But come the night they will be dancing in the neon light

I'm returning from Central London, where I've just deposited Nathan's cousin at the Charing Cross Theatre. She's come to see him in Naked Boys Singing. I'm never sure what to make of Nathan's relatives coming to watch the spectacle of his removing every last stitch of clothing on stage. Call me repressed, or a man with a body that resembles Captain Caveman, but it's not something I'd be entirely comfortable for my family to watch. But, I suppose, Nathan is an actor with very little time for fake propriety, and the show is done with great taste and utmost comic value, so who am I to assume embarrassment? I think both his parents had a lovely time when they saw it. I suppose when your family's seen you playing Frank'n'furter, there's little left to shock them with. Apart from your naked penis, that is! Poor Celia must sometimes wonder what's coming next!

Nathan's cousin, Jane, is just delightful. I'd go as far as to describe her as somewhat alluring. She's the daughter of Nathan's beloved Auntie Joyce, who is sadly no longer with us, and she ran away at the age of 16 to marry an Italian. 32 years later, they're still married, and she's still very happily living in Italy. They were obviously destined to find each other at such a young age.

We had tea in a Japanese restaurant, cakes at Pat Val on Old Compton Street, and then walked to the theatre via China Town, Piccadilly Circus and Trafalgar Square. London was buzzing with tourists, buskers, street artists and revellers, and I felt more than a little proud of it. It's a place we all love to hate, and God know's it can be excruciating at times, but catch it on a warm, barmy night, when you don't have to be anywhere in a hurry, and it beats most of the world's other cities hands down.

I feel a little better this evening, perhaps because I got off my harris and ventured out. Maybe the policy from now on needs to be about pretending this cold doesn't exist, after all, there's nothing like inertia to breed inertia! Perhaps I should have joined Nathan at the gym, and forced myself to jump up and down a bit, but I was so exhausted this afternoon that I thought the only option was full-scale hibernation!

Oh yes... Following yesterday's list of ten amazing theme tunes, I feel obliged to add three more. You can decide for yourself which ones they replace in the list, but I'd suggest Good Morning Britain and Ulysses should go in favour of...

Number One (the absolute classic)
Number Two (the quintessential British Sunday evening drama - and the greatest use of a high-hat in a theme tune)
and Number Three (oh, the glamour...)

And what of Pepys and Elizabeth 350 years ago? Well, they were returning to London from Stevenage. It had rained pretty solidly through the night, so all the roads had become mud baths, but they made good progress, and only stopped once, in the village of Holloway, where they had a drink at an inn with the "sign of a woman with cakes in one hand and a pot of ale in the other, which did give [us] good occasion of mirth, resembling her to the maid that served us."