This afternoon, two of my favourite collectors, Ee-lynn and Eugene, visited me at Art Melbourne. They had flown from Adelaide that morning just to experience the buzz surrounding Sex Tourist at first hand. E'n'E (as I call them) have bought many of my key paintings in both enamel and watercolour, as well as a few of my study photographs. They have also commissioned several new works. Intelligent, thoughtful viewers, they study each new work closely and ask smart questions about what might be going on it. Today, however, they surrounded me with a much-needed sense of fun. Among other things, they insisted I lie with them on the lube-spattered Sex Tourist bed, in a kind of clothed menage á trois, as they took turns capturing the moment with the Polaroid camera. They reminded me that I still had a real life elsewhere – not here, on display, in a crowded, curtained-off white cubicle, far from homeThe good feeling didn't last. The day ended with a couple of dismal episodes, again thanks to Metro Gallery. I asked the director if he had any catalogues for the event. He offered me one but I wanted three – after all, they're selling for ten bucks at Art Mebourne. Then he told me that all his copies were back at the gallery in Armadale. Later, I found out there was an evening cocktail party for exhibitors and artists. No-one from the gallery had thought to invite me. I took a few of my own collectors out to dinner instead.