Also, my shoulder really, really hurts.

Job Update
Despite the death of a Gibb, and the Queen being rushed into hospital (people are always rushed into hospital, have you noticed?), I'm feeling neither observational nor entertaining.

Here's where I'm at on the job front: there are four problems

the marketing people report to the marketing manager (no problem), although I pay for them. They currently sit with the team, but the new marketing manager is planning to move them to sit centrally. If I can't negotiate my way out of this, I think it will have a detrimental effect on acheiving the business plan: most comapnies in the industry no longer do this, and in fact this company stopped doing it two years ago, but a new MD thinks it's a good idea. The new MD is my boss. Conversation with marketing on Thursday.

Ditto the admin people - although they already sit with their cost centre. I'm an internal "customer", and I'm concerned that really smart, responsive businesses in this sector have multi-skilled teams that work together and nothing falls through the cracks because of departmental borders. Conversation a week Thursday.

The guy who used to run my team and lost a bundle of money, has moved over (ie spun off) a more sales oriented business unit. I was led to believe it was a completely separate unit; now I discover that he gets the revenue, but I have to resource his products. Even if it means I can't resource mine because my people are busy resourcing his. I talked to him on the phone, and he knows I've rumbled him. Conversation a week Thursday.

I was led to believe a market sector in which I have experience would merge with my new team. Now I find out I have to negotiate to get it. Conversation a week Thursday.

So these are my four deal-breakers. I can live with out the last one, I guess, but the first three are pretty fundamental. So if I can't sort them by a week Thursday, I'm going to have to have one of those "difficult" conversations. My boss thinks I'm all signed up. Better to have a plan, though. I've talked to my current short-contract employer to see if he has more work - he's coming back to me - and the contrast between his high-speed, responsive, smart workplace and the slightly bureaocratic, SLA-negotiating, internal customers thang at my putative employers, is in sharp relief.

I was taking the job for (a) the intellectual challenge and (b) the money. Or the other way around, I dunno. But if I don't think I can turn the business into profitability, and hence not get a bonus, I'm better off freelancing.

If only someone would discover me. That's what I need.

0870 nirvana?
Does anyone know what the deal is with these? It's charged at a local rate, but the call-receiving company gets a kickback, right? Seems so...

Obviously, this must happen to most people every day, but I just got email from Neil LaBute in response to comments I made about Possession back in November. P tells me I am now officially a cineaste, though I suspect I can't spell it.

Choice Inertia?
So here’s where I’m at: I’m holding the contract for my new, full-time job, due to start mid-February, in my hot sticky hand. And I’m having some second thoughts. I’ve already agreed to do a day a week on a consulting basis, which I’ve started, and they’ve already told me that they’re extremely inflexible about the few small points I raised in relation to the contract (like I want three months’ notice, not one). Actually, call that totally inflexible.

This is just to help me think.

PROS

Guaranteed income

Recession-proof topic areas

Intellectually challenging work

CONS

The more I find out, the more I think the profitshare element is increasingly less achievable

Inflexible, public-sector style corporate buzz

Annoying commute

Building expertise in low-price markets which won’t help me get another job

Not convinced about value of brand-name in the market

Left with a team who are morale-free, and the people who didn’t take voluntary redundancy

The team’s been leaderless for a while, and so been “raided” for resources by other managers

My boss offered me another topic area in the interview, and now I find out I have to negotiate with the current owner

Two crucial sub-teams, don’t sit with me, but with their cost-centre managers, which will impact on my ability to deliver my bottom line

It all just seems very bureaucratic, and I’m basically an entrepreneur

I may have to work very, very hard to not achieve anything at all

I’m kinda talking myself out of this, aren’t I?

And I know the pro list is way shorter.

I just feel that deep down I’m a writerly-creative type, and I may be better suited to self-employment. My freelance work has started picking up, and I’m just thinking: do I want to be tied to this place for a minimum of a year and probably two when I’m having more than basic bad-vibe-style feelings? I don't want to sign up for a job where I'm worried up front that I won't get the resources to meet my objectives. Right now, I'm thinking I'm 75% unlikely to make my target.

I’d really appreciate your view. What would you do?

War Child?
Are we really going to war? I have a sudden sense of being an extremely small person in the world with no ability to influence my environment.

I've been so busy working - I actually woke up just now having completely overslept through synagogue and my lunch invitation - that I haven't had time to (a) go and get film for my new Lomo, or (b), thank Meg for sending it to me.

It's the Multi-coloured Swap Shop all over again. (Wo)man, that ages me.

Weird Norton Internet Security 2003 and Blogger problems. Contraindications, almost: check this Norton generates a script along these lines (window.open = SymRealWinOpen;) and the only way to not do it is to turn off Norton before you upload your script.

Even though there's no such thing as a free lunch, this site, which R sent me, lets you dial internationally from your mobile phone, using your existing tariff free minutes.

Email from J, a very old school friend, in response to my redesign: "and you are finally happy with your handwriting - amazing - now you won't have to spend the summer holiday reinventing it."

It's true: much like people redesign their weblog every so often, from the age of about 11 to 14, I got a new handwriting every summer. Strange but true.

I'm melting, I'm melting... the snow, that is.

Good Service Shocker!!
Mark, the Master Manager - don't ask: that's what his badge said - swapped over my battery, printed out the new receipt, and said I still have 21 months left to run on the guarantee. This whole exercise has taken 38 minutes. If only life was always this easy.

Unbelievable - as I put the phone down from the AA, the bloke was at my front door. Started my battery with a magic gadget, so I could drive round the corner to the extremely close National Battery and Exhaust supplier, which I conveniently live pretty damn close too. Who says urban is a bad thing? Just popped back for the paperwork - I can even find my receipt: 12 October 2001 - what's the betting they'll say it's only guaranteed for a year?

I'm so green/London that I've not used my car all week. Also, it's been snowing. So this morning, try and start it, dead as a Labour candidate in the Conservative heartland. While waiting for a man who can from the AA, I look online to see about car news in general: check out question two of this quiz. Deja vu? No thanks, I've got one already.

The Empress Has New Clothes
Kinda... behold, my new layout. Well, new-style: shamelessly ripped of venusberg, which was, in turn designed by Tom at plasticbag, and code-fixed by Cal.

For a few reasons: time for a change; nearly my one-year anniversary; there's nothing new under the sun; why re-invent the wheel; why use one cliche when four will do; sick of people telling me they can't read my links; sick of green; couldn't get purple to work; feeling minimal/white (as in white-is-the-new-black); I like my handwriting. And just because.

If you've got anything to say - be it good, bad, or ugly - let me know. Feedback. Things I Could Do Differently. Cock-ups. But it would be good if we could just limit it to the new layout, for now.

The writer on Gangs of New York is Kenneth Lonnergan, who wrote This Is Our Youth - which I saw back in May. Dunno if Lobby Hero, which was at the Donmar in April, is still around. He's cool.

Someone phoned me and witheld their number at 3am. I'm tired.

In my first - real - job, in the winter, I'd leave for work when it was dark, because we were in a - probably illegal - windowless office on Conduit Street - it would be dark all day, and by the time I left, it was dark again. You sense a theme emerging? Winter hours/no light is bad for your mental health. Snow's good, though.

Now that I am the number one search for "a certain person" and Raelianism, I feel I should tell you that I am reliably informed that Rael is the lead character in The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway a concept album by Genesis. These two facts may, of course, be unrelated.

Gangs of New York - not to be confused with Slaves of New York - was fab, if violent. More later.

Overhead someone in my office today saying on the phone "if I don't get it done today, I'm in real shtum." Yiddishologists (and Delboy Trotter) - not to be confused with mixologists - will know that shtum means quiet and shtuck means trouble.

Can't chat - just finished my (copywriting) homework, then up at stupid (six) o'clock to interview people for my new job. I would say no rest for the wicked, but, sadly, I'm not that wicked. I'm too busy.

The Bloggies
On an entirely transparent, if-you-don't-ask-you-don't-get basis, here's where I'm at. If you like what you read here, and you want to enter me, then I'd suggest you think about these categories:
Best New Weblog
Best-kept-secret Weblog
Best European/African Weblog

... and if you want to enter me for the Best Essay About Webogs, check out this piece on the Friday Five.

If you only want to enter me for one category, then I don't think I stand a chance at best European weblog, so I'd go for Best New Weblog - this is, after all, the only year in which I'll have just started: January 13th is like my anniversary.

I-thank-you.

Honourable - belated - mention for my sister, whose birthday was on Monday. Don't say I don't do special requests.

I just have too much to do. I have four days worth of financial services copy to finish by Friday, a bunch of derivatives research to do, calls to US to make, and a whole lotta numbers to crunch for my new job. Basically, I'm trying to finish off the old stuff, and plan for the new stuff, all at the same time. I'm planning to do four days at my new job before I start in mid-February.

I do feel a certain kind of energy-buzz (like I was up till 3am on Monday, developing conference ideas), but I think it affects the, er - sorry to be so pretentious - muse.

Also, I spent two hours last night entering names in a spreadsheet for the derivatives thing, and this morning, it's gone. I know I saved it, but it's genuinely disappeared, along with an email I got yesterday. I don't believe all that "computers don't like you" crap, but I'm pissed off. However, the practical-me (second cousin to the mini-me) thinks I should just do it again, rather than spend two hours harping on about it and looking for it.

Doesn't snow look like God has very, very bad dandruff?

I was just talking to some friends whose baby is due any minute. It reminded me that, because I used to research and put together clinical negligence conferences, not only do I know everything that can go wrong with a birth, but I know it in descending order of claim value size.

God, this is cold.

God, this is early.

So my mum calls me from Marbella or somewhere, loud stage whisper: "Can you hear me? I'm by the pool. I've met someone who knows you." Turns out that when my mum and dad introduced themselves to a young couple by the pool, in answer to a query about local restaurants, because they have unusual names, this bloke, S, immediately recognised them. "You're Sasha's parents! I used to go out with her."

Which was news - apparently - both to his now wife - when my mum called me they were allegedly having a row because she'd never heard of me - and to me. When we used to hang out, nearly ten years ago, we were good friends, but never got together. Had a relationship. Whatever the appropriate language is. I'm sure I'd know. My mum was trying to remember why we "broke up" - was it because he didn't keep kosher? I eventually remember why our friendship faded: in an apparent bid to curry favour with someone senior in his chambers, he told an old friend of my parents that he was going out with me. Which was news to me then, too, and I think I must have decided I was sick of being taken advantage of.

It's a very, very strange world. My mum has lent him a book. They are new best friends. I imagine that eventually all the people I've ever met in the world will become a smaller and smaller circle of loose acquaintances sipping cocktails on some far-flung beach, comparing notes. Shame about my multiple personality disorder.

Met up tonight with a bunch of girlies I used to work with about four jobs ago: dinner in a January-empty so-so place in Covent Garden, but it was cool to hear what we are (variously) doing: opening a French manor house as a holidayhome, doing a Masters in psychology, going travelling to Oz, writing, being a civil servant... of our original group of thirty-ish people who were all there in the early-mid nineties, there are four people still there, as far as I can tell.

There's one question I'm never good at answering: how's your love life? Reminds me of my cousin who's Dad taught him to answer the cutesy kids' question "how old are you?" with "37 how old are you?", but I'm just too well-brought up for that.

So my new - temporary - office is opposite the Pret a Manger on the Haymarket, and everyday I've been there, I've gone across the road to buy a More Than Mozzarella sandwich.

I know people think that sandwiches are healthy, but this has a whopping 32g of fat, but is fabulous. So today, I go to get one: it's gone. Nice blokey behind the counter tells me "zey are not doing it any more." When from? "today." Today was the first day in a more-than-mozarella free world. I am bereft.

Having said that, I am trying to eat a maximum of 35g of fat a day, in a healthy-living bid (but combine that with minimal dairy/wheat/refined carbs, no fizzy drinks, no caffeine, easy on all carbs, actually - well, it doesn't leave a lot apart from rocket salad, lots of water, veggies and humous). So it's a good thing.

How do people get around this: you get up full of good intentions to eat healthy food today, and then by the time you get into town you are hassled and hungry and fat-laden food calls to you, verily, from the shops. What do you do?

Through a strange quirk of googleisation, I am the number one return for the search on symantec yellow suits.

The wonder of the interwebnet 2: oodles and fun and games last night with DJ, when he took control of my PC in a netmeeting to show me how to do something in PaintShopPro. In the olden days, he'd have had to drive over to my house. I know, I should get out more, but I still have a bit of a sore throat, really.

What this is truly about: I have a redesign up my sleeve (OK, on my hard drive): I'm just perfecting it. Sorta.

The wonder of the interwebnet 1: I got email at the weekend from a an old university friend who I think I haven't seen for ten years or so, saying he found my blog, and here's what he's up to. Cool.

This apocalyptic weather is just going too far: someone has a message for the universe, although it may just be "you left the oven on for too long".

What happens to writers who don't play the fame game?

Linky-dink-dink. Obscure and not-so stuff that I'll - one day - want to remember. That's what a weblog's for.

Mute magazine.

Granta's list of Best Yong British Novelist is out. Although they use a very broad definition of "young" - under forty. And this list only comes out every ten years; it's not one of those "it's Wednesday, there's nothing to publish, I know, let's make a list" lists.

School night. Still got a sore throat. Made moroccan cous cous last night for a bunch of people. Did some writing today. Did some work. And have to get up at stupid o'clock because now I'm one of those slightly pissed-off people you see on the tube.

Anyway, while I was hanging around waiting for my MOT, there was a funeral going from the catholic church across the road. All pomp and ceremony: two big flower arrangements that said "MOTHER" in some proto-Victorian style, a see-through.... black bordered, glass carriage, drawn by four black horses. Couple of hundred people (and I'm in the conference business, so I'm accurate at guessing crowds), lots of incense, but probably no mhyyr (if that's how you spell it).

Got me to thinking about how Jewish funerals are (I try so hard not to be hello-I'm-Jewish, but I can't help myself); generally very low on pomp and cirumstance, mostly about humility. Like, people don't dress up; you're supposed to be humble before God. Although, that may be more of a Manchester thing; in London, funerals are dressier. No flowers, plain box. And quick - generally the same/next day. I remember when I was at school my RE teacher's mother died and she told us they had to wait for ten days for some family member to come home and her mother started... decomposing. I had nightmares about that for years.

Also, you don't leave the body alone; someone sits with the deceased until the funeral, and says psalms. My brother did it for a neighbour when he was a teenager, and I think it was dead scary.

I've just had a - certain sense of deja vu: I've said most of this before (Z says I have a proof-text story for every ocassion) - go, read.

Went to get my car MOT'd yesterday in a place next door to the gym (which may be truly living in 1974) - it took three hours to do my MOT and change two lightbulbs (sample conversation: "there's no such thing as a quick job, love"). Compare that to the 23 seconds it took Marcus' guys at Wembley Tyres to swap over my spare tyre, put on a new one, balance the wheels and all that (sample conversation: "don't mean to be rude, love, but I don't want yer 'ere. Quicker we get the job dan, better the business"). I'm better with the high-speed types.

I've been wondering about the word avuncular (in an uncle-like way, or something like that) - why isn't the word uncularity?

Do you know that if you call Direct Line Car Insurance, they can only give you an indication of the cost of car insurance, not an actual quote?

Word-up.

Now that murderous bloke isn't even from Camden any more, he's from North London. Soon, he'll be from Hertfordshire. I don't really get how news works: do they think we forgot?

Resolutions
If Mike can do it, I can too, right?

So, like the rest of the country - and uncanilly like Mike - these are my resolutions:

1 Be in bed by midnight
Shouldn't be so hard, right? I spend a huge amount of time faffing around because I'm a night person, and it has to stop...

2 Go to the gym before work three times a week
... because I have to get up early now

3 Eat healthily
although the year started off badly yesterday with a Pret a Manger sandwich followed by salty sweets

4 Keep writing
self explanatory, really

5 Do the work...
... and other such dictats, too numerous to enumerate

Yesterday, on the desk next to me, there were a bunch of cutely wrapped Japanese sweets - H and I tried one. Within milliseconds, we were spitting them out: they were like that stuff you put on your nails to train your mouth it doesn't like biting them. "Oh," exclaimed H, "those are those salty sweets everyone was talking about before Xmas".

Pavlovianally, trained me not to eat sweets for...at least a fortnight.

Salty sweets, I ask you. What is the world coming to?

There are people in my office who received letters to "Dear Fred Smith" - is this considered regular business practice now? (Obviously, they're called Fred Smith or whatever).

SAY NO TO STEP-CHANGES. All of them.

Word Up
Been a day of wordage: oddities, the BBC's e-cyclopaedia and "Lake Superior State University's annual list of words that should be banished for "mis-use, over-use and general uselessness"".

Or maybe just a slow news day all round? What's some body parts in Camden and murdered teenagers in Birmingham? Just a regular, twenty-first century day.

OK, OK, I'm going to work. I'm not skiving - it's just that because I'm doing business with the States, there's not a lot of point in getting there early.

Do you think it's possible that Tony Blair's a depressive? He's just not very Pollyana, is he?

I've often said of Jonathan Sacks - the Chief Rabbi - "he's not the messiah, he's just a very naughty boy", but this morning he excelled himself on the Today programme. I think this may bode well for the fact that - conceivably - I'm going to spend the rest of my life in an office. Don't know why: some kind of karmic-canonical-rabinnical thing.

Can't say that when I come back, I don't come back in style. Or at length.

And another thing...
I wrote another story: a satire on Anglo-Jewish life. I can never tell if it's good or crap; so far the votes from my readers are 2:1. Me, I'm ambivalent.

Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It's Back to Work We Go
There's a Jewish concept, which I can't be bothered to google about, called chol ha-mo'ed, literally, "days in between" and a couple of major festivals and big starts and finishes, and then a few days in the middle where it's still the festival, just less so.

You know where this is going.

So it's really felt for the last few days that the whole country is doing chol ha-mo'ed, and this can only be a good thing.

Tomorrow, I'm back to finish my derivatives contract, and I'm fairly sure I'll be one of a handful of people in the office, and I'm desparately hoping that when my para-boss left on Christmas eve, promising all the stuff I needed would be on my desk 2nd January, he didn't forget. Otherwise, I'll be back here. Or, er, getting my life in order before my real job starts mid-February.

The Bloggies....
... are open for nominations. Not that I'm hinting. Or anything.

Hey Chitty, You Chitty
Just got back from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang at the London Palladium - fantastic night. I wouldn't naturally choose big-sound musicals, but I came out singing along and full of beans. My preferred choices are earnest, intellectual fringe things, and you always come out of those suicidal. M took me with S&B, his niece and nephew, and it was a real kids thing: great atmosphere, everyone clapping along, the car flying out over the audience.

I couldn't help noticing some sheitel (religious Jewish women cover their hair) wearing frummers, and when the Baroness stripped down to her basque, I kept thinking "look away, don't sully yourselves". Not sure their ESP was up to much, though.

That DNA/Raelian Thing?
Remember I told you about how I met a cool guy at a party and we talked about haircare products? He had curly hair, like me? We communed, on a hairproduct platform?

So last week, the story broke about the Raelians having cloned their first human child. And I'm interested in religions and the like, and I'm watching the story on the news, and then they say, "let's hear from Glenn Carter, the leader of the British Raelian movement." It's him, it's the bloke I met at the party! For some reason, he never mentioned he was a Raelian - but then, I never mentioned I was Jewish. Perhaps he was worried about anti-raelianism?

I am a celebrity magnet. You heard it hear first.

OK, OK, I'm back. Back with a vengance, back with the new year. Back from the brink. Back in town.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway, back to work, talk to you later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Interesting Zadie-ness I came across, randomly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks, guys.

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

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

OK, I'll stop now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Serves me right for being so vain, I guess.

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

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

Wish me luck, as they say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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