Watched a DVD of a (not bad-) French film about Van Gogh being sad, mad,etc, which didn't do my mood much good.
I did at least, have jolly dreams...another of my totally WTF!? romantic interludes found me on the razzle with Simon Russel Beale, who (this seems to be a recent pattern-) made an exception in his sex life for me, and we discovered that we were made for each other. There were a lot of other vie de Boheme type people hanging out with us in a pub near Trafalgar Square; the Harp (Welsh Harp as was-) It's a tiny place, but seemed, in Tardis style to accomodate legions of A list arty pals who found our curious passion quite touching and uplifting to behold. Even Mr Beale's boyfriend was delighted and we all got on swimmingly. Very odd, but it was nice at the time, I promise.