I have to fit in a museum, too, so am heading for the Museum of Sex (known as MoSex) on 5th Avenue. The last sex museum I went to was in Amsterdam 30 years ago, and sex has come a long way since then – unlike my sex life, which hasn’t. It’s been so long, they might well make me an exhibit in the museum, so if you don’t hear from me for a while, you’ll know where to find me.
I stayed in the Mayflower Hotel on Central Park and, on my first venture out onto the streets, was approached by a short, fat, scruffy woman, with a thick, black moustache and a large, ripe pimple on her cheek. She told me I had a curse hanging over me, and that if I went to her house, for the measly sum of $3000 she would remove it.
My heightened state of anxiety these days, though, I am going to put down to a whole new phobia – Googleaphobia. Because no matter what happens to me, my friends, or in the world at large, I am onto Google to investigate further, and now I live in fear of what I am going to find there.