Jared, pull up a chair.

There is a part of me that cannot believe it's true. Can it be that the events of the past week are anything more than those quickly moving images of my subconscious being played out in a dream? But here he is in glorious flesh and bone. His voice gentle and low, caressing me. I can feel his presence in every room, and I wonder how I got on before. My happiness has become a fact. And the future is a long enchanted road. So if this be all a dream, kindly let me sleep.

The little red cross in my diary reminds me bitterly that he leaves tomorrow and that our days and nights together will end. It's the look in his eyes that tells me this is just the beginning.