Free Word Consultancy

Q called me. The conversation went like this:

Q: Is mislocated a word?
me: I don't think so. Why? [simultaneously finding word not found on dictionary.com]
Q: Word keeps telling me to say misallocated, but I mean things getting to the wrong place
me: Why don't you say "lose"?
Q: It's a legal-type letter. Shouldn't I use long words?
me: Dunno. Don't think it's like, in the contract that you have to
Q: Mmm
me: What are you trying to say?
Q: Things keep getting sent to the wrong place
me: Why don't you say "misdirected"?
Q: Yeah, that's good
me: And it's a real word

This wonderful service is brought to you by the people (aka me) who also supply Outsourced Worrying. Busy? Full-time job? Work pressures? No time to allocate sufficient time to your personal concerns? For a small fee (£0) you can outsource your worrying to an experienced third party (angst is my middle name) and at least one of us will be able to sleep at night.

Luke just had a shower in KL. The wonder of the web.

Just heard Phil Halsall, Executive Director of Resources at Liverpool City Council interviewed on You and Yours about his new invention: Email Free Wednesday (for internal email only, you'll be relieved to hear). It's to make people take responsibility and talk to their colleagues.

Dr Paul Taylor counter-commented; "it's rebellion - councillors are frustrated traffic wardens. Office workers of world unite, you've got nothing to lose but your keyboards. It allows us to avoid f2f contact - we can pass the buck. People even finish with their partners over email.How will a one day gesture make a profound change? Its like the politburo."

Soundbite heaven, sounds like. Once you get in the golden rolodex..

Gene Kan died. He was the Gnutella P2P file-sharing guru.

He was only 25.

Don't you hate when you see really talented people who just can't acknowledge their own talents? What a waste.

Is blogging "what's right with our great (American) country?

Blogging. The 24-7 opinion sites that offer free speech at its straightest, truest, wildest, most uncensored, most thoughtful, most strange. Thousands of independent information entrepreneurs are informing, arguing, adding information. Imagine if we'd had them in 1776: "As I wrote in yesterday's lead item on SamAdams.com, my well meaning cousin John continues his grammatical nitpicking with Jefferson (link requires registration) 'Inalienable,' 'unalienable,' whatever. Boys, let's fight. Start the war." Blogs may one hard day become clearinghouses for civil support and information when other lines, under new pressure, break down.

From the Wall Street Journal, already.

Am I part of an online revolution? I don't think so. Am I an information entrepreneur? Never thought about it, but I hope so.

I love urban legends.

Apparently, residents of the UK drink 1.6billion litres of bottled water a year, but it turns out it's a waste of money, as there's nothing wrong with tap water, according to the UK Drinking Water Inspectorate. But then, they would say that, wouldn't they?

Reminds me of a fabulous piece of writing by the late, great, truly lamented John Diamond - who has inspired me more than any other writer apart from Julie Burchill - published in the Spectator in 1989, Entitled Water, Water Every Way. Sadly, it's not available online, but it is in the Snake Oil book.

John said it so much better than I ever will:

"And never mind, either, that the price of Buxton water which flows from the spring in Derbyshire is, at 59p per litre, rather more expensive than the heavily-taxed, highly refined petrol which is hard won from the raging North Sea."

Exactly.

Just been on a weird web journey about cargo cults: here here here here and here . I know, I sound like a middle aged man at an industry dinner, who's had a few too many brandies and is mumbling at the after dinner speaker.

And the Jon Frum Movement on Tanna. They're famous.

Apparently, shopping malls and computers are cargo cults, too. Er, I don't think so.

Telecoms Industry Turbulence
Maybe there are a finite number of brand names. I don't know. But I'm mightily confused that it's One2One who have changed their name to T-Mobile, and Cellnet who have changed their name to O2.

Not least because O2 sounds like either a next generation One 2 One, or my local leisure temple. I've never seen them in the same room...

It's just like that eighties sketch - which I still can't find - about bands breaking up and reforming under a new name.

NEW COLUMN TYPE PIECE - click on the red button on the right. And thanks to Dan for helping me make buttons.

Love this. Job generator.

[via Luke via Mordant]

Dental Update

Free drugs on the NHS. Really, just tell them you're nervous. I got gas and air, and it was the best trip I've had in a long time. Although I'm fairly sure that I did talk utter, utter nonsensical rubbish to the dental nurse, and also recommended my hairdresser to her. Not because she had bad hair; she'd just been fleeced by some Knightsbridge salon, and in the spirit of girldom and shared haircare karma I left her the number.

Dental Distress

I'm scared. Still .

No, Shurely Shome Mishtake?

What on earth has happened to the weather? Dominic Arkwright has just done a news story on the Today programme about the bloody weather. It really must be a no news day.

And do you know anyone who dislocated their shoulder starting the barbeque? Are there any village greens left where people play cricket? (I live in zone two.) Suspect that he's talking about an idyllic England past that I certainly don't remember.

I expect more from the Today programme. If I want to have stupid water-cooler coffee-machine conversations, I'll get a job and talk crap with my colleagues. The Today programme is an agenda setting news programme, that I've fought tooth and nail and to be able to listen to in the "Ladies Gym" - as they insist on calling it - in my gym. Stop this nonsense at once, or you'll go to bed with no supper.

Water, water, everywhere and not a drop to....

Oh, the irony. It's raining cats and dogs, men and all manner of serious weather, and yet again, we have no water. Through the wonder of blog, I know this last happened on May 24th.

I've called a helpful CSR, who tells me there's a burst water main in Fordwych Road. Since 6.30am. I have no recollection of such crap utilities service when I was a kid. I have the vaguest memory of the Winter of Discontent, but frankly, it was great - you didn't have to go to school, and it was all candles and sitting around talking about the old days. I quite enjoyed it. It was like Halloween for a longer time.

And I often wonder if the landslide Labour victory of 1997 was partly due to the fact that a whole swathe of thirty-something potential Labour voters only remembered how great it was not having to go to school.

Just in case you see photos of me from Saturday, my t-shirt says "baby phat".

Not baby prat. Or baby plat - which makes me sound like a dyslexic pilates teacher.

I'm sure you all know that Phat Farm is hip-hop mogul Russell Simmons' fashion label, and I bought the t-shirt in downtown NY when I was visiting F&W last summer. The world's a village, I know.

Anyway, apparently it makes me a turn of the century sex kitten. I just read it on the internet, so it must be true.

Dry Run. In Rough or In Neat?

Rough books. Now there's a stupid idea. It will probably come as no surprise to you to learn that I went to a private girl's school. Which I won't name.

The whole time I was at school, I never got the rough book idea. I was supposed to write everything out in rough, and then later in neat? Doesn't that take twice as long?

And real life's not like that. First of all, I'm pretty sure the advent of the computer age - look at me, so wired - must surely mean this is a late seventies/early eighties concept that has truly run its course. I hope so.

Because what counts in real life is the abiity to get by, respond on the hoof, think on your feet, get it of your chest. OK, wrong cliche-school. But I've never yet had a job where my boss asked to look at my rough book or to see my "workings out". It's results that count.

No idea why this came into my mind. Weird place, my mind.

Welcome to whoever just surfed in here looking for mobile afro hairdresser north london.

I'm afraid I can't help you. Although I do have the haircare bug, bigtime, so I know where you're coming from. North London, I'd imagine.

I know where you should go: the Diaspora Music Village at Regent's Park yesterday was like ethnic hair nirvana. I felt right at home with my frizzy, I mean curly hair, and it crossed my mind that it would be the perfect venue for an ethnic haircare product concession.

Speaking of matters South East Asian, I have a deep, desperate desire to visit Angkor Wat before it closes to the public.

I worked in Asia - Singapore, Hong Kong, Bangkok - and travelled in Indonesia, about ten year's ago. The thing about a primarily work trip - I was installing databases for a conference company in the pre-Windows era - is that you don't get to do everything. So I always think I'm the only person who's been to Bangkok, but not visited the Emerald Buddah, as it's only open work hours.

But South East Asia really feels like home. The food, the people, how to behave. Even the slightly damp smell: when I did a big trip with M last summer to Laos and Vietnam, when we got of the plane, he said to me, "what's that smell?" "That's Asia." I told him.

The damp smell permeates everything. Clothes never quite dry. And everyone has a cold, because you go from your aircon house to your aircon car to your aircon office, and you never breathe real air. I'm surprised there isn't more legionnaires disease.

And when I'm in the gym, I never go in either the sauna or steam room. I don't understand why people do: you can just go live in Singapore with 95% humidity 100% of the time.

From Our Jakarta Correspondent

No soner do I mention nutters belly-dancing to Indonesian music, than I get mail from the land of applied surrealism.

Quoth Roger:

Congratulations, yours is the 1st blog I've read. Still feels a bit like you left your diary lying around and I peeked.

Anyway as for your observation (A woman in an almost-belly-dancing outfit - the first time I've seen someone belly-dance to Indonesian music; I wonder what you call that kind of cultural crossover? Fusion dancing? Like a restaurant.)

Writing from Jakarta, this does not seem quite so strange.

Belly dancing is catching here on both as an exercise and as nightclub/restaurant entertainment.

The nightclub version is to dangdut which is the really popular music here, a sort of arab-indian-indonesian fusion with a touch of reggae if that makes sense. It is frowned upon by the middle classes, loved by the rest.

Of course Jakarta is not Indonesia; London is not England, etc. Tummies probably remain concealed in Yogjakarta where a frown from the Sultan would probably stifle the first outburst of dangdut.

If the Regents Park bellyrina was gyrating to traditional Javanese or Balinese music, gamelan and all, that?s another matter and one to be marvelled at."

So now I know. This is great; I can just wonder aloud on here about where to get unfarmed fish in North London, how to find a real job, what next season's colour is going to be, and some expert will crawl out of the woodwork and mail me. Fabulous.

EMBRACE AMBIGUITY

Words to live by, huh? And way, way better than embracing uncertainty.

I'm not sure if I dreamed this or if it's true, but I think it was actually snowing at some point during the weekend - either in my head or for real. Weather. July. English. Bah.

Dragged S out of bed with a hangover this morning and down to Regent's Park for the Diaspora Music Festival. Short form: it's like a very hygenic Glastonbury.

Ran into D (he of Kabbalistic insight and salsa ability), replete with oud, as he'd been jamming with the RoB guys. Also ran into E, who'd been at A&D's drum gathering last Sunday, swaying in time to the music in the latest Indian/ethnic garb.

Sadly, we got there just too late to hear Rivers of Babylon - Iraqui songs from Bombay and Calcutta. But we did hear Cilay, from Indonesia, and Burning Bush.

As ever, the audience watching was really something. There was a bloke in his fifties wearning a string vest, shaved head, and not much else, dancing non-stop as if he'd had some kind of drug-induced assistance. A woman in an almost-belly-dancing outfit - the first time I've seen someone belly-dance to Indonesian music; I wonder what you call that kind of cultural crossover? Fusion dancing? Like a restaurant.

And there were two guys in strange cowboy-cum-south-American outfits, one of whom I'm fairly sure was wearing a wig. Very John Travolta meets John Wayne, but with no rythm. They looked like they were having a good time.

Experienced ethnic-music-circuit musicians told me that the same nutters dance at the front at every event. Wonder if there's a name for them?

Afterwards S and I, bitten by the middle-eastern bug, tried to get appropriate food in a Morrocan looking pub in St John's Wood, The Duke of York, but it turned out to have a generic bland-English menu, despite its ethnic good looks, so we settled for Welsh Rarebit at Richoux.

I found myself saying yesterday that I "keep a blog." Like a pet, but worse. And not a phrase I'll be using again. If I can help it.

Saw a bloke in town last night wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the legend:

CAN'T DJ

It's all about truth in advertising. Or on t-shirts. Or something.

Just talked to A on the phone - he is 25% of our holiday quartet, and Vice President Planning and Logistics.

I was telling him about last night and he described me as sounding languid and louche, and consequently correctly guessed that I was still in bed. But then it was 10am on a Sunday morning.

A is undoubtedly one of the most-wired of my regular friends. But I realised last week when F called me counter-cultural - which I hardly think is true. How can you live practically in West Hampstead and listen to Destiny's Child and like nail varnish and be counter-cultural? - that I kinda straddle a lot of different worlds. Jewish stuff. Comedy stuff. Writing stuff. Music stuff, sometimes. Creativity in general. Business/marketing/events.Geek stuff. Tech stuff. Local stuff. Art deco stuff. Must stop staying stuff.

So one of the worlds I inhabit, albeit on the fringe, is the online world. And when I kept saying to A that I'd "met" people and "talked" to them, he was - justifiably - confused. In the end, I said to him, "just work on the basis that from now till I say 'it's real life again' all the uses of the word met relate to people I met online." Like putting it between comment tags. Seemed to work.

I think there needs to be a new world for met-online. There probably already is, just I don't know it. Yet.

The blogmeet morphed into the FezFest . It was blogworld meets Barbelith meets everyone Luke's ever met.

Had fun hanging out with Stuart , Seth, Vaugh, Ian, Catherine, Rob, Cherry, Dan,Brooke, Claire and Paul. And, bizarrely discussed a range of topics from Kabbalah, intertestemental literature, Guardian columnists, people's leather/pvc trousers and played a silly drinking game "what I've done in the last [enter your time period here]". I hate those games; I always feel under pressure to be funny and fail miserably and people look at me oddly. Luckily, most people were quite drunk. Me included.

Luke made an alcohol-infused cute goodbye speechlet, and gave away the rest of his CD collection. All very zen.

There was a high digital-camera to person ratio; one in three, I'd guess. After a while I gave up trying to keep control of my image. Lousy pictures of me will appear all over the interwebnet-doodar and I will get a modelling contract from one of those agencies who specialise in "real" ie ugly people.

Got home at oneish, and rounded off the evening watching the end of a truly crap made-for-TV movie; Dream House Starring Timothy Busfield, and - I think, it was late, I was fuzzy - Carol Vordeman as her own voice. There was an irony to half-watching a badly made movie about computers taking over even your house. I think computers are an enabler, a platform... nothing more. Human interraction - parties, people, drink, conversation - is never going out of fashion.

Met a bunch of bloggers yesterday; when I got to Soho Square it was one-thirtyish, and I was desparately seeking a diffuse group of people whose only common link was a regularly updated blog (time stamps and archives appears to be the definition most people go for). Hard to tell; luckily I had Darren's mobile number.

It was low-key. But that's cool. Met Minor9th, Meg, Tom , Cal - though I've met them both before - and other people - other Tom, Adam, Plep, Graybo, Mo ,Nick. And some people I'm sure I've forgotten. Not a lot of girlies, I have to tell you. And I'll come back and do the rest of the links later.

It's strange, I have to say. I already have slightly altered relationships with my real-life friends who read my blog. Instead of calling and saying "hey, how are you?" They call and have a second stage conversation; "Pi, I didn't like that movie. Saw you did." Or, "sorry you didn't get the job. Wanna go out and commiserate." It's like the blog has changed how I communicate.

And meeting the face behind the blog yesterday was similar. I know Tom's got a new contract at upmyarse.com. Meg's leg is hurting. Simon just moved house. Do I know these people? Or know of them? Do they know me?

Answers on a poscard, please.

Should old media embrace blogging? Even the question is so, like, 1998.

Spent yesterday afternoon helping Luke pack. After some lunch-style procrastination, we got down to the business. Of packing.

It's so hard deciding what to pack and what to keep. I should know; I've moved house so many times that my optician has a special record card for me. And I've moved countries a few times, too. Though the secret to working abroad is to never pack too much in the first place and make the company pay for whatever you forgot.

When I had a job/money, and realised my house was untidy but didn't really know how to deal with it, I had a preliminary phone conversation with a decluttering consultant. I know what you're thinking; there are better ways to spend your money. I agree.

She talked some kind of modern argot-cum-jargon that I didn't quite understand; "Letting go can be the hardest thing. We can spend some time looking at the issues. We can work through it."

I never know what "working though" something means: how do you know when you've got there? What if you can't see the wood for the throughput?

But I had to get off the phone from her because when she quoted the price I started giggling uncontrollably. I figured I could do a self-managing declutter project and spend the money on clothes.

I'm loathe to quote Vanessa Feltz - famous-for-fifteen-minutes for lots of things, but especially this - but her "more is more" quote during her ousting from the BBC made me think. Generally, I go for understatement - apart from when it comes to cleavage - and her in-your-face OTTness made me want to hide.

Back to the house-stuff thing. I'm often envious of people who have minimal homes and well chosen objets and no piles of paper and things they've been meaning to get round to for a decade.

I'm not a minimalist - I'm a maximalist. Not by choice; I just have a lot of stuff. Partly because I brought home interesting things from when I lived in Asia and other places. I've never done an audit, but I estimate that I have a few thousand books, and a few more since Luke pruned his collection prior to shipping.

And I have a hard time getting rid of books. I don't just want to reread a book; I want to reread the actual book I read on the beach in Cuba. Delayed in the airport at Bangkok. Riding the bus to that boring job. Books have memories for me; not only in terms of the stories they contain, but the physical book. It's like running into an old friend.

Anyway, I'm off to meet some bloggers - not my usual Sabbath-style-entertainment, but hey, I'm flexible - so, er, later…

A friend of a friend put me in touch with a bona-fide journo type, because I wanted to know more of those people. Don’t ask me why.

And it struck me that the experiential virtuality of the interaction is something that not everyone would get. So M introduced us via a group email (as in small group of three), and then we chatted a little, arranged to meet up for a drink next week, and swapped mobile phone numbers. Done deal. Four emails. No talking.

Sometimes I say to my unwired friends that I’ve been “talking” to someone, and they assume – perhaps reasonably – that I’ve met them. To them, IM or email doesn’t count as a real friendship. To me, human is human, whatever the platform.

I like how technology is an enabler to relationships. But I guess some people struggle. At Christmas, I ran into a friend of a friend of my parents, a deeply cool woman in her fifties, who had just separated from her husband, and was feeling her way in the new, slightly-single world for the first time in thirty years. I’d actually always thought she was way cooler than him, and was keen to hang out. Must stop talking like I live in LA. Sorry.

“Let’s swap mobiles,” I said to her.

“Why?”

“So we can text. Meet up. You know.”

She got out her paper filofax. Now I don’t have anything against paper, although I’m not sure the paperless office will ever become a reality, and I sincerely hope that newspapers and books never go out of fashion, but it’s a back-up-free platform, and as a professionally disorganised person, that scares me.

She starts turning pages and I start feeling nostalgic. She wants all my information. I explain that mobile numbers is enough, but I sense her desire for a full data set - I’ve not had that for years – so I comply. I like to make people feel better.

A week or so later, I text her. Never hear back. I’m guessing that she can’t read text messages, yet. And I have a brain like a sieve so I never followed it up till now when she popped into my head.

The world and his wife will doubtless link to the TouchGraph GoogleBrowser, but it's cool. Except soon I'll have so many toolbars I won't be able to see the screen.

Jack Schofield's piece on the future of un-free content in yesterday's Guardian certainly gave me food for thought. Especially because I remember those heady "content is king days" as though they were yesterday.

He covers all the issues related to monetizing content: falling online ad revenues, tiered subscription models and the like. But there's one key thing missing.

I don't think a debate about the end of free can happen without mention of micropayments: I may not want to sign up for £100, £50 or even £20, but if there was a way to easily pay 30p for an article that I really wanted, I would.

Neutrogena Visibly Young - a product so new that it doesn't even seem to appear on the product website - is all over the show.

This is what the ad says:
Neutrogena Visibly Young Anti-Age Night Cream

- NEW -
May be the first anti-age cream with active copper
- visibly firmer, more radiant, younger looking

Here's what I think: "anti-age" sounds younger than "anti-ageing", doesn't it? But it probbaly isn't. And it only gives you younger looking skin. It's not actually younger. Because that's impossible. I used to be in advertising - but I'm alright now - watch for those weasel words, I tell you.

Oh, and now I can sleep nights. I've been worried that there was no anti-age cream which had copper as an ingredient. This might change my life. And that's without even buying the product.

Just heard John Humphreys on the Radio Four Today programme, having a quite, quite insane conversation with a woman from the Wife Carrying World Championships in Finland.

I know they like to have a "kooky" item, but it must be a slow news day. And someone needs to have a word with John about weight conversion: it was utterly embarassing hearing him go on about 49 kilos (minimum wife-weight to carry) being heavy (it's less than eight stone). He's obviously not a girl/ever dieted; I thought everyone knew a pound was around 2.2 kilos. Or maybe he never buys flour/sugar/general household goods.

Ever Seen Them in the Same Room?
Doesn't Sandra Bullock look remarkably like a late-onset Michael Jackson (well past the Thriller era) in the poster for Murder by Numbers?

Later, met up with S, to see Aimee Mann at the Astoria. Her voice has a depth and power that had the audience eating out of her hand; Billie Holliday meets Sheryl Crow, but in a good way. And her thighs are slim enough to wear striped trousers. Her range and soul inspired me, and I walked away touched in a way that I don't quite get, yet.

The audience was very thirtysomething once-was-rock, and for some reason there was a preponderance of men in unstylish denim shirts tucked into their jeans. The couple standing just behind us weren't exactly dancing together; he was rocking back and forwards on the spot (rather reminiscent of my best friend's childhood nextdoor neighbour pretending he was Marc Almond and dancing on the spot to Soft Cell in 1982), whereas she was gently swaying from side to side. Neither of them were quite in time with the music, but it wasn't exactly syncopated either. You just know they have disappointing sex.

Oh, and two Smirnoff Ices (girly, I know) cost £7 in the Astoria bar, and £3.50 in the RCA bar. Know where I'm going again.

Great evening. Saw Aviva's show at the Royal College of Art. A had a beautiful installation of mirrors and questions engraved on glass hanging from the ceiling. That girl has a great career ahead of her. I can tell. I've just not described it very well; but then, that's art.

I particularly liked the people in the Interaction Design course; Wendy White, an interaction textile designer who stitches mobile phone numbers into clothes; Sanne Ostergaard Jacobsen's Objects in Time and Space which investigates how technology creates opportunities to embrace time and space and Andrea Taylor's digital typography project which explores expressive and meaningful interaction with type on screen.

Everyone was young and hip and had uber-trendy clothes and their flared jeans generally hung off their hips. And there was a DJ.

In the olden days (Monday) if 50 people visited my site I was dead excited. My stats just hit 910. I feel as if 860 people have come round to my house and said "put the kettle on". Not that I mind. I'm a sociable type; it just takes a little getting used to.

And looking at my stats, people are coming back. Tell me what you think; feedback is always good, and I've been on courses about how to accept constructive feedback (aka criticism) , so I promise not to cry.

OK, I'm off out. Not that that would stop me blogging. If I pass an internet cafe...

I just listened to Rammstein in the shower - OK, not actually in the shower - and at the risk of sounding my inner-age of 17: it rocks.

I am the happy recipient of two Aimee Mann tickets, as Z&D have to go to a brit.

Of course everyone I've phoned is busy till October. I yearn for those heady, simple, days in Manchester when your mates would knock-on and ask if you could come out to play.

Sometimes I hate the London social thang. Take this example: I've been trying to invite three couples who moved to the suburbs round for dinner for about a month. We have been in a heady group email correspondence, which has been witty, entertaining, but ultimately frustrating. Each suggestion is countered with a another date. Matters are not helped by the fact that M&C rarely pickup their mail, so I have had to resort to legacy technology (the telephone) to keep them in the loop. And I'm now suffering from arrangement-fatigue. We're currently looking at the last week in August. God help us.

So, tonight. If anyone wants to see Aimee Mann...

Talked briefly with V about her party and the over-supply of Brazillian men who could salsa like angels. I told her about my "you ees married? boyfriend? wanna fuck?" conversation, and she told me this.

Her work colleague, who was a truly fabulous, curvaceous, expert salsa-er, got "chatting" to a guy. Well, chatting and dirty dancing, I guess. The conversation went something like this:
Him: You 'ave a flat?
Her: Not really, just a room. I'm flatsharing.
Him: Ees OK.
Her: Oh.
Him: I haff to move on Monday.
Her: Oh.
Him: Maybe, I, live with you, no?
Her: I don't think so.

She made the right choice. I have a personal rule: I never move in with someone on the first day I meet them. Call me old fashioned.

Desperately trying to remember the name for the mathematical pattern Max is seeking in Pi.

You know how it is: you nothing about a subject/person, and then they're suddenly everywhere. Like when my famous neighbour moved in, I had no idea who he was. Within a week, he was on the front page of Hello and other celebrity trivia mags I spied whilst buying groceries.

So I didn't know anything about [insert name of mathematical pattern about the number 216] which is apparently reflected everywhere in nature. Like sunflowers. And now, memetically sealed here: a picture of weblogs.

[link via burnt toast]

More Tales from the Haircare Hinterland

My neighbour C - and I use that term loosely, I'm just a community-minded kinda gal - works for the CEO of a company which for the purposes of today's conversation, is called Happy Hair.

Now my hairdresser, M works in a Happy Hair Salon. And she often recommends their excellent products. And I'm not just saying that - they are truly excellent. Just expensive. But I fall for it every time; who wouldn't - the chance for follicular perfection by just crossing someone's palm with silver. Simple.

Then C told me she can get products at cost, and my inner addict started salivating. My usual shampoo (£12.50) is £2.46. Similar ratios for conditioners, mousse, wax, skincare products. I'm in big brand heaven.

But I got to thinking. If they charge employees £2.46, then real customers must pay even less. C confirmed this; salons and the like pay 75p or something. And the staff think they shouldn't have to pay, when it's so cheap.

I don't have a problem with companies making a living. We all need to. But despite my mostly good general knowledge - just don't ask me any sports questions, OK? - I was genuinely surprised by the 600% markup. And I know all the people in haircare food chain have to take a cut, but even so. I don't feel revolutionary about this. Just surprised.

Must go, got to write my list for M. See, lists, that's what I'm good at writing.

And for the record, I am not a totally empty-headed haircare slut. Well, not entirely.

If you're a Guardian reader, welcome.

You probably want to know who I am and what I do: tough. I prefer for you to read my views and wonder. Read the archive (towards the bottom right of the page, under the book) and you can piece together who I am. If you want to. Most of the "about" pages I've read are at best out of date or at worst, like extremely dull Friends Reunited entries, so I'll spare you.

If I'd know you were coming, I'd have baked a cake or something. The place is a little untidy. But hey, you're fellow Guardian readers, so I'm sure you'll be OK with me wearing my leggings/sweatshirt combo and not putting my contact lenses in. And my code is a little untidy, too.

Want a quick heads up? Then I'd recommend you read these pieces:

One Step Beyond: Functional Food and Travels in the Ladies Lingerie World
My attempt at a thousand word column-type thing. Girly.

What is the Friday Five About?
A good introduction to the world of blog. As well as a rant.

My thoughts on Noise Action Day
Every day is something day, nowadays. Right?

The British Gas Years
A woeful, but I hope entertaining, tale of poor customer service and no heating.

Some Commercial Advice for Portobello Van Hire
Site stats (how people get to your site) drive bloggers. And in my case, drive me wild. Check it out.

Botox Babes and Party Animals
Thoughts on botox and suchlike.

And, please, feel free to comment. The joy of blogging is that it's interactive. Say something.

Thank the (insert deity of your choice here). I can sleep easy now I know that Yes Mistress! make-up is available at Planet Diva (that's the cool 'n trendy bit of Boots, I think). Apparently it's the best in bondage inspired make-up, though I'm guessing that that's a small market. You really can take multi-tasking too far. I mean, what are you supposed to do? Whip someone with the top of your lipstick?

I got my hair cut and coloured today - you wouldn't recognise me, honest - and my hairdresser M is already hairdresser to the stars. She did the hair for Chocolat. And she does my hair. You see the theme emerging?

Anyway, she told me was asked to do some grey hilights for one of the actors in Proof at the Donmar Warehouse, and as a thank-you, they gave her tickets, and asked her to meet the cast in the bar afterwards.

"Just wait till all the public have gone, and we'll be out." They said to her.

M told me that Gwynnie looked a little plain in the play, and is very probably flat footed. But when she came out to the bar afterwards, dressed up to go out, she looked truly fabulous. "Even if you didn't know who she was, you'd stop and stare. Real star quality."

"Did she talk to you?" I asked.

"No. But I did think her hair was a little on the dry side, and she could certainly do with a deep conditioning treatment."

Got to get your - haircare - priorities straight.

From Our Showbiz Correspondent

No sooner do I observe Marie Helvin and the possibility of her plastic surgery in the theatre, than the Mail on Sunday - sadly not online, or at least I can't find it - cover the story, with a picture, no less. But then, it is a visual gag.

Is it a meme? Or did I beat them to the story?

[thanks to J for emailing me this]

So this morning, I stripped the bed, in a bit of a hurry, and put the washing on before I went out. I know, I live on the very edge of the edge.

I got home, and emptied the sheets out of the machine, and something clunked on the floor. Batteries. Weird, I thought. Then, a small piece of grey plastic. Getting a little X-Files already.

Then, mystery solved. The mangled melted remains of the remote from my bedroom CD player, which I have inadvertantly washed. At 90 degrees.

Generally in life I have a rough idea of how to respond to things, but I have never washed an electrical item before. I'm pretty sure it doesn't work, though.

But I like the way the battery cover no longer fits, and how the plastic has melted like a Dali clock. I might turn it into an art installation. It says something unique about dislocation in the world and how nothing quite fits together anymore. I'm so conceptual, me.

Whoever just surfed in here looking for huge boobs latin funk, you may or may not be in the right place.

I didn't even know there was Judaikitsch.

Check the review:

Pop-culture meets how-to in over 50 projects and recipes that run the gamut from a Neil Tzedakah Box and a Hebrew School Handbag.

There's some stuff in the world I can live without. And one of them is the "x meets y" formula: I'm Bridget Jones meets Woody Allen. He's Bob Monkouse meets Graham Norton.

And anyway, I have real Judaikitsch; I know far too many mother-types of the St John's Wood Ladies Who Lunch Brigade, who have a bizarre variant of the Sparkly Clothes Gene combined with the Over-Accessorise Gene. Frankly, they should issue you with sunglasses when you meet them otherwise you might get blinded by the un-science. That's what I call kitsch.

[via methylsalicylate]

People ask my why I blog. If I don't write stuff down, I forget it. I can't even remember who gave me that advice.

Not Exactly Currying Favour Went out to Chutneys last night for A's birthday. Second choice, as the picnic in Regents Park was rained off - sooo English to talk about the weather. I hate it when it's cold, and people say "cold enough for you?" when making conversation. And there's the other seasonal variation: "hot enough for you?". I know I'm supposed to be English, but I guess I just don't have that gene.

Anyway, A has loads of friends, and he was also sharing his birthday with M. So there were like forty people. Nearly all the women had hair on the curly/frizzy/wavy continuum and nearly all the men had a number one/two haircut. Apart from A's gorgeous long hair. It's just my luck that out of all those cool people, I got seated next to a really interesting guy who filled me on his spiritual backpacking recovering from ME. "It's like a journey, yeah?" Yeah. A journey to the other end of the table to catch up with O&J who are leaving the hallowed NW6 postcode area. How dare they.

Beer was drunk. Curry was favoured. Photographic evidence will doubtless appear shortly. Though I get to veto the photos, this time.

Blogdump. Braindump. Movie Dump. Saw Pi the other night. When I have Moveable Type, I'm definitely going to have Kabbalah as a topic. Not that I don't like Blogger; I love Blogger. But the control freakery of all-on-my-own-server is getting to me.

I'd love to be inside Darren Aronofsky's head. It's a strange mixture of Kabbalah, gematria, numerology, the stock market, Wall Street and men with long beards (that's nothing like Men Without Hats. Showing my age, huh?)

There's a lot of ant imagery, which I guess is supposed to represent the primal nature of the search for the true name of God. Just made me feel a little like he ought to clean his apartment more. It's powerfully filmed, ocassionally badly acted, but fascinating. The gritty black and white cinematography, coupled with the typographical editing is completely compelling. And there's a great little gag at the beginning of the third act, where the word megillah is cut into the edit, which literally means scroll, but in yiddish has more of the implication of long, rambling story. Not that it is: it's perfectly formed, if a little Art House.

Oh, and I was slightly thrown by the Rabbi at the end bearing a more than passing simultaneous resemblance to all three members of ZZ Top. I'm sure there's a website out there somewhere called worldbeards.com or something - no time to look, must get to the gym - which analyses the subtle differences of beard topiary. But I've never seen one like his, and I've travelled the world from Borough Park to Stamford Hill to Mea Shearim.

Good movie, though. Would even watch it again.

How's the book?

The worst thing about not having a "real" job - I do freelance work when I can get it, and write the rest of the time - is that when I run into people they always want to know "how the book is."

I guess people ask in the way they also say "how's work?" Or, for at least two years after you buy your first home "how's the flat?" - as if you are building it brick by brick or it has a personality of its own and headaches and work hassles and everything.

I think most social communication is based on the survey approach to human interaction. So people want to feel "updated" or get you to fill out a questionnaire (I'm not American, it's just that I think fill-out sounds more rewarding than fill-in) and I'm as guilty of that as anyone else.

But I usually fail the "how's the book?" question.

But I have to write it. There's only about another twenty thousand words to go, and it's all plotted out. But I'm writing just about everything apart from that - columns (generally unpublished, apart from here), my blog, articles (unpublished), witty notes to my neighbours, shopping lists. I sense a theme emerging.

My friend Q, whose father is a real writer, says it's definitely writer's block. I have all the "signs"; I've been avoiding my writing teacher for a month, and will do anything except write those last twenty thousand words. Like when I was doing my A-levels I had all sorts of impressive work-avoidance tactics; I spent most of my last year at school revising my colour-coded revision timetable and tidying my middle drawer. I know, I had a sheltered childhood. And now I'm pretending that I don't believe in writers block as an advanced mind-over-matter strategy.

I mean, I patently have the ability to write tosh on a daily basis here.

When I got back from travelling, a lot of people would ask me what I'd done, and I'd start my whole, "Asia's great. The food, the people. The Emerald Buddah. Biking in Sumatra - ". Their eyes would glaze over. I'd ask them what they'd done in the last two years. "Oh, been to Sainsbury's."

I was clearly expected to give a one sentence summary - like the fourteen point intro's to articles in Sunday supplements that gently summarise the story for the attention deficient - and that's what I'm supposed to do now.

Next time someone asks me how the book is, I shall say, "Fine, thanks. How's yours?" Just like my uncle taught my four year old cousin to answer the "how old are you?" question with "forty-three. How old are you?". Front, that's what I need.

Sasha in CD Binge Shocker

Had a CD-binge yesterday at the HMV sale. Here's the booty:

Woody Herman: Blowin' Up A Storm

Miles Davis: Big Fun

Miles Davis: In A Silent Way

Herbie Hancock: Headhunters

Aphex Twin: Come To Daddy

Rammstein: Mutter

Arvo Pärt: Tabula Rasa

_____________________________

I'm just drawing a line here, because I suspect that my CD-bingeing consultant doesn't want to be associated with my last choice:

Destiny's Child: Survivor

That one's just to feed my inner teenage angst. And it's well produced. And they have good hair. OK, I'll admit it: there's no reasonable explanation.

Just out of interest - that collection at Amazon would have cost £143.92 plus shipping. And I paid the princely sum of fifty squid. I have no idea what that means. Anyway, as you can see my musical tastes are somewhere on the eclectic/catholic continuum. Where, I don't know.

One Step Beyond Functional Food: Travels in the Ladies' Lingerie World

You know about functional food -no longer just tasty and nutritious, if it doesn't do wonders for your cholesterol, why eat it? It's as if in these busy multi-tasking times, even food has to deliver bespoke solutions. Like a third generation, venture-funded technology gig.

So it'll come as no surprise that there's a functional clothing market, too.

Through the wonder of google, I discovered that undergraduates in the department of Clothing and Textiles at Seoul National University, can do a module in Functional Clothing. Though this is really about sensible protective wear for fireman, builders and people who work with heavy manufacturing equipment.

But when I say functional clothing, I mean stupid things that solve previously unknown problems. I'm glossing over cast-iron knickers for holding in your stomach, or firm-control tights for fat-redistribution on your thighs. That's almost, like, reasonable. I'm talking functional underwear.

So have you ever (girls, I guess) lain awake in bed at night thinking, "tights. OK. But how do I keep my legs supple and gorgeous looking?"

I figured. So you'll heave a collective sigh of relief that Aristoc has developed for the breathe-bated tight-wearing public: Slimline Tights.

Quoth Aristoc:

"These revolutionary tights combine the fatigue relieving, massaging impact of LYCRA® Legcare AND also improve the appearance of your skin.

Microcapsules of marine extracts are released from the tights onto your skin (the effect lasts for three washes). In trials women felt that the appearance of their legs improved after 10 days, and after 21 the 'orange peel' effect was reduced. For best results the tights should be worn for 3 weeks."

I know what you're thinking; you can't wear a pair of tights for three weeks. It's.. it's...unsanitary. Or at the very least neither big nor clever. Microcapsules of marine extracts. Do me a favour. What am I? Chopped liver? It sounds like a cross between a face-pack and a very expensive massage at the Sanctuary. But then, I guess that's what it's supposed to sound like. Marketing, eh?

Forget tights. Bras. That's where it's at. Aside from bras for every shape and size, now there's bras for every problem you never knew you had.

So there's the Gossard Ultrabra Airotic, which does exactly what it says on the tin.

Quoth Gossard:

"The new cleavage sensation from Gossard with 'twin air bags as standard', promises you the most revolutionary cleavage ever. Developed by Gossard's team of leading Cleavologists, Ultrabra Airotic is a plunge bra with air bags that can be inflated as big as you dare using the unique 'G' pump system - guaranteed to give the lightest, most comfortable cleavage you could ever imagine."

Er, yeah. Revolutionary cleavage? Come the revolution, the cleavologists will be the first up against the wall. You can just picture the PR Priscillas: "Yeah, I see it. Cleavage is the new black. We need a hook, though. Specialists? Tested by pilots? I've got it; cleavologists." Get that girlie her P45.

Doubtless the same Gossard girlie told the Evening Standard (admittedly in March 2001, so with any luck she's been fired since then):

"Lots of women don't want huge breasts throughout the day but do want them in the evening."

It's an aeroplane down your bra. Or one of those vorsprung durch technik crash dummies with boobs. And it's a very silly way to get a man, because when you remove your well-engineered-undergarment to reveal your fried eggs in all their glory, he'll sue you under the Trades Description Act and the whole world will know you lied due to the fulsome press coverage the litigation will no doubt garner.

But hey, it's a problem.

Here's another one. You're going clubbing, you don't want to take a handbag, but don't know what to do with your house key, cash and mobile phone.

Personally, I put them all down the front of my bra, but then I am rather well-endowed. (Aside; when I was a kid and heard my parents discussing various local women who were well endowed, I thought it meant they came from a very wealthy family. You live and learn.) But that's not for everyone. And, frankly, you need a certain amount of underhang for it to be effective.

But now there's The Secret Pocket Bra from Aware International. Thank God they haven't appointed gushing former Voguettes as their PR people, so the garment is described in it's most basic terms; it's a bra with pockets on the wings (and no, that's not sanitary towel wings. Bras can't fly either, you know). They're pitching it as a safe-sex bra (perfect hiding place for condoms), but seems to me it's perfect for a night on the town where you don't want to do dance around your handbag.

And here's a development for the new millennium: the Bioform Bra. Sounds modern and like it's connected to the lucrative biotechnology business, right?

M&S, in collaboration with Charnos, have spent three years and millions of pounds researching the problem "fuller breasted" women needing support and shape but disliking underwired bras, had expressed. Streetprice: that saggy bit at the side of your boobs. You want to be pneumatic, right? Wonderwoman-esque?

Here comes the Charnos science:

"The bra has a three dimensional under-cup support in the form of a plastic insert, which replaces traditional wires. This ensures that weight distribution in the cup is more even, so you get more support, a flattering shape, a perfect fit, with no digging in and no strap marks."

And all for thirty-five quid. I tried one on. It's the nearest thing to wearing a corset I've discovered in the twenty-first century. It feels like having a piece of cast iron down your bra (which might interfere with the piece of cast-iron down your knickers. You'll start sounding like a set of cymbals if you bend over in a hurry). You may have no strap marks, but you can't fucking breathe.

And so for all the important developments in the history of women's underwear, next generation lingerie for the post-liposuction generation blah blah blah, it's clear what this is about.

It's about making women pay the big bucks for undergarments the media industry told them they needed, to deliver solutions to problems they didn't know they had. So that they can get the perfect photoshopped body and one step nearer to celebrity nirvana.

It's not about freedom. It's not about choice. It's a cross between making women feel so shit about their bodies they'll do anything for perfection, and selling them the latest mass-customised consumer duberry to feed the constant craving for the new.

I'm loathe to say burn your bras; it's so early-seventies unreconstructed feminist. But I will say don't chuck out the old ones. They were fine.

What time is it, Mother Goose?

[via barbelith underground]

Had a cool day. Did everything I planned to do before lunchtime, and because I was in East Finchley, dropped in on Zavitty. She says there's no point calling her Z, as how many people's names start with Z anyhow. Her and D don't eat dairy, so she asked me if I'd like to take the vegetarian cheese her house guests had brought over the weekend (it sounds dull, but stay with me). When I said yes, she said, "give me your car keys then?" What? "Your car keys, I'll put them in the fridge with the cheese. That way you won't forget it." Apparently, an old hunting trick of her grandma's.

We hung out in a girly, giggly, way, and I even painted her toenails a fabulous shade of purple. It was all a bit Sandra Dee/Grease but without the fifties clothes and stupid pyjamas. But by the time I'd left and picked up some Sunday papers and talked with Q on the phone for ages (more girly giggliness - it's infectious), I got over to A's birthday kinda late. Turned out it was the second sitting... it had started at eleven, and a bunch of people turned up lunchtime, and when I got there fourish, it was Glastonbury meets male-bonding-drum-group in Maida Vale. Kinda mesmeric, but not for the neighbours, who kept looking out of the window in a slightly annoyed/unsure quite what to do fashion.

Two years ago, I took my then boyfriend to A's party and he got together with D (his other half)'s cousin. It was not a good experience. Obviously I got over it, but I was angry that I didn't find the right response at the time for "sorry, I got a better offer" and it came to me some weeks later. But it's too rude to even write here. Anyway, I'd just missed them. People kept saying to me, "Do you know D? He was just here. He's from Manchester. You must be friendly with him, he's just like you." Whatever that means. (Aside: I have many friends called D, I know. But what should I do? Label them? D1? Music-D. Ex-D. It would get silly).

I've just realised that I've started doing that emotional exhibitionism thing. You probably don't want to know about my tortuous break-up with an ex. Sorry.

I ended up staying at A&D's for ages, and not making it to (other) D's singy thingy. But you can't do everything, right? Well, I can't. Figure I should get an early night, for a change.

Talking about Kabbalah last night, like you do, D pointed out that you can tell a lot about a person from their spelling of same. Kabbalah/Kabalah = probably someone Jewish. Quabalah = probably someone with occult connections. Cabbalah = probably a Christian.

That D has a lot of insight.

And of course there's the actual pronunciation. Jewish people tend to pronounce it kab-a-la (all short a's) - the traditional Hebrew pronunciation. Occultists seem to pronounce it ku-bar-lar (long a's), which they probably don't know is a Methodist pronounciation, based on the system developed by Brown Driver & Briggs in the 1920's.

I spent a fun hour trying to track down a copy Scholem's Kabbalah , Friday. I called all the Jewish bookstores first (as I live in North London), and was firmly told that the book was out of print. Even when I gave them the ISBN number and told them it was available on amazon, they were convincing in the way that only Jews in retail can be. (And let me tell you; if I make that joke in the spirit of self-determination, it's fine. If you're not Jewish, and you make it, it could be considered anti-semitic.)

So next, I call a bunch of occultists off Charing Cross Road. We had a couple of confusing moments on each call when I asked for ka-ba-la and they asked if i meant ku-bar-lar. But after the babel fish moment, we were on the same page, so to speak. Infinitely more helpful, but no one has the book in stock.

So I don't really know why I'm telling you this. Except to say that I can't find the book, and I need instant gratification, or at least delivery before Friday. When the recipient of the gift leaves.

Crack of dawn. Stupid on a Sunday, I know.

My neighbour's party went on till 4am, and now I know what descarga is; it's that jamming with drums thing to a salsa-ish rhythm. And Williams Cumberbach is both breathtakingly beautiful and shy. There was much drinking of beer, wine, spirits and many other addicitve/non-addictive substances. I know; it was in the garden and the smell of the addicitve/non-addictive substances wafted up to my bedroom window. It was practically a contact-high.

Because I knew that the party would go on forever, I went out in the middle to the JC in Kentish Town to hang out with assorted Barbeloids and other online folk. It's dead interesting meeting people in the flesh. And when they've had a few drinks. Believe me.

D came over 11ish, and impressed women with his South-American looks. Even though he's from Woodside Park. And saved me from my neighbour's friend who's conversation went something like this "you ees married? boyfriend? wanna fuck?". Can you believe I turned down an offer like that?

Because motivation is not my middle name, I'm going to write down what I plan to do today. I have a habit of intending to do things, and then not quite making it. Even if they're nice things. So here goes. I'm going to be in the gym at 9am and go for a twenty minute run, and other stuff. I'm going to go to something too embarassing to write here, at 11am. I'm going to reward myself this afternoon by going to A's birthday party (which will probably include more drums/drugs) and tonight to see D (different D) in her singy thing in the Suburb.

I live on the edge, right? Later.

My neighbours (V&J) are having a Latin/Dub/Reggae party - whatever that is - with Williams Cumberbache. It's a funk, afro-carribbean rhythm, descarga happening. And it's in my garden.

They set the sound system up at around 3pm. I am going, don't worry. It's just that I know this party will go on till like next week, so I thought I wouldn't get there too early. D is coming over later, because he can salsa. And also has a cuban-gangster beard-tache combo to die for. Though I'm never sure it goes with his leather trousers. But I think his overall look and lingusitic ability will go down well with the crowd. Which is good, as I speak neither spanish nor brazillian portugese. Nor, for the record, do I have leather trousers. Or even f(aux)leather trousers.

I'm just looking out of my spare room window, and all the men are tall, tan, tightly-t-shirted and have upper arm muscles to die for. All the women are zeitgeistly hip, and many are wearing that bandana-tied-tightly-around-head look which makes them look uber cool but would probably make me look like someone's cleaner.

Come the revolution, Siouxie Sioux will be the first up against the wall, I tell ya.

I just saw her on V Graham Norton(I know, I know, I've been home two nights on the run and even written about it, but I just looked in my bank account and staying in has to be the new going out. For a while, at least). She looks like someone who works in a bank and has a cool haircut for going clubbing on the weekend.

She's about as fucking revolutionary as my middle-aged next-door neighbour. OK, she still has blacker-than-goth spiky hair, but so do half the models in Trevor Sorbie. It's seventies. It's the look. She lives in France. With her pussies. She sounds for all the world like a Surrey matron retired on the proceeds of her well-managed divorce.

And she had nothing to say. Even when Graham primed her. Another one of my idols shot down. Rant over.

What is the Friday Five about?

So I'm kinda new to the blogosphere (I know, swearbox for even thinking the word), and I stumble across this . First off, I thought it was some kind of policital campaign: Free The Friday Five. A bit like Radio Free Ben Hammersley. He's an institution, that man, or at the very least a republic in SW7.

But I digress (which is what I'm best at). I read a few FFs, and thought, this is dull. I know it's not cool in the online-o-sphere to not think everyone else is fabulous, but it's boring. Admit it. The Friday Five is for people who can't think for themselves, who relish the system over the content, who acquiesce to structure without considering what the structure is about.

It's about link-whoring. It's a traffic generation scam for the visitor-challenged. And I don't have a problem with that - in a way, it's what makes blogs/personal websites interesting. If I hadn't met The First Blogger (well, first one I'd met) last year, I wouldn't have gone on the link journey of writing and thoughts and ideas that has brought me here today writing tosh for you. So, it's a good thing, then, right?

Wrong. I respect independent thought. Original perceptions. Chaos. And, I guess, leaders over followers.

The Friday Five and its ilk (I'm sure there's a Thursday Three and a Tuesday Two, but I don't want to know) is pyramid selling for the blog generation. It's taking the meme to its ultimate, teeth-clenchingly dull final resting place.

Or is it that, deep inside, we're all emotional voyeurs? Or perhaps some of us are emotional exhibitionists? Like, I don't really know Ben but I've seen his wedding pictures. And, I don't know Mike, but I know about his whole life.

Don't get me wrong. I've read some inspiring writing online in recent months. And I'm sure I've written things here that people think are way too personal. But you should know what's in my head that I haven't written. Believe me. And I know that the blogger-as-personal-editor thing means that no-one ever writes anything they don't choose to.

The blogs that interest me are personal, to some degree. I mean, sure, I like good links and weirdshit as much as the next person, but it's the personal stories that make me come back. But almost exclusively when they're well written.

And maybe that's why so many people go for the McDonalds-stylee content of the Friday Five. It's like an Ikea-flat-packed version of a human relationship; you don't have all the parts and the instructions are meaningless. You try in vain to fit the dowls into the stupid little holes and then give up and go get the real thing. For more money/investment/energy.

You don't have to think about what to write or whether it's interesting. You're just following orders. Right? You just know that the majority of Friday Fivers would torture their pet if the psychologist doing the experiment told them it didn't hurt.

Herd followers, I say. And weird people; the woman who co-ordinates them, answers the "Have you ever helped a stranger?" question today with "This one's pretty tough. I don't have a lot of contact with strangers and I'm more likely to spend my time and energy helping a friend. We did give money to BFAS last time we were in PetsMart."

She should get out more.

Did anyone else see Neil Diamond on V Graham Norton last night?

He looked like a cross between Bob Monkouse and someone my Mum and Dad met in the karaoke bar on holiday in Marbella in 1983. That boxy leather jacket! The oh-so-perfect hair! He was so very eighties gameshow host.

But he can still sing. And he went down a storm with the audience.

And there's a fucking knitting blog.

It will come as no surprise to those who know me that, on the Political Compass, I am on the (moderately) libertarian left (Economic Left/Right: -3.62/Authoritarian/Libertarian: -6.36), which apparently puts me next to Ghandi.

You know what they say; cleanliness is next to godliness...

Checking my stats, I saw that someone from the Guardian just visited.

They're at hadrian.guardian.co.uk. Do you think the Guardian's IT Director calls all his/her servers after well known emperors? Wonder what the others are called? Theodotian?

This is like the fat police are coming to take you away. There are 120 weigh-in stations across Brooklyn. Remind me not to go there.

The words behind the headlines. From those wonderful folk who brought you Pearl Harbour. I mean the BBC.


[via swish cottage]

I knew there was something missing. The Random Word Generator.

I too have made-up words. Two that I remember. My best friend at school, Louise Hart, and I invented the word ferguile which means cool/sexy/snoggable and generally in relation to boys if you're like fourteen.

And I was pretty sure there was no word in the English language that rhymed with orange, so me and Claire, a former flatmate, made up borange. . But apporximately 470 people have had the same idea.

No sooner do I say sheitgeist, than I discover this from the Geist of the Zeit.

Matt's warchalking idea made Yahoo news.

Interesting how they say "blog" like it's a foreign word just come in from outer space.

Last night, went to the theatre with D, and H joined us afterwards. After a couple of brain hemorrhages and B52's we were anyone's.

Well, not quite. We had a modern Indian meal at Cafe Lazeez, where the menu is divided into traditional or evolved dishes. I think, given that choice, I'm evolved. In all circumstances, not just vicular. Oh, and rather a good bottle of un-Chardonnay, which loosened us all up enough to flirt with the waiter (though I wasn't sure if he was winking at us, or had something in his contact lense. Sometimes it's just too hard to tell) and do creative, girly things.

We spent at least twenty seconds trying to work out the past tense of wink. Wunk?

And D and I came up with a new phrase: Sheitgeist.

I think I'm definitely going to be writing a column called Capturing the Sheitgeist. I'm thinking a beat-the-bullshit no-holds-barred deconstruction of stupid things people do in the twenty-first century. Feng Shui. Joining Gyms. Low-sodium diets. Paying for a De-Cluttering Consultant. Subscribing to magazines you're too busy to read. You tell me.

Julie Burchill is Away

Saw this, at the Soho Theatre last night. The writer, Tim Fountain, describes it as "the complete, warts and all story of Burchill's rise from a Bristol council estate in the 1960s, via rock journalism and 1980s Soho to her current seaside retreat."

I'm not sure I'd say that. It's funny - but then all the lines are Julie's, and she's dead funny - but I'm pretty convinced Tim went down to Brighton, had a few lunches with Julie and wrote them up. There's great observations though:

"I love hearing seagulls, they sound like all their PMT came at once. I think the reason they sound so sad is that each sagull contains the spirit of a Londoner who always meant to move ot Brighton but died before they managed it and now they're condemned to fly endlessly in search of their final nesting place"

"There's just two school of male writing, the pansies and the pugilists. You're either a Parisian faggot who writes between asthma attacks, or you're Hemmingway and you fit it in betewen bullfights."

Ultimately the play is just a stringing-together of Julie's best one-liners, delivered with a post-modern plotless simplicity that makes me think I'm a playright, too. Jackie Clune represents her well - and thank God she doesn't do the squeaky voice the whole time - and she manages to capture Julie's impish flirtatiousness rather well. I always thought of Julie as a fifteen year old struggling to get out the matronly body she'd found herself in. And for cleavage lovers, I'm not entirely convinced that Jackie was wearing a bra.

The audience watching, on the other hand, was mesmeric. I was sitting next to Marie Helvin, and I couldn't help noticing that my thighs are least twice the size of hers. She really didn't look well; I think you can have too much plastic surgery. Her face is permanently surprised. Her theatre companion also had a Nazi handbag and I have brusies this morning beacause she kept hitting me in the shins. Maybe you're not supposed to look at Marie directly?

Matt Lucas was in the bar downstairs and it was all very jolly-media-crowd. Though I have to say that this is the second thing I've seen at the Soho Theatre, and it just feels like a very upmarket college environment. It's not quite a real theatre, and it wasn't quite a real play.

Interesting piece in Wednedsay's Guardian about psychometric testing.

When I graduated, I went for a host of graduate-type jobs. One was with Comag, the magazine distributor. It was in zone 112, past the airport, and not very near North London, where I was planning on living.

But I was utterly seduced by the fact you got as many free magazines as you wanted.

They loved me. We'd arranged a start date - for my highly paid executive photocopying assistant job - and the interviewer said, "just a formality, there's a psychometric test you need to fill out."

Having interviewed a bunch of graduates in my life, now, I know that I was good because I could look people in the eye and was fairly sociable. I mean, how hard can photocopying be?

Aside: I was once hiring gradautes for a conference company, and the first response I got, out of the Guardian, in fact, was a faxed reply with a brilliantly witty cover letter, from a languages graduate who lived in Highgate. I noticed from the fax address that it had probably been sent from her Dad's office.

I interviewed her first, convinced that I'd found a smart, bright, on-the-ball graduate without even having to look. There is a God. When she turned up, she was shaking, couldn't look me in the eye, and was so chronically shy that she kept her hair over her face at all times, and visibly quaked if anyone talked to her.

We sat in a meeting room, and I didn't want to say too much, as she clearly thought I/anyone was the employer from hell. And she clearly wasn't the woman her application said she was. I asked, as gently as I could, who'd written her application. "oh, er, m-m-m-m-y d-d-d-dad." I was never sure he was doing her any favours.

But back to Comag. So they sit me in a dark room with a psychometric test, and I'm twenty one and desperate to please. And I think, "I must try and be the person they want me to be." It wasn't even Belbin, it was Myers Briggs, I'm pretty sure. Anyway, I answered each question with the answer "I thought they wanted."

Afterwards, the HR woman marks it, and they come back to me with a changed demeanour. Don't want to get to close. Looking at me as if I might pull a knife any moment.

"Sasha, thanks for doing the test. We're not sure you'd, er, fit in here. Don't call us, we'll call you."

You should never lie. But especially in psychometric tests.

Hair Care Product Shock

Have just discovered that my favourite deep-conditioner is not, in fact, Aussie at all.

I'm wearing my favourite ironic T-shirt today.

It's lilac.

And it says, in large, friendly, letters:

BEAT ME
WHIP ME
PAY ME

Last night M, G and A came over. I made the house dish.

Conversationally, we covered the full range of work/play topics (A and I used to work for the same company, I discovered, and have the same good friend, Alison, in Oz, and G's sister is bizarrely getting married to someone I know) - travelling, people we know, music, books..

We had one conversation about putting your foot in it.

Here's a true story; I'd been working abroad for two years or so, got back, and ran into J, and old friend who I'd last seen with his wife. Conversation went like this:

Me: J, how are you? Nice to see you. How's X (his wife).

J: She left me.

Me: Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. I didn't know.

J: For another woman.

Me: Oh, I'm sorry -

J: Whilst I was in hospital.

Me: I'm -

J: After my business went bust.

There are some times when you just want the floor to open, right.

A conversation ensued about who the "other woman" is. If I leave you (presuming you are a bloke) for another man, you are Man A and he is Man B. Hence, "another man". But if I leave you for a woman, she is Woman A. Or, I guess I could be Woman A and she is Woman B.

M says it's some kind of social parellelism. I think this means we all have an inherent desire to do conversational feng shui and make everything match and stuff.

Conversation I just had with J:

me: Are you still seeing that guy?

him: Yeah.

me: Cool. Is he coming on holiday with us?

him: No.

me: Oh. Is the sex good?

him: No.

me: So why are you still seeing him?

him: I'm hopeless at closure.

Is there anybody out there? I'm kinda feeling like I'd like to know if anyone still reads this stuff.

Why are jury deliberations sacrosanct? Interesting article in this morning's Guardian.

I served on a jury in the summer of 1998. I tried desperately to get out of it on the basis of work commitments, but couldn't. When I got there, I was the only person going to work before and after (court hours are 10 till 4) and my fellow jurists largely older/unemployed/people with dull jobs) thought I was a little strange sitting there with my laptop between doing nothing and getting a coffee.

There's a lot of sitting around when you do jury service.

Day one, you have to get there at 0930 and they show you a video about how to behave on jury service. It's a Monday in central London - hardly anyone gets there on time. The clerk rewinds the video every time someone new arrives. We see the beginning a hundred and nine times and never see the end. I suggested, quietly, afterwards, that maybe they could play it on a loop. The clerk replied "that's not the way we do things around here."

Of course, theoretically, I'd have to kill you if I tell you about this, but, hey, I've never killed anyone before, why should I start now?

I was eventually on two cases. I was called for a few more, but my involvement was hampered by knowing lots of barristers, and juries having to be recalled. I was not popular with the judges. Especially because I had hurt my back and couldn't sit down for more than twenty minutes. Whenever I stood up, the Judge looked at me, askance.

The first case was a young guy who worked in a leather jacket shop and had allegedly stolen a leather jacket. It was never quite clear if it had been on some kind of loan, but the case was complicated by two things; first, that his barrister appeared to be pissed most of the time and couldn't remember his name or any of the salient facts, and second, that he was an illegal immigrant, and a case that went against him would mean that he was deported to somewhere that was not particularly safe.

The second case was a recovering drug addict on a methadone treatment from a clinic (bizarrely, one my friend N's boyfriend had been working in at the time, and I remembered him telling me the story), who had pulled an extremely realistic fake gun on the clinci staff in order to get more faux drugs. Many of the staff had got PTSD as a result.

Deliberations in both jury rooms was very much along the lines of "got a guilty face", "can't trust those foreigners", "drug addicts are all the same" and other reasonably thought out views. Most people hadn't written notes in the second, more complex case, and some had no recollection of the key facts.

There was no serious debate. People clearly went on gut feel. There was a moment at the beginning of the second (gun) jury meeting where we all sat round a table and no-one said anything. No-one. I was willing someone else to speak. Then a queue at Kwik-Save conversation started.

But I got incensed because we were deciding someone's future in such a no-shit way. And I realised that I was probably the only person in the room with hadracha - leadership - training. Finally, all those years of being in a Jewish Youth Movement paid off.

I picked up the fake gun and held in a particularly obnoxious woman's face. She looked scared.

"Are you frightened?" I asked her.

"Yes."

"Well, that's all we have to decide. What was his intention at the moment he pulled the gun. Did he intent to seriously frighten people?"

Suddenly, eleven people agreed with me.

Juries. Truly powerful groups who decide whatever the most persuasive person in the room wants them to. And of course, now I've told you this story, I'll have to kill you.

Great little weird-shit mapping resource.

[via Giles]

Strange, possibly memetic recent occurences:

When I went to a funeral on Sunday I bumped into my former - now retired - dentist. Am assuming that he is not a regular blog-voyeur who followed me there.

For the first time in months, my parents and I are in the same city.

Three people I've run into this week have been reading Generation X.

I think Jon Ronson is a comic genius. And, more to the point, his parents clearly don't mind him slagging them off in the Guardian.

[via LinkMachineGo]

Wanna Remember You Just The Way You Were...

Friends Reunited have sent me email saying that two new people have signed up in my year.

One of the "new" girls wrote this:
"...despite losing a large amount of weight at University, I'm still the same but with more wrinkles and better clothes!..."

I registered but didn't write anything. I did get mail from a bunch of people I'd prefer to have fond memories of, rather than dull email exchange. A, my best friend from school pointed out that Polly Walker is not poring over her PC trying to make her life look better than it really is.

Friends Reunited aside: my ex, European Sales Director of a mid-range CMT, went to Mabfield College, an intimate hippy-style school in Sussex. Looking down the people from school, he noticed that one of his twenty sales people had put in his blurb: "now the European Sales Director of XXXX Ltd (a niche content management tool)".

Running into him in the lift, my ex said to him, "Oh, I didn't know you went to Mabfield?"

Lifts, small places, folks. Never lie, I tell you. It always catches up with you.