Yes I know. I know. But I don't want to talk about it. Let me tell you, this blank screen is staring out at me every bit as reprovingly as my mother would. It's waiting for my words of explanation, supplication, condemnation.

But I don't want to talk about it. Not yet. Let the shame die down a bit, so I can talk about it dispassionately. Please.

Thank you.

I'm going to London today. It's Easter Monday and the good Lord has given us a day off work to celebrate whatever it commemorates. I think this is the one where Mary rolls the stone away from the entrance to check on his dead body (why?) and finds he's already flown the coop back to daddy in the sky. So I'm showing my gratitude by going to see the Roy Lichtenstein exhibition at the Hayward.

Train delays withstanding, I'll be back later. And don't frown at me like that. I'm not happy about it either.

You see some gorgeous people at art galleries. Especially women, but guys too. If you ever want to go on the pull, there are worse places to try, believe me. I'm sure I could have pulled half a dozen times over today. And not just with guys... :-)

There was one woman - not much more than a girl really, probably early twenties at most - who seemed to be studying me as much as she was the paintings. She had the most incredible backside, truly magnificent, beautifully curved and wonderfully ample, without spilling over into lardiness. Now I'm no lesbian, but I could easily have stripped my clothes off, fallen to the floor and let her have her way with me on the spot. Bit embarrassing with everyone stepping over us to see the paintings, right enough.

But then, I'm getting used to that... No, don't go there, I'm not ready to talk about it yet. :-(

I must confess that while I was looking at a huge landscape of dots, I was fantasising about kissing the girl's pussy and stroking her arse. She caught me staring at one point, while I was in mid-fant, and I blushed from head to foot. She smiled, and I'm sure if she'd asked me at that point to go to a hotel with her I'd have been off like a shot.

She was strangely attractive. At first she looked completely ordinary, the sort of person you don't give a second glance to. But then, if you looked closer, she took on a certain charm, a serene beauty which seemed to emanate from the calmness of her demeanour. She was slow and purposeful, considering her thoughts, movements, gestures carefully before gliding onwards. Her lips were quite thin, but they formed the cheekiest smile I've seen in years. It was the smile of a tomboy on the face of a woman, and utterly beguiling.

You may wonder why I'm waxing romantically about someone I'll never see again. Good point. Displacement activity, I think you have to term it.

He texted me today. With a picture.

I was on the train when the first one came. (And what a bloody clat that was - the trains are all over the place because they're doing loads of maintenance over Easter: mine was half an hour late and crawled through every buggering town on the way.)

Morning gorgeous. Hope you're recovered from last night's fun

Of course, I ignored it. Even reading it made me feel all guilty again, as though the people on the train could suddenly read my mind and see what I'd done last night. I just didn't want to be reminded of it.

I'll have to get a new phone. Stop being so promiscuous with the number. It's no mystery that he knows this number - I give it out to everybody - but if I get a new phone I'll be more careful who I give the number out to.

My cock's still raw...

Just the sort of message you want to get on a crowded train, with people overlooking you.

Bet your pussy's still throbbing.

Actually, it was at that point, because this was when I was in the middle of letching my wonder woman at the Hayward. I was tempted to reply and tell him, but I figured that would just be more fodder for his raw cock. I was off-duty today... :-(

That was when he sent a picture from last night. Late on. Legs apart, showing everything. Enough of that.

There's an absolutely gorgeous painting on the top floor of the Lichtenstein exhibition. Girl with a tear, it's called. He was an amazingly versatile artist, Lichtenstein. I wasn't sure I'd enjoy the exhibition - how many dot-crazed cartoon images can you take? - but I was blown away by it. He did so many different things. Some of his Japanese paintings were superb, with a sort of floating world tranquility about them. On the top floor there are a load of paintings in cubist and surrealist styles. They just make you laugh, they're so wonderful.

But the Girl with a Tear made me cry. It was beautiful. I sat and studied it for ages. It's completely abstract. The face comprises only an eye and eyebrow, with a tear falling from the eye, and it seems to form the shape of a question mark. Her hair cascades down the right of her face and separates into two "legs" on which the composition stands. There's something wonderfully enigmatic about it. The central image is so striking it compels you to look at it, and the circular, flowing shapes - the slide of her hair, the round dot of the question mark, the face, eye, tear - cause your eye to float round the picture constantly. It is a puzzle - literally so, being comprised of a question mark - and you wonder why the girl is crying. What secret is she holding? What has that eye seen to cause it tears? What has she done?

Where are you?

Escaping the leash, mate. As far from you and your bloody webcam as I can get. I ignored it again but I got another three, identical. He's persistent, you have to give him that. What is it about mobile phones and our obsession with them? You just can't switch them off. Well, I can't, anyway.

So eventually I replied.

In an art gallery

Anything good?

A girl with a fabulous arse and a girl crying

The first sounds like you. Not the second, I hope

Why is she crying

That is the question

No, To be or not to be is the question

As I say

You're in gnomic form today

U calling me a gnome? Thanx!

No! Not at all. Will you be online later?

No

Please

Pretty please

No

What time do you get back

Not till late

See you at 10.30 then

Well, 10.30's come and gone, and I didn't obey. Probably be another dozen pictures on the website by now. Hey-ho Molly-o.