Castro delights

The day started with breakfast on North Beach. Omelette, little diced potatoes and two pieces of toast with grape jam. It's a tradition I rarely deviate from when I'm in this country. It works. It sets me up for a day of hardcore walking. And hardcore walking we did...

First stop was Macondrey Street, which fans of Armistice Maupin's seminal Tales of the City books might recognise as the real-life Barbary Lane, home of the irrepressible Mrs Madrigal. Really, the street is exactly as Maupin describes it; wooden steps snaking up through a series of lush gardens, wooden houses poking up through the trees with top floor rooms looking out over San Francisco Bay towards Alcatraz. Perfect. Really. Of course the bohemians no longer live there. They were long-since priced out of the area by wealthy computer gurus. You can always rely on the gays and the bohemians to make an area desirable for the bankers and entrepreneurs!

We walked down towards City Hall via a corner shop which sold ice cream, which, for an added 50c, you could have dipped in melted chocolate. My ice cream melted rather speedily, all over my fingers, then down my T-shirt and onto my camera, but the discomfort of the clean-up operation was worth every second.

City Hall was closed. It's a Saturday today. We were a little disappointed because we wanted to see the statue of Harvey Milk. Instead we sat on the steps, found some free wifi, and listened to Milk's prescient "if I should be assassinated" speech, which he recorded on a tape a week before his actual assassination. One of the oft-quoted lines from the recording goes something like, "if someone puts a bullet through my brain, I hope that bullet destroys every closet door in the country." And to some extent the bullet which entered his brain did just that. Chilling. Deeply moving.

The Harvey Milk pilgrimage continued up at the Castro with a visit to the LGBT museum, which displays the blood-stained suit that Milk was wearing when he was assassinated. It sounds deeply mawkish, but round these parts the man is every bit a saint, and there was something about the way that the suit had been so carefully laid out in dark lighting that made it an important, treasured, dignified exhibit, rather than a nasty piece of exploitation.

Castro was full of its usual selection of brilliant oddballs. I was high-fived by a man wearing a chain-mail yashmak and stopped by a trannie Madam standing outside a bar who said, "oh my God, a bear." She then looked across at Nathan: "Can I be in the middle? For just a few hours?" So I'm a bear? How ghastly! Nathan says I'm to start embracing this identity. I'd rather stick pins in my eyes!

Later on, we were accosted by a lovely chap called Jamie Otis, who, essentially told us his life story whilst sitting outside Starbucks. Jamie was dressed all in white, with rather smart matching glittery earrings and sparkly nail varnish on the fingers of one of his hands. He told us that he was 64 years old, and that he'd been to London in 1971 where he'd bought a little poncho from the King's Road which never made it back to the States. He'd spent most of his life living on the streets, and at one point in a forest. He didn't explicitly say it, but I'm pretty convinced he'd been a rent boy at some point. He was obviously extremely attractive in his youth. Bright, piercing blue eyes, sandy hair, and a very good bone structure. Sadly, years of poverty, and probably drugs, meant he no longer had any of his top teeth. But he was a charming man, with a kind energy, who, with a set of false gnashers would have looked ten years younger than his years.

He lives in some form of care-in-the-community hostel run by Indians "you know, the ones with the dots on their heads... They don't charge me any money. It's very strange." He proceeded to show us his drawings; most of which were of flowers all done with psychedelic luminous marker pens. Some of them had little cartoon stickers attached to them, "funny little doughnut girls", he said. The experience left me feeling very sad. He had a cell-phone, which isn't connected to anything, but he says he likes to play the games on it, and likes it when the alarm rings. There but for the grace of God go we all.

We decided to explore the streets on the hills above the Castro. Nearly every house in this part of town displays a rainbow flag, or a trans flag, or a flag denoting that the house owner is into leather. Yes. All these flags genuinely exist!

We found a little play area where two highly-polished concrete slides snake down a particularly steep hill. The sign on the playground said "all adults must be accompanied by a child," but because no actual children were around, we decided to have a go. And much fun it was too! Nathan decided that he'd play the mentally subnormal card if any angry parent stopped him and told him off. Like they'd bother in San Fran! Everyone here is way too laid back to get angry. Dope is legal in this city... You can grow your own, as long as you don't grow more than 99 plants! Everywhere smells of pot! Everywhere!

Later on we climbed higher still to another one of those crazy lanes which are essentially just wooden steps winding their way through over-grown gardens. My favourite of the ones we visited was the curiously-named Saturn Steps, where we sat on a bench and made friends with a fluffy grey cat called Buzz who decided she wanted to sit on Nathan's lap.

We drifted back into Castro and through the Pink Triangle Memorial to gay people who died in the Nazi regime. A haunting picture was displayed of a group of frightened men wearing pink triangles over their striped Auschwitzy pyjamas. It's been a day of realising how lucky we are to be able to enter the States on our honeymoon as legally married men. In fact, we entered the country on a single customs form and were almost embraced by our otherwise po-faced customs officer!

Nathan became the cat who ate all the cream when we walked down Castro Street and found an enormous knitting shop, lined from floor to ceiling with multi-coloured yarns. He was very restrained. I was proud of him. He only emerged with a single ball. The shop itself was full of men. I was a little perplexed until Nathan pointed out that we were in the Castro... and then the penny dropped!

We spent the last of the daylight hours in Delores Park, which had taken on something of a "be-in" vibe with thousands of young hipsters hanging out, practising their Hoola-hooping and circus skills, and dancing to music which was being pumped into the park by DJs sitting at decks. Kids played on the swings in the centre of the park. Others had picnics nicely set out. Everyone seemed to be having the greatest time. One little Chinese man was walking about with a trolly, recycling everyone's bottles! One thing I'll say about San Franciscans is that they seem to like to hang out in big groups with no sense of divisions within age, sexual or racial groups. They feel like a very social group. Part of this is plainly to do with the climate and the slower pace of life, but I also wouldn't be surprised if the whole Summer of Love thing hadn't left it's mark.

We went back to the Castro again and instantly realised that Nathan's iPhone had vanished. Fearing the absolute worst, we retraced our steps, all the way back to the little patch of grass we'd been sitting on in the park some thirty minutes before. Nothing. The same latino family who'd been sitting behind us were still there, so Nathan asked if they'd seen his phone. Negative. And that was that...

A minute later one of the group called him back; "what kind of phone?" she asked. "An iPhone" said Nathan. She proceeded to open a bag and pull out Nathan's phone. "My kids found it," she said. I think the fact that she'd switched the phone off made it pretty clear that until she saw Nathan, the phone was not destined to be returned to its owner, but seeing his troubled-little face plainly made her take pity on him. Crisis averted.

Back in Castro for the fiftieth time we witnessed two camp young queens trash-talking at each other. Quote of the day has to be one of them screaming at the other; "shut it, bitch, you ain't got no power!"

The ludicrous nature of this interchange was immediately replaced by the absolute joy of seeing a 'cellist, sitting on a balcony above the street, playing unaccompanied Bach suites to those passing underneath.

And such is the contradiction which makes San Fran the most eccentric, rich, beautiful, strange, laid-back city I've had the pleasure to visit. One which I shall be sad to leave tomorrow. One to which I hope to return sooner than 14 years from now.

Alcatras

We met Brother Nathan, Sascha and our old friend, Daniel, in a hotel on Union Square this morning. It was such an unbelievably happy coincidence that we'd all decided to be in San Francisco at the same time and it was utterly surreal to be walking around the city with them.

First stop was the Apple Store. I decided to "go Mac" for my 40th birthday. Windows has become completely unusable since they inflicted Windows 8 on the world, and I'd decided some time ago that I would buy my lovely new computer in the US. It turns out that this decision saved me somewhere in the region of £150, which is quite extraordinary.

Computer purchased, we took ourselves back to North Beach via China Town. I'm told 40% of city residents are of Chinese descent, which is a figure I find quite extraordinary, particularly when you consider that only 20% of the population is gay. Somehow this city seems to scream its gayness more loudly than its Chinese-ness. China town is enormous, however, and occupies block after block of the city.

It's a fascinating place which seems to be full of shops which sell grotesque and enormous ornaments made of glass. All sorts of buskers sit on the pavements outside shops playing Chinese instruments which resemble tiny one-stringed 'cellos which are bowed from underneath the string. Most of the musicians were utterly rubbish. One appeared to be staggering his way through Auld Lang Syne which was utterly surreal.

We had tea and cake sitting in Washington Park before walking up to Pier 33, where we boarded a boat for Alcatras.

Ah Alcatras! What an extraordinarily atmospheric place you are. Nathan and I did the audio tour, which takes you through the network of ghostly cells and the bizarre and chilling stories associated with them. There were tales of escape, food riots, solitary confinement and disappearance. I was moved to hear about the inmate's music hour in the evening when people were allowed to play musical instruments, and to hear the story of New Year's Eve when prisoners could hear the sound of partying in the yacht club across the bay in San Francisco. For many, it was the only women's voices they ever got to hear...

From Alcatras, the Golden Gate Bridge looks particularly majestic, all silhouetted against the misty sun. It's a shame we weren't there this evening as we've just seen on the news that a massive traffic jam occurred on the bridge when two deer decided to cross it. There's some wonderful footage of the two creatures trotting across looking completely unconcerned. I wish I could say that I'd been as relaxed crossing it!

Back at Fisherman's Wharf, we were treated to one of San Francisco's famous eccentrics; a cool older black dude on a mobility vehicle, who sailed past us, disco music blaring out of a boom box, dancing and singing like an absolute lunatic.

There are a lot of drugs casualties in this city, and a huge number of homeless people, many of whom sleep like dead men on the sidewalks and walk about with shopping trollies filled with their lives. We saw a bloke yesterday whose trolley was proudly flying an American flag, which seemed a little strange. Your life falls apart, and yet you're still proud to be American!

We had drinks in Castro and tea in a Middle Eastern restaurant in the uber-cool Mission District, which, I'm told, is where all the wealthy people who work in computers are now living. On our way to the restaurant I solved an enigma which has plagued me since arriving here...

Fourteen years ago, when I came to this city with Fiona, I remember spending a few hours sitting in a beautiful park, on a grassy lawn with a steep sloping gradient. Until I returned here I'd always thought the park was Beuna Vista, but instantly discovered that this wasn't the case when we visited that particular park on Wednesday. From then on every park we visited in the city disappointed me because it wasn't the one I remembered.

Until today... It turns out the park I'd sat in exactly fourteen years ago was Delores Park, known locally as Delores Beach on account of the fact that when it is hot, hundreds of people go there to sun themselves. Despite the fact that it was almost dark when we arrived there, the whole place felt very San Fran. There was an overwhelming smell of dope, people were strumming guitars and a number of girls were playing with Hoola Hoops.

After tea we came back to the hotel to watch a bit of television, marvelling at how ghastly American news is! It's so profoundly biased. On one occasion an interviewer was talking to an Ebola survivor about his belief in God, without irony, and with a clear sense that he didn't think the man was a nutter for suggesting it was God and not medical science who cured him of the disease. Later on there was a news story about how Starbucks were opening special "express" branches with limited menus. In England, this news story would be called an advert!

Golden Gays

Today started with a pre-breakfast hike from our hotel, up the steepest hill in the world, to Lombard Street, or more specifically the bit of Lombard Street which is featured in all the films, where the road zig-zags because it's too steep to go straight. As usual for San Fran, it zig-zags through beautiful gardens filled with bougainvillaea and rhododendron which are ripe with the scent of tea tree oil.

We had breakfast at the Buena Vista cafe, which is, confusingly, no where near Buena Vista park. In fact, it's in the Fisherman's Wharf district at the bottom of an incredibly steep hill where the trolley buses rattle and clatter. Breakfast was a couple of delicious poached eggs and a lovely cup of tea.

From there, we doubled back on ourselves to see the sea lions on Pier 39, barking, mooing or squawking like a weird cross between a pack of dogs and a swarm of seagulls, whilst they sun themselves on the little wooden jetties there. They're a comic little community. I'm not sure why they stay there with hundreds of tourists standing on the pier, staring over them, laughing every time they yawn, or push each other into the water.

Fisherman's Wharf is a ghastly part of town by anyone's standards. It's chockablock with Ye Olde World wooden warehouses, selling fridge magnets, glass-wear and nasty trinkets. There are terrible human statues everywhere and people sail around on segways, those curious two-wheeled vehicles which you use if you're too lazy to walk and want the world to know how much fun you're having. A man was sitting with a guitar playing blues music because he was too fat to play anything else!

We walked ten miles along the top of the peninsular, past various yachting clubs and empty beaches to the wave organ, which is situated at the end of a spit of land which stretches into the bay between Alcatras and the Golden Gate Bridge. It's actually somewhere I've longed to visit for many years. The "organ" consists of a set of tubes with earpieces at the end. The waves crash over and into the tubes and a series of rumbles and pitched sounds creep up the tubes to meet the waiting ear.

We visited at the wrong time. It's apparently best at high tide (5.30am) on a full moon (yawn) and I was incredibly disappointed. Some of the tubes sounded pretty cool, but most, to my ears, simply sounded like the noise of waves. It was at the wave organ that we heard the very sad news that Joan Rivers has died. Nathan met her once. She fed him chicken soup. He said she was a wonderful woman. Kind. Friendly.

From the wave organ we trekked further North, past curiously unnerving tsunami hazard zone signs ("in case of earth quake, go to higher ground, or inland...") through scrubland, and past more empty, wind-swept beaches, to the Golden Gate Bridge. The fog descended on us at that point, and the wind started howling.

We decided to walk across the bridge, just as I decided to do with Fiona exactly 14 years ago when we were last here. It didn't go very well then, and it was fairly catastrophic today. Bridges terrify me. As I walk across them, I find myself grabbing hold of all my possessions to stop myself lobbing something into the water below.

There was a poster a little way along the bridge for the US equivalent of the Samaritans. The sign was next to a telephone and said something along the lines of "if you're distressed, there's always someone to talk to." In my horror, it didn't occur to me that the sign was there for potential suicides. I thought it was for people, like me, who didn't know if they'd be brave enough to cross the bridge!

I shuffled my way to about a third of the way across, almost exactly where I'd got to the last time, then a gust of wind threw me into a tragic paddy, and I sat, like an old lady, waiting for Nathan to venture further across on his own. At that point a young man stopped me and asked if I'd take his picture, and I felt too embarrassed to say I was suffering from Golden Gates-a phobia, so, with one hand on a railing, and the other holding his phone, I did the honours. As I handed it back with shaking hands he asked if I was okay, "do you need to talk?" He said. I imagined that he thought I was a jumper!

We've come home for a rest because our legs feel like they're made of lead.

San Fran stumps

We have walked so far today that our feet are like tiny stumps. My thighs feel like they're bowing out like a Japanese woman, and Nathan says his feet ache up to his knees.

Rule number one when visiting San Francisco: bring a pair of decent shoes because you're going to walk. Everywhere. And every walk will involve a hill with a death-defying gradient!

The day started in North Beach, which is the Italian district of town much associated with the Beat poets. The ghosts of Karouac and Cassidy are everywhere you walk, particularly at the world famous City Lights bookshop. I believe City Lights was the first American book publisher. They also risked ruin by publishing Karouac's book of poetry, Howl, which was instantly banned because the conservative 1950s American society considered it obscene.

City Lights (quite rightly) takes itself very seriously... To the extent that it would be almost impossible to find a trashy novel there, and each of its cavern-like rooms are filled with academics and bohemians who don't seem to smile all that much! It's also the only bookshop I know which plays music. And why not? We bought an autobiography of Harvey Milk, the brave, openly gay San Francisco politician who was assassinated in the late 70s. It felt like the right book to buy in this city and the right place to buy it!

Washington Square Park is a wonderfully eccentric place in the early mornings. In every corner, hordes of people stand in groups doing Tai Chi. Most of them are impossibly old... and Chinese. I sat and watched a group of eight elderly women doing disco Tai Chi to Boney M's Rasputin which was being played on a tinny little stereo. They had all the moves. It was quite marvellous.

We had breakfast listening to music from Tosca in Cafe Pucinni. A mushroom omelette and potatoes with toast and jam. Utterly delicious.

From Washington Square, we trekked up the impossibly steep Telegraph Hill to look at the gloriously Art Deco Coit Tower; a 1929 folly which resembles a fire hose, and was built at the top of the hill to remember Lillie Hitchcock-Coyt whilst simultaneously "beautify" San Francisco. It was from the top of this hill that Nathan caught his first glimpse of the Golden Gate Bridge. It was also where we saw our first San Francisco parrots: green birds with red heads. They're not native here. Very much like the parakeets on Hampstead Heath, they must have escaped from a zoo at one point, and decided it was a nice enough environment to breed in!

We walked down Telegraph Hill via the spectacularly beautiful Filbert Steps. Essentially they're a set of wooden steps which snake their way between wooden houses and wonderful eccentric gardens which simply cling to the side of a cliff. The smells as you walk down are stunning. The fresh scent of pine trees. The rich aniseed-cum-curry aroma of Fennel. The flowers are simply stunning: the bright pinks of bougainvillaea, mixed with plants and flowers I've never seen before. One tree seemed to be sprouting pumpkin flowers. Remarkable.

At the bottom of the hill we encountered the Levi Strauss building, which was the home of the first ever jeans factory. There's a little exhibition in the foyer featuring 150 year-old pairs of jeans. Jeans with amazing stories. Who'd have thought an item of clothing which I've never worn could be so interesting? Who'd have also thought that Levi Strauss has one of the best records of human rights of any American employer. They were the first organisation not to segregate black and white workers and the first to raise funds for the fight against HIV, when everyone else was trying to pretend the disease wasn't happening. Hats off to Levi Strauss.

Many of the company's employees were outside in the courtyard. There was a van which was giving out merchandise relating to a(n obviously highly popular) basketball team. There was a huge queue. We both laughed when we noticed every single one of them was was wearing a pair of Levi's. The only company in the world which can't tell you off for wearing jeans in the market place!

We walked from the Levi factory up Market Street then Folsom Street (famous for its leather bars)... This particular walk must have been at least five miles. One of the highlights of the day was definitely being able to show Nathan the Castro, San Fran's bustling, thriving gay district, where every lamppost, every shop, and even every house displays the rainbow flag. Towering above the district is the largest rainbow flag I've ever seen. It billows proudly in the wind.

We both felt such pride to be there; so moved by and grateful to the people who built that particular community. We had lunch at a cafe called Mistique and I had a delicious halloumi sandwich, which is the first halloumi I've ever eaten in the States. The water here tastes a little funky, however... A bit like chlorine. They fill their drinks with ice, and subsequently everything tastes like a swimming pool!

From Castro we walked up the steepest hill I've ever encountered which was a road lined with stunning Victorian villas and palm trees. Palms trees, in fact, where squirrels play. Imagine that? Squirrels in palm trees is a sight which I never thought I'd see. This particular road took us up to the pine-covered Buena Vista Park. The clue is in the name of the park. We snaked our way, accompanied by humming birds and giant yellow and black butterflies, in an upward direction along dusty paths through tall trees to an open space where the views of the city are quite sublime. The paths are filled with professional dog walkers. One pair of walkers had 20 dogs between them, and two enormous plastic bags filled with dog poo, which they were throwing into a dustbin. I guess that's one of the prices you pay for walking dogs in such large numbers!

In San Fran, no two houses are the same. Most are painted in glorious colours. All have wonderful gardens lined with flowers. It's a riot of colour. Truly. It takes your breath away.

To celebrate the joy of this city's architecture, we tramped for another few miles to visit the Painted Ladies, which is a row of highly-coloured Victorian villas on the edge of another park. These houses are so famous that they have appeared in something like 70 films. Actually, by San Fran standards they're not all that, but it was lovely to see them, and even nicer to stop for thirty minutes, lying on a soft lawn listening to a hippy chick with a guitarist playing jazz standards and easy listening music on her flute. Beatles songs, Carole King... The guitarist could only play bossa nova. Every chord had a sneaky added major seventh and then we realised that he was only ever playing two chords. It's amazing how most songs will sound like jazz standards when played on a flute with a guitarist playing in this manner!

From the Painted Ladies we staggered (via a coffee shop) to Corona Heights, a curiously rugged hill top above the Castro with the best views of San Fran I've probably ever seen. We'd had non-stop sunshine all day, but by this stage a fog was rolling in and engulfing the North of the city. Up there, on the exposed rocks, the wind was incredibly strong. In one direction, the streets of the city stretched for miles, bathed in glorious late afternoon sunlight. In the other, nothing but banks of fast-moving clouds, rolling in, covering the sun, giving everything a curious sepia light.

We returned to the Castro for a bowl of soup, and another bout of people watching. The gays of San Fran gave us much to discuss. There were some fabulous trans-people and a shed load of drugs casualties! By and large, however, the gay scene here seems very open and friendly. And, of course, the English accent helps!

We took the trolly bus back to North Beach, which was a somewhat edgy experience. There was a screech and a bang at one point when the bus came off its electric cables. The driver did an emergency stop, turned all the bus lights off, went outside and casually fixed the problem. Later on, one passenger decided he didn't much like the driver, and there was a mega-display of trash talk, the driver giving as much as he was given. I was expecting a gun to be drawn at one point, but both parties seemed content to use the word "mother fucker" repeatedly. There was a little girl on the bus who seemed very upset by the exchange, which I felt was very sad, but we spoke to the driver afterwards who said it happens every day.

San Fran

We touched down in San Francisco at exactly midnight British time, which felt deeply surreal in the glorious Californian afternoon sunlight.

The plane journey was about three hours longer than I'd have liked it to be. The only highlight of the ten-hour marathon flight was being able to look at Mount St Helens from above; its summit peeking out from the top of a cloud like Olympus in Greece. I was obsessed with that particular volcano as a child. I remember writing a terrible poem about its big eruption.

San Francisco had started to look rather hazy by the time we exited the airport. The clouds had descended on the tops of the hills. It's strange: this city is famous for its fogs, but during the two week period when I was last here (exactly 14 years ago) we didn't see a singe mist descend.

By the time we'd reached the city itself, everything had become overcast and drab... But it didn't matter. This city is absolutely brilliant. We were faced with quite a walk from the subway station to our hotel, but because it took us through North Beach, and past places like Washington Square, we thought it might be fun.

The city is unlike anywhere I've ever visited. It feels like a curious blend of New York, Seville and, one assumes, certain cities in Latin America. The architecture is flim-flam and brightly coloured. We didn't even touch the surface with our short walk this afternoon, but we did see a big chunk of China Town, a number of old-school trolley buses, and countless wonderful views which seemed to involve buildings clinging to hills in ever-bizarre contortions. It's all very Herbie Goes Bananas here!

A quick check of my watch tells me it's 3am in London right now, which will explain why I feel like absolute death. More tomorrow. But we're both safe, happy, and excited to start our honeymoon.

High alert

I went to Borough today for osteopathy. The tubes were incredibly sluggish, and I waited for ages for one to appear at Highgate. It was only when I arrived at the osteopath's that I was told that Britain is currently on a high alert for terrorism. An attack is, apparently, imminent, and the osteopath even suggested that Londoners have been told to keep tube travel to a minimum. I don't actually believe him on this front, because if this IS the case, then the terrorists will have won. I am, of course, slightly concerned about flying to America tomorrow... But what can you do?

Islamaphobia will no doubt start to rip this country apart. We could well end up in the position Germany found itself in with its Jewish population in the 1930s. I found myself regarding everyone who got on the train home with deep suspicion. You can be as politically correct as you like, but on a day like today, if someone carrying a backpack and wearing a yashmak got onto my carriage, I would move. This is, of course, ridiculous, as any self-respecting Muslim terrorist would wear a suit and tie and look as Western as possible! But do terrorists have self respect?

As I passed through King's Cross, I started to think about the worrying rise in home-grown UK terrorism. Top of my musings was wondering if political correctness has created a viper's nest. Allowing certain branches of the Muslim community (or any minority community for that matter) to live in this country without properly integrating, and without respecting British laws and traditions will ultimately lead to people being born here who simply don't feel British, or, worse still, don't respect or don't have a sense of one-ness with their fellow countrymen.

This is not a problem which exists America, where patriotism is something which almost everything is pinned onto. Kids in American schools learn why they're lucky to be American, whilst kids in Britain are taught that we ran a hideous Empire which crushed ethnic minorities. In the 1950s being "un-American" was a crime... Being un-British is almost de rigueur!

Obviously there is much that is wrong (and fake) with the American model, but equally there is much right in the English model which we rarely get to celebrate because celebrating Englishness is seen as at odds with building a multi-cultural society.

In my view, British people who break British laws, for whatever reason, need to be punished. British citizens who send their children to Egypt for female genital mutilation should be instantly thrown into jail - no questions asked. Arranged marriages should be considered null and void and those who can't speak English to a high enough standard should be send to compulsory classes. It may seem right wing in the extreme, but living in a country whose values you reject - or, worse still, whose laws and cultures you use to make money with the view of returning home and lording it over your peers - is wholly unacceptable.

I also firmly believe the Muslim community needs to start taking more responsibility for what is happening. I am sick to the back teeth of Muslim leaders "washing their hands" of the actions of a "small minority" or blaming poverty and racism for the unfortunate choices their fellow Muslims make. If the community is genuinely horrified, then it is the community's responsibility to infiltrate some of these groups and either prevent radicalisation from taking place or shop those who become radicalised to the authorities.

If a small group of gay people were behaving appallingly - the only parallel I could draw would be if a group of HIV positive bisexual men were deliberately sleeping (unprotected) with heterosexual women - I would be first on their case.

I remain, however, a huge believer in immigration. I think immigrants create fresh, young, exciting Britain, and I do not believe we should be reversing the tide of people who want to live in this country. But I ONLY believe in immigration when it goes hand-in-hand with integration and doesn't pander to any aspect of religion. Interracial marriages and multi-lingual, mixed-heritage children are what makes Britain great. I feel genuinely proud that there are more mixed-race children in Britain than anywhere else in the world.

I had the most curious dream last night that my dear friend Edward had arrived at a function (as he so often does) with his mother, Joan, in tow. Seconds later, an almost identical version of his mother appeared at the same do, and he greeted her as fondly. "I didn't realise your mother had a sister" I said, "she doesn't," Edward replied; "this is my mother as she was exactly ten years ago. I travel with them both so I know that when my mother eventually dies, I'll always have another ten years with her." How is it possible that my subconscious managed to come up with something so profoundly weird, and yet simultaneously so magical and moving? In my dream I burst into tears at the thought... And in reality, I woke up crying and I cried for some time. My pillow was wet with tears by the time I got out of bed.

Tarts

I'm sitting with Nathan and Cindy in our relatively tidy sitting room watching the X Factor on iPlayer. We're actually watching it on itvplayer, but I refuse to acknowledge this particular system because it's rubbish.

We've basically been tidying the house all day and have dispatched about eight bin bags of carefully sifted rubbish into various recycling bins across the capital. We threw away as much as we possibly could. Tomorrow I'm going to become even more ruthless and throw away about half of my possessions!

Our house is full of moths. We're gonna kill them all. They're chowing down on all of Nathan's beautiful knitted objects. They must therefore die. Horrifically if needs be.

I bought two wooden boxes from Homebase yesterday which we've filled with mementos from our wedding and Brass; cards, photographs, little gifts, pieces of music, dried button holes... It was lovely to look through everything again, particularly the wedding stuff, which has been in a giant pile in our bedroom. We found cards from Michael Stipe and Katie Melua, and, of course, all the lovely messages and letters from friends and family.

We briefly stopped tidying the house to have lunch at the Cafe Rouge in Highgate. We'd found some tokens for the restaurant in a pile somewhere and thought how lovely it would be to treat Cindy to a decent meal.

I ate a tart, and then had another tart for pudding. It was pretty decent food, although some tart in the kitchen stuck a load of coriander in the tossed leaf salad. I can taste that shit a mile off and had to spit an entire mouthful of food into a napkin as soon as my teeth made contact with the evil herb.

After eating we went onto the Heath and sat on blankets watching the bright green parakeets flapping through the bright blue sky whilst drinking bright orange fizzy pop. It was nice to be back on the Heath after an entire month away from London.