Day 1, in which we fly to JFK and wear eclectic shoes

It was touch and go whether we'd get to go to Manhattan for Christmas. First the BA strike threatened to cancel all flights this week, and then when that was overturned the baggage handlers went on strike at Heathrow (just as it turned out our flights had been switched to Heathrow from Gatwick), and then finally snow storms swept across the UK closing airports and ruining Christmas for everyone.

As we formulated alternative plans, they too were destroyed. Plans to pop through the Channel Tunnel to celebrate Noël were ruined when it turned out Eurostar's only mortal weakness is the British weather, while thoughts of maybe checking into a cottage in Somerset were ruined when the south west iced over and pensioners' corpses started littering the roads, collecting in drifts beside overturned coaches.

But as it happens, we did make it to New York - despite a massive delay after someone unfotunately fell ill and had to leave the plane on the runway (meaning the cabin crew had to inspect each and every bag on the plane to establish whether it was a bomb. This was a thorough and complex process: "What is in your overhead locker?" the assistant would ask the bearded man two rows ahead. "Ah, is just the two light hat boxes," Osama bin Laden would respond). I watched Aliens In The Attic and the superb Shorts on the inflight entertainment centre, and then it seemed we were already landing.

When we emerged from the subway I hailed a cab to take us to the hotel. "Where you going?" the angry looking Indian man demanded. "Um, 57 West 44 Street" I responded, but already the man's face had creased up in disgust: "No!" he bellowed as he slammed his foot on the accelerator.

"Welcome to New York," Paul mused, and we decided to walk.

We're staying in the Algonquin Hotel, which is superbly friendly and incredibly festive at the moment. As we were checking in, I noticed the conscierge polishing two big red apples from the fruit bowl. He shortly presented them to us, exclaiming "Welcome to the Big Apple!" I ate mine for breakfast the following day, and it may be telling that it was mostly bruised or rotten.

A rather sexy looking cat called Matilda has the run of the hotel and seems to spend most of her time riding on the luggage trolley or lounging on her purple chaise longue in the lobby, watching jealously as the locals sip their perfect cocktails.

Grand Central station is just round the corner, so we went to play in the 'whispering gallery' (where the sum total of our secret lover's whispers were "Hello, can you hear me?" / "Yes, can you hear me?" "Yes, crikey it does work then"), and then headed into the Oyster Bar for shrimp, fish cakes, some rather drab yellowfin and a bottle of champagne. We tried to get a drink in the Campbell Apartment too, but alas Paul was wearing what the haughty maitre d' determined were "eclectic shoes", and so we were turned out into the street on our asses.

At around 9 o'clock, we collapsed exhausted into bed.