So I said Harry Potter was exactly the same as Star Wars: now this.

I know I've been quiet - got back from Limmud and got stricken with some kinda lurgy. I am very pissed off as I have -n days till I have a real job, and don't want to spend my last few days of freedom throwing up and not being able to concentrate. You know when you move and then the contents of your head follow a few minutes later?

Jonny Freedland: Israel in Crisis
This post is a "work in progress" as I am bandwidth theiving as I was trying hard to be tech free for a week, and someone needs their laptop back soon.

Jonny talked incredibly fluidly about The Situation, and the diasporic response, giving me a huge amount of food for thought.

The analogy he uses is that of your friend driving a car driving towards a cliff edge - do you stand and watch? Or do you tell them to stop, or, if need be, grab the wheel?

Today, I discovered I'm a neo-hasid. Hearing Arthur Green talk about Neo-Hasidism: A Jewish Theology for our Times, was pretty mind-blowing. Not least because I studied his book - Tormented Master - in college, x years ago; he posisted interesting, universal questions in an innovative, warm way. Said that the twentieth century Jewish theologica questions were essentially around providence and authority, and that the twenty-first century theological issue of choice will be about creation; trying to find a religious/spiritual re-reading of the darwinian account. I guess this ties in with the almost post-apocalyptic, post 9/11 stuff that goes on. I also found out, which I never knew, that he counts among his teachers Alexander Altmann, who used to live accross the road from my Mum when she was a kid.

So... a quick Limmud update. There's something very full-on about being with approximately 2,200 Jews for nigh on five days, 24-7. It's good, don't get me wrong, but I find that I feel less sociable, rather than more. So there's lots of people to hang out with - and I had a great conversation in the bar - BarMidBar - with some guy who'd been to Uman and done a bunch of other stuff I was into.

I guess I'm... learning that I'm not as much of a party person as I maybe thought. Maybe I've even lost the art of small talk, who knows. One thing that has happened, is that I suspect the demographic of Limmud has changed over the years - it used to feel like mostly people my kinda age, but as it's got more popular, and people in their twenties and thirties are more likely to arbitrage their holiday arrangements, by the time they get to book, there's no places left. I have run into three people who recongise my family name, and knew my Dad at college. And a whole bunch of distant and not-so-distant relatives.

It's so great being in a Christmas-free zone. Though I did get one Christmas present before I left - my first and probably only in my life; Donna Tart's new book - and I can see how people get a taste for receiving things they want.

OK, I'm here at Limmud. Got up at the crack of dawn - 7am - got on a coach, arrived here at twelve-ish, and I'm already mindblown with intellectual activity. Heard Robert Fisk on Monitoring the Centres of Power - surprisingly, I found myself agreeing with nearly everything he said. He's a very powerful, entertaining speaker, and clearly put together a talk that was dedicated to ensuring that all right-thinking left-leaning Jews couldn't argue with him. I still suspect that his premise is that the State of Israel shouldn't exist.

Followed that with Norman Lebrecht on Writing About Jews: a little disappointing after Fisk's gargantuan intellect, and seemingly based on the context of UK Jews being "embarassed by the creators in their midst." Which I don't buy - that's a post-war "shhh, don't rock the boat approach" that younger people just don't even understand.

Run into a hundred and one old friends and acquaintances, and am already feeling slightly Limmud-ed out. But I have brought my trainers - planning to go for a run every morning. Let's see if I can stick to it.

I just want it to be known that when I have a job, I don't want Christmas rammed down my throat, and have to do enforced jollity and sent Christmas cards to people I like sit next to, and have to be in a stupid office secret santa scenario. I'm just saying.

Hi-speed today: hung out with B and J at the JC for a little while, saw Eight Women at the Tricycle with J - bizarrely, ironically, musically disappointing - and then foraged for Lebanese food at the bottom of the Edgware Road.

Just heard a thing on the radio about Robert Service - the people's poet, who apparently inspired Lennon and McCartney and Disney (Desperate Dan) among others.

Despite two inbound phonecalls, my new answerphone thingy has not arrived. Quel surprise.

I am so efficient (read, imminently not going to be master/mistress of my own time) - today I have: sorted my tax affairs, written some copy, got my hair coloured, put my washing on, lined up some remaining January freelance work, sorted out the legals on my new contract, stopped my new team hiring two people I haven't met yet (but in a really, really nice way), introduced two people in the same arts sector, just about to do my nails and get some... girly stuff done (a leg waxing, if you must know). Off to Limmud on Sunday.

HIGNFY was fantastic! No time for detailed review, but watch it tonight at 9.30 - you probably won't be able to see me, P, B and J, as we were right on the back row in the corner. Paul Merton is a god.

OK, I'm off out. Last in the series of Have I Got News for You. Paul is waiting for me. And no, my new answerphone hasn't arrived.

One cool thing about getting a job: my sister bought me a mini celebratory bottle of champagne, and the Trinny/Susanna book. Not that I need any sartorial advice, of course, I'm a style guru.

I think I might be having second thoughts about the job - I keep thinking about things that aren't perfect about it/need fixing. Which I guess is why they've hired me, but I think I'm going to be working very, very hard for the next six months.

This morning I wrote two lots of tech copy, and some jokey content for a website, and I liked it. And I did it in Manchester. You can hardly do that with a real job.

It is the right decision. It is the right decision.

OK, off to get a train. Paul Merton beckons.

One other thing...
Remember that woman who erroneously informed my Mother that I'm a lesbian? Well, whe I was in the hairdresser's yesterday, I saw the Mother of the original source of the gossip - P. But I said nothing - sometimes you just have to let go.

So, the job.
Crack of dawn meeting with my new boss. It's all agreed now, I'm just waiting for the contract. Like most jobs, there are some things about it which are imperfect, but there's enough of a challenge to keep my excited.

The plan is to finish my short contract on 7th February, going on a short, relaxing holiday, and start properly on 19th Feb. I've negotiated with my short-contract people that I can do a day a week with my new job people from February. Also, I have a few small copywriting things to finish. I feel in some ways, kinda sad... the freelance stuff is just picking up - I got offered more work for January this morning, which I'm going to have to turn down, and I think all that time of building something is kinda wasted, but there are no guarantees with freelance, and I do miss running a business/having an intellectual challenge.

Anyway, back to work, talk to you later.

So I ordered my new phone/answerphone Monday on the basis it would arrive Tuesday, which it didn't. Wednesday, they emailed me to say it had been despatched and I could put my unique consignment number into the delivery outsourcers POD and track my delivery. The answer I get is not blowing in the wind, it's "your consignment number does not exist". Which I think means it hasn't actually been despatched. Which means, if it's despatched today, it probably won't arrive before I go away for... that seasonal holiday this time of year. Lucky my old one came back to life, then.

Manchester, So Much to Answer For
In the words of the song (incidentally, when I was at Manchester University, Morrisey's auntie worked in the refectory. People used to point and stare).

So yesterday, after finally agreeing my new job - I start in the middle of February - I hopped on a train, Manchester-bound, to surprise my Dad for his birthday. I fitted in a lot of stuff: hanging out with my Mum, getting my haircut (in a place where I have, sporadically, been getting my hair cut since I was 18), admiring my brother and sister-in-law's new house, and my sister and brother-in-law's new TV and lounge.

Oh, and I'm still here. I'm sitting at my sister's computer, checking my mail, and going to do some (copywirting) work before I get a lunchtime train. There are many advantages to this way of life, but I'll talk about my job in a minute.

Surprising my Dad was great - my Mum booked a table for seven at Heathcotes, in town, which turned out not to be a surprise, because she left a note on my Dad's desk that said "Heathcotes, 7.30, Wednesday." My Mum persuaded me to call my Dad on the way there, about 7ish, and pretend I was still in London and just say happy birthday, and I found it quite hard not to giggle. I guess neither me nor my Mum will make it in M15.

Heathcotes is very Mad-chester media trendy - apart from us. My brother described it as media folk with too much money on their hands, and it does have that feel about it; I half expected to see the cast of any number of BBC Manchester shows. Anyway, we had a great evening, and I got up at 6am to say goodbye to everyone. Good practice for getting a job.

Interesting Zadie-ness I came across, randomly.

Un-road Ragette
Getting back into the commuting thang - two thoughts.

One: When they write "no reported problems" in large, friendly letters at Kilburn station, they should also say "but no trains either" - I waited fifteen minutes this morning. But at least I could read up on swaps, options and swaptions while I was delayed.

Two: I think I'm going to sell my car. Not because I am commited to London's transport infrastructure plan - although I do, of course, have a bus shelter, but no stop, outside my front door, and I know I should stop going on about it - but because it costs me a sizeable sum to run it each year, and I only do 6,000 miles. Although, being a soft-top, I may have to wait till the weather picks up. For what I spend in car/maintenance/insurance/petrol, I could get a taxi any time I wanted, and never have to worry about my car.

I met someone at the weekend who identified himself as a carboholic, and not ironically.

Phones, Phones and Automobiles
So Sunday, in mitten of everything (which is Yiddish for "in the middle of everything" but has a slightly stressful, the-Russians-are-coming feel to it), my phone stopped working. Landline, DECT phone. For some reason, the handset kept saying - OK, not literally saying - cannot communicate with base station. Even when it was like on top of it. I reset it, and put new batteries in, and did everything I knew how to do, and then just thought, it's three years old, it's died, it's time to move on. Although, I'm never sure where dead technology goes.

Created all manner of telecoms hassle - my other landline, by my bed, usually has the ringer switched off, but when I switched it on, it was a continous ring, so I decided just to have no ring, and pick up the phone ocassionally to see if I have voicemail. Not exactly convenient when you're in the middle of negotiating a job offer. I got out my old power-cut phone, as I think of it. It's a generic trimphone circa 1973, that used to be in my parents New Room (a room that hasn't been new since about the same time) - so it still works after thity years, unlike my new-fangled tech. There's a point there, somewhere. Always have a back up.

So I did a little websurfing, and first thing Monday, ordered a new DECT phone/answerphone combo from BT, the BT3016, at the discounted price of £69.99 as it has been superceded by a BT4016, but I have no desire to text from my landline. Thank god. They promise faithfully that it will be delivered next day (today, Tuesday).

Monday afternoon, my Samsung phone miraculously comes back to life. This morning, as I left for work at the crack of dawn, I taped careful instructions to the door about where to deliver my new phone if I'm out, and to call my mobile if there's no one around.

Tonight - get back, no phone. Probably by the time it arrives my Samsung phone will have died again and I'll be delighted that I demonstrated such foresight, but for now, I'm just kinda pissed off.

Talk to me, someone, please. I finally get back into posting, and there's no-one here.

Therapy? Shmerapy
I saw a friend this morning, who told me the doubtless familiar story of her boyfriend's ex calling up and saying she was in therapy now, and she could see why they broke up, and why didn't he get into therapy, it would really help?

Wanna know the truth? I think therapy is a pyramid selling operation: all therapists are in cahoots to get a new ktichen/car/enhanced pension contributions/caribbean holiday, and that's why they say things like "you've got issues, why don't we make it three times a week?", or "perhaps your girlfriend/partner/boss would also benefit from the therapeutic process."

Call me a cynic, if you will. I've been around the block a few times, let's say, therapeutically speaking.

Just found out on Blogtree that I have three child blogs. I feel a sense of pride and joy (which may be something to do with the season of comfort and joy, but then I don't really do Christmas).

I'm touched that mbites has cited me, as we used to work together, and he's a real journo (see my comments below). Planarchy is kinda new to me, but I'm flattered anyway, and LondonMark and I have been in sporadic email contact for a while, so I know he's way wittier and pithier than me.

Thanks, guys.

I luurve how the web works. Well, google. I'm number seven for "how to remove nails" on Yahoo, and number ten for "Nails Inc London" on google - admitedly, in Spanish. Though I just double-checked, but not in an obsessive-compulsive way, and I'm number ten in english too.

Don't you think the guys at Nails Inc would have been better off doing something to make me happy? Then all the googlers would read about that, not how they did the minimum statutory requirement, never returned my calls, apparently damaged my nail bed, and were incomplete with the true facts about what nail extensions meant.

OK, I'll stop now.

My So-Called Life
I guess I'm feeling slightly ambivalent, but it seems like I've got a job.

It's bittersweet for a few reasons; my freelance work has really started picking up in the last couple of months (hence post-paucity), and I like managing my own time/being my own boss. But there's a recession out there, and nothing's guaranteed, and I have bills to pay, and pensions to fund, clothes to buy and holidays to take, I guess. And the other reason: I've spent the best part of a year pitching stories and ideas to magazines and newspapers, writing short stories and almost-completing a novel. But that doesn't, really, make me a writer. So the practical, pragmatic part of me knows I should just take a job, something I know I can do. The creative/writerly/bohemian side of me doesn't want to. But then that bohemian never really made a living. Or a success at anything. Whither the Renaissance? Those days, you could be a writer one day, in commerce the next, but in these specialist/specialised times, it doesn't work that way.

So, I've entered one of my short stories for a couple of competitions - I'll see what happens. I'm setting myself a personal target of finishing the book over New Year, although I'm not very good at meeting personal targets (if I was, I'd weigh, like eight stone).

It's complicated by the fact that the to-ing and fro-ing (it's all happened at public sector speed, which has had me itching to go faster) meant that I had to keep my options open, and am currently doing research into derivatives until February 7th. Which is actually quite interesting. I spent the weekend number-crunching my putative new-employers numbers, and I still have a few more questions - it's a tough job, but I guess I want a challenge, if I'm going to have a job. So Wednesday, I'm meeting up my potential boss, hopefully for the last time, to make sure we're all singing off the same excel spreadsheet or some such jargon.

Of course, I know better than anyone that it's not over till it's over, and there's still contracts and references and stuff (once, a very long time ago, the Wicked Witch of the West gave me a bad reference, and I lost a job offer, but that's another story).

I'll know on Wednesday for sure, but I guess it's a tentative yay. Of sorts. Of course, I'm still a writer, I'll just be writing conference programmes, contracts and joint-venture proposals. Which can be very creative.

This is my favourite pen, and it seems like you can only get them in Japan and mine is running out. Woe is me. Do you think I should get out more?

Friday night, went to dinner at L&S's, and had an hysterical time when their kids and their friends did "tricks" and turns. It was all very entertaining. A couple of weeks ago, when I was replete with my new nails, I'd told them about how you have to talk about crap for 90 minutes while a nice girl does the business on you, and L had said that there must be a real market for manicurists who talk about Nietsche and the World Bank. Your basic upmarket, intellectual manicure. It's an idea, no?

Friday, conversation inevitably turned to Jonathan Sacks' book - which is still sitting unopened by my bed, but L is half way through. Another guest, M, said that when we've both finished the book, L will be able to give me a manicure while we discuss the finer points of Sacks' philosophy. Now, that's what I call intellectual.

Short Form - the Nail Story
My friend Jamie is always asking me for the "seven inch version" which I think might indicate that I tend to go on some. So here it is: a rather surly Nails Inc woman agreed to refund my money and remove my remaining seven nails at no cost. She tried to persuade me that she'd fix it all at no cost, so I could keep going back to them every two weeks and crossing their palm with more silver, but I declined the addicitive desire to be tied into their pyramid selling-alike operation. What they don't tell you is that they buff (ie file with a rough file) the nails off, and inevitably, file off some of your nail bed. My nails, considering, aren't in too bad shape, but they hurt.

Moral: I'm vainer than I thought. I'm not as high-maintenance as I'd like to be. And, realistically, I'm not that interested in doing something that inculcates a reliance on an external provider and having to make time to sit around and talk crap with a nail technician every 14-21 days.

My sister on the other hand (hello sis!) said she quite liked the relaxation, when she did it, and it was like being in a club in the nail place, and she and a woman - another customer - she met there, used to arrange to have their infills done at the same time so they could catch up.

Which of course, it isn't now. Such is life...

I can't believe that last night I wrote a whole long piece about loads of stuff, and the one time I don't do CTRL-C to save it, blogger's buggered.

About Last Night
I had a really stressful day yesterday, negotiating this job package - still ongoing - and I'm kinda prepared to walk away, as the freelance work is doing much better. So I was supposed to go to A's drinkeroony as a pre-Xmas thanks-for-all-your-hard-work type thing (I helped him with some of the set-up stuff for his yoga buiness) but I called trying to wimp out, and he said, just come.

So I did. I love A & D's parties; they're always cool and this one was funky with a mix of yoga/therapy/drumming types, and it all got very tribal, only with excellent food. I met a german bloke where we ended up discussing the holocaust, and a fab guy - musician type - G, who has hair exactly like me. We spent at least twenty minutes discussing the relative merits of various lotions and potions. If you're reading this, the product I meant was Kerastase Nutritive Elasto-Curl (in the orange packaging).

Nail Nirvana - Hardly
This is probably going to be a little dull for some of you... it's more a personal note for me.

On the plane coming back from Miami in the summer I met a woman who told that if you have nail extensions (tips) you should only have Calgel, as that's best for your nails, especially if they're weak, which mine are. I did my own research when I got back, and she's right.

I had two weddings to go to, and thought what the hell. E told me that market rate in town is £40 a set, and £28 in the suburbs. I asked around at New York Nail Co and Boots Pure Beauty, and although they are £40, they don't use the better gel. So I went to Nails Inc in Bond Street station, who answered my open question (what gel do you use?) with Calgel.

It cost £60 - over the odds, but I was in a hurry, it was the best product and a reputable company.So on last Wednesday (27th) I took the plunge, and spent an hour a half having them done. I was pleased, although they did look slightly fake/kite shaped to me, but I was assured they would grow in. And that the method would not damage my nails. All fine. I went to a wedding two weekends ago, and then this Sunday, and some time at G & A's wedding I lost one. I wasn't very happy, as it was only ten days, but there's not very much you can do.

Monday morning, on my way back from Victoria, I stopped at Bond Street; they told me it "absolutely shouldn't happen" and they'd replace it, but they couldn't do it till 1pm. Although they called round other West End stores, no one could fit me in. She didn't have time to remove them, either (which you have to pay for - £20). I figured I'd sort it out some other time.

However, that afternoon, I got an interview with a FTSE 100 board director, and figured I couldn't go with nine nails, and as I can't remove them myself, I had to find a quick fix. I called Calgel, and got a list of their North London customers, one of which was Not Just Nails in Hampstead. I went down there, they replaced my nail, but in talking with Michelle, the owner, I discovered that the original set were not Calgel. When they took off my nail varnish, they were a complete mess, so I could no longer wear them "nude" and several were comming loose.

Not Just Nails were fab, and I highly recommend them. When I got home, I did a little more research, and although some Nails Inc stores say they use Calgel, they in fact use Nail Solutions gels, and ocassionally Biogel. I also discovered that my nails will be ruined, as they have glued the extensions directly on to them, rather than onto a layer of gel. Michelle reshaped my nails, and they looked much more natural, and also told me that if they were really Calgel nails, I would be able to file them (I had been told not to). I also discovered that different types of gel are removed diferently; so I have to get 9 nails buffed off in W1 and 1 soaked off in NW3.

Yesterday, I tried to get to Nails Inc head office, but kept being given the Bishopsgate store. Carly, the manager there, was very helpful, took my number and said either Thea (the MD) or Helen Harvey (operations manager) would call me back. I said I wanted a refund, a free removal, and something in terms of goodwill that wouldn't make me so unhappy and would make up for the damage to my nails. I also left voicemail for both of them on their direct line - they are apparently rarely in the office.

No one called me back, and today, I lost another one. I called Carly, who told me they're really busy, and Helen said she would call me back. She gave me Helen's mobile number, but she didn't pick up. Then she gave me the regional manager, Natalie Roberts, number, but she's on voicemail. The Bond Street store don't pick up the phone.

I'm in a bad mood. I've got nine fake nails, eight of which are damaging my nailbed, and I can't remove them without paying money to two separate people. My view: Nails Inc doesn't offer good service, and the whole nail extension business is designed to tie women into an addictive reliance on an Essex girl with an NVQ, who very probably doesn't know what the hell she's talking about, as they've ably proved here.

Serves me right for being so vain, I guess.

Rise and Shine...
As I don't generally get up this early, thought I'd say hi. I've been up since 6.30: big (second/final) interview at 8am with a bloke on the board. I'm supposed to impress him. I really am in the last two - all suited and booted (well, shoed, actually) and I've done my P&L/business plan type thingy to wave in front of him. I'm not often nervous. Also, when I get back, I'll tell you a very entertaining story about how I lost one of my fake nails at G's wedding, and had to run around yesterday at 6pm looking for a manicurist because you can't really go to an interview with one nail missing, and you can't take them off yourself. Boy, women suffer - men don't even know about tights (I am wearing the deeply sexy hold-you-in type, which do look like reverse stockings and suspenders, and make me look slightly thinner under my suit).

You wouldn't recognise me. In fact, I don't.

Wish me luck, as they say.

Just got back from G&A's wedding in Brighton (Hove/Haywards Heath actually) - which was fab, and I'll tell you about it in a minute. But I have a dilemma.

The charming mumsy woman who interviewed me on Thursday - my potential boss - said she would call me on Friday to come back in and meet the team. I've heard nothing. In the meantime, I've been offered a short contract effectively till the end of February where they need an answer soon - I held off on Friday till today, and I don't want to mess them around. I have tried to call my Thursday interviewer, but she's not there, and doesn't seem to have personal voicemail, and I don't know what to do. I'd prefer the permanent job, but don't want to end up with neither. Any suggestions?

Just been to a job interview, and apparently, I'm down to the last two. Having said that, I've been down to the last two for a number of jobs recently, so it's no particular sign. However, between the tube station and the office, there's not one single Starbucks, Pret a Manger or any other globalised coffee/snacklet supplier, it's all independents. I think this can only be a good omen.

My interview kept muttering "very impressive, very impressive" under her breath. Who knows. Anything.

Wedding Blues (and Pinks)
Yesterday, went to E's wedding, which was a non-stop all-day extravaganza, culminating in the groom playing a fabulous medley on violin to his bride.

I bumped into an old friend of my Mum's, who about eighteen months ago, had called up my Mum and told her, for some reason, I was a lesbian. There aren't many times I'm speechless, but when my Mum called me and told me this, I was truly lost for words.

Anyway, C was there yesterday, and was carefully avoiding me, as she probably didn't want to get into a conversation with me. Which is odd, because for the rest of my life, whenever I've run into her, she's reported back to base (telephoned) - "saw Sasha, she looked good", or, more often, "saw Sasha, she could do with losing some weight." After a couple of hours, I went to speak to her; I just felt I couldn't let this opportunity lapse.

me: Hi, C. I gather you told my Mum I'm a lesbian. If you have anything to say about me in future, I'd prefer you to say it to my face, rather than gossip about me
her: I didn't say you were, just that S had heard from P that you were -
me: So it was gossip, then. And untrue.
her: Well, it was a long time ago
me: Yes, but you upset my Mum
her: She hasn't spoken to me for ages
me: I think that's because you upset her
her: er, er

By this time she looked truly embarrased, so I said my goodbyes and left her to it. As Z pointed out to me this morning, it's amazing that she's such a close friend and didn't know all my secrets. When I saw C at the ceremony yesterday, I whispered to (female friend) J, who I was sitting next to, the story, and she said "Is she looking in your direction? Let's hold hands". We refrained. After all, she's a married woman.

This is bad on so many levels. First, presuming a single woman of a certain age must be a lesbian - it's insulting to me, to my advanced years (!), it's insulting to lesbians, and it's no joke to my Mum. Secondly, the whole idea of people talking about me in such detail isn't that great either. I gathered from her that the gossip had come from three sources before she passed it on.

Reminds me, when I was about seventeen, and taught in Sunday School, the headmaster was a well respected teacher in the local community. One Sunday, my class of ten year olds were giggling uncontrollably, and I remembered that the previous day in synagogue, the mother of one of the key gigglers had looked at me oddly. I took J outside.

"What's going on?" I asked her.

"We all know you're having Rabbi Zilberg's baby," she giggled.

I've never really got the hang of gossip, myself.