Tate Modern

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Originally uploaded by sashinka-uk.

Went to see the Frida Kahlo exhibition at the Tate Modern. Not part of that, but this huge thirties-style plug inspired me. Reminds me of my gradparents house.

I'm here in Derbyshire, having a great holiday. Tonight, at Biggin Hall. James - the owner - has lent me his dial-up connection. It's quiet, there are geese, and we just had a great gastro-pub meal at the Devonshire in Hartington.

Just been busy, sorry. Still here. Just, got a lot of files on my desk. And because I'm not a paperless office, if I put my fan on, they all merge. Not good.

50 Shekel - that no-hit wonder - converted to Christianity.

I'm trying really hard not to consume news. But news is everywhere. It's headlines as you pass a newspaper shop, it's on the radio. It's the Guardian/BBC sites I usually look at all day.

I feel - and everyone's different - that it's just too upsetting (ghoulish? voyeuristic?) to know all the details. But it's hard.

One of the most depressing things is that Ken Livingstone is absolutely not my favourite person, but he said everything I wanted him - or Tony - to say.

I'm just getting on with my work, really. A client at Aldgate has just emailed me a thoroughly depressing picture they took on Thursday morning on their camera phone.

Life goes on, that's the most important thing. But I'm an emotional person. And also, this is hard.

Just in case you live oop North East, here's the link to be in Spencer Tunick's latest installation at the Baltic.

About ten years ago, a client offered to pay me to haggle over the price of his new car (I demured). Now, the guys at Negotiant are maybe making a living out of it.

Yeah, I'm OK. Sorry I didn't update, just been a bit mindblown. All those I love and care about are OK, as far as I know, but frankly I love and care about the whole of humanity in some dastardly hippy way, and I know people have died.

About 9.30 my nieghbour knocked on my door and said "you probably heard about the explosions on the tube, but don't worry, my wife's ok." Then he neatly - bizarrely - seagued into how they're selling their flat and can I get the information to their purchaser about the freehold company. I was dazed and shut the door.

Immediately called my beloved, but no mobile lines at all. Checked online, BBC news crumbling, but saw it was at Liverpool St and Aldgate. My beloved goes through Liverpool Street at that time. Call again, no answer.

Call Z at work and she's OK, and call a couple of other people. Worry about D. He calls at 10am... was running late and couldn't get into town at all, came home. Called my family to let them know I'm OK.

Called a couple of clients in the city - all OK. I have a client at Aldgate, and I keep seeing their office on the news. No-one's picking up their phones, as they've all been evacuated.

Spent the day fielding calls/texts/emails (which I massively appreciate) from people all over the world/country. Watching the news. Getting my boiler fixed. Not really doing any work, as transfixed.

So, in a way this was a matter of time, I - like everyone - knew it would happen someday. Relieved I didn't have a 9am Aldgate meeting. Kinda scared now it has happened. Lost a day of work. Worried about humanity. Slightly tearful, but could just be the time of the month.

What I'd like to do is go to shul. Times like this make me appreciate what I have. Also, I have a much-postponed beauty appointment at 6pm, which I must make before my legs turn into something... I shouldn't probably discuss in public.

So, life goes on, I guess. We're all a little more scared now, but London's bigger and stronger than anything anyone can do to her.

Art deco fabulousity at Battersea Power Station.

I so very rarely feel properly English, but right now, I feel terribly proud to be a Londoner given that we've won the 2012 Olympics bid. Although my friends last night pointed out that it's not exactly a carbon-neutral affair.

In other news, my boiler is broken. Again. A British Gas Three blokey came out this morning, but guess what? They don't have the part. They will be back tomorrow. I feel a certain sense of deja vu.

So today's olympic decision day and the run up to G8. Gee, there's a lot of stuff happening. Hearing the Today Programme describing Tony (Blair) as the "host" at Gleneagles, made me wonder whether he's the host at the party (check out the "affinity" heading).

Coupla weeks back, a friend did the Mind Gym training (short form: you cross their palm with quite heavy silver, and there's a 70/30 chance they'll pass you as one of their facilitators for their 90 minute workouts) and he told me their language was that you have to be the "host of the party." I've been going round for a few weeks now telling everyone I know - ironically at least - that I'm the host at the party, to see if I have a "fit" and how it "sits" with me.

I like the language, let's say.

And I like their marketing.

And branding.

And I'm guessing - having never met them - that the founders wear chinos and chambray shirts, brown suede lace-ups or brogues, have slightly floppy hair, probably are Oxbridge educated and have double-barrelled names, slightly floppy hair, and started their career on a graduate trainee scheme at a major branded goods manufacturer (Unilever, say).

All this I read from their easy sub-communication and the tone of their website. I could have got it wrong, of course.

But I'm still the host of the party.

I say.

Blake Ross: “Firefox?” The Rabbi stops and thinks for a minute, rubbing his beard. “Ah yes! The one that blocks all the schmutz.”

Priceless.

Ricky Gervais is my new best friend: he's just told Jonathan that it's prostate, and given that he can't pronounce his Rs anyway, why add extra ones.

So I'm watching Friday Night with Jonathan Ross, it's the last one in the series.

I've got a few things to say to Jonathan.

First, stop with the Geldof-worship. I feel like there's a special-celebrity-bar where they all do deals with each other ("yeah, come and do an intro on my show", "sure, I'll write your script") - it's not big and it's not clever.

Second, while Jonathan clearly worships at the altar of James Brown and so he should, it's prostate, not PROSTRATE. James is a man of a certain age (73) so that's what he's talking about, but Jonny, do your research.

Third, stop taking the piss out off Ricky Gervais. It upsets me.

Very moving peice in today's Society Guardian by Alan Rusbridger (a person who once commended my work at the Guardian student media awards, about a hundred years ago), about the undignified death of his father.

As life expectancy increases, and with ever heightened expectations of the health service, this is something we really need to think about.