It's almost as though beauty unshared isn't beauty at all. The joy of the thing is in experiencing it with another soul. So many things in life I'd like to be doing, indeed, could be doing, but doing them alone would be abject pain, not pleasure. How does one find a companion? I've met, in my life, precisely two people who appreciate even vaguely similar things to me, and whose company I actually enjoy. They've been kind enough to share some of their time with me, but it's clear that I'm very far from being their first choice of company.

Black despair assailed my mind, my heart. Two weeks of busy torment, punctuated only by the lightness of Christmas. The storm rose to its peak last night, robbing me of thought, filling my head with doubts and woes. It woke me, before the dawn, casting me, wide-eyed, upon the mercy of the world.

And Mercy found me.

She placed an arm around my shoulders, a cool hand on my knotted brows. Gentle sleep she breathed into my heart, and wiped clean my soul of all troubles and cares.

Somebody, somewhere, called my name in compassion last night. I am indebted.

Someone seems to have stolen the joy. It's all leaked away through a torn seam in my soul. All that's left is this shambling automaton, lurching from crisis to crisis, craving companionship and getting on your nerves. Where's the great friend, the inspiration, the popular figure, that I seem to have been before? Who took him away and replaced him with this pretence, this parody of me, this grasping, terrified, desperate shell that I've become? Is this what happens if you don't make any new year resolutions? Plan nothing and become nothing? Be nice to me: I'm not myself today.

Well that was jolly nice. How pleasant a thing is an impromptu evening of drinks and chat. The Yard was virtually empty (well, it's a cold Wednesday night, after all), so we could sit in comfort, and bar service was essentially instant (although the Guinness would have benefited from being slightly less instant!). Then a short wander down Old Compton Street for a most satisfying meal in Balans. Hadn't been there before, and was pleasantly surprised - the staff, though a little preening (as I'd been told), were friendly and attentive, and the food was excellent. Will certainly eat there again.

What is it about pantomime that makes it endearing? On the face of it, it's vulgarity of the most base and unsubtle sort... and yet, somehow, the painted mummers on the stage are invoking a great and noble ritual, their very coarseness calling forth generations of ghosts in gaudy garb, repeating the same old mantras, making the same old predictable pratfalls; none shall die, all love stories have happy endings, all despots are misunderstood, all authority is vested in bumbling fools. But we love it. It's in our blood, our very souls. It's behind you, behind me, behind us all.

So now, when it's nearly time to tear it all down, the Christmas tree at work has finally begun to exude resin, and the office is suffused with that glorious smell. It's rather nice to walk in on a cold dreary morning, and get a brief perfume-induced festive deja-vu. The tree's sitting there naked and undecorated now, awaiting disposal, stripped of its jewels and makeup, its bows and boas: Once, it was a gaudy drag act to rival the very best; sparkly, high-kicking and lewd. Now, just a stark, rather scrawny old has-been, with a prickly manner and dirty toenails.

The days when I might have engendered passion, lust, or longing in others, have certainly gone. What remains? I can be "nice"to people. Don't misunderstand me, I like being nice to people, it's one of the most fundamental parts of my psyche - you might even say I can't actually help it.

Yet... there is still a place in my head that longs for tenderness, that craves an embrace, however improbable that might seem. How long is it since I shared a night of embraces? Long. When did I share such things with a soul who cared for me? Never.

Early nights. For years, I've been telling people I go to bed early because I've just got into the habit of waking at sparrowfart for work. But it's hardly the whole story. Most evenings, if I'm on my own, I reach a point where I just can't face the day any more. Loneliness and self-pity start to bubble to the surface, and quite quickly I begin to believe the most improbable things about how the world, and in particular, my friends, see me. It's usually downhill from there, and the easiest way to deal with it, is simply to sleep.

I've been a member of the Artisans for twenty-six years this week. I can't quite decide if that's a thing to be proud of, or something really rather sad. What does sadden me, is how ephemeral it's all seemed - I've exerted immense effort over the years, to bring some (though I say it myself) really quite laudable productions to the stage, and yet now, looking back, they're just wisps of smoke, they mean almost nothing to me. Such intensity and passion, so many past, dear, friends, now dissipated and diluted by time. The group itself will be forty next month.

The morning news, driving to work, an item on bird ‘flu (gosh there's a surprise). I find myself gazing at a car number plate bearing the characters, "B1IRD-. Driving home, afternoon news, ooh, how novel, an item on bird ‘flu. Number plate on car overtaking me, "XFLU123-. Strangely, I seem to have been spared further revelations. Not really sure if I'm glad or not... I was rather enjoying the quirky little messages from the ether. Always nice to feel like the Universe is paying me personal attention, even if it is simply echoing the gentle BBC strains of Peter Donaldson.

I find I have a fascination with parallel lines. Does that sound odd? I love finding entirely unrelated objects, often some distance apart, and discovering that they are directly congruent. Sitting at my desk now, I can see that the edge of the office window is precisely parallel with the roof of the nearby Victorian school. It's entirely appropriate that this should be the case, of course, yet, knowing that two buildings, erected over a hundred years apart, guided only by a floating bubble, or a weighted string, have that one feature in common, is, for some reason, enormously comforting.

One foot in front of the other, one day after another, year after year, sunrise... sunset... sunrise... sunset. In a few weeks I'll have been on this Earth for forty-six years. Has it been worth it? Well yes, I suppose I wouldn't want to have missed it; though there's a sensation of having been asleep for large parts of it. Would I do the same again? Some of it, but there's much I'd do differently. I wouldn't pursue A_, for a start, and perhaps I would pursue B_, who I've recently discovered had a bit of a thing for me.

Curry is a wondrous thing. Really, it is. One of the most more-ish foodstuffs known to man, and it arrives in a range of pretty colours, each one more than capable of indelibly staining trousers, shirts, teeth, skin, nails... but, amazingly, not the crisp, white, tablecloths in Indian restaurants, which are always inexplicably spotless, despite the amount of tikka masala that must be ground into them on a daily basis. There is some secret laundering trick, I'm sure, involving high pressure steam, Domestos, and a number of ferrets. Curry is even better when paid for by one's place of work.

Now comes that part of Saturday evening where all sensible people are getting ready to go out. Showering, choosing clothes; applying potions to skin, to hair; gently drenching themselves in sweet-smelling tinctures. And I? I am going to bed. It's not yet eight o'clock, but I'm already floundering, and I can't face the evening. The dark tide is on the turn, and there's not a soul wondering how I am. I can't deny, there are times when I wonder whether my window opens wide enough to allow the exit of a person. Probably just as well that I'm not thin.

So. Jim's not going to be buying my house after all. Assuming all goes well tomorrow, at his (soon to be mine too) solicitor's, I shall instead, be selling to a Mr. Murphy, an apparently very rich man, who's buying not only mine and Jim's houses, but the property next to Jim too. I'm encouraged that something's happening, but I'm finding it very hard to summon much enthusiasm, having been disappointed so many times before. I'll celebrate when I see a signed contract, but I admit, I'm expecting this one to go silent, just like all other schemes before it.

The end of an era, in a way, albeit a very short one. Today was my last counselling session - the NHS, in its wisdom, decrees that a course of counselling is eight sessions. It has to be said, that, though it's been nice to talk to somebody, I don't feel any more capable of dealing with my more wayward thoughts, than I did before I started. True, I have a few extra insights into the kinds of thoughts I ought to try to avoid, but I'm no closer to knowing how to go about doing so. Muddle on through, John.

I'm much encouraged by Mr. Fowkes. A terribly nice man, very much in the old style of family solicitors; his office a wonder of organised chaos; his manner genial, jovial and polite. He himself, quite clearly a batsman for our team: When commenting on how long he'd been working with Jim, he offered the information that Jim's sister had been the secretary to his "greatest er..... ‘man friend'"with a half smile. And a look. I think I may have been discovered. Still, the deal all seems fairly positive. Things have been placed in motion, and we shall await developments.

I'm just reaching that point in rehearsals when the doubt creeps in. Utterly irrational doubt, mind you - I've complete confidence in both Ian and Nicola, that they'll pull off a strong and polished performance. The technical aspects are well within my capacity, as is the necessary direction. It just seems so awfully near - even though it's months away yet. Publicity's going to be the big task - we always have trouble getting audiences, and we have to work hard to get those we do. Many phone calls and letters to be made in the coming weeks. I shall need a holiday.

Somebody's cooking something in the office. Or at least, reheating it in the microwave. I don't know what it is - probably some vile, cardboard, ready meal, but it smells wonderful. The whole floor is filled with that Sunday roast dinner aroma, and I'm actually salivating. My own lunchtime repast, of two bags of crisps and a bar of chocolate, seems rather paltry in comparison, although I'm sure I'd find the microwaved meal itself rather unpleasant. No doubt, now that I'm feeling hungry, Phil will start grilling bacon for a sandwich. He's been known to do this. Bacon, or maybe sausages.

I have this abiding fear. That, against all the odds, the Liberal Democrats will win a landslide victory at the next election... but then prove to be utterly incompetent in government, more corrupt than the Tories, more pointlessly authoritarian than New Labour, and without any actual organisational skills. My despair in the process of democracy will then be complete. Quite what I'll do then, I'm not sure, but it'll be a sad day. Perhaps I'll bake a cake or something. Or daub slogans on walls. I like the cake idea better. Fruit? Or Victoria sponge? Walnut. Yes, I've decided. Walnut.

Earworms are fascinating little beasties. I spent a lovely evening watching (and of course, weeping along to) "Hedwig and the Angry Inch"yesterday. Had an early night, dreamed heavily and woke up at 2am with "Wicked Little Town"exercising my melody muscles. Fair enough. I eventually drifted off again, to re-awaken at about 9am... and my earworm had mutated into Sarah McLachlan's "Push-, and in particular the single phrase, "You're the one true thing I know I can believe in-. Fascinating. I wonder what causes such things? If it's subliminal advertising, guys, you're too late - I already own both tunes!

We used to have such conversations! Where did that go? Did I grow dull? Did you? Did you grow away from me, or I from you? Did we exhaust our conversational range? Am I superseded by a finer conversationalist, a greater wit, a more pleasing companion? Have those things we had in common, ceased to be so, or have we become tired of discussing them? I wish I knew. Something has surely been lost, and I'm none too certain I can even say what it was, except that where it was, there's now a space. Do you know, I wonder?

Bitterness. I expect I've rambled on about bitterness before, haven't I? I used to pride myself on taking life in my stride, letting the pain wash away, always making a great effort to learn, to grow, to take the knocks as part of the lesson in how to exist.

I seem quite unable to do it now. Maybe life's lesson for me has been learned too well. Now, the slightest thing, the very slightest, no matter how unintended, casts me into my black pit, whose tear-washed sides take a week to climb again.

I have learned bitterness. I am ashamed.

Where can I turn for affection? Every atom of my being cries out for it, craves it, thirsts for it. Even the humble hug is relegated to the status of a handshake - and usually only a farewell handshake, at that. Who is there, to ask after my well-being, and offer comfort, unbidden, when it's lacking? Who? Nobody. I'm nobody's soulmate, not even anyone's best friend. How did I achieve this awful miracle? Especially given the years I've spent being an ear and a shoulder for so many. Does that sound a little sanctimonious? Probably. I'm just so terribly, terribly lonely.

So glad you decided to visit - I can't do much to deal with the things that are causing you stress and making you sad, but I can, I hope, provide a small escape for a day or two, for your sanity. Hopefully, we can contrive to fill our time until the weekend, with enough innocent distractions to keep you from dwelling too much on things. What shall we do and see? The London Eye, perhaps, would be worth a look, and you've mentioned Kew Gardens. I daresay we might manage a few sips of something alcoholic too - for medicinal purposes.

Kew Gardens shall henceforward be perpetually associated with bitter, bitter cold. A delightful place, of course - I've visited before, but in mid-January, it's Siberia. Thank you for the use of the front of your t-shirt, for glasses-cleaning purposes, when they suddenly turned opaque from the steamy atmosphere of the Palm House. We never did find out where that Marijuana smell was coming from, did we? No obvious plantations of hemp, so maybe someone was spliffing up in one of the borders... nice to see Duncan again, in the evening, though I did feel a bit of a gooseberry, I admit.

And now the Tower. This, too, shall be remembered as a place of cold. Cold, and an unexpectedly garrulous and histrionic tour guide. A fascinating place, however - nice to see it again, not having visited since I was about nine or ten. The mixture of architectural styles is wonderful. Particularly enjoyed the Georgian faÃÆ'§ade on the eastern side of the inner courtyard, whose elegant sash windows were made, not with the traditional rectangular shape, but topped with a Norman arch, to match the windows of the White Tower, which they faced. Disappointed in the Crown Jewels, though. Shiny, but few.

How nice to meet you at long last! Likewise your charming boyfriend: You make a quite delightful and sociable couple. Has it really been four years since we first started talking online? That's bad, isn't it? Still, it was worth the wait, for I had a most pleasing evening's conversation and food. Top Gigio's is a delightful restaurant - shame about their drinks licence, but I'm sure they'll get that resolved soon. I know you were a little embarrassed to call an early halt to the evening, but, in truth, I was glad of it - an early night is always welcome!

It's arguable that coming out was one of the worst things I ever did. And yet I don't regret it. Odd. Before I came out, before I'd even really admitted it to myself properly, I knew I would probably never be intimate with another human being. Having no hope, I felt a bit gloomy, but that was all. When I came out, I dared to hope.. and my hope was dashed, over and over again. It was only then that I really discovered the blackest parts of myself, the depths to which my depression could sink. What next, I wonder?

Again the same pattern. Again, where there is fond feeling on my part, I must watch and listen and smile and nod, as you tell me of the feelings you have for another. You, the generic "you-, any of many through my life, for whom I would have done anything, but who, if told, would smile sadly, apologise, perhaps, and talk less and less and less.

You must love, and I must watch.

If a person should ever like a person
Then a person should be free
Free to like whomever that they want to...
Even if it ain't me...

I'm quite the dullest, blandest, most uninteresting person. Reliability, truth, sincerity, true friendship; these have been the guiding principles of my life - I don't pretend I always achieve them, I'm not, I hope, so arrogant, but they are, as aims, the most natural things for me to pursue.

Yet, they are as rough pebbles in comparison to the personalities, sparkling,water-glossed, of those whose company I crave. Briefly, an age ago, I was a fiery inspiration, and they drank deeply of my constancy, but they have drained my soul, and tired of the flavour. I am but the dregs of myself.