From The Editor's Postbag

Dear Sasha,

As a home owner in Cheadle I am writing to register my disgust at the allegation that the fixing of UPVC double glazing to a 1930's house is an architectural travesty.

We, who read your blog, are well aware, that the 1930's and the art deco era, form a substantial part of your architectural appreciation. It will therefore not be news to you, that the essence of such design was modernism; a use of modern materials and effects. In short, if they had mass produced UPVC in the 1930's then they would have used it.

Life, is about change, or to use a window metaphor, windows are like wood and UPVC.

Would you suggest that the industrial revolution should have been halted, due to an emotional attachment to steam? Are you suggesting, that a house in a relatively modest 1930's housing estate, should retain the fake windows which were installed in the 1980's?

Probably yes, and I make no criticism, you suffer from the effects, of too much post modernism before breakfast. We want to deconstruct, and reconstruct in the image of our forefathers/mothers. We buy a Victorian property and retain the original features, refurbish all the fires (although we wouldn't dream of burning coal). The Victorians would have loved to have had central heating.

Let's get a grip. I like my UPVC windows, it goes with my BMW X5 roads, and my DFS furniture. It compliments my fellow overtanned gym members and their obscenely face-stretched mothers. It fulfills my materialistic desire to have building work done without needing planning permission. It is part of the suburban utopia.

Like every American has a right to carry a gun, every suburban Enlishman/woman, has a right to architecturally deface their home. It is a sign of their success.

So don't be too quick to offend the rights of the suburban masses, a radical bunch when roused. It would be unfortunate if you wake up one morning to find that someone has given you a UPVC front door (and forgotten to give you a key, imprisoning you in a UPVC hell, from which there is no escape).

Yours

The Fenestration Guild of the Great Suburban Northwest (FGGSN)

My new best friend is Almond Sunset herb tea from Celestial Seasonings. It really smells and even tastes of almond and carob. It has taken over in my affections from honey camomile and vanilla. Life moves on, right?

Is bloglines broken already? I entered about 20 blogs, and it lost half of them on Friday. I resubscribed (now there's a twentyfirst century word), and now I can't click on anything and I get Java errors. Bugger.

Not entirely because of the war, but I'm sure in part, I'm driven by the worst-case scenario. So two difficult-to-reach lightbulbs in my house need changing, and I'm worried about going up a ladder because of all the Terrible Things that could happen. I could fall off, alone in the house. I could - even worse - fall off the ladder and straight down the stairs (one is the top of the stairs uplighter).

I worry. It's my heritage. It's my destiny.

And I feel foolish asking people who come round to help me, so I ... do nothing. But it was only one lightbulb up until now, and now it's two; and it's getting dark.

Nu?

I feel sorrier-than-sorry for Megan Lane, who had to write this piece of fashion-pastiche journalism for the BBC.

Listen to me, Megan: brown was the new black like, four years ago. And purple for autumn? Wasn't that last autumn? Or the autumn before? old is the new new, is where we're at, and we don't care. The beeb is not where I go for sartorial advice.

Repeat after me, BBC: you're losing your way; stick to your core business - news, information - and stop pretending you're the Face or Dazed and Confused or London Fashionweek news or something. Stop. The Renaissance is over, this is the age of specialisation, just do what you're good at.

Thanks.

Catskills font. For Jews, everywhere.

Don't Mention The War

So I'm in a bar, and I'm telling my (two English) friends and their German guest about a mad flatmate I once had, and how her eating disorder meant that she officially only ate fruit and vegetables, but she'd eat everything in the house, generally at night, but obviously I couldn't ask her about it, because she denied any knowledge of it (er, hello, like there's no one else here) and it got out of hand. Sugar cravings, mostly, I was guessing. Party line? She didn't eat.

When she left, I cleaned out the larder, and realised that she'd carefully arranged its contents to make it look full.

Only I told it this way:

"I like to have full cupboards. You know, because of the war." Jewish-code for the feeling of self-protection and plentifulness one tries to engender. Awkward pause. Really awkward pause? "So, er, I was very surprised to open the cupboard and find she'd moved out with like half my food."

Whoops.

My weekend: long chat with S about NLP; great dinner party, lunch at Chutneys with C and J; Limmud stuff; Bartok with C, M and M. This is a data-only post, sorry.

I should have written more/better: I'm the number one search for advert Anna Friel. The democracy of google, it's a strange one.

The next big thing? Sheila Quigley?

Still on uPVC - an interesting article in yesterday's Telegraph.

"Putting uPVC windows in a period property is like making your grandmother wear a shell suit."

Reminds me of my friend Judith's film, Blue Vinyl, about her journey with her parents not to put blue vinyl siding on their house, because of the dangerous pollutant nature of the chemicals.

Patsy Kensit joins Emmerdale (previously Emmerdale Farm, if you remember). Wonder who she'll find to marry there, and can't help wondering in which direction her stars going. You really couldn't make this stuff up.

"I am your idea. Remember me. When you look for me one day I will be gone."

There's still a lot of places I haven't been...



create your own visited country map
or write about it on the open travel guide

Welcome to the Evolution
Have you seen that ridiculous almost-porn that passes for the new Three advert? Sadly, it's almost impossible to google on her, as three is a very popular word, and there are three of lots of things to do with Anna Friel, apparently.

You can just imagine some young creative team drooling as they say; "we can get Anna Friel. We can make her do that wrinkly thing with her nose. Cute nose, yeah? We could get her to dress as a mermaid, that would be cool."

Anna should know better. How much can you get paid that makes prostituting yourself that worthwhile? Hardly the pinnacle of creative endevours. Reaching the Lost in Translation pinnacle of getting sent to Nowherestan to film a two million dollar advert?

All I can say is, come the Evolution, Anna Friel'll be the first up against the wall.

Some debate over at LMG about Anna Friel dating, and there's also Alanis Morisette and any manner of other dating for the "marridge minded". What's great is, they know what Korean people and seniors look like, and there's photographic proof, but "Jewish dating" is just inidicated by two gold rings. Couldn't find a photo of a Jewish couple? Don't mind re-enforcing racial/social stereotypes, but draw the line at Jewish people? Er, what exactly?

[link via Darren]

The halfbakery. Home of half-baked ideas.

How's this for annoying? I just ordered a flash drive from Dabs, but they won't deliver it, because I edited my address on my account online to include my flat number, and last time I tried to buy something from them, they wouldn't ring the doorbell, as I just had the housenumber, and I had to go out and collect it from a stupid place. Now they think I am trying to perform some kind of address-oriented fraud on them, when in fact I'm trying to minimise the hassle. Sheesh. The modern age. It's all underpinned by a crap delivery infrastructure.

Last Thursday, I was meeting R for a drink in Kilburn (I'd just flown in from NY, wasn't up for trecking into town). Our previous meet had been snowed off, the day of the Big Snow.

So I walk down to the station for our assignation, and the place is crawling with police. I mean, crawling. Fluorescent vests over uniform, the whole megillah. Dogs. They're standing around, looking obvious. It's about 8pm.

In my usual neighbourly way (remember my bus shelter? Don't even ask), I enquire about what's going on.

Me: Hi, you guys look busy, what's going on?
Police officer: We're on an operation.
Me: Oh, right.
Police officer: Nothing to be alarmed about. (I must look scared). There's a lot of burglary in this area, and it's on the increase. We think they use this station.
Me: Er, right.
Police officer: So, we're a deterrent. They see us, they know
Me: Oh, OK. Should I get a new burglar alarm?
Police officer: Don't be alarmed, it's just a precaution.

It honestly did go something like that. So burglars use the tube? Right. And then they carry home our TVs, DVDs, and white goods in large bags labelled swag, all over the London underground network. Pull the other one, officer, it's got bells on it.

Promethea and ideaspace.

Wordspy the book!!! I want I want I want.

Heeb-hop, no, really, from 50 Shekel. His friends call him chamashim.

I am only posting this so I can see my new Bloglines notifier work.

Yoz dropped in from the future, and told me to get me an Atom feed, subscribe to Bloglines, to get Mozilla's Firefox pronto, because of what it'll do for my tabs in research (no, I don't know, either). Those future-enabled kiddies.

I lost my Rescue Remedy. How will I be rescued now?

World Jewish Stuff:
CAJE 29, the Washington Conference, Chai retreats at the UAHC, Isabella Freedman Retreat Center, and - if only I could find it - the General Assembly of European Communities, in May.

Long story, but a friend's mother left me this answerphone message (verbatim):

"Jane's mother called. She wanted to find out about the arrangements for [....]. Could you give her a call back? Her number is 020 7431 XXXX."

This week's objective: start talking about myself in the third person.

The Today Boys have done it again. So it was only back in September that they wheeled out Charles Bailey with his politico-rap, and now they've pressed the repeat button, in a rather retro style - off the back of a hook about a serious 3 CD set of Maggie's speeches.

The best bit? Hearing John Humphrey's respond to Charles' "we've niced it up for the listeners," with an up-his-own-arse "respect."

The Today programme ain't where I'm going for my funkster grooves, people. It's about news. Where is the news, by the way?

You a Spice Girl fan? Then get thee to this ridiculous eBay auction of Mel B in embrace with Jimmy. Because you can be too rich.

I've been losing sleep about integrating prescence into ... stuff. No more.

Phrases I have come to hate:

"can I have a quick word?" - usually means your employee is leaving

"can I have more information" - usually means your client is taking the piss/haggling

"it's not you, it's me" - well, we all know what that means: it is you

"the accounts department will be sending it to you" - the cheque's in the post, AKA we're paying you sl-o-wl-y

"would you mind just..." - just doing loads of extra work for no money. Er, no

"I was meaning to call you -" call me what, exactly?
... any more for any more?

Yahoo does its own thing.

Does anyone care about owning digital media anymore? Douglas has some ideas...

Oi Va Voi.

I've made an Atom feed. I don't actually know what it means, but it's here: http://sashinka.blogspot.com/atom.xml

I am having a dinner party Saturday night. This is what I'm thinking of making, waddya think?

home made chickpea-less flatbread

humous, maybe lime rather than lemon?

both of these may or may not include za'atar

mexican chilli, with squash and stuff (mildish, not too hot)

couscous, maybe with cinamon? or quinoa, more south american?

figs in syrup for desert? Or poached pears?

or maybe something with kiwi - my organic box has sent me more kiwis than I can shake a cinamon stick at

Hey, if you're coming to dinner, act surprised:)

Don't ask me why, but I am the number one google search for Marylebone High Street and eyebrows. Next, where to get your legs waxed in Tribeca.

Is Orkut like Friendster, comrade?

When I was about fourteen, I saw a made-for-TV version of the Dybbuk, by Sholom Ansky. It haunted me. Now, this, on eBay, of all places.

Update: it's subtitled. So maybe it was in Yiddish. See, with the internet, you don't need to have a memory anymore.

I'm gonna reserve my views on Suzie Gold till I've actually seen the movie. Not least, because the Director is a from der heim. I'm worried, though. Till then, her "new home on the web".

In fact, a blog is like a plant. You have to water it, and it's fun when your mates come round and say they're impressed by your greenfingeredness. Or just that it's alive at all.

I just want you all to know that, currently, I'm having quite a nice time with my blog. A blog's like a relationship; ups and downs, times when you like it more. Today's good. I feel... creative. All week, in fact. Sadly, my brain is mostly full of IT outsourcing, social policy and the car fleet sector. Great. It's partly to do with this great new writing class I've joined on a Tuesday night. And partly because I'm a Londoner. Not.

In an email correspondence, don't you hate people who add their comments to the bottom of the mail? Scroll up, sister. (Which I realise sounds like the name of an ironic/retro eighties band.)

I want to study language: I have, like, too many discourse particles.

Immigration and asylum are back on the agenda. And Michael Howard's been busy this morning; the Today programme at 7am, and BBC at 8am.

And, when questioned on his view, he proved quite how Jewish he is, with his passive-agressive reply: "The government's got into a terrible muddle over all this. They said nothing till I raised a question at PMQ. They've known about it for three years, but better late than never, I look forward to hearing their response."

Michael says "the BNP is a stain on our body politic" and "we have a long tradition of good race relations in this country." While I might agree with the former, I certainly don't with the latter; what about the British Government's reaction to Jews in the 30s and 40s? Viraj Mendis?. Cockle collectors? Burnley? Stephen Lawrence? C'mon, we don't care. Admit it.

Know what I can't get over? Michael Howard's father got off the boat from Romania two generations later than my family, and I don't know where he gets off on this Englisher-than-thou trip. Don't forget, Michael, from der heim, erois. Don't forget, Michael, humanity is more important than politics. Don't forget Michael, politics is for the people, not the politicians.

Northern accents on t'net.

Molly Ringwald was 36 today. Even 80s celluloid stars get old. Although, oddly, she looks exactly the same. Botox, anyone?

I read with interest that she just left the New York cast of the play, Enchanted April, because I was at school with Polly Walker, who played Caroline in the made-for-TV movie of same. Later, Polly went on to be second lead to Sharon Stone in Sliver. Oddly enough, she glosses over attending our school in any press interviews: presumably because people who are now vets, doctors and lawyers didn't judge her to be good enough to even be in the school play. I mostly remember that her sister was the first person in our school to wear all her clothes from Benetton. Boy, were we jealous.

Eighties movies at Fast Rewind. And for neo-maxi zoom dweebies everywhere? The Breakfast Club.

Alan Turing.

I keep coming across the job-title "specialist" - like Marketing Specialist - as a way of keeping people out of the director/manager hierarchy, and presumably paying them less.

I want to go to Antenna tomorrow, but I'm doing something semi-worthy. Shame.

I used to be friendly with this guy - M - who said it was boring if I had an experience, told him the story, wrote about it, posted it on my blog, got comments, and even talked about it some more. He said, can't I process stuff just once? We're not friends anymore. Partly because I got slightly freaked when he pointed out an obviously anorexic woman at a party and said she was obese. Random thought over and out.

Ryman's 253 interactive novel.

I know where I'll be Monday... the truly fantabulous, and Kilburn-based Jonny Berliner Band are playing a gig at Cargo. This, you can't miss.

My parents are getting UPVC windows. In the house I grew up in. I am upset. Even though, as my Mum pointed out, the windows I mostly grew up with (wooden) were not the original, Crittall windows. It's a 1930's house. But at least the wooden window frames were... in keeping with the house, in some way. Organic.

They're going to be white. And shiny. And need no maintenance whatsoever. Everyone in Cheadle has them. And as my Mum also pointed out, I've not lived there for years. Although I do feel that it's my childhood home. I've asked for a photograph, before the deed is done. I don't know if I can sleep in a house with plastic windows.

I hope my ability to speak comes back.

In case you read my meeting tale - thanks for the feedback. I pruned and edited slightly. Not the way of the weblog, I know, but needs must. I think it reads better.

The Meeting
I often think as a freelancer I'm better at getting the work than doing it - I love to sell and I love to close.

So I was going to be in New York anyway, and called up a couple of potential clients and said "hi, I'm Sasha, I work for lots of your competitors, and I know a fair amount about [obscure area of finance]. Do you want to meet?"

They all said yes. Two were professional and arranged a meeting. The third guy, let's call him Jacob, said "gee, we really want to open up in Your-RoPe - that's Europe to you and me - are you looking for an MD job?" He over-pronounced the P in Europe, like Woody Allen in the Early Nightclub Years, although I suspect not ironically.

I said I wasn't looking for a job at all, I do project work, I'm a freelancer, I don't like to be tied down to any one company.

He said let's have lunch.

I didn't want to have lunch, because I was trying to get my meetings at the beginning or end of the day so they didn't break up my valuable shopping/hanging-out time, and so I wouldn't have to wear a suit all day. He insisted we had a lot to talk about, lunch was the only way.

And that's what found me at 30th and like Eighth Avenue in some seedy office block, where I right away knew this wasn't what I was looking for. I take the elevator up to the fifth floor. It's all open plan, cube-farm hell, and wires everywhere. Somewhere between a health and safety nightmare and a really fun place to work.

The woman nearest the door says hi and asks me who I'm here to see. I say Jacob. She calls him, and then turns to me and says, "he'll see you shortly. Take a seat."

I look around and there are no seats. There's no reception. Why waste the overhead? I wander around, looking at the noticeboard (there's $38,000 in the 401k plan and at least 25 cube-rats), and read some old brochures, dating back to 2001. You can download them all off the web anyway, but I pick up a couple to while away the time while I'm kept waiting.

The unreceptionist interrupts my thoughts, and says, "Jake'll see you now." She doesn't tell me anything else, like where his office is, and he doesn't come out to reception, grasp my hand firmly and say "thanks for shlepping from London."

So I find Jake's office, and walk in. He's wearing a headset like he's going to teach an aerobics class, but I proffer my hand anyway, as he's "sent me" in, but he indicates he's talking on the phone. I take a seat and wait. He finishes up his call, and says hi. Like he's better behind a keyboard than real life. We shake hands. Limply. I can't help thinking he's backoffice.

He sees the brochures I've been reading and says: "whered'ya get those? We don't generally let people take those." I resist the urge to say you can download them all off the web, as he snatches them out of my hand. I feel things have started really well. He's matched my corporate trouser suit with a 1992 Citibank funrun t-shirt, and two days of beard. We're clearly on the same page.

"So, Sasha, waddya want?"

I explain that he can outsource research projects to me, and talk him through what I've done for other people. He asks all sorts of commercial-in-confidence questions that I can't answer. He pushes me. I demure. I say I would do the same if I was working for him. He pushes me more. He asks to keep the brochures from my projects, and I say they're my only ones. He looks disappointed.

I wonder if I want to have lunch with this guy. While I'm thinking that, he answers his phone, still wearing his headset, and says "lunch? gimme ten minutes. See you you in the lobby." So I figure, no lunch. Glad I blew out my friends.

He turns to me, clearly wanting to wrap up, as his lunch date's waiting.

"You don't know me, I don't know you," he says, stating the obvious. Like yeah, I'm thinking, that's why we're having a meeting. "All these clients on your resume, they know you. I can't risk a whole project with you if I don't know you. I'm thinking win-win for both of us. How's this? You sell some sponorship, just a couple of clients, on our big event for Your-RoPe for the spring, and I'll give you 25% of whatever you sell."

Now I don't really sell. I brief salespeople, and I put together the content, but I don't sell. And I know he means commission only.

"And what sort of fee would you be looking for, for a project like that?" I ask.

"I can't risk a fee. What if you don't sell anything?"

I explain that all my other client work is fee-based, so I'm going to inevitably spend less time on his project if it's straight commission. It's the truth. He thinks I'm negotiating.

"Tell you what," he counters, "let's call it 35%. No risk for you - we do the venue, logistics, marketing. And you get the feedback from your clients about us, what we're like. It'll be a couple of calls."

"I already have client feedback," I tell him, "people in the market respect you, that's why I approached you." I don't add that his respect rating is spiralling during this conversation.

It's clear that we're not going anywhere, and I'm clear that it's going to be pretty hard to do business with someone who doesn't beleive in the old-fashioned work-money trade. "Why don't you send me a proposal," I say, "and I'll be happy to consider it."

"Great," he says, relieved at a way out.

"Obviously if you want me to sell for you, it would be helpful to have some background on the company - how many events you do, how long you've been in business..."

He looks uncomfortable. "We do a bunch of events. We've got a few people working here. We've been in business for a little while." I wonder how he'd feel if he knew that I know how much is in the corporate 401(K) plan.

"That's really helpful, thanks." I close my notebook, indicating that I want to get the hell out of there. "I look forward to getting your proposal. Thanks for making the time to meet with me." I add the "with" to show how transatlantic I can be.

He gets up from his desk for the first time, to escort me from the building, and he's about six foot six. Not that I mind tall; some of my best friends blah blah blah. I just wish I'd have had some warning, I was a little... surprised. He behaved like an extremely short person.

"You're a very smart girl, Sasha," he says to me. I avoid eye contact, and think about the fact that he's probably ten years younger than me, if a little taller.

Jake walks me out to reception like Daddy Long Legs and shakes my hand by the elevator. While I'm still waiting, he turns away towards the faux-receptionist, and exclaims:

"Why d'you let her take the brochures? You know we don't let brochures out of the office?"

Sasha has left the building.

Everyone's doing it: writing one of those books: ReGeneration, QuirkyAlone.

Watch this space.

A very wise friend said this to me recently:
"Life is too complicated. Why do I need a cell phone that has a hundred number memory? If I need to phone someone and I can't remember their phone number then either I've got too much to do, or my memory is shot."

Give that man a downtown-drink.

"There's no racism in the Jewish community. It's just among the goyim." I just heard someone say that. Really.

PayPal sucks, allegedly.

What would Jesus drive?

Tova Mirvis' new book is out. But then I raved about her first one and not everyone got it.

So my Nokia 7250i doesn't have bluetooth, and my Sony Vaio doesn't have an infrared port. And I have 100 great little pics on my phone. Now what?

Great new way to use Audblog (or, as they pronounce it, ord-blarg) - niggun sharing. Of course.

"I think the reason there is all this beastliness towards Gilligan is because he is not particularly good looking."

Thus says Boris Johnson, on hiring Gilligan to the Spectator. Sheesh. I'd really like my boss to say that about me.

The tyranny of trousers in New York. In fact, only in New York.

A little out of season, I know, but - thanks to Fabe - the Fisher Price Chanukah set.

Courtesy of my Jerusalem correspondent: The Yarmulke Bra. Of course. And for people who are not too voluptuous, right?

Christina Aguilera.

Zipcar.

Also, does anyone know how I get my pictures off my phone? It's a Nokia 7259i?

Not Exactly the Velvet Underground
Great piece in this weekend's New York Times on virus writers and their thang. (use sashablog/sashablog as a login).

So Friday night, N and I make our way down to The Crane Club, on Amsterdam at 79th. Really. No, we're not clubbing, we're participating in Kol Zimrah, a post-denominational neo-chavura (motto: meanigful prayer through music) - watch me use that jargon. I'm a born-again Jewish intellectual. There's about a hundred people in the basement. Many of them may also be grappling with where they are on the spiritual dimension.

What do New York Jewish women wear? Same as me: black, black and more black. Because you can never look too thin. Especially if you have some curves you're intent on hiding. But this is not a manicure story: I digress in a fashion-oriented way, when really this is about spiritual connection, and music, and a Carlebachy-Debbie Friedman kinda vibe. I like.

Some years ago, I had my first experience of the Noo-York-Jewish-Thang: a friend took me to BJs on a Friday night, and growing up midddle-of-the-road Anglo orthodox, I was bowled over by the hundreds of people, the sound system, the musical instruments, and the fact that everyone went out for Chinese afterwards.

Kol Zimrah has a way-mellow vibe, although there's still something slightly surreal about sitting in the basement of a club on the Upper West Side (had to hold back the urge to order a Manhattan), and N reminds me that they had musical instruments in the Temple, too. Exactly.

After lots of humming swaying, and me wishing I could sing, we made our way down the the JCC for the Tubishvat Seder. Now the irony of having an $x million dollar building three blocks away that doesn't allow "prayer groups" or whatever language they use, was not lost on me. This isn't a problem we have - yet - in the UK, because Anglo-Jewish life officially evolves around the synagogue you don't go to. But I can see why the existing synagogues could be worried that this shiny new toy (it's be open less than two years) would take people away from traditional synagogue buildings.

And it has a gym, the JCC, which obviously I didn't visit on shabbes, but it got me thinking. I've often thought a shul is very like a gym: you pay a lot of money, you don't go often enough, you feel guilty, and when you're there, you spend time chatting not doing what you came for. Why not combine the two? Looks like the JCC of Manhattan already thought of that.

There's a lot more to say. But I'm thinking of getting a workout, and then I'm meeting J and O on the Lower East side. Tough life, eh?

Friday, I got up lateish, N made me a truly healthy kale, lentils and onion breakfast, which I'm going to recreate back home, and then I set out for some serious shoppage. I love to walk in the City. Sadly, it was utterly pissing it down, but I walked from 72nd down to 28th, and back to 59th (then I got a taxi as it was getting late).

The rain is everywhere. The snow is piled up at the side of the pavement, and you can see tide marks on nearly everyone's troushers, around knee level. It's wet. When you go into stores, security guards give you a bag for your umbrella. People comment on your "cute accent". Everyone uses the word safe a lot; "safe trip", "safe weekend", and not in the London street way. I was last in New York before 9/11, and it's changed. People are calmer, friendlier, warmer. While waiting at the beauticians on 30th, I fell into a long conversation with a woman who'd had a double manicure/pedicure because she was going away for the weekend, and when we said goodbye, that's what she said: "safe weekend."

I know I've been lax - I've been busy. Great trip, though.

Thursday, went to N&N's farewell party (winging their way back to East Finchley after four years in Manhattan) at the private room at Amuse in Chelsea. Given that it was already 1am London time when I got there, I think I did a pretty good job of staying awake chatting to people. Ran into a couple of (ex) Londoners, ate fabulous canapes, and cute little "British" biscuits iced with union jacks. Theme of the evening: hedge funds. I learned a lot. And my client who just decided to do a (big hedge funds) piece of work internally rather that with me? Huge mistake.

I'm here. Going to a party (downtown) - back later.

I'm at Paddington. Fatality at Ealing. Could be some time.

Remember Connect 4? This is DeConnect 4 - the ultimate in deconstruction. So twentyfirst century.

The syndrome that never was? Gulf war syndrome litigation collapses.

Urban tribes and its favourite review.

So, like three months ago I issued an invite to a major UK broadcaster to keynote at a show I'm putting together. Got passed from pillar to post, finally get someone to say yes. And then, they say, "they're having a review to ensure it's the right person." I am a little frustrated.

The Jerusalem Post Literary Quarterly.

Tangential aside: couple of years ago I saw Will Self interviewed by Melvyn Bragg at Jewish Book week. Self said that when Elena Lappin asked him to write more than he wanted to, he responded: "I'm only Jewish quarterly."

It's on LiveJournal (OK, three hail mary's), it's dramatic. You know what you need: LJDrama - all those brioguses and fribles writ large, in detail and online.

Any alphabet you want, anytime.

I'm starting to hate Micro$oft Outlook with an intense hatred. What it does to IMAP folders shouldn't even be reported. If I add up all the wasted time while I reboot, it must be 30 minutes a day, and time is money, as I just said to a telemarketer trying to sell me double glazing. Anyone recommend any palm-friendly mail clients/diary type thingies?

Somebody (relatively lowly) from the department of health, when enquiring about by holiday in a "we're fake friends, how are you?" way, actually said in response to my answer "well, enjoy, enjoy." I mean, really.

I'm busy. Trying to finish projects before my trip. And, I have to go to a client's client's meeting in Kingston. Not Kingston, Jamaica, of course.

Remember the eighties? Oh, OK, maybe it's the seventies. This music does my head in - and has been since 197X, I suspect - so it's not my screensaver, but I so remember sitting in the hall when I was in Upper IIH (at least that's what I think it was called), and watching this thing go round and round till the TV programme came on.

I only post this, because last night's show was at JFS's brand new school building, and school nowadays seems to be rather like a modern university campus: all computer screens with directions, shiny newness and amazing facilities. Whither sick-coloured walls, the smell of overcooked cabbage and not a computer to be had?

Jonathan Lethem mentioned this, and I don't want it to drop off the end: Twitch and Shout, a movie about Tourette's Syndrome.

Also, does anyone know anything about currency?

Did I mention I'm interviewing a comedienne when I'm in NY? Does anyone know where I can get a (cheap) tape recorder?

I caved in - my new car is supposed to arrive today. I'm not holding my breath, as it was supposed to arrive last Tuesday, but they sold it to someone else. They've guaranteed that it'll be here before 11am, as I have to out to a meeting, but I'm feeling generally untrusting of any customer service operation. Call me a cynic. OK, I'm a cynic.

Feed Me, Seymoour!
Last night I took 15 of my closest friends to see Little Shop of Horrors in the brand-new Off Crickewood Broadway Production (which you've missed. Two nights only). Yes, it's am-dram. But it was fab, and I came home all singing and toe-tapping and full of the joys of intergalactic scary-plantlife.

Jewish people have a habit of calling the rest of the world "non-Jews", implying that the world is mostly Jewish, and there's just a handful of the non-variety. Today, I wondered if Muslims do the same: and there's only one way to find out. The democratiser of the web - google. So google has 75k hits for non-Jews, and - surprisingly - 108k hits for non-Muslims. So they do it more than us. Though, on a per-member basis, perhaps less so.

Slightly scary, so look out for these: common "pretexts" used by private investigators.

Did I mention I'm flying Virgin?

About Last Night
Dinner at M's in N10. (Or N's in M10, and then it would have been on the motorway) I feel under pressure now, actually, because I - possibly misguidedly - mentioned I had a weblog during the conversation, and now everyone'll look, and think either (a) I'm just not a very good writer, (b) I haven't accurately reflected the evening, or (c) something else derogatory. Upbeat this morning, aren't I?

I always get stressed going to M's house because he lives on a road you just can't park on, and I say that as someone who lives in zone 2. Albeit, someone who just sold her car. So last night, through a judicious combination of a totally incompetent car hire company, and the generosity of my friends who turned out to be going to the same dinner party, I didn't have to do that, which was cool.

Great evening: conversation covered everything from education policy, the sandwich business, children and how cuddly they are... all the usual chattering classes stuff, although we did forget house prices and London transport policy. M made wonderful (mostly) veggie food, including a Delia puy-lentil dish with goat's cheese that I will be recreating in NW6 sometime very soon.

OK, I can relax now.

Psychiatrists on trial - great piece in yesterday's Guardian about what happens if you "pretend" you're hearing voices. It's an extract from Opening Skinner's Box, published sometime soon.

Moneysupermarket - compare rates on all sort of financial stuff.

After the fun and games (good ones, of course) I had at the UKPA this week getting my new passport, I discovered from a job ad that their mission statement is "confirming identity, enabling travel". P-u-leese. Sounds like it's been through the Dilbert Mission Statement Generator, although I notice that on their website, it's actually "Confirming nationality and identity, enabling travel", which they seem to think is perhaps slightly too xenophobic for a job ad.