colour mixing centre

colour mixing centre

I like this. I don't know why. Because colours fade, perhaps?

Fake art?

Fake art?

Interesting, slightly fake art at Earls Court conference centre. I mean, it looks good, it's interesting. But is it art? As they say.

Did I mention that I have a personal friend at Telwest/NTL/Virgin, who renegotiates my tariffs with me every three months?

Well, not really a personal friend, just a woman I've got to know in customer relations (old money: complaints). We talked yesterday, and she was so great I sent her email saying she was better than the CEO because she had her appraisal and promotion meeting that afternoon. I'd be sad if she got promoted, because she's human and efficient, but it's not all about me.

Anyway, now the phones don't work. So if you're trying to call me, call my mobile. They say it could be up to eight hours. It cost me 10p a minute on an 0845 number from my mobile to find that out.

Great, huh?

I've said this before...

... but I think it merits saying it again. I don't really do Christmas. Xmas. X marks the spot-mas. I mean, I'm happy to offer people season's greetings, and I send a handful of non-Jewish (I know, I know, it makes it sound like the whole world's Jewish and just a small proportion is non)friends and colleagues cards.

But I don't write my xmas present list in September (or at all) and I don't decorate my house/soho (small office home office), and I don't do turkey or trimmings or mince pies with whisky cream (although they sound remarkably nice).

I don't not do these things. I just don't do them. The lat couple of years I actually did celebrate xmas to some degree and it was fun. It was fun because it's a yomtov - it's about family and community and food (and presents).

But I don't do tinsel. Or xmas gnomes. Or seasonal music. Or mushy, glittery cards. And I don't get drunk every night for a month (but then lots of people don't, and I don't do that the rest of the year). I don't do xmas lunch. Or the Queen's speech (see, I felt Queen should have a capital Q, even though I'm not a royalist, and think the whole royal family should be demutualised, like a building society, and we should all share the money, which'll be like £1,500 each, which we could spend on xmas, if we wanted).

What reminded me about all of this is that, because I don't do xmas, I forget. Last year, on about December 23rd I went to Brent Cross because I needed something. And I totally didn't realise that I'd be in a car park for a week and people would be stressy and shouty and silly. And rude. Kinda like Golders Green is all the time.

So this is really to remind myself that I must try not to go to a shop until well into January. I have everything I need, and I don't want to be a victim of shopping-rage or parking-stress, and I can just gracefully bow out of all this stuff without actually participating. Because, I have enough yomtovs, and this one isn't mine.

Look. Lastminute.com are carbon offsetting.

See, times like this, I really wish I lived in New York (not that I think London is bad: on the contrary). But next Friday, at the Town and Village Synagogue there's a Jewish Bloggers roundtable, and I'd just love to be there.

I will, instead, be entertaining all manner of creative/alternative types with an NW6/2 postcode. Which could, of course, be almost as good/better. But still.

he lives..

he lives..

... in Cricklewood, apparently.

Have you heard of the Social Media Club?

what I did with the pomegranates

what I did with the pomegranates

Despite the excellent suggestions for pomegranate related activities (including, most wittily, "still life"), I opted for a rocket and pomegranate salad, and then kinda-not-that-caramelised oranges with pomegranates.
Evidence, left.

Technical/hardware update (for those who care)

My PC crashes about once a day, and it may or may not be (another) memory problem, and I don't want to spend the time finding out, so I'm doing a lot of backups and praying, which is a unique, yet rarely used technical support strategy.

Also, my back still hurts. I have laid in a straight line and taken drugs, booked another osteopath treatment and given the netball a miss (high impact seems scary, somehow, right now). Other advice gratefully sought.

At last. Someone (the First Post) who thinks Borat misses the point. And here was I thinking everyone else was marching out of step.

Yep, I saw the movie (had to review it for someone). I kinda laughed, I kinda felt uncomfortable. I kinda felt like it was a tired Habonim joke with a huge budget. Although, great physical comedian, he certainly is.

You probably know that the 1901 Census of England and Wales is online, and I've had a lot of fun chasing down my (deceased) relatives.

So I would love to go to the Eco-Activist Beit Midrash at Yeshivat Simchat Shlomo, but (a) how many times can I go to the US in a two month period and (b) (related) it's bad for the planet.

Interesting piece from spiked (the old LM crew, methinks) about Jewdas - apparently, the Police can't tell satire from seriousness. You don't say.

Remember Zoe Heller's Notes On A Scandal? Looks like it's a movie - and here's the trailer.

I don't know if this means anything, but I am on the front page for the google search what ate the tell tale signs of someone going mad.

And yes, I did indeed buy four pomegranates for a pound from a market stall in Kilburn, and now don't quite know what to do with them.

Ideas welcome.

So, as much as a mental reminder for me, as anything else, here's what I'm making for Friday night dinner:

humous (what else) with za'atar and pinenuts
challah

* * *

vegetarian chilli (with chocolate etc)
millet, flavoured with saffron
rocket salad, possibly with pomegranate seeds

* * *

Melon
caremalised oranges, possibly with pomegranate seeds

Waddya think?

I was thinking of making another banana cake, but then I just eat the leftovers, which isn't great.

measuring cup symbols

measuring cup symbols

Great flickr project on worldless recipes (I was searching for a caramelised oranges recipe and happened across this).

Tube/London/travel geeks will be delighted to know that there will be two new tube stations in West London. One is a new station called Wood Lane, the other is the renaming of the Shepherd's Bush station on the Hammersmith & City line to Shepherd's Bush Market.

Wow. An eight-year-old boy was held at gunpoint in a petrol station in Cheadle. Cheadle, I tell you. I'm pretty sure that my Cheadle-correspondents are going to say that it's the Councillor Lane end of Cheadle. But I know exactly where it is - it's a BP filling station on the corner of Frances Street, which is a cute street of terraced houses I once looked at. What is the world coming to? (cue Daily Mail voice).

GreatNew Statesman supplement on video gaming.

So the 34SP.com status page hasn't been updated for nearly two hours. No mail since 9.42am. Both the regular and "professional" phone number (for which I pay the princely sum of nearly twenty of your earth pounds a month) have an answerphone message saying yes, we know there's a problem, check the status page.

Crap service or what. How long do you think I'll stay with them? This is the second time since February. Sheesh.

And it's times like this I am thankful for my own inefficiency. I currently have my mail with two different ISPs, two domains with one, one with the other. So now, it's not so bad. My main work address is down, but I can still work with the other one.

So, lesson folks. Don't get round to moving all your mail to one supplier. In fact, I might just leave 34sp and go to someone else, and still have two. Eggs, baskets, all of that.

Perhaps I was unfair. They may not answer the phone, but the 34SP.com status page tells me they have had a network outage for an hour. Great.

Yet again, 34sp seem to have disappeared. No mail, no website, no phone answering.

There is a Metroline bus strike today.

I discovered this because at 6am I stood at my bus stop (my own, personal, bus stop, you should all have one) and a lot of people were walking past me, towards the tube. I was waiting for a bus to take me to Edgware Road, I would, of course, walk to the tube. And after a little while, a woman says to me, "you know there's a bus strike?"

So I walked to the tube, and had a complicated and annoying journey to Edgware Road (Circle and District line) and called the travel information people who tell me, basically, that they're "pull" rather than "push" technology - if you call them, they will verify that there's a bus strike. Great. But they don't actually publicise it any helpful or useful way. They told me to call London buses or Metroline to "talk about" that. Like yeah, I'm really going to do that. Life's too short, as we all know.

However, when I got back from pilates, 9ish, there were three people waiting at my bus stop. In the spirit of collective good, I told them there's a bus strike. And then I went upstairs, printed out the BBC page and stuck it to the bus shelter.

I am all about social action, me.

Apparently, it's all over 4am tomorrow, but it could be on again Monday, if they don't get their demands met.

But I'm still feeling slightly delicate...

More vulnerable than delicate, just slightly nervous it might happen again.

So, my weekend.

Great evening Friday, went over to D's and met lovely people, two of whom live about three doors away and are Excel-people. I like to be among my people. Late, fun night but eventually I had to come home.

Shabbes morning, however, I woke up and couldn't move. Not at all related to the previous evening's fun, I'm sure. I've had back problems before, and about ten years ago I "slipped my disc" and was off work for about six weeks. But now I do pilates and Alexander Technique, have the odd cranio-sacral osteopath session, and do a fair amount of exercise. Odds are, I should be OK. But clearly, I have a weakness.

What was scary, on Saturday, was that I really couldn't walk. I couldn't put my foot down on the floor without being in serious, searing pain. Luckily I am replete with drugs (although they are mostly out of date) but what usually happens is, I only think about taking them when I'm (a) in serious pain, and/or (b) have already taken something and my brain is slightly addled. So I can never remember the difference between co-proxomol and arthrotec, and which you should or shouldn't take with ibuprofen or paracetomol. And I didn't have any voltarol, which is good, apparently.

I took 5mg of valium (as a muscle relaxant, and which I keep only for emergencies such as this), and I called my GP, to find out which was the most sensible other painkiller stuff to take. No answer, they don't work Saturdays, apparently, had a number for an out of hours service. So I called NHS direct who took everything apart from my inside leg measurement, and then told me to take two nurofen as they couldn't discuss the prescribed drugs with me. Eventually, an out-of-hours doctor called me and told me what to take. Which I've now forgotten, again, as by then I was pretty high/floaty on the valium.

I had nine people coming round for lunch, and it was too late to cancel it, as everyone was in shul. And also, I'd made all the lunch. My good friend R - who is, frankly, a saint - came over and set the table and finished off making the salads etc. In fact, she made better salad than I would have. Everyone came over, and by then the drugs had kicked in and I was feeling more mobile, and I partly lay on the floor, and partly sat down, and I was feeling better. My friends did everything and cleared up, and left pretty early, and I lay in a straight line again, which is always good.

It seemed to be a 12-hour thing, because by the evening I was pretty mobile again, and met a friend for coffee and a movie (The Prestige, which I commend to you all) but it was scary.

Scary because nothing happened. I didn't bend down, or do something awkward. I just woke up, immobile, and so immobile I couldn't get to my drugs. What have I learned? Keep the drugs by my bed.

Next time I go to Cornwall, I'm definitely going to the Wild Food School.

Well, I've just had (I'm having, actually) a very odd phone call.

My office phone rings, and I'm all "Sasha speaking", but I seem to be party to a woman having a conversation with her work colleagues. Except, she totally rang me. And then forgot she'd made the call? I feel like I'm in the Philadelphia advert or something.

"Did you see the state of the fridge? HP everywhere."

"I can't get those extra two days on my honeymoon."

"I think I'm going to get fired today."

There are also a lot of expletives, and I think I can't (well, I can, but I don't want to) write them on the internet.

Aaaah. Then she mentioned the name of the big cheese. I know him. I know her, kinda. She's a client, of sorts. I carefully hang up the phone, because the last thing I want to do is embarrass her. Although, it is quite entertaining. I didn't know she was getting married. I know a lot now. A lot, I tell you.

Modernity is really all about information. And of course I'm not going to use the information against her. But I could imagine that some people might.

monk

monk

So, I don't totally believe in owning DVDs anymore, I figure I can always rent/borrow whatever I want to watch, and your house gets clogged up if you have too many things (which I do). And I bought series one of Monk from Amazon, at the beginning of the summer, and it was damaged so I couldn't watch it and returned it.

But Monk seasons one through four (see what I did there?)? I so want to watch this. Again, and again and again. It's brilliantly written, and amazingly observed. And I love the tag line: Obsessive. Compulsive. Detective.

I added it to my wishlist. Sometimes wishing is as much fun as owning.

Like most people, I get more spam than I care to even think about. Like, at some point, I might even have to ditch my domain, which I would be very sad about. Here's a - not that useful, but interesting - piece from Guardian Technology.

So you probably remember my little Duo boots fiasco last week.

Short story: I paid extra for next day delivery late Thursday (was told Saturday) they eventually turned up Tuesday, and then a duplicate pair Wednesday. Call me old fashioned, but I felt a moral obligation to return them, but the customer service people wanted me to wait in for a day, and I'd already waited in for three, so didn't fancy it. That was last Wednesday, not heard from Maya since. I sort of imagined that I didn't fit into her system so she could just not deal with me and it would all be OK.

I had a busy weekend, but my spare Duoboots are clogging up my office, and I feel they're not mine. I've actually felt slightly unkindly towards my original pair - I had such a bad customer experience, I kinda didn't want to wear them anymore. And they are slightly loose.

I tried to call the MD a couple of times, and today I persisted, and eventually got through to Nick Sinfield. Who was very nice, said all the right things and apologised and everything. I feel better for getting it off my chest. He is going to arrange a pre-9am collection of my duplicate boots. I pointed out to him that someone else would probably have just put them on eBay. I also pointed out that it costs 3p a minute to call his 0845 number, and I spend twenty one minutes on the phone with him, at a cost to me of 63p. OK, it's only 63p, I grant you. He said it's cheaper for consumers, and I told him that (a) most consumers are on flatrate tariffs now, which include national calls, and (b) I'm guessing most people call from their mobiles, where an 0845 number isn't included in your minutes.

Anyway. I feel (a) slightly better that it's off my chest and (b) slightly pleased to be divesting myself of unrequested goods. What would make me really really happy would be if they sent me the Biscay boots in (purple, of course) suede, as a goodwill gesture. I mean, they're £185, but I can dream, right? I sure don't want to actually do business with them again, but if they just arrived magically in the post? That would be amazing.

Turns out so much more is bad for the planet than you think - like listening to digital radio. It's back to caves, right?

Apparently, there's a 24-hour bus strike. From Cricklewood, no less.

Oh, this I love. Eat the seasons tells you what's in season and even gives you recipes. Cool, huh?

Apparently a guy was fatally stabbed outside the Red Lion in Kilburn, on Saturday night.

To the person who just tripped in here googling for underwired bras make me sore, then I should tell you this. If your bra makes you sore, it is the wrong size. Probably too tight. And possibly in the wrong places. If you are in the UK, go somewhere like a department store's lingerie department and get properly fitted for a bra. You don't even have to buy it, just try it on and "think about it." Or buy your underwear in M&S, where you can try it on.

An underwired bra should fit tightly round the back, and the wires in the middle should sit against your rib cage, so you are actually supported. Most people are wearing a bra size or three too big - the measurement is really around your rib cage, underneath your breasts, so you're much more like to be a 32DD rather than a 36DD or whatever. And anyway, all makes are different so you really do have to try them on.

Here endeth the underwear lesson.

At the weekend, my friend V told me this story (she used to live in New York).

A friend, frum, used to ride the subway (see how bilingual I am, there?) to work every day. And every day he would see the same guy, and they got chatting. And this guy kept saying to him, "you have to meet this girl I know." It was a shidduch. So after a few weeks of this, he did. And within a few weeks, they'd decided to get married (like I say, frum). And the guy on the subway? He never saw him again.

Because, sometimes, people come into your life, like an angel, for a particular reason, or project or moment. And then they've gone. The coming-and-going bit doesn't take away from what they've shared with you. And, sometimes, you might be that person for someone else.

Here endeth the cod-philosophy lesson.

Who knew that there was a Creationist - sorry, intelligent design - museum.

A friend reminded me about this piece I wrote in the summer about grandparents and I just re-read it and thought, hey, I feel like she does and then I remembered that I wrote it.

sweet as you like...

sweet as you like...

So these are genuine Kazhak sweets. Let's just say I didn't try any. I mean, they look pretty garish, who knows what they will taste like...

05112006484

05112006484

These are yurts in the style of those Russian dolls, where there are smaller and smaller ones inside. Yay, even unto infinity.

05112006485

05112006485

It's really a case of Kazhak on the brain, what with my project and Borat, and now this.

My cousin got a job with a Kazhakstan company, and now "divides his time" as they say, between London and Almaty.

Went round at the weekend, and they have all this super-kitsch Kazhak stuff. These are small people. Behind them, is some kind of horse/camel. Wait till you see the yurts.

I feel really bad that I've been so immersed in other things that I forgot to blog the UK Jewish Film Festival (and didn't even get to go to anything last week).

It's still on in London till November 16th, and across the UK January to March of next year, and it's fabulous. Check it out.

Since the announcement of the news of Saddam's death penalty, the idea of killing someone has been rolling round in my head.

In my lifetime, in this country, there's ben no death penalty. So I've never heard radio news or read a newspaper headline that says this.

OK, Saddam's not a UK citizen, so it's not comparable. But Tony Blair went into Iraq and took UK soldiers with him, and they're the people who are dying there as much as local Iraqis.

And I can't bear the idea of someone being murdered - especially premeditatively, whatever the provocation. I don't believe in the death penalty, whatever the circumstances. Human life is precious, whatever someone may have done. The more I think about it, the more appalled I am. Perhaps it's my left-of-centre veggie/green outlook, but I just don't believe in capital punishment.

Interesting piece on Comment is free.

Great question just now on Question Time - if Donald Rumsefeld had to go to save George Bush, who has to go to save Tony Blair?

self-respect?

self-respect?

I'm pretty sure I've posted a (different pic) of this Selfridges advert before, but still.

I have a real problem with this ad. I know we live in a world that's peopled by people who mostly judge people for how they look, and If I'm really honest with myself, I guess I do that too, however much I might try not to.

But this isn't a value. Self-respect is about taking care of yourself, sure. Self-respect's about treating yourself well. Self-respect is not about dieting like crazy or subsisting on two apples and half a packet of rocket in order to get into a dress (which is what this advert implies, it seems to me).

We live in a world of size zero models who have a health-defying BMI. I'm not saying this because it's sour grapes: I think being healthily slim is a good thing. I just think that this ad is clearly predicated on the Nike "just do it" campaign, but the difference is that exercise has a point (good health) but looking thin doesn't, really.

I think I'd really like an Electrisave Electricity Monitor. It presses both my geek and green buttons simultaneously.

Do you know anything about Transcendental Club?

Hey, I won £50 on my premium bonds. First time ever. I mean, I'm not exactly retiring on my winnings, but still.

I've just made my second round of (revised) banana bread - based on Z's recipe, with a few changes, here it is; went down very well last Friday night at D's:

Ingredients
225g softened unsalted butter
250g caster sugar
2 large egg yolks
225g plain flour
1 tsp baking powder
½ teaspoon cinnamon
½ teaspoon salt
3 medium-sized ripe bananas
1 teaspoon vanilla essence
5 large egg white, whisked

Method
1 Preheat oven to 180C/ 350F/ gas mark 4
2 Mix butter and sugar
3 Add eggs yolks to mixture and continue to beat
4 Add flour, baking powder, salt, bananas, vanilla cinnamon and blend well
5 Fold in whisked egg whites
6 Pour batter into a greased 2lb loaf tin (preferably with a paper doodar inside) and bake in preheated oven for 60 minutes. Keep a careful eye on it – it’s done when a skewer comes out clean.

Of course I've still not worked out what to do with the remaining three egg yolks, apart from make mayonnaise. Helpful suggestions welcomed.

And another thing. When you're on hold for DUO boots, they have all funky music and tell your their website, and they actually say "dub dub dub duoboots.com". No, really.

Interwebnet savvy or what?

I wonder if getting a Wi-Spy Spectrum Analyzer will help me solve my ongoing wireless problems.

And, even if it doesn't, it's a nice toy, right?

How's this for remarkable inefficiency?

So my duoboots finally arrived on Tuesday, and they're OK, although slightly bigger on the calf than I remember them in the shop. But it seemed too much hassle to send them back at my expense for a calf size smaller.

But then today, just now, I get another pair of duoboots. Identical. Except dispatched yesterday, instead of Monday. Maybe tomorrow and for time immmemorial I'll get a new pair everyday, and I can start my own shop. Only problem is, they're all the same style/size.

Like, I feel like it's more hassle for me to call them and tell them about their inefficiency. I suppose I have to organise returning them, except it's not really my problem.

My 10am conference call has not turned up. What is the acceptable amount of time to wait before you call someone to see where they are?

Have you been watching the This Life reruns on BBC2? It's ten years, but it's really aged well. Only decent thing Amy Jenkins ever did.

Jewish people are night people. How do I know this? I just did a late night Tesco-run (on my way back from my evening class, so no harm done to my carbon footpring) and I met two Rabbis, half-a-dozen blackhatters and a lot of very familiar faces.

In fact, so many that I thought perhaps there was some minor festival I was supposed to be shopping for. But no. We are merely an angsty people who like to shop late. And shop often.

fireworks

fireworks

Yep, I went to a fireworks party at the weekend. What with the cordite and the smoke and the noise, I kinda felt like I was in downtown Basra. Pretty, though.

Primrose Bakery are the people who made those cute little mini cupcakes I saw in Portobello.

I know, with the internet, you can find out pretty much anything. In a slightly scary way, sometimes.

So, still on the muscular-calves trip, I googled some more, and found Buckles & Bows. All looks good.

Except this - when you check out any individual boots - like these, Pout - they are spelling "heel height" "heal hight" throughout their website. As far as I can tell. Not that not being able to spell means you can't be a good online boot retailer.

In shul on shabbat, the Rov gave a dvar torah (sermon) that ended with the (often usual) "may the moshiach - messiah - come speedily in our time" shtick.

Which I'm never totally sure I believe.

So I turned my friend L, and said, "do you think the messiah's coming, in our time?"

And she said, "well, I think it's neck and neck between the moshiach and global warming."

And I said she should have a blog, and she said she could just say witty things and I could blog them.

See.

02112006469

02112006469

So it's nearly two years since I discovered Duoboots, the people who make boots for the, er, muscular calf. And super-slim calves. But who has those?

Anyway, I promptly forgot about them, which is why I have a blog to remember things for me. But I forgot to like even remember.

I've never owned a pair of leather up-t-the-knees boots. Ever. I've tried on loads, but I've never found boot-nirvana.

Thursday, a friend reminded me of Duo, and I promptly went down to their Saville Row trying-on salon (they have all the boots in every calf size) and queued for 90 minutes with other women equally desperate for this seasons boots/skirt combo.

I found a perfect pair of boots. Black, leather, flat, sensible, perfect. I paid £10 extra to get them delivered next day, which by late on Thursday would be Saturday.

They didn't come Saturday (although I was dying to wear them for shul), and they didn't come this morning (and I really wanted to wear them tonight, as some friends are taking me out for dinner for my birthday).

When I called them this morning, Kim told me they hadn't been dispatched. I asked why. She told me the warehouse don't answer the phone on Monday, because they're very busy. This did not instill confidence in their company.

I won't bore you with the service shtick, but let's just say the boots might be great, the marketing might make it look like everything's fabulous, but I had to call them on a stupid 0845 number (3p a minute) about three times because only one person ever called me back. And all the people I talked to told me about how their system works not about how they could help me as a customer.

Let's just say the user experience was disappointing.

And now I remember, Maya the supervisor was supposed to call me to tell me they were dispatched today, and she didn't. So who knows if they will arrive tomorrow.

But hell. I've waited 3X years for knee-high leather boots. What's another few days?

G!d but I'm feeling forgiving.

And the pink pattern? It's the wallpaper in their central London store.

cupcakes

cupcakes

What is it with cupcakes?

Methinks they are yet another American import, although I'm not complaining. I mean, who made cupcakes five years ago? Now we're all Nigella and cupcaked-to-the-hilt.

Although we did make butterfly buns at school, which are basically cupcakes with fiddly bits that your Home Ec teacher has to show you how to do. Except now I'm the adult I'm supposed to just know by osmosis how to do the fiddly bit.

I saw butterfly buns on sale in a Starbucks today.

I think the prospect of global warming, terrorism and general social meltdown makes people want home-spun sugary goodness. At least, that's what I'm telling myself.

Saw these in Portobello Friday - I had the small purple one in the top right hand corner. It was tiny. This is great - you don't really want a whole one, but you definitely want a taste, right?

pumpkin

pumpkin

A little bit after the fact, I know, but Halloween.

I mean, when I was a kid, it just wasn't such a big deal. Guy Fawkes night, sure (although only genuinely on November fifth, not the nearest Saturday night), but this whole trick-or-treat dress-up fest is surely an American import, and probably from watching too many US films.

Although the pumpkin with candle thing is cute.

This is next door to Z, and I think R (aged nearly three) may have had a hand in it.

I've taken a whole raft of Halloween pics, which I meant to put up on the day, but my head was full. Mea culpa.

So I bought a new new multi-fuction printer, because in these days of throwaway tech it was, sadly, the most expendient thing to do.

All good - arrived the next day as promised, cost kinda next to nothing considering my first laser printer cost £500 and didn't do anything else and totally devoured consumables.

But it took like two hours to install. They didn't tell me to unistall my old Brother software crap, so it took a while to work that out, and then ScanSoft PaperPort wouldn't unisntall at all, and kept just flaking out half way. I spent time on their 50p a minute helpline, where the blokey sent me an uninstall took, but then there was a Ms$ft error with that, and I called back at the princely sum of 50p, but he didn't know what to do. He said he'd give it to second line support and they'd get back to me in 48 hours.

48 hours? I said to him in a not-exactly calm tone. This is Frieze-time, we're talking about here. I've bought this printer because I have things to print. He couldn't help.

Luckily, a good friend with the best tech skillz I know knew what to do, and it all worked out fine once I'd got the magic right-click and download-to-desktop first, but I wasn't calm.

Am I ever calm?

Mostly. I mean, recently, possibly too calm.

So now my printer works, even if the consumables do probably cost the budget of a small south american country. But hey.

First customer service shenanigans of the week.

Through a long and circuitous link journey, I came across this strange piece from Delissa Needham on working hours for TV industry freelancers.

It's always interesting when you get a glimpse into someone else's world: I don't know the first thing about working in TV (and nor would I want to. My second serious boyfriend had a lifetime career ambition of working in light entertainment. Let's just say we parted company, although he did go on to be pretty famous in a luvvyish way), although I do know about being a freelancer.

What I don't get is this. How, in this day and age can someone write a ranty-style piece without even checking the most minimal of facts. Like barrister's training contracts aren't called "tutelage" they're called "pupillage", and they're paid. Because lawyers wouldn't dream of contravening the minimum wage regulations. It's like she had a conversation in a pub and didn't bother googling. But we've found her out.

OK, I'll stop.

Have you seen this Guardian Music video interview - Interview:Amy Winehouse and eight everyday objects?

I don't know why, but as soon as you become a celebrity of any kind, it appears to be perfectly fine to talk crap. I mean, interestingly, sure, but crap nonetheless.

Sorry, sorry, sorry.

I know I've been just posting links for a couple of days - my heads been full of a lot of stuff. A lot. But I'm back. Kinda. Say hi.

When I was a kid, there was only one way to wear your scarf: your mum tied it in a knot round your neck. It was not a fashion accessory, it was a keep-warm-must-have (but then, for some time up until the recent cold snap and occasional snow, I have felt that it was much colder when I was a kid, but that could be me. Or less central heating).

Anyway, when did the fold-it-in-half-loop-the-end-through-the-loop fashion start? I see it everywhere I go; buses, trains, meetings. I do it. Because I'm a sucker for peer pressure. But what's it all about, what's it all for (in the words of Alexei Sayle) and how did it start? Have I just bowed to some fashion trend started by a designer locked in their glass-and-chrome tower? Or am I just a sheep?

You tell me.

I have just discovered the London Cycling Campaign.

Did you just hear a bloke on Radio 4's Today Programme say "cabbage" instead of "cabin baggage"?

Easily done...

In case you, too, have some fermenting bananas in your fruit bowl, crying out to be made into Banana Bread.

Did you know that Channel 4 has a radio station: 4radio?