The People Do Protest Too Much
Z send me email of anti-war placards in Washington, which included:

War Is SO 20th Century
George Bush Couldn't Run A Laundromat
A Village In Texas Has Lost Its Idiot
How Many Lives Per Gallon?
Regime Change Begins At Home
Has Anyone Seen Our Constitution Lately?
Let's Try Preemptive Peace
If You Are Not Outraged You Are Not Paying Attention
Honk If You're A Terrorist
Smart Bombs Don't Justify Dumb Leaders
We Have Guided Missiles And Misguided Men
Who's The Unelected Tyrant With The Bomb?
My President Is A Psychopath
Relax, George
Fight Plaque, not Iraq (and the guy was carrying a toothbrush)

And in London, I heard tell of:
"Tony Blair is really annoying."
I'm with that man (the man who said it, not the man about whom it is said, un-obviously). Although, I have to say, he looks very tired. Perhaps he should have an aromatherapy massage? Think Cherie knows just the gal.

No Surprise There, Then
Shock news that google has bought Pyra (the owner of Blogger), is NSTT. Moore's-Almanac-like, I predicted such a coca-colanization of the web-planet back in September. There's no place to run to (baby), nowhere to hide - in the words of Martha: even as we speak, the only place left that isn't owned by some meta-weblomerate is comments boxes and that's all over bar the shouting, I suspect.

[story via Vaughn, via LMG]

War is God's way of teaching Americans geography."
- Ambrose Bierce, writer (1842-1914)

That march.

My bus-stop fairy (L) told me that B was singing anim zemirot (sabbath song, traditionally sung by youngish boys) for the first time, so I got up early and dragged myself to shul, where most people were talking about the rally. Great lunch at L and S's, with a whole plethora of fun and funny folk. Sample conversational soundbite from L (when discussing the costumes for our play, which had come from a charity in South London associated with a Mental Health Trust): "I guess they get a lot of people on the way in who think they're Napolean, and they get to keep the kit because they're cured, so they can rent it out to people like us." The wonder of the trained mind.

Tonight I'm having a dinner party (I'm feeling very sociable recently), and I am trying to make butterscotch fondue, but I couldn't get the sauce to thicken, only to have globules of cornfourness, and then I discovered that my fondue set (I think a gift from either my bro or sis when they got married, as you get lots of fondue sets as wedding presents) has a burner, not a little candle, and I have no idea what to put in the burner. White spirit? The traumas of the chattering classes.

This morning had an uterly lunatic conversation with the guy in our new corner shop. I arranged to leave £10 behind the till so that I can go in on a Saturday morning and collect newspapers without paying for them, as it's the Sabbath, and you're not supposed to spend money. Then I bought some bin-bags and The Guardian, and he only charged me for the bags. When I asked why, he said "it's a newspaper". I tried - I suspect in vain - that it's not that I can't pay for newspapers, it's that I can't handle money on a Saturday. I asked him if he had a religion (trying to find some common ground to work from), and he was extremely nervous about admitting he's a Muslim, but it turns out he's not very frum (religious) so he didn't know what I meant anyway. I think we got it right in the end, but it'll be a surprise tomorrow to see what happens.

Reminds of a true story that happened in my own life (said in appropriately Radio 2 daytime voice). 1991, I'm living in Singapore, and I tried in vain, over a period of weeks, to have the same conversation with two Malay guys in the local shop - could I leave money with them to pay for newspapers in advance. We just couldn't communicate - I didn't know much Malay, and eventually I gave up.

Went on a short trip over Chinese New Year to Sumatra (whole separate story) and my Mum, in typical Jewish-mother-fashion, got worried that she hadn't heard from me. When I got back to my office straight from the airport a week later, I walked in, and the whole open-plan office looked up and said "phone your Mother!". So I went home to leave my stuff, and as I walked up to my block, the two little Malay guys, who the previous week had spoken no English at all, come running out of the next-door building, shouting "phone your Mother!" I should have got her to organise the newspapers.

Yesterday on the Today programme, to celebrate the last day of cigarette advertising, they got a senior ad exec on. Obviously they couldn't find a cigarette person, so they found the next best thing - a cigar guy (from GGT, who did the Hamlet ads). They gave him the hardest Today-special haranguing, and then at the end said to him "make us a slogan then, go on." They were derisory about his first try ("rashers of bacon and opinions" or something like that) on the basis that many of their listeners are vegetarian. But I loved his second try:

"Freshly grilled politicians, and ocassionally, ad-executives."

That'll show 'em.

My Israel correspondent tells me that dried flowers are a fabulous gift, and not to be knocked. Who was I to know?

Make Love Not War
I know it's Valentine's Day (curiously abbreviated to VD) because when I was in Paperchase - a stationery shop for cool people who never got out of their pre-teen paper fetish - yesterday, there was a queue about forty people long, and they even had bags printed with special hearts, so were expecting some serious business. And when I called La Brocca to book for last night, yesterday afternoon, the guy on the phone was releived that I wasn't desperately trying to book for tonight, for which they've been booked for months.

Tomorrow's the Stop The War Demo. I've found myself getting quite emotional reading the website; the sense that there are thousands and thousands of individual groups and people all desperately hoping and praying for the same non-outcome makes me feel like I'm not alone. But I want to go on the march non-politically - ie, I don't believe in war in a naive, old-fashioned way. And this is clearly a political demonstration, and like the last rally, seems inexplicably linked with Israel/Palestine. Viz: "We campaign against an attack on Iraq and for a free Palestine" (SOAS Stop the War Group). I don't really get why the two are linked, and I'm not prepared to go on a march that has an underlying anti-Israel feel to it.

And, yes, I have sent a valentine, I'm just not saying who to.

I'm Turning Japanese (I Really Think So)
... in the words of the song. Not that I am, or one can, but I am turning into the food version of a cineaste (foodie?): last night to Giraffe in Hampstead with A & G, and tonight to La Brocca with T for my all-time-favourite-meal (spinach and ricotta ravioli on a bed of rocket dressed with parmesan, pine-nuts and lemon juice), washed down with a fabulous bottle of Gavi.

Turns out that I've done a football shidduch (watch google get their hands on that one) - T is a season ticket holder and has a spare ticket for Monday's (allegedly) big match, and P is a big fan. So I've hooked them up and they're going to talk about football and Pompey and other stuff I don't really get all the way up the M1. In another strangely bizarre move, I have also agreed to try out for A's women's five-a-side football team next week. It won't be so much Bend It Like Beckam as Sock It Like Some Other Football Similie. Although, as I pointed out to her, I know less about football that I once did about derivatives.

Duct tape is not going to help in a biological or chemical warfare attack, you know. So stop buying it, OK?

Entitlement cards are very Minority Report. I mean, iris-scans to indentify you. I'm having a strange sense of pre-Labour government deja-vu: what happened to the Labour Party committed to freedom of the individual and trades unions? Oh, I remembered. They got into power and had to junk their principles.

There's quite a few things in the world that I don't understand, but one of them is dried flowers (as in arrangements of). I mean, why?

Well, wadya know?
I've written about manicures and nail extensions so much, that entrepreneurial web folk are ptiching me the domain name of my dreams. In a privacy-invading sorta-spammish kinda way. Look:

Dear Sir/Madam,

Re:NAIL-EXTENSIONS.COM

The asking price for NAIL-EXTENSIONS.COM is just US$ 660.

We believe this price already represents an investment (*1) for what is a very good domain, and if you secure this domain from us before 17th February 2003 we will include any of the following packages absolutely FREE:

1) US$210 Worth of registration paid IN ADVANCE - We pay your annual Registration until 2010 so you will have no domain related registration fees until then (*2).

OR

2) A 3 page website (if you do not have one already).

OR

3) 3 months of free hosting with up to 30MB Space and up to 3GB transfer.

If you have a PayPal account - Payment to us is instant and transfers can be completed in minutes. There are also many other methods that we can use to complete transfer within 24 Hours if you do not have a PayPal account.

Please accept our apologies if this offer does not interest you.
We make a genuine effort to only contact parties who we believe will find this information useful and beneficial (*3).

Please don't hesitate to contact us should you require any further
assistance. It will always be a pleasure to be of service.


Sincerely

Jenny,
The Portal


(*1) Please visit:
HTTP://WWW.Ebay.com
HTTP://WWW.1stdomainbrokers.com
HTTP://WWW.Afternic.com

Or many of the domain NAME auction sites. We hope you will agree that we are not
only offering what we believe to be a genuine
investment, but you will also benefit from owning a domain of this quality.

(*2) Worth approx $210 if you pay approx $30/$35 a year which many registrars charge.

(*3) Please note that your email address can be removed from our database by
replying to this e-mail with REMOVE in the subject line. You will not be contacted
again.


Thank You

And of course, this may happen too: someone in your office might suddenly say, "we need to find out everything there is to know about S Ansky, early twentieth century Yiddish dramatist. Don't say I never do anything for you.

You know you need this
Because the call might come any day now. The call to be a prop sourcing person for film and TV. You need prop a scene.

Whoever the hell came in here searching for "speed dating pret a manger" I've got your number.

Recent Local Overhead Conversations
"I'm goin' in ve chip shop. Nah, gowinin ve fag shop. Nah, ve chip shop. Bugger."
Late in the evening, early in the century, Cricklewood Broadway

"Yer can't steal food."
Young woman yelling at bloke who'd run out of caff and onto number 16 bus. Implication: it's OK to steal other things.

Probably everyone else in the world knows this, but the IKEA catalogue is online, and even lets you find out stock availability. Talk about just-in-time.

It's not a religion, honest...
Ears still ringing, but a great evening. Met Z, D, E, G, T, J, P and A in the noodle place in Kentish Town, which meant we only caught the tail end of the first support, but all of the Mull Historical Society, and then Frank Skinner introing the band. I figure he just called up and asked for free tickets, and they said, come and introduce us. Oh, to be a celebrity. Frank's last words were: "the war might start tomorrow, but tonight's about love and peace." Man.

Before the Polyphonic Spree started (not to be confused with a polyphonic ringtone), guys came on stage throwing out robes and most of my gang ended up with one (we were right near the front - faux-mosh-pit, or something). Two thirds of the way through the set, they said they were leaving for a TV show, and then showed tonight's Graham Norton, which they were on, and said hi to Kentish Town, then they came back and played some Bowie and a host of other stuff.

It's a truly exuberant experience; everyone was beatifically happy (though some people in the audience had smoked some, er, y'know) and it is like a new millennium cult - they look and feel like a religion, but it's all fake. Least people have something to, like, believe in. And, my ears are still ringing.

Side note: interesting theory from Z about Punch Drunk Love. Adam is clearly a failed superhero: he has all the weirdo-kid and gaucheness of the generic superhero before the "change" (think Clark Kent), but somehow is stuck in a pre-change world. Think of the blue light, it's like some kind of para-kryptonite. She also pointed out that people are often about to eat in the movie, but don't - I figure that's something about un-consumated relationships. See, the film's so much more meaningful now I've had a chance to, er, garner someone else's insights. Z also said (unrelated) that blokes have most of their profound emotional moments down the front of gigs - may also be true, judging by tonight.

Thanks to Camie for leading the way on the City of God thing - now I know the writer is Paulo Lins (which, strangely, most of the UK papers don't know).

I've often had a desire to wear long flowing white robes, run away and join a cult. Instead, I'm going to see the Polyphonic Spree tonight. Kentish Town, here we come.

Yay!
Somebody pretty high up the food chain at London Buses is finally taking me seriously (this is based on the escalation procedure: keep writing to people higher and higher up the organisation, till you get to some god-like figure), and has acknowledged that the shelter is actually quite dangerous, and is going to come and have a site visit with me week beginning 24th February.

These are the points I've asked him to consider:
1 the design of the shelter means that me and my neighbours reguarly almost-knock down pedestrians when driving out
2 the bus stop on Minster Road appeared to replace my bus shelter, which was why I stopped making a fuss
3 the bus shelter on Cricklewood Broadway has disappeared, even though it's outside commercial property, which makes more sense
4 there are now so many bus stops between me and Kilburn station, coupled with single-staffed buses (ie no separate ticket collectors) that it takes longer to go on a bus anyway

You don't have to read that, it's just a list for me to remember. My notebook on the web, or something.

"I'd totally.... like, y'know... yeah... f'sure."

A friend said to me at Christmas, apropos of nothing at all, that agency is the biggest con of the twentieth century. I'm there - I've just saved 35% on my house contents insurance by cutting out the broker and buying online. I may never leave my house again. Why, when I can do everything I need from here.

Whenever I call someone and the receptionist says "just bear with me," I can't help thinking about late-night made-for-TV movies where, in the childbirth scenes, someone always shouts "bear down! bear down!"

Heard David Hare being interviewed on the Today programme this morning, about the screenplay for The Hours. He talked about how it was genre-defying, "don't you hate it when you go to the cinema and it's an action movie, or a dot-com romance," he said. Name me one dot-com romance. C'mon, David.

Sideline - the way he described The Hours, (Cunningham's book, based on Woolf's Mrs Dalloway), it sounded remarkably like the Bridge Over San Luis Rey, plot-wise. Accidental connections.

It's the preview tonight, dontcha know. Call me topical, if you will.

Someone - sadly, I don't remember exactly who - came round for dinner recently, and bought a box of chocolates; I had no idea it was quite such an extravagant gift.

City of God - at the Curzon Soho; it's Pulp Fiction meets John Singleton, with a twist of Gangs of New York. Amazing. Though it's not often you get to see two hundred people killed on a Sunday night. Mindblowing. Like all movies nowadays, "based on a true story" - bit like "helps fight tooth decay" - by Paulo Lin, that I can't find anywhere.

Bizarrely, met S, an old work colleague, in the ladies' loo, who was back in London from Switzerland to run into me. No, to have her last flight before her baby comes. Went to Balans cafe afterwards and had vegetarian eggs benedict; so much for my detox day/healthy eating.

You're not serious?

[via mordant carnival]

What is the internet about? I'm number three for warchalking croydon on google. Although I suspect I'm mis-spelling it in some way.

Had a DIY kinda day - cleaned the carpet, changed light bulbs, put things away in tall cupboards, cleared out my study in readiness for my new self-employed status. Managed to drop a can of paint-stripper like liquid out of a cupboard, onto a freshly cleaned carpet. Stinks of sulphur, and splashed all over the right side of my face, but the can has no ingredients on it, just a customer service number that's closed, and the instructions to "wash with water if skin contact." So the acid is eating through my carpet, and my skin is burning up. Oh well. I don't think it's like an emergency, and it has calmed down since I did it.

J&T have persuaded me to see City of God later at the Curzon Soho, so that should cheer me up, no end.

Last Night...
No, I haven't just woken up. Had a great curry at Geeta's on Willesden Lane, with M and S, although it pales into insignificance compared to the late, lamented Crescent Tandoori on Cricklewood Broadway. Though being South Indian, they had masala dosai, which when I lived in Singapore was my staple lunch. M regaled us with more bus stories, S and I got through a bottle of St Emellion, which doesn't really go with Indian food, but fortified for the drama ahead.

I was itching to see Punch Drunk Love, because it was billed as romantic comedy with a difference and that sold it to me. Wandered down to the Tricycle Cinema, and have never been so disappointed with a movie in... a longish time. Twenty minutes in, I couldn't give a toss about what happened to either Adam (Sandler) or Emily (Watson), and their whole kooky-persona thing just pissed me off. Sandler delivers a fine performance, sure, but the characters and plot were so flawed that I was almost prepared to leave. It's neither romantic nor funny (there are two funny lines; one I've already forgotten, and the other - (spoiler, sorry) is "why are you asking me for a psychaitrist? I'm a dentist.").

Coming from the same director as Magnolia (I've not seen, but dead rated) and Boogie Nights (kinda liked, but not in love) you'd expect more. I wouldn't even wait for the video, frankly.

Afterwards, S and I went to A and D's party in Maida Vale (the whole evening was courtesy of London Transport, and it was strangely refreshing to not have to worry about your car or whether you could have another glass of wine), and spent a few hours salsa-ing, talking inconsequential crap with a bundle of people who nearly all charge by the hour (therapists, alternative health practitioners, trapeze artists and the like), and got home twoish having had one two many tequilas and probably said slightly too much to A. He probably had too much to drink, too.

Ssshhh, surprise
I just got my parents tickets to see Dave Brubeck in Liverpool. It's just so cool getting people a present you know they'll really enjoy. So no snitching (and no printing out my weblog in the old fashioned way to show them, R).

Everyone Else is Marching Out Of Step...
I've often heard the phrase, but never been entirely sure what it meant. But I think I've had one: a step-change. I can't thank my former-almost-now-ex-employer enough. I am a fully fledged freelancer. I like.

Real Women Still Have Curves
One thing I forgot to say about this great movie, is that in the opening sequence, Ana/America is walking through the streets of LA in a confident don't-mess-with-me way, and her boobs are bouncing all over the place. Really bouncing. This is odd, because all the other people walking in the street aren't jiggling up and down like some kind of trapeze act. I suspect that the director wanted to show her, er... juiciness thus. I think they must have just found her a remarkably unsupportive bra, and told her to move around a lot. Wtf?

In other news, I discovered that my (male) friend F has a remarkably canny ability to accurately guess a woman's bra size to the nearest cup.

I should be writing for The Breast Chronicles, I know.

Yesterday, I had proper-grown-up-meetings, that required me to be suited and booted in a high-heels kind of way. But the weather was bad, and I was worried about getting caught short again (snow-wise) and being inappropriately dressed for a trek home. So I decided the only solution was to carry my flat boots, hat and thick scarf with me. Looked everywhere in my house for a suitably large bag, and eventually remembered the promotional red plastic courier-style bag from my last "real" job at The Industry Standard.

Emblazoned in large, friendly letters across the front are the words:
Business intelligence for survival in the new economy.

Of course I was wearing it ironically - we didn't quite heed our own advice and went into Chapter 11 rather spectacularly, as I remember it. And looked like I was on a paper round (I hid it before I went into the meetings).

I saw a van that said 24-hour recovery service, with a phone number on it, so I called them and asked "can I have 7pm back?"

That choux bomber doesn't half look glum.

Real Women Have Curves
And I'm not talking about me. Real Women Don't Wear Plaid. Real Women Tell No Tales. We all know this.

Great, great movie. I laughed, I cried, I recognised some of the cultural stereotypes. Ish. Based on a play, it does show some of the cracks, and has something of the Greek Tragedy, "haven't seen my English teacher for years, oh here he is" feel about it. America Ferrera is great as the lead, Ana, and the tension between old-country just-got-off-the-boat mentality and the sassy everydayness of the brave new world. I haven't seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding, but I'm guessing it has some of the same cultural stereotypes, and it has something of the feel of Kissing Jessica Stein, too (imperfect woman, pushy monther).

Niche market movie for the multicultural-me-too generation. I might even go and see it again.

I've also noticed that the poster for The Pianist (the picture of the tortured survivor playing the piano while the Nazi looks on with tears in his eyes) has photoshopped out the large tin of pilchards (?) that he was carrying around with him. He may have been truly starving, but it's just not photogenic, is it?

I've noticed that a lot of movies (The Pianist, The Magdalene Sisters) are based on a true story. Not true at all, then.

Creativity, Nirvana and a Laugh on the Circle Line
So there I am standing on the platform at Mansion House tube, and I glance up and see the most ridiculous forty-eight-sheet poster across the tracks, telling me that Taiwan has the fourth largest technology industry in the world, and is a haven of innovation and value. Or, as the China External Development Council call it, INNOVALUE.

Of course once I saw the poster, coupled with a fabulously compelling image of some acrobat diving out of a laptop screen, a very common sight, I immediately decided to pull all my hi-tech production out of other economies - I was just about to do a deal with Guam - and contract with Taiwan. Why not? They offer both innovation and value, and that’s just what I was looking for in my hi-tech goods supply chain. Lucky I saw the ad – and it was the exclamation marks that got me - or I might have maintained my supplier arrangement with a less innovative, more costly world economy, and we all know that leads to mixed dancing. Or at the very least a write down in the third quarter.

Who pays for this stuff? Who buys such untargeted media? Who writes this crap? Here am I offering clients good strategic thinking and clear communication, and some clowns are getting paid for… well, something that amused me, anyhow.

Po Bronson's new book.

[via methyl]

The Favour Chain
A writer friend asked me to write something corporate for him last week - he had a bunch of work on, and personal stuff happening. I was busy, but wanted to help him out. He was frazzled, but wanted to help out his writer friend. His writer friend was doing a favour for an agency he gets a lot of work from. I'm four steps away from the client on the favour chain. You can tell I'm gonna make it.

In conversation with my brother tonight about Thursday's snowstorm, he commented - wisely, I think - on the fragility of modernity.

My vaio is ressucitated. I'm wearing flat shoes. And a hat. I have a notebook (in all sense of the word). I'm ready for anything, though hoping it doesn't get scary-icy again.

Someone Else's Bus Story...
Yesterday went to S (my regular theatre companion)'s birthday tea, and ran into M. This morning, he emailed me this:

Sasha,

Here's an interesting little tale which might fill an inspiration-lapse (not that you often, if ever, get them!) on the blog:

Inspired by you (yes, "inspiraton" in two consecutive sentences) I took the C11 home from S's party. (You see I even take my bus recommendations from you (but too many brackets now).)

When I said I was going to Archway the driver asked me if I could direct him there. He said he OK as far as the Royal Free, but not after that as he'd never done that route before. This meant we had complimentary knowledge banks, as I said I could do the bit from South End Green home. I did admit that, while I could pretty much guarantee eventual arrival at Archway, I couldn't be sure of getting the correct actual route, being a C11 virgin. Any port in a storm, I suppose, and I was his best option. I said the driver would have to pay me 70p, and we compromised on a free ride.

OK as far as as Gospel Oak -- I remembered seeing the C11 there on the way out, and there was only one sensible way to get there from South End Green. But from Parliament Hill I was a bit stuck and I told him this. While I myself didn't really mind how I got to Archway, we both realised that other passengers might object if we bypassed their destinations. That could also mean our new-found partnership being rumbled by the others, so the driver told me to go and ask some other people.

Luckily there was a helpful, attractive girl sitting just by the door who told me she used that route all the time, so she gave me the instructions (initially with some disbelief), and I passed them on and we completed the journey successfully.

I have to say that while I have occasionally (actually only once) been on a bus which has taken a wrong turn, this was a new experience. Has anyone else ever had to do that?

See, I don't even have to write my blog any more. My mates just email me stuff to publish, that thematically fits my ouevre.

My Dad - who through some long involved scenario has the identical Vaio to me - shipped me his peripherals (floppy and CD drive) and it works! I've never rebuilt a computer before, but all I had to do was put 2 CDs in a working drive and it did all the work for me. All I need to do know is find out how to get my wireless network back.....

Credit Referencing - Part 2
It's not often that I do special requests, but this is for ph, whoever you are.

Despite the fact that the company very clearly told me that I couldn't nominate a new signatory, so I figured it would just get returned, and I'd have to sort it out Monday, about 3pm I got email on my work account (which I pick up at home) entitled "credit card in reception - please sign". I called her, and the courier had made her sign for it, despite the fact that's neither H nor me - hadn't even asked for either of us. So much for the system. My card is apparently locked in the accounts department safe, and I'll have to do lots of bowing and scraping as I'm only a contractor and I don't really want to take the piss. But sorted, after a fashion.

Remember this woman?

Well, there I was on the door of my friends' play Saturday night, and I see her name on the tickets to collect list. I wasn't really feeling like I wanted to have a whole coversation with her, so the only thing I could do was tell the tale to S, my fellow door-keeper, so that he could deal with it. Much mirth and entertainment value, but she didn't turn up.

Truly Inspired?
When I was a child, growing up at the bottom of the runway at Manchester Airport (the airport formerly known as Ringway), I had the vaguest sense that there was someone in my parents' extended social circle who had a thing about air hostesses. When I was fourteen or so, in town on half-term with my mum shopping, early, before the Arndale Centre opened, we stopped to have coffee in a pre-Starbucks-era place (the Cardoma?), and this guy was there, having breakfast. "hy doesn't his wife make him breakfast?" My mum mused, aloud. Why indeed.

So for all of you with that air hostess uniform thang, and courtesy of Jaq, here it is: kitsch lives - uniform freak.

UK film release dates. You heard it here first.

Hassled, busy, tired, though not in that order. List for me to remember what to write:;
1 what happened to my credit card - specially for ph, whoever you are
2 about last night - I was on the door at my friend's play
3 about Friday night - dinner in a hall in a synagogue somewhere in North London
4 my friend's mum who I ran into by accident and had me practically suicidal

Later.

Whoda thunk it? There's only one hit on google for neo-hasidism march 2003, and it is, bizarrely, me. I think this person might be looking for stuff Arthur Green's doing, but I can't find it online, either.

Credit Referencing
My credit card expires today. They tried to deliver a new one three weeks ago, but I was at work. Obvious, really. They left a form, and I faxed, and went through their automated phone system, but no card arrived. There's no real-person phone number on the form. So I resorted to email, and asked for it to be delivered to my office yesterday, and nominated a colleague to sign for it if I'm not there. There immediate-response email system )presumably a bloke in an office in a tertiary real-estate part of town somewhere) emailed me and said delivery OK for Friday.

Now, of course, neither I nor my nomimated colleague are likely to make it in to work. I've now tracked down a phone number, called them, and asked for someone else to sign for it.

"Courier won't do that love. Got to be the named person. Security."

I'm too tired to argue. And I can't get out anywhere to use my credit card anyhow. It's like the shtetl; I'm going to walk gingerly on ice to the corner shop and buy whatever food they have and turn that into lunch for tomorrow, for whoever braves their way out of their house.

Tales from the customer service hinterland, nonetheless.

Woken up to a crazy, crazy, white-blanket world. And it's only three inches of snow. I have left the box of salt I bought on the way home last night in the hall, so we can de-ice our steps.

I've never been so pleased to see my bus-stop. Just got home - stopped at Finchley Road station on the off-chance there'd be trains, but there weren't. Although it was like a cocktail party there - lots of people who live in Rickmansworth hanging out hoping for trains because it's sixteen miles.

Walked up the Finchley Road - healthy to walk, but unhealthy in that the only moderately safe un-icy route was through the middle of the traffic, so I've probably inhaled the equivalent of 200 cigarettes. Saw a C11 bus near Swiss Cottage, was going to get on it, but it was the same off-route C11 bus I'd seen in Camden an hour or so before, and it wasn't going any faster than me and I stopped for a cup of tea and to read J&H's little girl a Jemima Puddleduck story.

Met a woman on the Finchley Road at ten o'clock who'd left Harlesden at six, a Japanese bloke in West Hampstead who said this is his first London winter, is it always like this? What's scary is not the walking, but the black ice - there's people falling over all over the place, and my back feels very stressed just from concentrating on looking for a reasonable footing since 7pm.

Hitched a ride from Sally, a lovely American woman from one end of Mill Lane to the other - about twenty cars wouldn't stop, as this kind of weather brings out the selfish gene in most people.

I am going to have a very, very long, hot bath.

London Travel Update
At Finchley Road, in the easyinternet cafe, having stopped at a friend's in Chalk Farm for a cup of tea, the loo, and - rather indelicately - borrowing a tampon from my friend's husband, H. J has been stuck in a colleague's car in Kentish Town for two hours. Walking is the only way - all the tubes seem shut, and there's a lot of northbound walkers. I guess I'll be home in around 45 minutes.

It's like the war, it is. I've spoken to more strangers today than... since the blitz. Honest.

London Grinds to a Standstill
It's like living in a third world country, I tell ya. So I left work at 5.30, met a friend for coffee at Oxford Circus, did some (sadly, window) shopping, and delivered my tax return to Euston.

At Oxford Circus tube, there was rumours of mal-tube-ness afoot, and that blitz-like we're-all-in-this-together spirit was starting, with random stranger conversations breaking out all over the place. When I returned to Warren Street, people were already saying the circle line, Bond Street and Kings Cross were shut. Walked to Euston Square, and it was already starting to feel like a real war - people wandering the streets aimlessly, unsure of which direction Euston station was in. Desperately trying to get any, inaccurate information, trying to make decisions with very little to go on. Lots of mubling, rumbling and slagging off of Ken.

Most people couldn't get a mobile phone signal, because we'd turned most of W1 into a cell-phone blackspot. Traffic's gridlocked back to I don't know where, and people in cars are trying to do u-turns in a one-way street, which is never a good idea. Buses aren't really going very far - in fact, I've never seen so many in one place, not even at my own personal bus-stop.

Decided to walk, now I'm in Camden, and M just called me back with directions home (4 miles), although I've just printed them out in this internet cafe I conveniently happened across.

Last time London ground to a standstill, in the flashfloods in the summer, I missed the whole thing because I was sitting at my desk with my muse. Least this time I have my own transport infrastructure war story. Wish I'd worn thicker socks, though.

Saw The Pianist last night - more, later - but because I grew up with holocaust stuff hardwired into the very social structure, it wasn't quite as mindblowing as I guess it is for some people. However, it reminded me that I often used to wonder how I would survive during a war/in a concentration camp: would I be the one who just fell apart and mumbled till they were trampled over? Or would I be the resourceful, survivor type. I don't know for sure, but today I'm feeling a little more problem-solving resourceful-stylee, which can only be a good thing.

But it did make me scared about another war, but that's another story.

Right, I'm off to walk 3.9 miles (or so multimap tells me) home. I may be gone some time.

VaioLink customer service (0870 number) want £12.50 service fee and £37.62 to collect my laptop before they'll even give me a quote on the repair fee. It's like some bizarre Alice in Wonderland experience; I tried to explain that a three year old notebook is only worth a finite amount of money. Darragh was extremely nice, but ultimately I'm left banging my head against a brick wall. AndI've spent 22 minutes on a call. I'm waiting for a team leader... I'm waiting for a team leader... I'm.... waiting... Oliver, the team leader starting giving me the same old shpeil and it was clearly going nowhere. Tried ProCom - they don't answer the phone.

Head of Product Marketing at Sony Vaio told me that I have to call either the VaioLink line, for $25 as my machine is more than one year old, or Micro Anvika can do repairs. Micro Anvika say that they can't do repairs because they can't get the parts. It's a merry-go-round of pointlessness.

Do you think it's possible to get late-onset dyslexia? I love words, and lately, I've found myself writing something down wrong, but thinking I've written it right. Like EMDAILD for EMAILED.

I think it might be because my current work requires me to write notes with a pen - can you believe - because I can't type quickly enough when I'm talking to people. I'm a straight to keyboard-PC person, really. Of course, apart from now, when my handbag-sized sub-notebook is not the man he used to be.

Completely forgot to mention that I saw the Stephen Frears extravaganza, DirtyPretty Things, last week (at the Curzon, Soho, which is a proper, old fashioned movie house, with a cool bar and good shorts, ie films not shots). It was great to see Audrey Tatou in something meaningful and un-chi-chi, and Chiwetel Ejiofor was mindblowingly good in the lead as Okwe. I don't think I was the only person sitting in the cinema as the credits rolled, in tears.

Nail/Vanity Update
Got email from G this morning - don't think I'm the only unhappy Nails Inc customer. Unbelievably, it's nearly two months since that whole saga, and my nails still won't grow. Anyone want to form a lobby group? Nails Inc Survivors? Maybe.

My computer:
Laptop actually. It is rebuild time, but my external floppy drive died some time ago, but that's cool, I've got a CD recovery disk. So I dig out the PCMCIA card, and boot it all up, and it's not bootable, it seems. The book says boot the PC from a floppy, and then go to the CD. Except they didn't give me a floppy back in 1999. So I check the Sony Vaio site on my main machine (which must have supra-powered cookies, because it knew everything about me), and it says the CD is bootable. So I figure that's buggered, too.

So now I'm down one great sub-notebook that fit in my handbook, and a lovely wireless network. Bugger.

Courtesy of Z - an hilarious article from today's Guardian about speed dating, which I am too time-poor (read disorganised) to read yet.

In case someone breaks off your aerial.

This morning, it took me 45 minutes to drive to Hamsptead, because I was in a hurry, when it probably only takes 30 minutes to walk - hampered enourmously by the mother-types in their 4X4's who can't let cars through as they're so wide. I made a tailback from the tube to the pond, because of one them. And now it'll take 12 minutes to get a bus to Kilburn from outside my house compared to the seven minutes it takes to walk. London is grinding to a standstill, I tell you.

Last night, spent some time hooking up my wireless network because I'm still - shhh, don't tell anyone - on Windows98, and he's a Linux/opensource kinda guy. But it worked: for around twenty minutes, I could do mail and webstuff anywhere in the house on my Vaio subnote book. Until, that is, I decided to download IE6, which I realise some of you will say is a message from the universe about Billness on my PC. Now the whole thing is dead as a very dead thing, won't even reboot.

Abort, Retry, Fail?

Yesterday, a friend said to me "what's the difference between vanity publishing and weblogging?" and I didn't have a fullsome - or any - answer.

I am superfit. Walked 8 Mile today; to Highgate and back via South End Green and Hampstead village - Parliament Hill is beautiful in the cold weather, and I really enjoyed admiring a collection of gothic Victorian buildings. Met R for coffee in Cafe Mozart, which is just like Vienna, only more so. Got back a little tired, watched HIGNFY with the commentary on DVD - it's like having Paul Merton and Ian Hislop round at your house for coffee and a chat. Fabulous. Fell asleep, and got woken up by R (that's R2, not to be confused with D2), here with WIFI cards and expertise that will have me networked all over the shop.

Despair Inc - increasing success by decreasing motivation. Courtesy of RC.

Just done minimum-level washing up before I go to bed: it's one thing not waking up to dirty pots, it's quite another being extra-anal about perfection. Had a fun evening, which I've had too much to drink to discuss in detail. For some reason, we got to talking about spies, and I remembered going to a friend's wedding in Israel, and an old friend of my Mum's being there. When he walked in - a fiftyish man, in a seen-better-days suit, everyone yelled "hey, it's Jonny the spy!". He did something for Mossad, apparently. One of those Jewish secrets; everyone knows, really. I wonder how the Israeli secrets services run when everyone appears to treat their secrets like a family cheesecake recipe that your grandmother said you shouldn't share, but just this once can't hurt.

I spent the whole day doing nothing today - something I've come to enjoy since I've had like three jobs. Now I'm making Moroccan Couscous for a dinner party later - the secret is in the spices: Seasoned Pioneers make the best Ras el-hanout this side of the Saharah, believe me.

On my current contract, my opposite number in New York is called Rhonda. So far, I've resisted the temptation to burst into song, but I've got another couple of weeks left.

You know I used to work on the Industry Standard? On the commercial side, I hasten to add. Well now, our esteemed former editor-in-chief (or some such job-title) has written a book: Starving To Death on £200million a Year.

You couldn't make this stuff up. I can't wait to read it.

So I ordered a new toner cartridge for my fuck-off bigger-than-a-house laser printer Wednesday, and it's supposed to arrive yesterday. I chase them this morning, they come back to me, and say someone signed for it in the building. I say, if someone signed for it, they'd leave it outside me door. She goes away to investigage.

"I'm not winding you up, right," she said in a charming, lilting South Wales accent, "but it was signed for by [famous soap star]. Is he your neighbour?"

So yep, my - celebrity - neighbour took delivery. We're like a JIT warehouse, only with paparzzi.

Just got home - as David mentioned, my bus stop - as opposed to a mere shelter - arrived last Friday. I have even used it - it's convenient. Came home from town on the bus tonight, walk into my path, and the aerial on my car has been snapped off. Of course there's no way I can prove that it was a bus-stop waiter - and indeed, it may not be - but it's odd that I've parked my car outside my house for eight years and no-one's ever snapped of my aerial, I have a bus stop for less than a week, and it happens.

Of course the London Transport people are going to be really, really interested in my tzorres.

Any ideas?

In December, I had some roofers round to give me a quote on our storm-oriented lost tiles, and they pointed out that the wall between next door and next-door-but-one's gardens was an "accident waiting to happen, love" - the subsidence or something had clearly got to it, and bulging like an eight-month pregnant woman, it was lightly propped up with a couple of pieces of wood, but didn't look long for this life. Yesterday morning, I saw the whole thing fall down: it was like watching a real-life slo-mo movie.

So yesterday, I was in the Pret a Manger on the Haymarket, and who should I bump into but Jonathan Freedland. We had one of those slightly awkward "what are you doing here" type conversations; he was obviously a long way from Farringdon, and who knows where I work.

The joy of the itinerant self-employed.

Oh, and a smaller font for those who complained. Thanks to Stuart for troubleshooting.

I can't really stay awake, but I have a lot to say. And a lot to do: Yoz was even nice enough to do some of my Limmud stuff for me. I have to go to bed now, sorry.

I'm getting very excited about being properly self-employed and building up my clients and everything.

Anyone know where this quote comes from?

"She's so tough she won't take yes for an answer."

Not that it's me, you understand.

Interesting Gangs of New York thing about Irish-American slang, and particularly who/what the Dead Rabbits were.

Busy weekend: barmitzvah/lunch party/funeral. Going back to work for a rest, as they say. Oh, and decided I'm definitely not taking the permanent job - I'm going to tell them on Thursday. So if anyone has good leads on freelance copywriting/marketing/conference work...

Just in case I ever need to region-hack a DVD player. Where else does a body keep this kind of information?

This hack should also work on the Goodmans GDVD-134
To change this players Region:

Turn On the player and Eject the disc tray
On the remote press 2, 8, 1, 2 followed by Enter
This gets you to the engineers menu
Press Down until you reach COUNTRY CODE and press Enter
The current region code will change to four dashes (----)
Input one number (0=Region Free, 1=USA 2=Europe, etc) and press Enter again
The new region code will now be displayed. You can exit by just pressing the Eject button once more
Enabling VCD playback:

Turn On the player and place a VCD on the open tray
Using the front panel press Close quickly followed by Menu and 5 on the remote
This should load and play the disc. If the disc fails to play then press 0, 0, 0, 1 and the disc should then play

Barmitvah Boy
No, not the Jack Rosenthal extravaganza, but my cousin's coming of age. Edited hilights, as I have a bundle of people coming over for bagels in a moment, and the water board have, in their wisdom, chosen to turm off our water without giving us notice (my neighbour is currently "having a conversation with them" on the phone).

Had a great weekend; friendly synagogue, my cousin's R & M had fabulous, largely creative/professional style friends, who I really enjoyed talking to, hung out with my (immediate) family, which I don't get to do very often, and then last night was a sefardi-style meal (all my favourite humous/aubergine/couscous type bits) with klezmer music, and dancing, and a bloke going round cutting out people's sillouettes (I declined). I felt very abenon (entirely unsure of spelling: but means respected, sorta) because I was seated with the celebrant's immediate family and all sorts of other interesting people to boot. Sample conversational soundbite: "Jews are like other people, just more so."

Also met all manner of interesting folk - pension people, housing association people - who, if I were Taking The Job, would be great conference speakers. I feel a little sad that the networking bit that I like is the piece I'll miss most. Oh well.

Got back 1230ish, ended up chatting with two sets of neighbours for half an hour, going out to get bagels, and getting to bed far too late for someone of my advancing years. Oh well.

Forgot To Say...
On thursday: I was so caught up with work. I have had a weblog for one year and two days. Yay. Or Nay. Dunno, but some kind of observational celebration thang.

I haven't yet seen Eight Mile, but it just sounds like someone with a UK regional accent: "how far is it?" "oh, about eight mile."

Of course I have no idea what it's really about.

Eat Your Oats
You know this whole story about Ricin (or whatever it's called)? Well, apparently they're making it in North London (my current home) and Manchester (the place of my birth) - strange, huh?

When I first heard it, it sounded like they were making one of the B5 vitamin group. Like for cornflakes or something.

Hi-speed hello: I'm in the middle of my cousin's barmitzvah, having spent the weekend so far in Hampstead, come home to shower and change for tonight, and do some stuff tomorrow. I've got twenty people coming over for lunch including my Mum and Dad (and someone who used to be a caterer). Here's what I'm making:
humous
egg and onion (homemade)
aubergine salad (not mine, I can't make it this good)
cream cheese
smoked salmon
bagels
herrings with sour cream, apples and dill
quinoa salad with cashew nuts, dried sour cherries and mandarins
roasted red pepper salad (kinda my Rumanian heritage)
carrot and courgette salad with sesame oil
rocket salad with pinenuts
chopped fried fish

and for desert (if there's room...)
homemade honey cake
fresh fruit

What do you reckon?

I know I'm prone to too much navel gazing: should I ever write my autobiography - which is unlikely - I think I'll call it Enquire Within.

I have a desire to buy Solid Air by John Martin in the Virgin sale. Apparently one of the triumvirate of British folkies, along with Nick Drake and Richard Thompson.

Tragedy! (to be said in best Steps-stylee voice). Unbelievably, my preferred curry supplier, the Crescent Tandoori has gone out of business. I hope it wasn't because they only charged £1.65 for mutter paneer. Wherever they went, I wish them all the best, and hope that they sold the property for loads of money, rather than disappearing because they couldn't make a living.

I will miss them. I'm sure I'll get over it, but tried out the Khana buffet tonight, and it's just not as good. Not least because they have bizarre hologramatical placemats that make you feel you either hav a headache or have lost your contact lenses, or both. And the father-and-son crack waiter team were deeply friendly, but ultimately; irritating, unlike the nice bloke.... OK, I'll stop now.

RIP, Crescent Tandoori, Crickewood Broadway.

So much to say. So much - not all of interest - has happened that my head's due to burst. What I need is a cuddle, a stiff drink, and a really good lie in, though probably not in that order.

In a meeting this afternoon, a couple of colleagues noticed that I was wearing my heartrate monitor, and the conversation digressed somewhat. I'm trying to kid my metabolism that it's quicker than it is, so every hour, minimum, I get and do something that raises my heartrate. They all thought this was very entertaining, and I suspect it might catch on in my office. Cheapest heartrate monitor: £38 including delivery.

I'm trying to cram a lot in this week. It's my cousin's barmitzvah this weekend, and my sister and brother-in-law and my parents are in town for the weekend. After all the festivities, I've invited them and some other (largely grown-up) people for brunch, Sunday, and because some of the guests are of the former-caterer kind, I feel like I don't want to embarass myself.

So I've made two honey cakes and put them in the freezer, and I've planned what I hope is an interesting menu. It's just a case of fitting everything in before Sunday - like getting up at 8am that morning to go and get 40 bagels. There's no Delia Day for this. And I promised my trainer I'd go to the gym three times before I see her next. I'm hoping my 45 minute walk to Hampstead this morning counts: I did keep my heart rate at 140.

White Space
So I'm leaving - short contract - work, tonight, and the security guard and I, a fiftyish guy in uniform, get to talking about the book he's reading, The Sea Hawk by Rafael Sabatini.

"It's, right, yer really old fashioned language, yeah? Written about 1910, and it's a cracking, y'know, the story. It's great."

Yesterday, the female bus driver on the 189 bus on the way home was reading White Teeth (Zadie) while she waited for her bus slot. Meaningful, I thought, as most of the book happens on the 189 bus route.

I, on the other hand, haven't read a book in three weeks - or if I've started one, I've not got to finishing it - because my head is full of derivatives (don't even ask me about Monte Carlo), big company politics, spreadsheets and lists. Forget about writing: there's just no space.