Sundown is the start of Rosh Hashanah. I'm afraid, darlings, the time has come for me to go.

When this blog started it was with no expectations. I've never lived my life to a plan aside from enjoying myself and have (for the most part) enjoyed doing this.

All things pass. For instance: Harts the Grocer, I am saddened to note, are now Tesco Metro. But that is the way of things. I'll miss this. The time will never be right to finish the diary - so I am ending it now.

Doors have opened and I'd like to see where they go. Other doors close, but as my mother said when I was 10 and tennis conflicted with piano on Thursday afternoons, you can't do everything you want to do. So my plans to be elected to Parliament, win a Nobel Prize and make the finals at Wimbledon are on the back burner for now. As book and telly projects progress, I'll come back to link - and I will let you know if the site is going to be moved.

Thank you to everyone who supported me. Thank you to the critics as well. I wish you all a sweet new year.

If I could add one thing, it would be this - don't ever turn down pleasure because you were afraid of what other people might say.

Preparation is like gas; it expands to fill the space allotted.

When I had more appointments, and they came at shorter notice, I was always almost-ready. Reasonably maintained; trimmed, waxed and manicured; closet organised and shoes lined up, stockings rinsed, handbag packed; I could be on my way within forty minutes.

Now there is more lead time before an appointment, and not very many appointments at that. Two days ago someone made arrangements to see me tonight, and I've been panicking ever since. Hair? Legs? Shoes? Now it seems like there are a thousand things to do, and not enough time to do them in. Which is odd, because when I go out tonight I'll look identical to how I would have given only an hour to prepare.

I even woke earlier than usual this morning, to deep-condition my hair and check my dress was clean, pressed and ready to go. I spotted the clock in the kitchen when I emerged from the bathroom - it wasn't even time for breakfast yet.

Hurry up and wait, hurry up and wait, as the Boy used to say.

Another record day for the Inbox...

So well read yet so ignorant ? ... Anyway what did Christ do for the first 30 years of his life ?

What, you think I know from Christianity? You're the pedant, honey, you tell me. I'm not the sort of person who thinks ignorance is a virtue, but then I can't really be expected to be au fait with the mythology of a religion I don't follow - you dig?

This should help narrow down the field of possible subjects I studied, for those who are interested; clearly theology and comparative religion were not on the curriculum.

Another charming respondent adds,

Them what knows say that Joseph of Arimathea got as far as fair Albion; all the secret cults (templars, masons) reckon Jesus survived crucifixion. The Koran says clearly that he paid for someone else to be nailed. Some nutty documentary claims he went to Kashmir. And Romans were occasionally exiled to England, as being a most God forsaken spot.

How silly of me not to have realised. Jesus going to Albion = reasonable; Jesus going to Kashmir = nutty. Now pardon me whilst I snort derisively. The same correspondent signs off:

So there.

Well done mate, you've really gotten one over on me. Does that make you feel better? I've really had it with you people. You know who you lot remind me of? The fellow on the Simpsons who works in the comic book store.

Ooh, here comes another:

Really surprised however that you're slating Jerusalem - official anthem of the Women's Institute. I would have thought given the expensive education and appreciation of the finer things in life, you'd be the ideal member.

Aside from being a Jewish prostitute, I suppose I would make a grand addition to the WI. They are not unfamiliar with getting their kit off after all.

A contrary view puts his 2p in:

It's an incitement to revolutionary violence, something they tend not to dwell on at the proms.

Nice.

Someone else adds,

My understanding of the poem is that its a piece of early socialism, that Blake is talking about building jerusalem - a sort of utopian vision - amongst these dark satanic mills.

A lovely thought, but I think that reading was rather lost on the folks wrapping themselves in the Union Jack.

I have a slight cold from a late-night interaction with the Serpentine. All the protective outer layers in the world come to nothing if you dive into a tempting bit of water at the least whim. Call it youthful exuberance, call it silly indulgence, call it too much red wine. I can say that the stars (the few there were) looked marvellous from that angle, and it occurred to me that swans have such elegant necks because they are bottom feeders.

SH came round the next day because we were meant to be going out, only I had to cancel due to illness. I didn't feel bad about changing plans, it wasn't very nice outside anyway. He doesn't take not getting his way very well but even he understands that not to make a show of sympathy is a bad idea.

'Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?'

Sex for starters, I thought. I smiled weakly. 'The muscles in my legs are aching, you could massage them.'

SH frowned. It's not what he meant. I'm not adept at interpreting from Man to English, but assume by his reaction what he really meant me to answer was no love, you go do something else, I'll suffer in silence.

I'm not the sort of girl to suffer in silence. I pouted and indicated the massage oil. He poured some in his hands, rubbing the palms together so it would warm. He then applied himself to my left thigh, slowly at first.

'You can go harder,' I said.

By the time he was massaging my right calf, my foot resting on his shoulder, he was stiffening. When he reached the toes of that foot he was hard. He shifted so he was coming out of his shorts, put my other leg on his shoulder, and scooted up the bed until he entered me.

Later he went out and hired DVDs, and we drank the red I was saving for something nice, and ate crisps, spreading crumbs all over my sofa. His hands danced under my white dressing gown. We paused the film to fuck again.

The un-date date. My favourite sort.

Went to the Proms in the Park on Saturday. I'm not certain why.

No, correction, I am certain why - someone else paid for the tickets and invited me. I packed a picnic hamper and enough wine to drown a horse. Now the Last Night is all very well and good, but I did spend most of the time wondering why Terry Wogan still has a job, falling asleep during the Corrs, and being baffled, as per usual, by the hymn Jerusalem.

I find it faintly ludicrous, this idea that perhaps Jesus came to Britain for a holiday. I don't think my scepticism is necessarily sectarian, either. When we are asked And did those feet in ancient time walk upon England's mountains green?, I think we can with some confidence say, no. Not unless EasyJet was running a special offer the week between the Sermon on the Mount and the Last Supper.

But it's good that we collectively know the words to a William Blake poem.

The foot fetishists, they are top.

I don't understand their fetish, I don't see the appeal myself - feet are nice enough, but not that nice. But boy can I cater to it, and they certainly seem to like me.

Despite altogether too large a fraction of my life spent in stilettos, my feet are in surprisingly good shape. Fine-boned, high-arched, uncalloused and blessed with nicely-shaped toes and toenails. Of my physical features I would rate the feet rather highly. I don't spend very much time on them, preferring a single clear lick of varnish to a full-on pedicure, and yet they seem to do quite well.

I met S earlier than my normal appointments. Midafternoon at a central hotel. He had requested no stockings, and 'pretty' shoes. Nonspecific. Not a shoe fetishist, then, I wagered. I wore the violet peep-toed ones, with the open instep and little shiny bow on the side.

There is always the moment of doubt on meeting a client - will this work? Is he nice? Is this even the right person? On meeting S, he smiled, looked me in the eyes, and his gaze dropped immediately to the floor. I knew we were on, and this definitely the man.

He led me into the suite. I sat. He poured drinks, handed me one, and sat on the floor by my chair. He was average height, slim, narrow-shouldered with a cut-glass accent and a plump lower lip. With one hand he slipped the right shoe off my foot. He nodded, as you imagine a jeweller would on seeing a fine gem. 'Five,' he said, referring (one assumes) to the size of my foot and not the number of toes.

'Yes,' I said. He had asked, before booking the appointment.

He put his drink on the table and unsheathed the other foot, turning its underside toward him, running his thumb along its length. 'Ticklish?'

'No.'

'Good.' His warm fingers pressed lightly on the top of my foot. 'Clean?'

'As per instructions,' I said. I had worried that not wearing stocking might make them a little sweaty in transit, but if this was the case, he did not seem to mind. 'Why no stockings?'

'I'm not interested in your legs,' he said, nuzzling the underside of both feet together.

Fair enough. I'm indifferent to them myself. S removed his clothes and spent the next twenty minutes on the floor, shuffling his naked body under my feet as I held my legs bent, thighs raised from the seat. He especially lingered with my feet over his face. But he was not a toe sucker, and seemed to prefer that I keep the feet together.

I looked at him for some time, then having discerned that he didn't want me to do very much, my eyes wandered toward the window. The curtains were open but a sheer privacy curtain was still drawn. There was street noise outside, but we were fairly high up, so nothing was distinct. And the sound of his back moving over the carpet. I wondered if he wouldn't get burns. My feet were over his face again, and he moved his head from side to side.

'Wmmph hmmph mmph mmp,' he said.

'Pardon?'

'Wiggle your toes.' Finally, he brought the two feet down to his crotch, cupping them around his balls as he masturbated.

'Nails,' he said. 'Dig the nails.' I dug the nails. He came. Lifting my soles off him, I could see the pink crescents some of the nails had left in his thigh. I held the feet in midair again as he tended to them with a baby wipe, then dressed and poured me another drink. We turned on the television and watched a gardening show.

Thank you pedants, but no, the client wasn't supine - he was prone. Chest on the bed, head turned to the left, his lower body positioned so he was on his right hip. I was on my knees next to him, pulling his cock to (what would have been to him) his left and (what was to me) up and towards me. He was not on his back.

I may be silly, but I'm not stupid.

I was kneeling over a prone client, pulling his cock and balls. This one was a gusher; the amount of pre-come he was producing was staggering. My thumb and forefingers were already sticky with it, and a fat drop rolled down the shaft.

He reached up to stroke my face. From that angle, the soft hand, chalk-white skin, dark hair - he looked like someone else. I feel like there are crossed wires in my head, making me see ghosts that aren't there.

'Your neck,' he murmured, and I wasn't sure who was saying it.

When I was young I believed that by concentrating hard enough, anyone who was thinking about me would be able to see for a few moments through my eyes, wherever I was, and hear and feel what was happening. When Being John Malkovich came out I was stunned at how closely the film resembled this half-forgotten fantasy.

I wondered who might be thinking about me, and would they be seeing this? My hands on someone else's shoulders, a dark trail of hair on the lower belly that looked far too familiar?

After the sex, I rested my head on his chest. One of his legs flexed, one straight, it happened again. The ghost. It must sneak in as autumn sun slanting through the window. Hundreds of motes stirring in the slight breeze, picking up crackling bits of memory and sticking them together. I closed my eyes. At least his smell was different. That put things right.

'I'd like to see you again,' he said as I dressed.

'That would be nice,' I replied, and meant it perhaps a little more than is good for me.

Was waiting for N outside an overground station. I had just come from meeting a client out of town, N had just finished work nearby. A young man next to me was looking up and down the road for buses, headphones plugged in to his ears, the music far too loud for the relatively quiet street. I tapped him on the shoulder.

'I like that song,' I said.

'Oh?' He looked surprised. 'You like [name of band]?'

Oh, okay, I'll come clean. About the song I mean.

Alice in Chains. Man In the Box.

I know, I know. Whatever shreds of respect you may have had for me have just vanished. Yoof of today can keep their Fred Durst and their Linkin Park and their Avril-bloody-Lavigne. Back in my salad days, disaffected middle class teenagers shuffled their ill-fitting jeans to the likes of The Mission and Sisters of Mercy. Because, frankly, baggy was just too cheerful for the pain in our souls. Sit down, sit down, sit down next to me? Begone.

The young man smiled. 'When was the last time someone told you you're gorgeous?'

'About forty minutes ago.'

N's car came up to the kerb. 'Nice dress,' he said as I got in. 'When I drove up I thought, well, she can't be the cute one in the dress.'

'You've seen me in this before.'

'Have I?' I reminded him when. 'That was months ago. You look sweet, anyway.'

We went back to mine for a cup of tea. He leafed through my magazines. I took off my shoes and rested my legs over his lap. We started fooling around, but his touch felt strange, almost ticklish. I was very premenstrual and slight touches were uncomfortable. But I didn't want to be treated roughly, either.

We grappled on the sofa for a bit before he gave up. 'Not in the mood, are you?' N asked. 'That's okay.'

I felt bad. After all, I'd just come from fucking someone. But work sex feels different, is not tied to interest or desire.

But I knew why I wasn't especially interested. 'You know what this month is to me?'

'I know what it is.' N folded his arm around my head. 'You're not over him, are you?' He didn't mean SH, he didn't mean the Boy. He meant the one before that.

'I don't miss him.' N gave me a doubtful look. 'I barely remember what he was like now. I miss the idea of him.' The idea that there is one person you fall in love with, one right person, and you will spend the rest of your lives - or a sizeable portion of them - together.

'You want me to stay or go?'

'I'll feel bad for kicking you out this late.'

'Don't,' N said. He dressed, picked up his bag and left quietly.

Minor mystery:

Minicab drivers don't want to talk to you. They talk to their dispatchers, on their mobiles, to people in other cars - but not to you. They may not know where they're going, but you'll never have to answer the awkward question about what you're doing out this time of night dressed like that.

Black cab drivers just want to talk. Often so much so that they appear to navigate best facing over their left shoulders, telling you about their holidays in Portugal. You'll get there, all right, but not without a thorough test of your powers of elusion.

It's making a very late stab at being summer, no? And just when I'd given up on the very idea and packed my bikinis away for the next six months. So I unexpectedly found myself topping up vitamin D reserves as I lolled in the garden reading books and sipping lemonade. The lemony kind, not the fizzy kind.

(n.b.: American readers, you may not know there is a fizzy kind of lemonade that does not contain anything remotely lemon-like, and that is what you will get if you order lemonade. And you will sit, horrified, looking at the glass and say, 'but I didn't order Sprite' and wonder what kind of mad people live here. Also, there will be no ice in the glass, and this will disturb you. You'll probably leave an absurdly low tip as a result, not realising that because no one in the UK leaves a tip at all, your implied insult will actually be taken as overexuberant tourist generosity. I know, because you were sitting next to me Friday afternoon at a cafe when it happened. I was the one wearing the floppy hat, reading.)

But this lemonade was The Real Thing, recipe passed on from the friend in Wiltshire (she of the recent party). She's invited me down to look after her place and raid the wine cellar, and I am powerless to refuse. What are the chances of next weekend being as nice as this one was though?

Someone bring me the head of Ben Kweller. Now.

Preferably with the body still attached.

Alive would be nice.

Switched on the mobile yesterday afternoon to find three missed calls and a dozen texts. SH has gotten out of hand, and this has ballooned into what he is now calling 'The Lie.'

From the way he was reacting, you would have thought I'd told him there was no Father Christmas.

I don't really class our last conversation as a lie as such - more an evasion. I went out with friends, one of them was N, I didn't immediately ring and tell him. I didn't tell him when I showered at the gym, either, or the last time I had a bowel movement. Do those count as lies as well? There are people who will say the concepts are one and the same. But since he had been spying on me, and was clearly setting me up to accuse me of something, I don't feel terrible about it.

I had a client to meet and didn't feel like ringing SH. Unfortunately, tact being one of my weaker suits, we did trade a few texts on my way out. So while I tried to be calm and hold back, telling him 'this is really not what I need to come home to' is about as kind and lovey-dovey-girfriendy as it got. Wittering on about these things in an endless circle of discussion is not on my agenda.

I really do make a rubbish girlfriend.

And he didn't change his tone at all. Finally, exhausted by the text tennis and needing to mentally prepare myself for work, I texted back:

Good night. I hope your righteous indignation keeps you warm.

Several hours later, after I had showered and the client had bathed, and we put the furniture back where it had started, drained another bottle of white and talked about our respective summer holidays, I did wonder why things could be so light and easy with a near-stranger. When I checked the phone later, SH had texted a goodnight kiss.

Not very much to write about, aside from continuing hair saga. Yes, I have gone back to the people who did this. Yes, everyone assures me it's not that bad. Nevertheless, it's not what I wanted.

Boooooooring.

Also SH is persona non grata at the moment. Largely because he appears to be following me around. Sample:

He: What did you do last night?

Me: Gym, food, sleep. [n.b. - for the second night running]

He: Did you eat out or in?

Me: Out.

He: Who with?

N and a friend called C and another friend A. I asked A what he thought the best way to get hold of SH's brother was (for, er, completely legitimate purposes. For now.). His response? "With a giant net."

Me: Some people.

He: Including N?

Now, he and N know about each other, and everyone has assured me everything's cool. I know N well enough to know that in his case, he's telling the truth. And yes it does go both ways - N is doing the dirty with M, and is trying to arrange a threesome with both of us, which I'm well up for. M has scheduling issues. But I'm starting to suspect SH wasn't telling me the truth and in fact is not cool with this.

Me: Does it matter? [There is the part of me that thinks this response is probably confrontational and damaging, but it's on holiday this week.]

He: I just don't want to feel like you're lying to me.

Me: I'm not lying to you. Why does it matter whom I ate with?

He: Because I saw you walking with him, is all.

So instead of saying hello, and may he join us, he rings me up the next day to plant conversational minefields? Whoah. Fuck. Creepy. Wrong. Can I date a normal person, someday, please? He goes on about how great Sunday/last month/France was, and why can't I be more like I was on Sunday/last month/France, because as we all know it's one person who makes a relationship work and certainly not both. And no one has off days, ever. Anyway, interminable minutes more of this before I say,

Me: Are you really willing to lose me so you can make a stupid point?

He: (silence)

Me: I think I have to go now.

I've left the phone off today.

Why didn't you mention this?

Why didn't you mention that?

My perception was completely different.

I am not an assistant.

Here's the thing, people. Well, not the thing, but a thing. See, diaries are not the truth. They are my recollection and perception of what happens. The truth according to me. Things get glossed over. Sometimes people are reduced to footnotes (you know, I'm sure Cain was a nice guy once you got to know him, but there's only so much room for scene-setting). If I wrote everything about everything, we'd be here a pretty long time, and even the sex would get boring.

The entry from the 31st has been removed. That will teach me to write about people whom I know will read it.

In the future, should anyone ask why I would like to remain anonymous, I refer to this post.

N and I went to the gym together last night, ate a late supper at our second-favourite Italian, and repaired to mine for a cool drink and the usual.

I made a note to myself last night, so I wouldn't forget to tell you this morning: Mia Farrow must give good head.

Conversation went along these lines. Me: Ironically, by sleeping with men for money, I have managed to completely avoid anything lascivious or shady in the non-adult-entertainment industry.

He: Pity the casting couch seems to have passed into legend. Joan Crawford, they say, has a couple of blue movies making the rounds somewhere.

Me: Yeah. And the famous quote attributed to Marilyn, when she signed her first big contract: no more blow jobs.

He: Who said 'there goes the good time that was had by all,' and about whom?*

Me: I don't remember.

He: Me either. [n.b., the computer wasn't on and I couldn't be bothered to check. We are a very civilised salon de Jour.]

Me: It can't have been someone who wore the label of slut with pride, like Mae West. Maybe Jean Harlow?

He: Could be. But I bet Bette Davis was one dirty fucker. Pretty in an average way, and possibly the best actress of her generation - but with that face, she so must have done anything to get her big breaks.

Me: Well it can't have been Katharine Hepburn or anyone like her. Ice queen.

He: I bet not. I hear she swung both ways.

Me: Ava Gardner?

He: You know that quote of hers about Frank Sinatra?

Me: About his being a 97-pound weakling who was 96 pounds of cock?

He: That's the one. Of course, I was reading something the other day that all but said he had the equipment, but no idea what to do with it.

Me: Honestly, why would he have to? He is Frank, after all. And what did he do with Mia Farrow anyway? She's like a lollipop woman. She'd break under the strain.

He: Big mouth though.

Me: I suppose. But, Mia Farrow? Married to Sinatra, Previn, Allen? Three guys at the top of their professions? And a skinny little body like that. Hysterical cow to boot. What's the deal?

He: She must give great head.

* it was said by Bette Davis, not about her.