You don't know how relieved I am that Greg Dyke has a job. At Apax Partners, no less.

Turns out there is a difference between climate fear and a climate of fear. Let's all use our cars less this week.

Every time I use my Tanita scales/body fat percentage monitor, I can't help thinking of Tanita Tikaram.

I know who the late Barry Gold was. I'll tell you when I get back.

Hello. I forgot to tell you that I've gone to East Finchley for Yom Tov. Although if you're thinking of burgling my house I've left my flat-mate at home. Hello, K.

It's a non-stop food/drink/shul extravaganza. It's a schmoozarama. It's terribly sociable, and I'm having a very nice time, although squeezing six meals into a three day period is taxing my waistband.

See you on the other side.

An Interesting Story That Happened in My Own Life
So, I don't know if a stone setting is only a Jewish thing. I don't think I've ever been to a no-Jewish one. It's about a year after the funeral, and there's a small service at the graveside, unveiling the memorial stone (also called an unveiling). When I was a kid, I thought everyone went to an unveiling every Sunday afternoon.

Here's a weird thing; last week, I got a postcard addressed to Sasha, preprinted in funereal copperplate, with my name and some other details (venue, date) written in by hand, from a stonemasons in Edgware. It was to advise me of the stonesetting in memory of the late Barry Gold (not his real name), at Waltham Abbey on 31st October.

Here's the thing; I don't recognise the name. I think back to whether I've been or not been to a funeral at Waltham Abbey in the last year or so. I don't think I have.

I call my Mother - she doesn't recognise the name, either. Like me, she thinks this is a strange London custom; in Manchester, we don't send postcards.

I call Z - we have lots of the same friends, and maybe if it's someone we knows Grandpa, she'll have a card, too.

She doesn't.

I call a friend whose Grandpa died around this time last year, and explain my predicament. She says, "no, and what's with the postcards, I've never heard of that."

I call the stonemason, a little embarassed. They tell me the name of the deceased's daughter, and she's not in my address book. I ask for the names of other family members, and they don't have it. I look up the name of the deceased's daughter on 192.com, and discover a whole family at the same address, none of whom I recognise.

If this didn't involve a real/dead person, it would be moderately entertaining. It certainly feels like the inciting incident in a film; I'm supposed to go and something plot-driven will happen to me.

I'm thinking, if someone knows me well enough to send me a card telling me about this, I ought to know who they are. I've racked my brains, and just don't recognise the names. I feel confused, a little embarassed, and unsure of my next steps.

Your thoughts?

More thinktanks than you can shake a stick at. Should you want to.

It's that time of year when I get all phone-upgrade-intertia.

My mobile contract comes up for renewal. If I do the I'm-leaving manouvre, coupled with my monthly (business, OK) spend, I usually get a £100 free. Free; I mean, it's not free, because I pay them loads of money every month. Less free, more like a bribe, in fact.

My avowed strategy of separating my phone from my PDA is looking increasingly dated, I'm told. My view is, less risk, because more items to lose. I might lose my phone but still have my diary. Without wishing to tempt fate, I haven't lost either in a while. I shouldn't say that, should I?

Anyway, now I'm thinking Sony Ericsson P900, getting some cashback for my Nokia 7250i, selling my Palm Vx on eBay, and being a seamlessly intergrated girlie.

Sums go like this: say £20 cashback for my existing phone, £30 for my Palm. New phone/PDA is £150 with a contract, and I can usually get up to a £100 phone "free" (see above). So it should, theoretically, cost me nothing but a bluetooth dongle for like £20.

Waddya think?

In case you are interested in buying my Palx Vx, at some point, it's a little loved, but in good condition. Comes with box, CDs, manuals, leather case, two cradles (one for office, one for home) and a cutesie stylus that's also a pen. Open to offers.

I have no idea who Tania Gold is, but she has written a scathing, incisive, frankly hysterical piece on her trip to Ukipland.

Sasha Unplugged

Not that you'd want that.

Thought; why is the opposite of plugging in not plugging out?

In today's Guardian; a collection of incredibly moving letters received by Michael Moore from soldiers serving in Iraq.

A weekend of high culture ...

Having spent wednesday through friday visiting various people's succahs, eating far too much, and talking about the state of Anglo Jewry, as well as the state of the nation, one too many times, some extra-NW6 entertainment was needed, for sure.

Saturday night I saw Cybill Shepherd at the Soho Theatre in her one woman show, Cybill disobedience.

Now, lots of reviewers have slagged it off as self-indulgent, but I think Cybill is an old fashioned entertainer, a Southern gal made good. And she slept with Elvis.

Sunday, I went to to Jaq's opening of her new show, at the Red Gate Studio and Gallery in Brixton. Jaq's art is about bringing together sketches done on stage of various musicians (including the Alabama Three), and Jewish texts. Her work's really developed, and the embroidery sits with the handscript so beautifully, that I was disappointed to realise I have no walls left. Also, Rob (aka Larry Love) and the guitarist from the Alabama Three played while we admired the work, and it was all rather surreal, but in a fabulous way.

In case you missed it, Mike at troubled diva got the webcam pic of my back (and I want you to know, my shirt isn't too tight, it's just that I'm leaning forward) and Donal MacIntyre's back on last night's Matthew Bannister show. (If you want to listen, it's only up there today, and then it gets replaced. It is, however, three hours long).

Via Yoz; 3D Escher stuff. Fabulous.

I have something of a desire to go to this Intelligence Squared debate, chaired by Carole Stone of networking fame, on whether Boucher is just pornography for toffs. N says the standard of debate isn't that high, and no, she won't come.

Oh, OK. I've been busy, that's all. I kinda feel like we're having a relationship, and I owe you an explanation. It's not like I've been sleeping around, wrinting on other blogs, or anything, it's just that life has been taking up a lot of time.

Mostly, because it's yom tov. It's the time of year where there are four Jewish festivals in a row - Rosh Hashanah (new year), Yom Kippur (day of atomement), then Succot (tabernacles), and now this Thursday/Friday, Shemini Atzeret and Simchat Torah (too longwinded to explain, sorry).

When I had a full-time job, and Yom Tov fell during the week (it's a lunar calendar, so it changes every year - it's great when it's all Sat/Sun) I was always trying to squeeze a week's work into three days, and having to eat up seven days of vacation time. And having to deal with colleagues who'd ask me if I'd had a nice holiday, when in fact it's a holyday, which involves synagogue, family, more meals than you can imagine, and frankly very little R&R.

The first day is fine - you explain to your colleagues it's New Year, and they ask you if you're going to get really pissed, and you say no, Jews don't really drink, it's more about food really, and you bring them some honey cake and everything's fine. Yom Kippur's a fast day, you explain, and they ask if it's a diet after all the food. When it gets to Succot and your eating all your meals in a small hut in the garden with an open roof in Northern European weather, they start thinking you're barking. Which you may be. When it gets to Simchat Torah, you don't even bother telling them everyone gets really drunk to celebrate the completion of the Torah reading cycle.

So I'm yom tov'd out, really. I'm trying to squeeze my work into my little remaining time, and cook, and entertain, and see friends, and write, and have normal life, too. Some things get to the bottom of the list.

I haven't forgotten you, honest.

Kehillat Hadar is, apparently, the best place for Jewish dating in NY.

A friend sent me this:

I'm at my parents setting up their new PC. I want to make sure I've installed all the applications that my Dad uses and, as he peers over my shoulder, I ask 'what's your favourite program?'. To which he replies innocently 'well, there are quite a few. But I suppose Fawlty Towers.'

Hands up if you think halloumi cheese is the nearest (edible) thing to polystyrene?

You going to Pillow Fight Club next Wednesday? (I can't, it's Yom Tov).