I've had a lovely day in Cambridge today. I went to see an exhibition of sculpture in the grounds of one of the colleges. There was work by three sculptors but the one I wanted to see most was Antony Gormley.

I love his stuff, it's completely fantastic. I didn't really know anything about him for years so I've been trying to catch up ever since. His work is often similar, mostly the metal figures that are apparently a cast of his own body. I've seen them previously at Crosby beach, scattered round the South Bank Centre in London and in various galleries, but each time they feel different - the ones at Crosby beach all stare out to sea, in a hopeful, longing kind of way. But they also seem to have strength as they take a battering from the sea, and vulnerability as it engulfs them. The ones around the Southbank Centre were perched on the edge of buildings, as if they were about to jump, but mostly it felt like they were watching you, which made since in a city riddled with CCTV. The ones in galleries seem strangely neutered in plain white spaces. And in Cambridge they did something different: there's a couple standing on top of buildings watching or ready to jump, but the rest were lying down.



They could be asleep, or they could be dead. They're very still and it almost seems intrusive to get close to them and stare. They're beautiful! I'd love one in the garden but that will never happen as they're never for sale, and if they were I'd have to sell the house to pay for one!

The other sculptors weren't up to much - one did a big pile of wood which I enjoyed the scale of, and some things that looked like metal trestles, which were less good, more like that old fashioned idea of modern Art as a pile of bricks. Stranger still were the headless bodies in wedding dresses, instead of heads they had piles of bricks, a book, a glass box. Not particularly impressive. There's lots of pictures here.

It was interesting to get to nose round a college as well, because they're not normally open to the public. It's another world really, grand buildings, perfect lawns, nice flower beds. It doesn't feel very welcoming, there's no signposts and it feels like anywhere you go is somewhere you shouldn't be. Nice to look though.

Then I had a wander round the shops before I met FM & BF. I haven't done a day shopping in Cambridge in ages, not since I gave up shopping as my primary recreational activity, and I seem to have lost the knack. I bought some CDs, a strange jelly shower wash thing and that was it. I wandered aimlessly and ended up going for coffee. I had a bit of a moment in an art gallery, where I could have bought everything but it was well over my budget so I just looked. Meanwhile FM & BF bought a £65 kettle and an Audi TT. That's quite a morning's shopping! We had a nice lunch and it was fun to wander round the shops and do something sociable with them.

The train home was packed so I had to stand half the way back, which wasn't much fun after a whole day on my feet so I was glad to get home and kick my shoes off. I've now taken to the sofa with some ginger beer and the Glastonbury coverage, although I'm basically tolerating it until Bruce Springsteen comes on.

I don't really want to add to the ridiculous amount of stuff that's been written about Michael Jackson today - the Guardian website had more articles than I could actually count! - but his death reminded me of my favourite Michael Jackson moment. Don't panic, it doesn't involve him and it's not gushingly sentimental!

Picture the seen: a rural primary school in the late 70s. I've got a bit of a basin haircut, probably shorts on and definitely a polyester shirt. It's the lunch break and I'm standing next to a mobile classroom with Trudy Cadman (my favourite country dancing partner) and Tina Upton, and we're choreographing a little dance routine to The Jacksons' Blame it on the Boogie. I don't really remember how it went although I do remember that when it got to the line about sunshine we did a kind of jazz hands/sun shape with our hands. I think we can safely say I was born gay.

Back in the present days there was more important pop news - Rufus Wainwright has grown a beard:



My love of Rufus is legendary and has taken me to many places: London, New York, Chelmsford... And I'm a big fan of beards, so you'd think a combination of the two would be a big hit in this house, but I'm not sure if it works. Or perhaps it's just because it's been unveiled as he promotes his new opera, which I'm going to see but am frankly a little nervous about. Maybe it will grow on me...

I'm just back from the cinema where I saw Is there anybody there?, a rather marvellous film about old people and death. I know how to have a good time!

It's about a boy whose parents run a failing old people's home. It's set in the early 80s, the boy hates it, so does the father but the mother struggles on in the hope of doing some good. Meanwhile the residents keep dying and those that don't aren't very happy: the dance teacher with the artificial leg, who nobody will dance with; the old soldier who hasn't stopped shaking since 1917; the alcoholic old man; the kleptomaniac woman who thing's she's still a cleaner for a Lord; and the bitter old woman whose family hates her. Into this comes a retired magician who is mourning his wife, and who doesn't want to be in a home at all. The boy takes and instant dislike to him, but the soon become friends, which is really what the film is about.

It's obviously ridiculously sad, but not in the obvious way. People die, but that's dealt with in a very low-key way. The bits that turned me inside out were small looks and odd little things people said. I started to well up about twenty minutes into it and by the end I was completely drained!

The magician is played by Michael Caine, who just keeps getting better and better! I don't like is 60s and 70s stuff, it's too Cockney, too wideboy, but as he gets older he gets more fantastic. He's just heartbreaking in this and if someone doesn't give him an award for it it'll be a complete scandal! The mother is played by Anne-Marie Duff who is fabulous as always. The father is played by David Morrissey who plays another unpleasant character, which doesn't help me like him any more.

It's fab, but very sad, but it feels good to shed tears, and it's a relief to be doing them over something imaginary than over my own life, which I'm very grateful for.

I'm just home from a most pleasant evening in Norwich. I'd like to tell you that I've been doing something cultural and improving but that would be a lie. I've been a dirty slag.

Well I say that, but actually it's not true. Yes I have spent the evening 'enjoying' a couple I've seen a few times before but honestly the whole thing couldn't be more respectable if we tried! We're all middle-aged, middle-class professionals, they've got a nice home, and they've even got one of those white terriers that I never remembers which breed they are although all gay couples seem to have them. We talked about holidays and theatre, and apart from the fact we were naked at the time it was just like any other gathering of nice men.

I feel better for it. My balance is restored and it's put the annoying things that happened in the day into perspective. Who said casual sex had to be meaningless and bad for you?!

And before I stumble off to bed, I completely forgot to wish Sarah a happy birthday yesterday, so:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SARAH!!! XXX

This week is the Glastonbury Festival, which means this year's festival season is really kicking off so it's time to think about my own festival plans this year. It's now just over three weeks until the Latitude Festival and as it's a sunny evening I thought it would be a good idea to trial assemble the tent I got for Christmas:



After years of managing with a tiny Argos tent that was supposedly big enough for two people but was hardly big enough for me and my sweets I've graduated to a three man tent, although by 'man' I think they mean 'underweight adolescents'. It's fab though and surprisingly easy to put up - the hardest part was getting it back in the bag!

I've also started to buy festival essentials, although by essentials I mean chocolate, crisps, tonic water and wet wipes. It's that kind of festival experience.

And I've started reading books by people who will be appearing on the Literary Stage, because I'm keen to embrace that this year. Which may be connected to the fact that I listened to some of the bands who are playing and found them a little bit dull.

Time for some cider!

It's been a dull day and there's not much news here. Instead let's have a picture:



After work I planted five lavender bushes in the garden. They were in the old border, then found a temporary home at Mum's until I was ready to have them back. I'm glad I replanted them as they're bigger than I remember and fill the border nicely, and one of them is a gorgeous purple colour. It's started to look more like a garden and less like a pile of earth with some random plants in it.

And so to the third and biggest "no" of the weekend: Father's Day. A "no" which I realise that a surprisingly high amount of my friends are sharing.

The first few Father's Day after Dad died were particularly difficult. The sight of a Father's Day card in a shop was enough to make me drop my shopping and leave. But things change and this year I mostly just finding it irritatingly commercial. There's nothing shops won't stick an "Ideal for Father's Day" sticker on, mostly dull rock CDs, but really they'll stop at nothing, the best example being Tesco who included a book about the Austrian father who imprisoned his daughter in the cellar in a shelf of suggested Father's Day gifts. And don't get me started on those "Who's the Daddy?" t-shirts!

I seem to miss Dad more than ever this year. It's summed up slightly by a Rufus Wainwright lyric from Want: "I just want to be my Dad/With a slight sprinkling of my mother". He was so relentlessly positive despite 35 years of increasingly bad health, always so encouraging. Since he died I've done so much stuff I'd have loved to have told him about, and although he wouldn't have been able to get in it I'm sure he would have loved my silly little car. Mum on the other hand has savings put aside just in case the roof of her house falls down. She's clearly a woman whose glass is half empty.

Inevitably I'm a bit of both of them, although I think I'm more like Dad than Mum, but am prone to pessimism and need cheerful people around me to improve my mood. This year has been a bit of a trial and I could do with some encouragement. I wish Mum did that but she doesn't. Oh what I'd give for five more minutes with Dad!

So today has been a bit of a struggle, and I took to my bed for a few hours in the afternoon but thankfully some old music sorted me out a bit. I'm also having a delayed reaction to yesterday afternoon's gentleman caller. Living in the country you get used to a certain level of sexual encounter, mostly average to be honest. So when someone with more experience turns up it can't help but make me feel a little bit limited. Whilst yesterday's man was nice and didn't deliberately do anything to make me feel crap the whole thing has left me feeling like an unglamorous, unsophisticated potato. And no one likes that.

I'm not miserable, just sad and quiet. This isn't self pity, although it may be a bit stupid. I'll be fine tomorrow. Or possibly later once the chocolate and wine have taken a bit of a hammering...