In Vienna, on Sundays, one doesn't use the conventional greeting, "Guten tag" . Instead one barks an energetic "Grüss Gott!" (Greet God!) which made me wondering if I'd happen onto some fervently religious shopkeeper. It was just one of many unsettling moments I'd encountered during my weekend in this strange, wonderful city. The night before, lost in Vienna's dark streets, I'd happen upon a "Free Öcalan" concert/protest in the Stephansdomplatz. The dark, cold square, dwarfed by the gothic church was filled with the sound of Kurdish music. The high, plaintive wailing of the singer made it all so creepy and yet poignant. In the dark, in the shadow of a mediaeval past, the music was intoxicating. Suddenly, as the music quickened, the entire crowd seemed to be locked by arms in a large dancing circle. I stepped away unable to figure out the complicated dance.



Thirty minutes later I was in a bright crowded bar/restaurant muttering enough German to buy and beer and find a seat and wondering why most Viennese bars seem to play the same mix of music -- Bierhall songs, Edith Piaf and old Frank Sinatra. I soon realised, with shocking horror, that an inane song we learned in high school German about a three-cornered hat -- "and if the hat doesn't have three corners, then it is not my hat" -- was a crowd favourite that seemed to inspire them all to sing. The bars, or the three I've been too, are much more informal than in London. They are true meeting places where people come to drink, to talk, to eat and to relax. The Austrians seem a welcoming people and I was pulled into conversations many times (the length of which was directly porportional to the amount of English they spoke or the amount of German I could understand.) It was very comforting.



Did I find a man who spoke enough English or had patience for my haltering German? No. Instead I met a darkly handsome, curly-haired Bulgarian with a name full of three-point consonants who was either a tourguide or a busdriver and who either just arrived in or moved to Vienna. The rest of the conversation was a bit of a muddle, but to be honest after about 15 minutes it didn't matter. We snogged whilst the crowd sang a polka. Surreal.



The next day, out in the cool morning air, I came across a Ski festival on the steps of the imposing townhall. They'd built a ramp, covered it in snow, and were doing ski jumps into the courtyard. The skiiers, all seemingly stunning blond men, mingled in the crowd trying to get passer-bys to their sponsor's booth. I sadly fended a few of them off, then bought a bag of roasted chestnuts and sat on the haybales to watch youngsters fly down the steep ramp. An hour later I was queuing at the Albertina to see the first comprehensive Dürer exhibition in thirty years.

Back from an all-too-short trip to Austria. Pictures from Vienna are online here. Blathering coming soon.

What I won't do for good coffee... Like going to Vienna for the weekend.

Good thing I'm getting glasses because I failed to notice that I accidentally ordered the "Large Print" version of Bill Bryson's "A short history of nearly everything" on Amazon which is about 1000 pages long in large type.

I'll have... a lazy eye, a stigmatism, farsightedness, and those overpriced Paul Smith glasses, please. I now know the price of getting older. It's £289.64.

Knock it off Three days in a row, my horoscopes have been telling me to take my loved one out tonight I'm starting to become angry at fate.

There's that old saying that something "... is like writing about dance" -- when one thing is painfully inadequate for capturing or describing something experiential/masterful/moving. A bit like me writing about romance. But I'm going to have to attempt it because last night I went with friends to see the Trisha Brown dance company at Sadlers Wells.



Dance is one of the few arts I have no training in, insight to, or opinion about. It's a bit of a mystery. I have no sense of what's new or old form or style, what's exceptional or exceptionally awkward, when they're meant to be dancing in unison or if slight variations were planned. It's hard to tease apart the concept of a dance piece. The three last night, for example, we jokingly called: Dancing buddhas in urban wastelands, The loneliness of an ear infection, and My rainbow lies in tattters. They were really about none of those, obviously, but without the floridly written programme it was hard to tell what narrative/feeling/moment they were dancing.



They were quite beautiful. Modern, sparse, lightly accompanied, movingly performed. But foreign all the same. I felt quite the philistine, especially when we were uncertain whether to get up and leave when the curtain came down during what was a short break between dances.



On then to Exmouth Market for tapas. My dinner company: Karin, a fellow ex-pat who can protest her preference for living here whilst simultaneously launching into longingly detailed discussions of New York and krispy kreme donuts. Tim and his flatmate Michael, both rail thin with shocking amounts of blond hair and a charming habit of over-e-nun-see-a-shun for effect. It was lovely company -- the flirtatious snarl of gay man is a language I'd fear I forgotten. Unfortuantely, my decreasingly poor eyesight (and the red wine) and the nervousness of new people left me with a pounding headache.



So today, the languid bodies of the dancers in my memory, and the harsh reality of my hungover body in the mirror terrorised me into going to the gym where the sight of my jiggling body on a treadmill probably terrorised the body-concious of Soho. Now let's see if my new birthday resolutions of getting out more, meeting new people, and getting healty outlast the week.

The Russian Roulette was apparently a fraud.

News round up So, Coronation Street gets it's first gay kiss, drawing 14 million people to the Sunday episode to watch the dimpled puppy dog Todd lay one on the dreadfully wooden and orange Nick played by former gay icon, pop has-been Adam Rickett. Unfortunately, the ensuing episodes are a mess. First we have to deal with the menacing Nick calling Todd "a sick mind game player" and forcing him to out himself. Then, the endlessly shrill Sarah finding out her cute boyfriend is confused about his sexuality (or maybe just realising how common she actually is.) All around a mess, and annoying that Corrie is seeing more man-on-man action than I am.



Years ago I worked on the Mirage Resorts website. We put Siegfried and Roy on the web, meaning we had to sit through hours of digitised video and the endless loop of Michael Jackson's rank theme song. They seemed ancient by-products of plastic surgery then, but now it's the sad news that Roy Horn was mauled by one their famous, and endangered, white tigers. I'm increasingly against these types of animal shows having done the backstage tour of the chained elephants and caged lions of the Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Circus. It's hard to be surprised that these animals act, well, like animals.



I have so little to say about Arnold as governor. Don't forget that California was responsible for hoisting Ronald Reagan into politics. He'll be a disaster of course, but the world is indeed a scary place.



The Independent, one of England's traditional broadsheets is experimenting with a tabloid format within the M25 (Greater London). Unfortuantely, they've kept Janet Street-Porter.



Lastly, ratings are in on the thoroughly disturbing Russian Roulette where "magician" Derren Brown whittles down a group of volunteers to the one who will load a single bullet into gun which Brown holds to his head or to a haystack depending on where he thinks the bullet is. I didn't watch, but 4M of my fellow citizens did. Now, if he was pointing the bullet at the wires holding David Blaine above the ground I'd have watched that.

Kiss 34 goodbye. And gladly too. The week in review: end of holiday, a hospital scare, too much social drinking, an awkward business dinner, falling asleep sitting in a chair when I was meant to be out clubbing, spending my birthday with charming, but straight, people discussing birth/baby constipation/marriage/house renovations/work, the heartbreak of realising a crush was going to always be one-sided, waking up the morning after wanting to pull the duvet over my head.



Looking forward to 35. Getting a life coach, getting over "it", getting some goals and a purpose, getting a flat I like living in, getting mentally and physically healthy, getting my shit together so that I deserve getting a boyfriend who's not fictional, getting this site updated, getting to a point where 36 will be a celebration.



I've got a lot of work to do.

I'm officially old.I was going to go to XXL, London's club for the more-than-stick-figurish. Instead I fell asleep in the chair at 9 and work up long after it was over. Hopefully I'll stay awake for my birthday drinks later this afternoon.

My horoscope says I should hire a babysitter to spend time tonight with my loved one. Ok, how many things are wrong with that statement?

Sweet relief Tuesday I found a small, painless lump in my groin whilst showering. Panic and fear immediately set in. I didn't have a GP so I called the NHS who told me to rush to the clinic in Soho. It's quite embarrassing having to repeat over and over what was found where to various nurses, receptionists, advisors, doctors, etc. I can see why men would be tempted to ignore it, to not have to describe it or think about it or tell a complete stranger that one found a lump when touching one's scrotum. The clinic sent me on to UCL Hospital. I sat fearing I had some sort of cancer. Then wondering how I would deal with cancer. Could I stay in the UK and be treated? Would I have to move back to the US? If they had to remove the testicle, would they replace it with something or just leave an empty space? How would I walk up two flights of stairs with a stitched up groin? How much work would I miss? Who would I call and tell? Who would I ring to visit me in hospital, or bring me a toothbrush, or just be support in a difficult time?



I felt very alone, scared, sad.



The doctor sent me upstairs for an ultrasound. I laid half naked on a bed whilst some doctor squirted cold jelly on my private parts to run a plastic wand all over. I got to watch the ultrasound. The foreign, greyscaled voyage through one's internal parts is quite compelling -- and terrifying. I gulped everytime she stopped to scan a dark spot, or revisited an area of the groin. I stared, wondering if I was watching some form of cancerous tumour in my body, wondering what was normal and what was abnormal.



The good news is that the lump is absoutely benign and commonplace. Embarrassingly, it's a vericose vein. How one gets a vericose vein in that area, I've no idea, but it's common in men of my age. There's nothing to do about it -- it will just come and go for the rest of my life. The NHS were quite good about it, reinforcing that I'd done absoutely the right thing. If it had been cancerous, then earliest treatment is best. My sense of relief was palpable -- it grabbed my body and squeezed hard. I wanted to stand on Tottenham Court Road and have a good cry. I wanted to call and tell everyone I was ok, that I'd had a brush with mortality that had been postponed a while longer.



As quickly as the relief comes, it goes, and life becomes ordinary again. And one has to get up in the morning and fight the Tube and buy a cup of coffee and check their emails and write their presentations and find lunch and answer phone calls and go all the usual things and all the usual crutches and doubts and small satisfactions and life-crap. It was sweet -- and fleeting.