Scary times at Stansted.

Another year, another Yom Kippur. I have a feeling of being spiritually cleansed, and feel slightly nervous about going out, as I don't want to ruin it, as I undoubtedly will.

I remember this; when I was about nine or ten, and fervent into my Jewish education (I used to go to extra cheder (hebrew school) on Tuesday, just because I wanted to), I took Yom Kippur very seriously.

Now, the custom is to (a) fast, (b) not wear leather shoes, (c) wear white. A lot of people where trainers, and I noticed yesterday, people wearing leather trainers. Maybe in the future people will think the minhag is to wear sports shoes, for some obscure reason.

So there I was in my white dress, and tennis shoes, and David, the then shul president, says to my dad, then on the Executive, "I don't know if it's anyone for tennis, or if she's a real frummer."

The sad thing about this story is that twenty something years on, my Dad and David are still on the Executive, which says something about (a) their commitment to community, and (b) how disinterested younger people often are in giving something back.

So Yom Kippur starts in a few hours (why not read an interesting experience I once had on Yom Kippur).

Yom Kippur's a big deal; spiritual, introspective, about self-improvement and repairing the world. So, if I've done anything to offend or uspet in the last year, please accept my apologies. And let's hope that we can do small things that make the world a better place next year.

Yom Kippur is not about mankind standing in judgement of humanity; it's about bigger stuff. Let's hope that Kenneth Bigley has a good Yom Kippur, and the insanity of Iraq doesn't get him. I know you can't read this, Ken, but there are lots of people thinking about you. Let's hope that his kidnappers see that their's is not to judge their fellow man.

C'mon, you know you want a USB Mini Desktop Aquarium.

I'm back! It's not often I use exclamation marks. And it's not often I sing the praises of Telewest (or, indeed, any other consumer service organisation. I am dispute driven, let's face it). But Iordan (he's Bulgarian) came twenty minutes into my alloted time slot (11 till 2), and fixed it efficiently and charmingly within about fifteen minutes. I was so happy I gave him a bottle of wine, and he in turn told me that the Black Sea is a fabulous holiday resort, although getting more expensive.

I think I might email his boss. I feel whole again. Me and that internet, we got a thang going on.

I have no idea what the music of The Delgados is like, but their new album is out this week (I saw a posted by Kilburn tube station).

A visual history of spam (and virus) email. Makes you think, this does.

Amazing story about the restitution of Nelson Mandela's diaries from 1969 to 1971.

I'm still in a dialup hinterland. For those of you on broadband who've forgotten what it sounds like, here's a 56K Modem Emulator.

Maybe I shouldn't buy an iPod just yet?

Let's face it, this is all very 1993. Early yesterday afternoon my cable modem did something strange to its lights that the Telewest people think means it's broken. Fine. Except no-one can come out and visit me till Friday between 11 and 2 (and we all know that means 2pm).

So I'm on dial-up. Remember that noise? The heady screech of phone lines that meant "yes, you're connected". I've even done the AOL free trial, so I get the stupid AOL woman saying "you have mail". She's annoying.

And, turns out the phone modem on my desktop PC doesn't work, I don't know if it's a driver problem or what, so I'm on my laptop, but can't get into my mail properly, now, because my sent mail is on my desktop PC. And of course IMAP on dialup with a 1GB mail file is not exactly gonna be my friend.

I'm a lot calmer than I would have been a couple of years ago. I've called the one client who was waiting for something, and told her there'll be a couple of days delay. WHen I got home las night from my writing class, instead of going straight to my PC, I talked to my flatmate and read a book.

There's something to be said for this (although I do feel a bit like it's the beginning of the war, and all the comms is buggered), but I also feel slightly helpless without the power of the internet instantly at my fingers.

More From The Editor's Postbag

Dear Madam,

I refer to our correspondence some months ago, when, in reply to an unprovoked attack on those who install UPVC windows in 1920's/30's houses, I made out, on behalf of my members, the logically unassailable arguments in favour of UPVC double glazing.

I recall a warning that my members should be treated carefully, otherwise there was a risk of retaliation.

Despite the fact that many persons have been targeted, by the unscrupulous fitting of UPVC double glazing in their period properties by my members, in response to the kind of criticism to which you have been a party, I wish to distance my members from any suggestion that it was they who took the present course of action in your home. I am able to say with confidence that if it had been my members, then they would have ensured that every window would have been replaced rather than a few.

I trust that now you have the benefit of UPVC windows, you will ensure that they are not removed. It must be correct that an attempt to remove such windows is a graver offence than merely criticising them.

Yours Faithfully,

The President
Fenestration Society of the Great North West

My sister just bought a Buddha Bag. I want one, but I don't think it'll fit in my house. Maybe I'll get a new house; you know how it is when the ashtrays are full, metaphorically speaking.

Nutters/Racists in the House?

Mostly, when I get round-robin emails, I mentally scrunch them up and lob them in the bin, but when I got this one, just before Yom Tov it made me sit up and take notice.

A woman applying for a job received this response:

Thank you for your CV, but you're not what we're looking for. The ideal person for us will be, first and foremost, an illustrator, as our advertisement specified - working with a pen and brush - with an interest in modelmaking, whereas your own forte is interior design and CAD.. .

Speaking personally however may I suggest that for European consumption you would be wise to omit details of your national service, which you describe with such evident and ingenuous pride? The natural reaction of most educated Europeans to the information you provide is likely to be "so it was she who guided those gunships to targetted assasinations and the murder of women and children with indiscriminate bombing and strafing of refugee camps (refugee camps!!!! 50 years after your compatriots drove them from their homes - and you have done nothing for them ever since.)!".

Most educated Europeans - and as a matter of fact a large proprtion of educated Americans too - now view 'Israel' as a brutal undemocratic (where are the votes for the indigenous inhabitants whom you have helotised?) colonial state, run by criminal who defy all international law and natural justice. And a sizeable proportion doubts the 'right' of Israel to exist . This has nothing to do with anti-semitism. nor is it racism - that is the kind of disgusting attitude which one might say is inherent in the idea of the state of Israel, and one might say among a large section of believing Jews elsewhere, who regard the rest of us as inferior and unclean - and not chosen by God.

What could be more racist than that? And what happens to those of your race who
dare to speak out against the wickedness that your fanatacsim inevitably leads to? they are murdered or have acid thrown in their faces like Yael Dayan just to put you in the picture

Piers Croke
Gisela Graham Limited.


Then, I get an email that someone called Ben Cohen sent to Piers. Piers is clearly unaware that because of the Jewish conspiracy, everyone who knows someone has emailed it to the whole universe. I, of course, am less surprised.

Piers

Like many other people, I've seen the email which you sent to a prospective Israeli applicant. And if you think you can shoot off emails like that without getting an enraged response, you'd better think again, mate.

I'm not going to dignify your ignorant, semi-literate, Jew-hating screed by taking on your argument(by the way, your text was replete with grammatical errors and spelling mistakes, which leads me to think that you're a moron, as well as a racist). What am I going to do - like many others, I imagine - is clog up your in-box with constant reminders of what a scumbag you are, Piers. Do you really think that anyone is going to go over the finer points of Jewish history and philosophy with you?

Do you actually have the cheek to consider yourself educated? You're a ghastly little anti-Semitic spiv; in another context and another time, you'd be lacing up your jackboots and dragging Jewish children off to the gas chambers.

But, Piers, we now live in this context and this time. I imagine that our racial discrimination laws will rapidly put an end to your sparkling career.

If you want to reply to me, go ahead. I'll even meet you if you want. But like most Jew-haters, you're probably too much of a coward.

Yours (very) sincerely

Ben Cohen

Then, I understand, Pearl Moonsamy, General Manager at Gisela Graham, issues a statement saying the firm is commited to equality of opportunity, and that Piers Croke has been suspended for improper use of Company communications. I have called Pearl three times this morning, but she hasn't yet had a chance to return my call.

So that sounds right and just. I called up again just now, and asked to speak to Piers and he's still there. Of course, I'm not in full possession of the facts; it's possible matters have moved on since I last got email on this, and I've not been able to verify the status with Pearl.

But through the joy of the internet, here's what I do know about Piers: he likes writing reviews on Amazon, (and thinks that deformity and sacrifice are what captures a child's imagination), that he likes writing letters (here's one to the Guardian, where he appears, somewhat bizarrely, to be likening the American justice system to sharia law), and he (or another Piers Croke, perhaps) is abig TS Elliot fan, and contributed to his 70th birthday symposium. I also know where he lives, but then so does everyone with access to 192.com.

The web is apparently being used tohold old media to account. Exactly. C'mon, old media. Do stuff faster, more responsively and in an informal way.

Let's face it; there are two kinds of people (people who divide people into two kinds of people.... ). People who think everyone's basically bad/evil, and people who think everyone's basically benign/good. I fall in the latter category: mostly it works out.

But enough about me. What do you think about what I think?

If you call Camden Council and ask for the housing department, the person on the switchboard says "housing" and you say "yes, housing" and she says "I have to repeat it, it's in my job description."

Well, Mike, you every wish is my command. Herewith, a handful of interior images from my fabulous trip to Derbyshire.

I wish I could see Graham Norton and Duran Duran on Jonathan Ross. Oh well.

"We do not inherit the Earth from our Ancestors, we borrow it from our children".

Do you get really sick of 0870 customer service numbers that are "the price of a local call" but in these deregulated telecomms days, cost 3p to 7p a minute? You need Say No to 0870.

Did I mention that I saw Vivienne Westwood at the V&A? Obviously, you can't take in a camera, but a phone?

I had a dream...

...last night, that something bad happened to my house. For some reason, I was convinced that the boiler was burst, and I called my flatmate this morning and he said no, everything was fine.

I just got back from Manchester, and get off the motorway, and I'm looking forward to getting home. I always like walking/driving up to my house; it's a moderately well maintained Victorian detached house (converted into umpteen flats, of course), with all the original windows and fittings. It gives me a nice warm feeling.

Only this time, I get home and discover my neighbours who "own" the front three upstairs windows have replaced them with UPVC windows.

Remember how I talked about UPVC windows earlier in the year?

Now, the rational part of me knows that they're at the front of the house, it's probably noisy, there's less maintenance (although that's all shared, and we're due to decorate the outside next summer). But I feel like someone slashed the face of my beautiful house with a knife. I think that surely something that fundamentally changes the look of the house for everyone who lives here ought to have been discussed, although I'm sure my neighbours just thought they were doing improvements and it can only be a good thing.

I'm a little upset.

So I'm just about to hit the road (Jack), although I will obviously be coming back some more.

There's something about being back in Cheadle that I love. Especially Rosh Hashannah time. When I look around at all the people me and my brother and sister grew up with, I kinda think there were special creative juices in the Cheadle/Gatley soil between 1971 and 1981. Our contemporaries are film makers, musicians, journalists, and I just found out that Guy Swimer wonSpanish Pop Idol. (I like to think this is because I taught him in Sunday school, although I doubt it. I also was surprised to see him be reported as a "waiter from Stockport" as opposed to "a former ad executive from Cheshire" but that's the rags to riches thang for you.) I didn't see him in shul, but then with the overflow (sorry, parallel service) you don't get to see everyone.

So I've eaten my fill of honey cake and had more meals in three days that I previously thought was humanly possible. I've hung out with my nephews/niece, who are all growing up and at the cute age where you can have proper conversations with them, and saw Trauma last night, which is kind of scary. But good.

So, I'll be on the M56/M6(toll)/M1, if you need me.

Forget Sacha Baron Cohen: this is Naomi's ADL Ad and surrounding controversy.

I'm in Manchester. It's raining. Here are some more photos from my holiday.

I have a thing about buildings. Uzès is a mass of winding cobbled streets, a beautiful twelfth century (I think) church, and a relaxed mellowness that I loved.

See the picture at the bottom? I remember when I was a kid my parents had a photo hung up in their bathroom. It was an Athena-style seventies picture of a forest, framed with a deep back border, and a chrome frame. Under the picture was the legend: "of magic doors, there is this: you do not see them even as you're passing through." I spent a huge chunk of my childhood sitting in the littlest room trying to work out what it meant. For some reason, this picture reminds me of that.

It's the first day of the New Year (let's just say I had a lot of figs and pomegranate last night), and all I've got to show you are my holiday pics.

I am rather disturbed to discover, despite my dissing the old-lady comfort of the Van Dal brand, that I might actually consider wearing these boots.

Let me be the nth person today to say we live in troubled times. And I don't mean Iraq, or terrorism (threat), I mean I think we're losing it when it comes to basic human respect.

I just spent a four hour drive to Manchester listening to the reports on the alleged police violence at the Anti Hunting Ban demonstration in Parliament Square, the storming of the house, and the Commons being suspended. (Read the Guardian coverage here.)

Now, as you know, I'm not rural. I can't read a map, or talk to animals. I can negotiate a mobile phone contract at thirty paces, argue with a traffic warden (and win), and walk purposefully through the supposedly dangerous streets of Kilburn. I'm urban, almost as urban as they come. That's not to say I don't like the country; I love hill walking, and even cycling if it's flat, and I've spent many wonderful weekends in North Wales, The Peak National Park and Shropshire getting to know our beautiful country. (Although I did miss the web acess).

And I'm a vegetarian, of sorts.

This is all a precursor to saying that I don't understand about hunting, and I probably don't agree with it.

But I do believe in basic human respect, and giving people a democratic voice (ie the right to peaceful protest), and while I don't want to say "what's the country coming to?" I can't help wondering how we got in this fine mess.

That's my New Year's message, such as it is. Do you think they'll give me some Van Dal shoes and an old-lady handbag?

See, this always happens. I need to get going, the car's half packed, and I keep coming back to my PC with ideas I need to get out of my head.

Did I mention I saw the Hopper exhibition at the Tate, before I went to France? There was a great piece in the coffee shop about Hopper's influence on contemporary cinema: stills from Blue Velvet next to his work.

I have an Automat postcard on my office wall. Of course I've never been stood up.

I saw SUPER SIZE ME at the weekend. It took some serious amount of googling to find the McDonalds site (supersize me - the debate) which they advertise before the film, because, let's face it folks, once you put a hyphen in your web address, things aren't looking good.

It's a very engaging, compelling movie, where you know the punchline, but you're still surprised. Have to admit I looked away during the stomach stapling surgery - life's too short to have some images in my head.

What's it really about? We're not citizens anymore, we're consumers. Of food, energy, the earth's precious resources; it's a 24-hour leisure-go-round.

One thing: I've eaten less since Saturday night.

Happy New Year

Just packing my car for Manchester (I know, I know, I shouldn't be driving, but there are basically no trains, and I'm not really prepared to fly there anymore). I am armed with five honey cakes for my family, and lots of edible French goodies.

So, l'shana tova (it starts tonight), and here's to a sweet, peaceful year for all of us and the planet.

I will have web access, of course, so don't panic. If you were.

I've been worried about what Les Magoon calls the "the Big Roll Over" for a while. Basically, it's when the demand for oil outstrips supply.

Think of this: it was cheaper for me to fly return to Nimes than it was to get a taxi to Stanstead Airport. It's cheaper to fly to Manchester (although more hassle) than to get a train or drive. There's an environmental cost to our cheap weekends and no-frills travel, but no-one wants to pay it.

I think we live in a time where travel is as cheap and accessible as it's ever going to be. So get traveling - never seen the Emerald Buddah? Get thee hence before a trip to NY costs £5,000 and Asia is just out of everyone's reach.

This madness can't go on. There are too many cars, most of them only have one passenger, if you live in a city it's almost impossible to give up car ownership because the transport infrastructure is decaying, and if you're rural, there's hardly any transport infrascture to speak of, it costs about £25k to get solar panels on your house, and you can never resolve the proportional sharing with your neighbours if you're in a conversion, and we have worse weather than we've ever had.

There's a 24-hour gym in Swindon. Trouble is, by the time I get there, it'll be time to go back to work.

I'm still awake.

Some market-style images from Saint Remy and Isle sur la Sourge.

I bought some Camargue Fleur de Sel on holiday, but have just discovered Halen Môn

Obviously we're all gagging to get a peek at the latest pics from New York fashion week. Really.

I kinda am. In a low-value, not-that-important way, I something of a follower of fashion. I bought a pink corduroy jacket in Dorothy Perkins, because it's very "now". That's about as far as I go.

Tangentially about fashion, here's a thing I don't get. Remember when you used to put your winter boots away in April, or at the latest, May? Just like my Mum doesn't wear tights between Pesach and Rosh Hashannah, there used to be a sense of season.

This year, for the first time, it's OK to wear boots with summer clothes. Personally, I blame it on Kate Moss - she of the shortest-of-short skirts, and eighties suede pixie boots. It just makes me feel like people have their summer bodies on, but are wearing their winter legs.

But I'm pleased. I'm a boots person, deep down. So today, I'm jeans, t-shirt, and pink suede boots. So there.

The Guide Goes Blog.

I'm lovin' this. Obviously an overused phrase, but in this case, good. One day, we'll wake up, and the whole of the Guardian will be a weblog.

Wish I was in NY on 14th September for the Cupcake reading. Er, which is tonight. Go, gals.

A handful of images from my Provencal holiday. More to come, but say something, please.

I can't believe there's a band called Sheitgeist. You read it here first (in June 2002, and then more thoughtfully in January this year).

The Sims Online is tamagotchi for the wired generation.

I like to have one activity in my life that's time wasting in a slightly meditative way. It was an online community for a while, and now it's valuing property for no good reason. The Sims could be the next generation of subversive time management anti-tools.

I've been advised I shouldn't even try it, or I'll be hooked for life. Can't I even try it once, I asked? No, the first hit's always free.

Chickspeak - do you want Botox with that?

Yet another trend. Yet another daily e-letter. Sometimes it's 3pm before I've got through all the daily culturally relevant emails I'm signed up to.

Eastend Doors...

I bought a hat (OK, a beret) from Margotulle Accueil when I was in Provence. I love it when even a guy in a craft market has a website.

Just what I've always wanted... a free bus shelter.

Whoops, got one already.

Well, I'm back in the land of the living (aka wired) although me email and web host is not. While I have some unscedhuled downtime, thought I'd start looking for a new mail host.

Think my initial requirements list looks like this:
- POP3
- IMAP
- squirrel mail or good webmail
- excellent reliability
- opportunities for multiple website addresses without (huge) extra setup costs
- good phone support if things go wrong
- reasonable price

... any ideas/recommendations?

Kylie Minogue is having a late lunch in La Maison du Village in Saint Remy right now. She didn't recognise us.

brief web access: had a wonderful day admiring the medieval city of Uzès, whiling away an hour or two in the Place des Herbes over a herbal tea. Stopped at the Pont du Gard (Roman aqeuduct) on the way back. Yesterday, went to the Sunday antique market at Isles sur la Surge. Read four books, deep conditioned my hair, slept in the shade, read a Sunday newspaper from cover to cover, and generally feel like a new woman.

Spending the day in Uzès, turning into a piece of pottery artisanale.

Mil Millington gets 5/10: compelling enough to get to the end but didn't really do it for me. Today's book: Holy Cow! by Sarah MacDonald - quite moving, spotted a couple of my mates who were mentioned in passing: 7/10. Tommorrow's book: The Making of Henry by Howard Jacobson.

Mil Millington's so f***ing ironic that the whole book is like an authorial aside. It's making me tired.

I need to read a book that isn't a first person narrative.

Finished yesterdays book turned out to be 6/10 although there were a quite a few typos. I held back the desire to get out a red pen and edit. Just the average chick-lit read, really. Now reading Mil Millington's A Certain Chemistry it's okay in a post-modern, self-knowing way.

Sitting by the pool under a fig tree, reading Dot.Homme by Jane Moore. It's very 4/10 she spells internet with a capital 'i' and somebody has just jpeg'd her a photo. No, really.

Consider This A Postcard.

I'm in Saint-Remy de Provence, on dial-up, with a French keyboqrd. It's
amazing: a beautiful hotel, with a pool and fig trees, and small (ten rooms), and nice owners who showed us around and teach art classes; OK, I had to get up at 4am, but it was worth it.

I am mellow. I am relaxed. I have 6 or 7 books to read, a shady tree to sit under, great company, and it turns out that Saint-Remy is like the Hampstead of Provence; more chichi shops and restaurants than we'll get through in a week.

Have fun. I will.

There was the largest spider in my bathroom at 4am, but I left it for my flatmate. Hiya K.

Yep, it's 4.35am. No, I don't have jetlag. I'm going to the South of France in ten minutes (easyJet, or some such airline where the cheap flights leave way early), and we'll be there at 10am.

I know, it's one long holiday. It's been a while, though.

Unsure of internet access scenario; I may or may not be gone some time. (Although, as you know, the withdrawl symptoms usually get to me, so I'm sure you'll be seeing me briefly).

Be good, now.

Once, I went on a moderately hippy holiday to a Greek island where you could do all sorts of classes. I took belly dancing, and it was me, ten other women, and a bloke who was clearly exploring his feminine side, as he dressed as a woman for the whole two weeks, and brought all his own sparkly outfits for the dancing. He was good, and it's hard for the guys, with the hip thing.

Six months later, I'm sitting in a meeting at PWC, with one of (and their huge, so they have loads of them), their Marketing Directors, all besuited, and he leans forward, and says to me, "haven't we met somewhere before?".

Didn't recognise him in his civvies.

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is back. On the radio. Tuesday 21 September at 6.30pm. I'm there.

Surreal Evening with (alleged) Jewish Twist

I know, I know, it's like 4am, and I should be asleep. Maybe I am asleep. Maybe I imagined the whole thing.

Just had an amazing evening. It only wound up about 3am, but I'm the person-on-call, hence still awake.

Let's backtrack a little: I'm in a field in Shropshire with about 300 Jewish people. Me and some buddies (I think I may have had a very minor role, it's just my grammar that puts me first) organised the first ever Limmudfest over the Bank Holiday weekend. It's a camping/outdoorsy multi-generational, cross-denominational weekend. We went through a few possible names: Burning Mensch, LimmudStock... but fest it is.

It's kinda exciting seeing something come to fruition: there's been walks, swimming, tennis, writing, singing, mysticism, text study. Something of a smorgasbord of Jewish stuff.

Because I'm on the core team, we've rota'd ourselves to be the responsible person, should Anything Terrible happen (we are Jewish, after all), hence the late hour. I will go to bed in a minute, and set my three mobile phones and walkie-talkie to VERY LOUD.

Tonight, we had a beautiful havdalah in the field next to the marquee (fire hazard, obviously). There's nothing quite like 300 people swaying with candles to make you think you're in a cult. Not, it was lovely, really.

Straight after that, we set up the bar in the back of the marquee, for NightFest. The evening opened with Pey Dalid, three Carlebachian brothers with Bob Marley influences. To follow, was Eitan G, aka The Jewish rapper (you may remember that I saw him at a gig in March). There was something surreal about both acts lyrics (make-a make-a make-a make-a ha'motzi, but rapped), and I ended up on stage with Emma and Benjy doing backing vocals (don't worry Mum, I didn't actually sing) and dancing. It was both fun and crazy; everyone was dancing and getting into it, some with more of a sense of irony than others.

Because our licence only ran till 12, we moved from the marquee into the theatre, and people were jamming and making full use of the complete set of percussion instruments we'd thoughtfully brought with us. Some incredible talents: a couple of great jazz singers, and a guy called Richard, who when he was playing the piano, I overheard the following conversation:
- He's a very talented pianist
- And he's also an oncologist, you know

Most surreal moment? Eitan G rapping with Pey Dalid backing him, and Laoise playing klezmer on the oud, and the kind of Israeli dancing people do at weddings (line dancing with a twist, basically), on stage in the background.

No, really.

I feel like I'm not doing this justice, but it's late, and I wanted to get my thoughts down before I keel over.

I'm in Shropshire. I'm on dial up. It's sunny. M has put up his yurt.

Oh What A Night

I had such a great day yesterday - sorry this is turning into a diary, it is a weblog, I promise - caught up with my hairdresser who has been cutting my hair since I was 17, saw all my nephews and nieces, and had dinner with my Mum, Dad, sister and brother (other halves unavailable, we did invite them), which we figured we hadn't done in a long time.

I made griddled salmon with steamed brocolli and courgettes, and we talked, and laughed, and my Dad opened a lovely bottle of chardonnay, and I bought everyone pedometers because it's my new religion.

I'm off to Shropshire in about half an hour - there's something quite indulgent about driving, and leaving when you want, although the traffic yesterday was crazy, even on the toll road - and I hear we only have dial-up there. It may or may not be good for me, I'll let you know.

I'm in Manchester. It's sunny, I have a tent in my boot, and I'm getting my haircut. Not that I'm camping here, I'm staying in an excellent boutique hotel in Cheadle, but I'm camping (ish) at the weekend.

Why do I still get my haircut in Manchester when I've lived in London since the last millennium? Answers on a postcard...

You take the Toll Road and I'll take the low road, and you'll get to Manchester afore me.

Overheard in John Lewis this morning:

"Nah, you don't buy shorts here, Curtis, it's too expensive. You go to a proper shop, yeah."

I can't help wondering what a proper shop is.

BlogThis! is buggered... when you BlogThat, it adds in loads of extra stuff that refers back to your own home page. Great. MT here I come...

Remind me, is it good or bad when a black cat crosses your path?

Do you know where you can get cute wellies with flowers, but not for fifty squid?

JDate banners feature pictures of porn models.

Finally, some sense from Wired magazine - lower case internet from now on.

And yes, it's 2am. Travel may broaden the mind but it's lousy for your body clock.

Yep, it's 1am. Jetlag sucks.

Famous Rabbis. Because you never know when it might, y'know, come in handy.

Blog in a Box... see, this is where I've been going wrong:
- Write About Virtually Any Topic That Interests You

- Be Successful No Matter What Your Skill Level Is

So it turns out I'm not so much of a blogger as part of some kind of bizarre empty pyramid selling operation. Who knew?

The customer service story from hell: Dan at JeW*SCHooL is having fun and games with the Google AdSense team to beat all others.

You may say that all roads (here, at least) lead to Cheadle, but I couldn't possibly comment. James Middleweek may or may not be a Cheadle boy, but he sure looks like someone in my nursery school class. Only a little older, and wearing a suit.

Online News From The Tribeca Trib - fame - for some - at last.

I'm back. I have the mother of all jetlag incidents. I'm going to have a lie down now.

Last night did that last-night-of-holiday thing and stayed up till 2am. We swayed with the rest of them at the closing gala. One of our number, C, had wisely bought a litre of Teachers at the airport, and because US campuses don't have bars, because of the age limits, I'm guessing, we were suddenly everyone's best friend: C met a guy who left Budapest exactly the same month as her; we heard Victor the security guard's story, worked out the difference between Reform and Liberal Judaism, talked a lot about Limmud, made new friends...

It's all getting a little twee. Sorry.

So I'm off to Manhattan, lunch with M (and, luckily, leaving my bag in her office, as there's no left luggage in the whole of Manhattan, since 9/11), a little shopping, maybe a gallery, maybe go back to JTS and see some more Cairo fragments. He said call anytime.

If I find an internet cafe, you'll be the first to know. What have you been up to?

Things I must remember to check out (from Arthur Kurzweil's publishing session); Regina Jonas, Cynthia Ozick, Faye Kellerman, In Memory's Kitchen, Walt Whitman's self publishing, Jews Who Rock, Rock 'n Roll Jews, Stars of David. Think of this as my notebook.

I had dinner with Rosie Rosenzweig two nights ago. She is very cool and funky (I mean funky in the English sense, aka cool/interesting).

They're not fat. It's a virus. No, really.

Now, either that guy has multiple identical t-shirts, or he's wearing the same shirt two days on the run. No, really. He just came in and sat down in front of me again.

Shopping and F***ing Boring

Once, I was on a stopover at LAX for a couple of hours, and I called an acquaintance and asked her to come and have lunch. She took me to that place in the airport that looks like aliens have landed.

Because of her anorexia, she ordered a salad with everything on the side, even the side. And she talked about all the psycho-pharmacologists she was seeing. Don't get me wrong, she was nice, but, y'know, had issues.

But I noticed something. I thought we were having lunch, refuelling, almost. She regarded the whole setup as an opportunity to review the Service Level Agreement. Our server didn't bring us iced water. She was promised nuts on the salad (which at 50% fat she clearly wasn't going to eat anyway). It was like tag; she was chasing, and our server was losing.

Which is all a roundabout way of saying that in the past I've always though the US is great, because it's about service. But now I feel you can be over-serviced. I don't like the whole "hi, I'm Megan, I'll be looking after you this evening" shtick because she didn't look after us, and I'd rather she wasn't so - frankly - insincere about the whole thing.

And when people in a restaurant come up to you and say "do you have any questions?" I want to ask them the capital of Estonia, or the dollar/yen exchange rate. Or whether her shoes were made by workers paid less than the minimum wage. Because how often do you have genuine questions when you're in a generic chain restaurant?

I'm sure I'm saying nothing new, but I just don't like the faux-sincerity (fauxerity?) of the "have a nice day" world. Because none of these people care if I have a nice day, and I know this because when I worked in Manhattan, people kept saying "we must have lunch" and I naively sat by my desk waiting for them to come and have lunch with me. I have learned my lesson the hard way.

When we went out to dinner last night at 9pm, the mall was still open, and people were shopping and consuming and were still at it when we left at 11. I may have bought two cool t-shirts, but I don't think it makes me a better poiss-un.

The plastic smiles and plastic service of this plastic world make me forget that I'm a real person, and think that I'm a collection of cash and credit-cards and unfulfilled desires.

I think I yearn for the reality-reflecting shoddiness of average service in a rainly London store. Where they may not be very polite, but at least I know they mean it.

Also, I forgot to say, I've made some nice new friends, and don't feel so lonely now. Perhaps, despite all my twentyfirst century global citizen shtick, I'm human, and get a little [what is that word?] with travel. After all, it's not natural, is it?

It's A Numbers Game

American Jews are very numbers oriented. I can't count the number of times this week people have asked me how many Jews there are in the UK, and how disappointed they look with 250-300,000. Yesterday, I overheard this conversation:

A: Rabbi, so how many members are there in your congregation?
B: That's an interesting question. There was some community politics before I left. The new management group shared with the community that they wouldn't be entering into a contract renewal discussion with the Rabbi - that's me -
A: mmm
B: and, so, I called my attorney
[I don't know if I have the order of this right, so I'm not exactly sure at what point they called their attorney. ]
A: mmm
B: And now I think 100 members have resigned
A: So it's a shrinking community?
B: well, my attorney...

Like I say, it's a fragment.

Yesterday, I had a great day. I went on an organised tour from CAJE to JTS (the Jewish Theological Seminary, training ground for Conservative Rabbis), and we had a presentation on their special collection. Then we did a walking tour of Jewish Harlem.

David Wachtel, from the Rare Printed Books section at JTS. Not only have I held a fragment from the Cairo Geniza in my hand, but I've seen Maimonides/The Rambam's signature. For real. I saw a fragment of one of only 180 copies of the Guttenberg Bible (the Noble [must check spelling] fragment of Esther. I learned a new word - incunables (books printed by movable-type before 1501) - and found out that JTS has like 90% of all Hebrew incunables in its library. David is someone who so clearly loves his work, and it was a real pleasure to hear him speak. I'm kinda thinking I might go back for a couple of hours before I hit the airport. And I think I'm down to the British Library special collection as soon as I get home.

We skipped past the exhibit (translation: exhibition) and it was a rare pleasure to be with a collection of 40 or so people (ok, women in comfortable shoes) who loved learning and books and Jewish history as much as I do. It was great to be with kindred spirits, although my shoes were a little uncomfortable.

Small personal aside: walking through the regular library, I see all the magazines and journals on display. And what's standing right in front of me? The current issue of the Jewish Quarterly (that's the passion issue) with my column inside. Looking around the library, I'm thinking "gee - because I am now, of course, American - I'm in illustrious company."

Oscar Israelowitz - who's a maven on NY, synagogues, and the subway system - gave us a fascinating tour that covered the 350 year anniversary of Jews arriving in New York (there's a re-enactment of 23 Jews arriving on September 12th, apparently) and we walked around the Mount Morris Park Historic District which is a conservation area quite a bit more worth than my local.

I felt very at home - it had something of a Kilburnesque feel to it - a mix of people (black, white, brown), a slightly gentrified feel, and an urban buzz, without the high-rise claustraphobia of midtown or even the Upper West Side. I sensed that some people on the tour didn't feel so comfortable.

Jews and real estate, though (translation: property). So we're walking around seeing old nineteenth century shuls that are now churches, and admiring the architecture, and people are saying things like "how much do these houses go for?" "two million?" "they were $60,000 dollars only five years ago."

There's a real Ango/US cultural difference around money/prices. UK-ers are pretty low-key (aka silent) about how much they earn and how much their house cost. US-ers are much more likely to say to a new acquaintance, "how much was your appartment?"

A woman sitting near me on the bus responded to my comment about the city, thus "me, I'm in New Joisey, but my daughter lives in Manhattan. 250 square feet, $1400 dollars a month, but what can do you?"

All in all, a great day, topped by dinner in the cheesecake factory with my buddies. We have bonded. We are leaving tomorrow.

And I can't be the only person who hates what Blogger's done to my weblog with that silly (let's face it, marketing) stripe at the top. What am I, chopped liver?

Last night: heard Richard Joel, the new President of Yeshiva University ("I say to my workaholic colleagues, only my kids will say kaddish for me"), and loads of music: Golem, Seeds of [something, must check], Debbie Friedman, and watched Tova Feldshuh's movie about Golda's Balcony. I really want to see that show. And Tovah was a warm, funny, bechaint kinda gal. Well, woman, really. She had every rolling in the aisles when she couldn't remember the phone number for eductor-discount tickets, and said "and the menopause is really good."

I'm having more fun; I've mellowed to the American sensibility, and met some cool people I can talk to. Last night at dinner, we met up with a fabulous group of people (women: there are a lot of women here) who have been/are coming to Limmud, and they were wonderful.

I think what's hard about big places is creating the opportunity for small connections. So sure, I've been in a room with 1,400 people, but I don't know them.

I'm just off to JTS and Jewish Harlem... Have a nice day, now.

Two things. Sort-kinda-maybe about geneology.

Since I was about fourteen, I've been fascinated by where I came from. I might look'n'feel English, but I knew I was from somewhere else. I remember asking my Grandma about (already deceased) Grandpa's family, and her telling me all the siblings I knew, and then saying "of course there were the two sisters they left behind". I'm just never going to know who those sisters were... they surely married and changed their names, and, it was before the war, and, well, y'know.

What really got me going was sharing an office with a woman in my first job where she spent every weekend going around churches in the UK and doing the detective work that took her back to the tenth century. The tenth century (I don't use exclamation marks very often). I could just about get three generations. I'll admit it: I was jealous.

Another time, at a wedding (friends always seat me with their non-Jewish friends, because I'm - allegedly - good with "non Jews" as we ridiculously call the vast majority of the planet), I was sitting with a couple who'd been at college in Leeds with my friend. They were both from the same Yorkshire village, and their families had been their since the ninth century. That's 1,000 years. Count'em.

Like most things, it's the journey as much as the destination.

I think that was three things. So sue me.

I am your idea. One day you'll look for me, and I'll be gone.

Yesterday, I was rushing to get to the first session I wanted to go to, Arthur Kurtzweil on Jewish Geneology. But I was running around in the rain, and I couldn't find the building, and I gave up.

(It is a little known fact that I am doing my family tree.. I regard it as a lifelong project, and the last couple of years I didn't do so much. Five years ago, I was visiting my Great Uncle Woolfie (may his name be for a blessing) in Tel Aviv, and he had some documents... my great grandparents ketuba (marriage certificate) that I wanted to copy. He wasn't letting them out of his appartment. Eventually, I left him my passport, and went down to the corner store to get a copy. I couldn't believe that I was holding hundred year old documents in my hands. The guy in the store looks at the document, and says "Vaslui, I'm from Vaslui." I was bowled over, so many questions. "What's it like?" I ask. His reply: "It's not big, and it's not small." But I digress.)

After supper, we went to the opening gala, and out of 1400 people, who am I sitting next to? Arthur. That's what my Mum would definitely call beshert. (Hi, Mum, consider this a postcard). We chatted - geneology, Jewish stuff, life in general - and I got up at 8am to get to his session on Adin Steinsaltz's Thirteen Petalled Rose.

Wow, I'm kinda mindblown and still processing it.

(And this bit is just a braindump of references I want to check later: Andy Warhol/The Kiss (movie), Abbie Hoffma/Soon to Be A Major Motion Picture, Steinsaltz/The Candle of G!d/Ben Zoma's who is rich definition/gam zu letova. Because as we all know, a blog is just as much my outboard brain as it is for you to read.)

A Meditation on Loneliness

(Sorry for the poncey title. But I've been thinking about this stuff).

There's 1400 people here at CAJE (a Jewish education conference). At Limmud, we have almost twice as many. I'm not saying that in the traditional - Jewish - numbers-game way, I'm saying it to acknowledge that among 3,00ish people, I kinda feel at home. I know my way around, I know some people (OK, more than some), it's my community, I know the language, I know the deal.

Here, I'm an outsider. Six of us are the Briddish delegation, and I suddenly feel how people who come to Limmud for the first time feel. Overwhelmed. Confused. Disoriented. Don't get me wrong, I feel those things too sometimes, but I know they'll pass, because I'm home.

Here, I'm watching. I'm like a novelty doll in a high-class animation: pull my head, and I do the cutesy accent. Listen: last night, they were giving out ice-cream, so I went to get some for my friends (OK, they sent me), and when I went to the ice-cream guy, there was a woman there, and she looked at my badge and said "gee, London." Then I asked for six ice-creams, but I didn't want to appear glutonous, so I turned to her, and said "they're not all for me, honest, my friends sent me,", and she replied "gee, she's cute."

I feel disconnected. I'm not a professional Jewish educator, although I'm commited to Torah Lishmah (learning for it's own sake). I can't talk about camp, or the sanctuary, or my JCC, or how I've been coming here for twenty years, but I like being here.

Being Jewish has an outsiderness to it, and being Anglo has an added outsider dimension, so being in such an out-and-proud place, despite all my protestations about being a New Jew (which I am, if I wasn't, I wouldn't even be here) this is off my scale.

I've smiled at some people who haven't smiled back. I've talked to some people who are clearly only going through the motions.

Having said that, I've met some wonderful people, too. But the glass is always half empty, right?

(I wrote this in my notebook last night)

So I'm sitting in the Hofstra University Area (replete with flags from other college's sports teams - Old Dominion and William & Mary) and I'm feeling like I'm in some bizarre John Hughes movie with a heavy Jewish theme.

Only in America. Only in America do you see so much Jewish hair, Jews from places (Tucson, Alberqueque) that if they were in Europe they wouldn't have two Jews to rub together, so many women large of hip and full of kaftan, and hear so much earnest Americana. Don't get me wrong, it's good. It's all good in a car-crash kinda way.

Truth is - we're different. American Jews have the confidence of a powerful people. If Anglo-Jews were in this cult, we'd all be wearing branded t-shirts with the names of our synagogues and JCCs on them (if we had any), and we'd be immersed in totally Jewish lives.

Of course, you may say that I'm doing that already, although without the t-shirts. Having said that, my "shayna punim" (pretty face) t-shirt garnered a lot of comment, and I should be getting commission from the Rabbi's Daughters.

* * *

Saw Debbie Friedman, Julie Silver and Joe Black in concert, which was pretty good. There's a lot of swaying, though. I mean, a lot.

I'm in the computer lab at Hofstra, and the guy in front of me is wearing a t-shirt that says in back (see what I did there?):

A Small Friendly Congregation of Neighbours Praying and Celebrating Together.

These are just my impressions of a very strange weekend. So far.

Friday I hung out with F&W in Tribeca, and caught up, had some lunch, talked about geek stuff (and managed to leave my USB key in their apartment, which is a shame, because I brought it so that if I wanted to write something, I would have it with me - didn't bring my laptop - and now I can't. I do however, have two USB keys, and a 512MB is calling to me...)

Met up with the others in C's apartment, midtown, and then got a cab out to Long Island. Our cab driver seemed very angry that we didn't know where we were going, and we thought "he's a cab driver, surely he knows the way. And we've printed off a map". We got to Hofstra about 5ish, and just had time to shower and change before shabbat.

I'm in a dorm with four other people who haven't - yet - showed up. My friends are all sharing with each other. This reminds me of going to a friend's wedding a couple of years back, and I was seated with six couples in their fifties and sixties who kept saying "why aren't you with you friends?"which was what I thought, too. Perhaps this is a message from the universe, although if it is, I don't know what it means.

Shabbat was fun, if a little American, and I have a red ribbon that communicates my first-timer status to other delegates. I have had over-warm hugs from at least three people I don't know.

There are also a lot of women here wearing kaftans.

But that's OK, as people say here.

Friday night, I went to the Reconstructionist service, and we sat in a circle and had musical accompaniament. We said the shema out loud in a meditative way. This is not how things happen in Cheadle. Two people said "gee, your accent."

Shabbat morning I walked past both the Orthodox and Conservatives services and they looked a little...staid, so I went to Storatelling, which was pretty wild. Engaging, real, wild... but not particularly service-like. Perhaps I should think outside the box more.

The weather is steaming.

Last night, the guys from Storatelling did a cabaret-style show, which was fab, although a little Kiki & Herb. Today, there was no programme, so we went to the mall - apparently the largest in Long Island - and had lunch and looked around. It was kinda like being in Brent Cross - lots of frummers, too many shops, and collective purchase inertia (although I did buy a poncho).

When in Rome. As they say.

It's consumerist heaven, here. Everything is about "getting" stuff, and portions are huge, and service is exclusively about selling and tips.

OK, I exaggerate. But the shops are the same, just cheaper. And the people are the same, just a little more obese. And the language is the same, but different (I just had a very strange conversation with a woman about if the water she sold was sparking or still and she looked at me like I don't know what.)

I think I may be talking crap. I can tell this because no-one's commented in ages.

I'm back on Thursday.

When I was queuing to get on the plane, I fell into a conversation with two South Africans I thought were related because of their shared accents. Turned out they were just two South Africans who happened to be standing in the queue together. The guy was my age, maybe a little younger, a doctor, and the woman was in her sixties, and had travelled a lot.

In the few moments we shared, she managed to slip into the conversation about four incidents of near-disaster that had happened to her in her flying career. The doctor kept saying "well, maybe now's not the time to be telling us this..." but she kept on keeping on.

Never was I so glad to be turning left (I travelled premium, which I think is like business, but cheaper. But anyway, you don't have to mix with the disaster-laden hoi-poloi. I only did it because it was 10k extra airmiles, and I thought, why not?), and even more delighted to find that I didn't even have anyone sitting next to me, so I could spread out and not make polite conversation.

I think I'm rambling. Ramble, ramble, ramble.

I might try and get to MOMA tomorrow morning before I leave... or I might just lie in...

Things That Happened Today

After three calls to UPS, my lenses arrived. Yay. Although I'm a little too weary to even say yay, because I had to make seventeen outbound calls to make it all work.

I have my US cellphone. Yay. Except I discovered that all US tarrifs, be they prepay or contract, charge your per minute to receive calls. Can you beleive? No wonder the phone with $10 credit is only thirty earth pounds (US keyboard, sorry).

Did some nice shopping/walking/photo taking in the West Village.

Going to Long Island (or, as Ruby Wax calls it, The Guyland) tomorrow afternoon, for CAJE. OK, that's tomorrow, not technically fitting under this heading. But it's 9pm New York time which is about 2am London time, which means I've been up for nearly 24 hours, so I'm sure you won't mind me cutting you a little slack.