Saturday, after the late night cycle home from Barcode, whizzed down to the picnic in Hyde Park by the Bird Sanctuary. Had stopped at Berwick Street market to pick up some plums and lychees, where I bumped into Lev, who had yet again just returned from KL.
Cycled onto Hampstead, had a swim, where I bumped into Spanish Ernesto. Then onto Kenwood and had a lovely second picnic organised by Simon, uphill of the actual paying concertgoers. There was loads of food, and it was easy listening pop ("music to watch the girls go by"). Paul, Keith, Nigel, Chok, Shaun, James (cute), Kamal. Nothing like some down-to-earth socialising with a picnic and a beautiful view over London. Bumped into John H again there, who was at a separate picnic party (he had been at the boat party). That made 3 accidental bumps into acquaintances, in one day, which has to be a record for me in London. Oh I wish I lived in a village, where bumping into people wouldn't be such a rarity.
So by the time I got home, I had in the previous 26 hours, cycled 60 miles, been swimming outdoors, dancing in a club, and gotten drunk twice.
Very likely the most physically active day I had all year, and wow did I feel about one hundred times better than the day before.
Sunday, I spontaneously hooked up with M at 30 minutes notice. It turned into a date, and a very, very enjoyable one. We met in Greenwich, we had a bite and a lovely wander around. We stopped at the Rose & Crown for two pints. Our time together was exciting, yet chastely restricted to melting kisses and sensual hugs. This was the second time I had refused the opportunity to end up in the sack, because I felt there was something more enjoyable there that might be ruined by having sex too soon. The desire is strong, but sex in the gay world can too easily be like a meal at McDonald's. When along comes something better than a hamburger, you have to be careful not to waste it by eating it out of a foam carton, or having it with a Coke.
Maybe I should even brush up on my table manners...
Strange how even as I wrote this, I found I was already blocking my memory of how much I enjoyed our date. As though pleasure and happiness are things I dare not cling onto, lest they should be taken away from me, against my wishes. I am afraid of being happy? Really? How did this come about?