Once Again With Slightly Less Feeling

Things That Have Really Annoyed Me Today:

1. A nu-meeja dollybird I spotted hanging around the back of the building wearing a pair of mini polka-dot wellies. What is this utter nonsense? The footwear equivalent of driving a 4x4 round the streets of W4, that's what. This is Chiswick, not rural Shropshire! Loser!

2. The "tasteful" literary quotes embossed on the wall of the pretentious bread shop. It's bad enough paying £233.20 for a cheese sandwich without having to put up with some whiny quote from Marcel Proust about how he'd really like to be a baker if there wasn't any paper left to write on. Rubbish. What, you'd really like to get up at 3am every day to mix flour and water and stick it in an oven? And what do you mean, "if there wasn't any paper left"? Like being a reclusive, prolix writer was your *destiny*, or something, which could only be avoided by a worldwide shortage of paper? And what would you wrap your baguettes in, anyway? Loser!

3. The over-zealous use of packaging in the pretentious bread shop. Like, your sandwich is wrapped in plastic, then they put it in a paper bag, then put the sandwich-wrapped-in-plastic-in-a-paper-bag into a carrier bag. Have you *no* concern for the environment at all? Losers!

4. Everything else about the pretentious bread shop.

5. Everything else.

Grrrrrrrrr.

The Pepsi Max Big One Of Emotional Rollercoasters

Really quite unhappy now. Even the thought of my tasty new cherry-red leather sofa isn't cheering me up at all.

Have spent at least part of the afternoon debating which bus to throw myself under: the 440 is quite speedy and reckless and has the added advantage of passing through some nicely insalubrious locations (if I go, I'd like it to be outside the desolate sorting office up the back end of Bollo Lane). The E3, meanwhile, is slower and has a classier route (I don't really want to pass over to the Other Side outside the fancy lingerie emporium or the bespoke chocolatier, thanks very much), but has a definite bulk and weight advantage.

Wait a second...fancy lingerie emporium...bespoke chocolatier...both of them on my way home! That's me sorted for a top night of scoffing handmade chocolates on my tasty new cherry-red leather sofa while wearing frighteningly expensive underwear. Woo!

Now, if only I could get the telly to work...

...or if I had any cash at all to spend on frivolous non-essential items.

Damn.

Looks like another lonely evening of fretting about the awfulness of the carpet is in store instead.

This is quite some ride.

We Can Tell Where You Live

Meant to say something earlier about the always lovely Danny O'Brien's "keynote" at the OpenTech event on Saturday.

Now I'm a big fan of NTK and its spin-off projects (although I haven't forgiven them for mercilessly pulling the plug on EHA, thus severing the only link I had with Chuffy! and Snark, to whom I'd been talking for about four years and who are now seemingly irretrievably lost down the back of the internet sofa), and I'm a big fan of Steven Johnson-style technosocial claptrap, so I was really looking forward to this talk.

Sadly I was a bit disappointed.

Firstly (and possibly most importantly), what on earth has happened to Danny's accent? Three years in California, and he's started talking like Alicia Silverstone. Which for a geek - or indeed for anyone who wasn't in Beverly Hills 90210 - is *not* a good thing.

Secondly, why did he waste so much time wittering on (in comedic fashion, admittedly) about high-school girls and pointing out the perl script on Madonna's website, and save all the interesting points for the last five minutes?

The last five minutes were great. The point was that we unwittingly leak information about ourselves and other people on the internet, meaning that The Man, stalkers, etc. can piece together our and other people's identity and whereabouts, whether we want him to or not.

One example was a project being done by Prof Roberto Cipolla (trans: Bob Onion) at Cambridge University, who's developed software that can recognise buildings from photographs. The idea is that if you get lost, you can take a picture of a nearby building with your mobile, send it to the database, it recognises the building from the arrangement of horizontal and vertical lines, and texts you back to tell you where you are.

(Don't get all excited now - at the moment this would only work if you're lost in Cambridge city centre).

Of course being the privacy loon/techno-conspiracy theorist that he is, Danny reckons that this software could be used (by The Man, the Four Horsemen of the Mediacalypse, stalkers etc.) to trawl through people's online photo archives, like at Flickr or something, and find out where they've been.

I get the feeling I should be terribly frightened about this, but somehow I'm not. I mean, I really don't mind the Sun finding out that I visited the hinterland of Catalunya (unused teenage bandname of...?) in 2002. And if you're a terrorist, you're not going to take photos of your house and your intended targets and post them on Flickr to share with your terrorist mates, are you? *Are* you?

But what if you're *not* a terrorist - say you're a Brazilian electrician or something - but you happen to have taken some photos of places that might seem like terrorist targets, and you've taken a photo of your house....

Oh, *now* I get it.

Babe, You Can't Turn Me On

Hmm. My new life as a recovering co-dependent ("a period of time alone is crucial," according to Marie Claire. I hope their features editor realises that there are people out here who are following this advice to the letter and that she's fully prepared for the angry mob of wailing, masochistic doormats who will inevitably march on King's Reach Tower (we can do stuff in herd formation, see?) when it all goes horribly wrong) has hit a major and unexpected obstacle, before it's even really got underway.

I often claim that I never watch TV when I'm on my own (I know I said yesterday that I've never been on my own, but obviously I was lying) because I don't know how to switch it on. I've always assumed that this was a hilarious joke on my part, because what functioning, thirtysomething company director doesn't know how to turn on a television, for God's sake?

Ah. Hmm.

So this evening I thought I might settle down on the sofa in my pyjamas* and watch some old rubbish, a la Bridget Jones. But no. Can I turn on the telly? No, I can not. Yes, it's plugged in. Yes, the socket is switched on. Yes, I've managed to locate the "power" button, and yes, I've pressed it a number of times. No reaction whatsoever. Nada. What the bloody hell am I supposed to do now?

Christ, this solitary life is difficult.

On the bright side, I *did* learn today how to hack into an iPod, replace the Apple firmware with Linux and install a Spectrum emulator (the litmus test for all hacking experiments, it seems) on it, so it's not all techno-woe. If only I owned an iPod...

Nooooo! *Now* I find out that the quite frankly fantastically funny, talented and attractive Julian Barratt was at today's geekfest too. WHY did I not know this in advance? Still, I did make eye contact with The People's Internet And Snack Confectionery Hero, Dave Green. One day I might be brave enough to actually speak to him. At which point I will immediately blow my techno-cred by getting all giggly and confused and admitting I don't know how to turn the TV on.

Tomorrow I plan to hire a Transit van. No reason**. I just really like driving vans.

* It turns out I don't actually own any pyjamas. I'm really crap at this.
** Apart from moving house, of course.

This Is What You Get

Well, it looks like I shall have quite a bit of time to myself over the next few weeks, which for a hopeless co-dependent (many thanks to Marie Claire for that assessment) like me is a terrifying prospect.

In fact I can't remember when I last spent any time by myself. At all. Unless you count having a bath. And even hopeless co-dependents can generally fend for themselves for short periods in the bathroom without crying, running away or embarking on an ill-advised relationship with Mande Lular or Mande Susu*.

Anyway, all being well I move into a very nice flat in Shepherd's Bush tomorrow, where I'll decide how I'm going to spend all this horrible, scary me-time.

I thought I could maybe ease myself into it gently by watching a number of Films I Inexplicably Cried All The Way Through The First (And Only) Time I Saw Them. A short and somewhat indiscriminate list that includes, and is in fact limited to, Amélie, Edward Scissorhands and, erm, The Two Towers. I'm sure this admission is going to earn me a stern telling-off from cello and Pashmina, who'd rather see me watching something a bit classier (all in good time, my friends!).

Then at some point I might buy some furniture. Unless you happen to be Ray Mears, there's only so long you can survive with nothing but a chest of drawers and a manky Victorian button-back armchair that a wayward family pet pissed on in 1986.

So there we have it. Buying furniture and watching films. Mmm, this is going to be great.

Sorry, this wasn't very funny, was it? Normal service etc. etc.

* Whoever they might be.

Prodigal

And she returns once more, with the thrilling news that top PR industry satire Absolute Power (fanbase: 2) returns for a second series on BBC2 at 10pm this coming Thursday 21st July. Well worth a look for anyone who:

a. works in PR (check)

b. values style over substance (check)

c. has nothing better to do on a Thursday night these days (check)

d. fancies James Lance (uncheck)

e. enjoys spotting cast members from other memorable British Comedies Of Our Time (Green Wing, Nathan Barley, The Book Group, etc. etc.)

Fantastic.

You Call That "A While"?

Oh, what the hell. I'm back. Already.

Today's news, apart from the foregoing, is that I've signed up to attend the Geekfest To End All Geekfests, where the quite frankly lovely Danny O'Brien will pour forth on "the decoupling of fame and fortune" occasioned by, erm, hanging out on the internet a lot (hey, I hang out on the internet quite a bit and I haven't made it into Heat *or* the Sunday Times Rich List. Where am I going wrong?) and much zeitgeisty technocultural nonsense will be spouted on the phenomena that are blogging and "social software" (that's IM to you and me, a zeitgeisty technosocial phenomenon whose existence will one day be acknowledged by the Guardian and whose potential to destroy the fabric of society as we know it will be slavered over by the Daily Mail long after society and all of its Ideological State Apparatuses have in fact been imperceptibly blown to pieces).

It's a fiver on the door if you're interested, but you have to register first.

Intermission

Well, you may not be hearing from me for a while (how long a while is uncertain, as are the levels of glee/despair you may experience on hearing this news) while I sort out some, erm, upheavals in my personal life.

But I'm not leaving you empty-handed, oh no. While I'm gone, please amuse yourselves with the quite frankly marvellous Google Earth (download/installation/functioning internet connection required). Just don't get lost in there, Tron-style. I expect to see you all back here at an as yet unspecified point in the future.

That's No Typo, That's A Space Station

This blog probably leaves the casual reader with the impression that I am a feckless waster, incapable of turning my mind to anything more sophisticated than the purchase of inappropriate footwear, the consumption of Philip Morris Corp.'s finest produce and the relevance of Nick Cave's lyrics to my own personal circumstances.

Of course, nothing could be further from the truth. In my professional life, my dedication to creating outstanding marketing copy for the technology industry is unsurpassed (or so it says here on my bio).

Now I'm not going to mention any names, but some clients are more picky about their copywriters' stock-in-trade than others. Today I was treated to a briefing from one big technocorp about the correct use of grammar and punctuation. About halfway through, the speaker flashed up a slide showing the opening credits of Star Wars.

Speaker: "See here, after 'A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away' - there are clearly four dots. Dot dot dot dot. This is wrong. An ellipsis should only have three dots. Write that down."

Audience Member: "I think one's a star."

Well, it made me laugh.

Market Forces

Venturing out in search of lunch at about 3pm (the time at which it became apparent that coffee and Marlboro Blues alone cannot sustain one for an entire day) I was pleasantly surprised to find that the untidy assortment of drunks and smackheads that frequent Acton Market Place had been swept aside in favour of - *gasp* - a market.

A French market, at that. With real French stallholders selling real French stuff, and speaking real French to the denizens of W3. Who, even more surprisingly, turn out to be no mean Francophones themselves. Gosh. It was almost like being back in Saint Chinian, but without the hordes of Brits.

I resisted the urge to buy one of those huge blocks of olive oil soap (it would have just sat around in the bathroom getting dirty), but I did do my bit for the bourgeoisie by purchasing some fantastic brie, some tomme de Savoie and some wild boar sausage. Then undid it again by nipping into Morrisons to get baked beans and fags.

But all that's beside the point. The real question is: does this mean Acton is going all gentrified? Might we be spared the need to move back up North?

No, that's not the real question. The real question is totally unrelated to French markets and London property hotspots. The *real* question is: how the hell am I going to get to Islington tonight when my feet are quite literally - and for once I'm not exaggerating* - a mass of seeping, open wounds?

I swear, if you peer through all the blood and pus and frayed nerve endings, you can actually see the bones in my left foot. Is there something particularly wrong with me, or do all women suffer in this way? If the latter, why, for the love of God, do we keep buying flip-flops? Have we no sense whatsoever?

Probably best if no one answers that, actually.

* Much.

Edit Me, Edit Me, You Wild Bitch*

In the end, all my efforts to indulge in any culture at all last night were scuppered by a work crisis that unfolded in a highly unwelcome fashion at 8pm and lasted pretty much until 1am.

Still, you know me (well, some of the less fortunate among you do). Given the choice between going to see Star Wars Episode 88 And A Half and seeing Hem play at the Shepherd's Bush Empire, I'd always rather have been sitting in my office Thought Cupboard, where the ambient temperature is something approaching the surface of Mercury, editing HTML files into the small hours.

But! The small interlude during which I did actually manage to have dinner with Mr P resulted in a comedy website idea so amazing that it will either a) ensure my immediate entry into the annals (no. 875) of internet celebrity, or b) have been done to death already. Must investigate forthwith.

* This title has absolutely nothing to do with me.

Cliché Régime*

Just been reminded of another weekend quality supplement columnist cliché that really makes my teeth crawl. And that is when London-based hacks put a "the" before the names of certain streets. Like the Finchley Road, and the Portobello Road. That might have been OK in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's day, but now it's just horrible, affected** and grating. Cease and desist this instant!

*stands back in anticipation of pitchforks, brickbats, burning planks, etc.*

* I know, I'm sorry. That's why I'm going on that sub-editing course.
** I know, I'm sorry. Pot, kettle, etc.

Crushed

Prime-time, plasma-screen viewing of my newly-delivered Heathers DVD last night elicited the following observations:

That crush I had on teen-era Christian Slater? *So* over.

That crush I had on teen-era Winona Ryder? That's so over, too.

THE DIVINE MS P: It's amazing that even in 1988 they show the teachers smoking in the staffroom.

ME: I was allowed to smoke at my desk in 1998 at [insert name of top five global PR agency here] - but only after 6pm.

MR P: I was allowed to smoke at Pontin's - but only Superkings.

Which made me laugh a lot.

Not Guilty

The jury has at last returned a verdict on the Hem case, and the verdict is "Thou shalt go and see Star Wars Episode 88 And A Half instead." Populist, functioning-adult patroclus scores yet another victory over mopy, sixth-form patroclus. You go, populist, functioning-adult patroclus!

Woah. Really must get these split personalities under control.

Next up: Husky Rescue on Fri as previously ordained, or party with beautiful people in Crystal Palace? Back to the Ivy for you, twelve good men and true.

Lactobacillus Acidophilus

Sorry about this, but I seem to have rather a lot to say for myself today. While trawling the interthing for "critical quotes" for the below post, I found someone referring to Andrew Lawrence (no idea what he's going to be like, by the way) as "like Art Garfunkel on acid".

Now this expression has to be up there in my Top Five Most Hated Media Clichés (oo oo, I feel another list coming on!). Anyone, anyone at all, who describes anything at all as being like anyone or anything at all "on acid" has a) clearly never actually taken LSD, b) probably not even read or seen Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas and c) even less imagination than I have (although that last one could be pushing it).

I almost forgot the point of this post there, but here we go, without further ado I am ushering in my first Regular Feature! It may be - and indeed is - completely ripped off the Neophiliacs bit in Private Eye, but I reckon it could be a winner! All you have to do is alert me to the most pitiful example you can find of a "like x on acid" simile from a recent Weekend Supplement and you could win a super prize!

And I'm pretentiously calling it "Lactobacillus Acidophilus", which, as any fule kno, means "milky parasite that likes acid" - a superb description of all broadsheet supplement columnists* everywhere.

Let Battle Commence!

* Just in case I'm offending any of my lovely friends here, I'd like to clarify that I mean career columnists. And of those, mainly Kate Muir.

London! Cultcha! Prosperity!*

And with one final mighty effort she ruptures the chains of accidie (thanks cello) that have been holding her captive for, ooh, about the last five years, and decides to spend the coming week indulging in the finest pop culture the capital has to offer, to wit:

Monday: Andrew Lawrence ("creepy but prodigal") in either Tooting or Islington, depending on which listings you believe. Costs £2 less to see him in Tooting, but when you throw the potentially irreparable pyschological damage caused by going South Of The River (TM) into the mix, I'd rather pay £7 in Islington.

Wednesday: Will she or won't she go and see Hem ("like a whippet picking its way across nightingale boards") at the Shepherd's Bush Empire? The ticket's in the bag, but the jury's gone out for a very long lunch and shows no signs of returning anytime soon.

Friday: back to Islington for the mighty Husky Rescue ("As clear as icewater, as dazzling as the Aurora Borealis, as jolting as a splash in the face from a Finnish lake" - steady on) plus Bluesky Research ("like Ride and the Verve watching the Wicker Man") and Lowgold ("an extremely unlucky band").

What with all that and a top girlie lunch on the cards for Thursday, it's shaping up to be the Best Week Ever. Woohoo!

* to be uttered in yer best mockney accent.

It Was The Best Bleep Whirr Of Bleep Times Whirr

Forgot to say - in what must surely be a serious contender for the Competition Of The Year Competition, Penguin is inviting the nation's musicians to make moody dance tracks out of such classics of literature as A Tale Of Two Cities, Moby Dick and Spot's Playtime Storybook. Go forth.

P.S. Yes, I know it's been going for five weeks already. You heard it here later.

A Pretty Good Day, All Things Considered

In sharp contrast with yesterday, today was pretty good. The joy started early when I phoned an old friend to whom I hadn’t spoken in a while, viz: First Direct, to be greeted with the glad tidings that after years of miserable penury I’d somehow managed to pay off one of my myriad personal loans. Hurrah! I celebrated in fine style by immediately taking out a bigger one. Hurrah again! Still, that’ll see off the gargantuan Scottish builder.

Next, got a cab to Paddington with time to spare (this never usually happens, I normally arrive at railway stations about 23 seconds before my train is due to depart), so I elected to celebrate my new-found liquidity by purchasing a fabulous pair of beaded olive green flip-flops (Only a tenner? I’m buying another nine pairs tomorrow! Easy come, easy go!) of which surely even notable fashion guru Pashmina would approve. Excellent.

Profited from the merciful two-hour respite from the internet afforded by the train journey to read the Economist Technology Quarterly, which was full of thrilling technomancy like transmitting data through human skin (bring it on!) and wearing flash drives as earrings (not so sure about that one. Pash?).

Got picked up from Pershore (I don't know, somewhere off the shoulder of Orion?) station by M. Either the clear country air and rural solitude have finally gone to M's head or he's recently been on Pimp My Ride (note to self: must write to MTV about "Pimp My Cat" programme idea), because he turned up in an outrageous black, glossy, leather-interior pick-up truck with "WARRIOR" emblazoned on the side in huge silver letters. Later on I'll learn that this post-millennial warhorse is very good for indiscriminately mowing down small children outside the local primary school when racing to deliver your guest to the railway station 23 seconds before the train is due to depart.

As you would expect, M. and I worked very hard all afternoon on The Project From Hell, and at no point did we go to Upton Snodsbury ("The Jewel Of Worcestershire!") for an expense-account lunch in an alarming French-themed pub, arse about on IM or trawl eBay for stuffed rams' heads. Oh no.

All in all (barring the interminable, cramped, sweaty train journey home, which I temporarily had to abandon at Hayes & Harlington ("The Jewel Of Middlesex!") due to The Horror Of It All), A Good Day. Super!

Mopy Twat

I hereby swear I will never whinge about being middle class and privileged ever again. So, what's next?

Unfulfilled Potential

So the weekend stretches out before me like a long vast expanse full of as yet unfulfilled potential. It looks like one of those splendid middle class London summer weekends. What shall I do?

1. Embark on my quest to discover London's most expensive sandwich?

2. Buy a barbecue and barbecue some Halloumi cheese to have with couscous and salsa made out of cherry tomatoes and shallots?

3. Visit my great-aunt's paintings at the Tate?

4. Attempt to become the new Michael Ventris by resurrecting the Lost Language of the Picts through a mixture of luck, dedication and brilliant intellect?

5. Get the fuck out of London via my tried-and-tested method of turning up at a random train station and getting on a random train to somewhere I haven't been before?

6. Do some work?

7. Waste the entire weekend sitting inside with the blinds down posting rubbish on the comedy forum and chatting to people on IM?

Cast your votes now! And quickly!

Cave Cavem

I've been told in no uncertain terms by A Higher Authority that I am to lose the sixth form-style posturing (including, but I rather fear not limited to, Star Wars quotes and Nick Cave lyrics) immediately and start writing like the functioning adult that I would love to be.

So of course you'll be wanting to hear all about the new water-cooler that arrived at work today ("Great! Now we can have office gossip!"), and the fascinating articles about procurement compliance that I've been writing, not to mention the fact that the cats are overdue for their jabs and I've a gigantic builder's bill (no, as you were, he was 7'6 and 35 stone) to pay, for which the source of the funds is - shall we say - not immediately evident to me.

Boy, you are all in for such a treat in the coming weeks. Bookmark me now to avoid disappointment!

Feldspar Is Just Around The Corner

Things that made me laugh today:

1. A crow running. Who'd have thought that the harbinger of doom would have such a silly gait?

2. "Papa Won't Leave You, Henry" by Nick Cave. Comedy, over-the-top lyrics enunciated in a comedy, over-the-top manner, and a comedy, over-the-top tune. Fantastic.

3. The title of this post.

That's it.

Intermission: So Much Comedy, So Little Time

Ohh, I´ve seen things you people wouldn´t believe, but there´s no time to go on about it now. I have a 10am rendezvous with a deserted palm fringed island beach where piña colada flows freely from a wellspring among the dunes and everyone is permanently young, tanned and beautiful.

Look at me, all joyful for a change. And I didn´t even swim in the Pozo de la Felicidad ("The Pits of Happiness"). However I may well have contracted cerebral malaria from my jungle adventure. (Note: when travelling to malaria-infested regions of the world, it´s often a good idea to take malaria pills. Oh.) And if I haven´t, I´m going to learn Arabic. Let joy be unconfined! Now, where´s my coffee?

Terror Firma

I was going to post a long, boring entry about the Angel Falls, but this should tell you all you need to know, really:

You came all this way in that thing? You're braver than I thought.

In A Colonial Hotel

It seemed from the tourist blurb that I had done Ciudad Bolivar a huge injustice in comparing it unfavourably with Kabul and Swindon. Indeed, the blurb seemed to intimate that the place was in fact Venezuela's answer to New Orleans, with marvellous old colonial buildings fronting a wide and mighty river, among which the beautiful, sexed-up inhabitants would be found drinking and dancing and partying till all hours of the morning.

So I persuaded Mr P that our time might be spent more fruitfully than just lounging around in the hotel room doing the things that couples do when they have time to kill in hotel rooms in unfamiliar cities (smoking and watching The Matrix, since you ask) and went for a walk down to the Paseo Orinoco in search of picaresque adventure and excitement.

Big mistake. A wide and mighty river there is. Colonial waterfront buildings there are. Stray dogs there are aplenty. But of the beautiful, sexed-up inhabitants drinking and dancing etc etc there was no evidence whatsoever. Not a bar, not a restaurant in sight. Poor.

However, we were much entertained by a sign declaiming "Ciudad Bolivar Es Historia" (Ciudad Bolivar Is History). It's always nice to be informed when the end is nigh.

Accidental Tourists

When travelling to the World's Highest Waterfall (TM), it's very important not to do any of the following:

1. Fail to go to bed on the evening before the 4.30am start

2. On the evening before the 4.30am start, drink so much gin that you spend the entire night telling your wife you're going to kill her, oh, and you hate everyone and everything else too.

3. Pack only one pair of pants between three of you.

4. Leave all your money, passports and credit cards behind in the swanky, air-conditioned beach apartment you've rented for ten days but in which you will only in fact spend three nights due to your ill-advised spur-of-the-moment decision to take a trip to see the World's Highest Waterfall (TM).

4. Ensure that the taxi you hire to take you on the four-hour drive to Ciudad Bolivar is a) 80 years old, b) driven by someone who has never been to Ciudad Bolivar and has no idea where it is, c) entirely devoid of oil and water and d) likely to break down in the middle of nowhere in the baking hot sun with no prospect of rescue.

5. Think that the creaky 100-year old biplane that is due to fly you through the jungle to the Falls will still be waiting for you even if you *have* turned up five hours late due to your 1920s Buick taxi having broken down in the middle of nowhere in the baking hot sun for lack of oil and water.

6. Assume your taxi driver knows where the airport (I use the word loosely) is.

7. Believe all those rumours about the 100-year old tourist biplanes crashing frequently into the jungle leaving no survivors. I've had a good look at them and apart from the odd missing wing or tail, they look as safe as houses.

8. Upon realising that you are stuck in sunny Ciudad Bolivar (think Kabul meets Swindon, with parrots) for an entire day with no money and no food, commence divorce proceedings against your wife on the condition that you will get half of her possessions (which at the moment consist of one pair of pants and an iPod Shuffle - I travel light, me).

9. Laugh hysterically at the English translations of the menu in the one-parrot hotel you've had to hole up in. Sample dishes: "Fish Mountain To The Oriental" and "Padded Meat To The Sicilian".

Still, as the American guy in the marina said: "If everything's coming your way, you're in the wrong lane." How true.

I've Got The Mini Marlboro Blues

Nothing much to report except for a large cardboard box bearing the legend 'Colon Free Zone'. Feel free to insert your own gags there as I feel right out of comedic inspiration today. Trip to Salto Angel (trans: 'Salty Angel') delayed by a day due to Harrison Ford having commandeered every seat on today´s bus to Ciudad Bolivar. Damn you, Ford!

Following dinner (fish and chips, curry and chips, steak and chips) in downtown Puerto La Cruz (like Blackpool, only not as dangerous) last night, made chance discovery of the greatest cigarettes in the entire world. Mr P and his friend G (former King's Road vet and ex-scourge of the pampered Chelsea bestiary), who arrived the other night from Miami, are now considering setting up a major import-export operation to bring mini Marlboro Blues to the UK in return for some as yet unidentified commodity that is lacking in Venezuela. Colons, possibly.

I'm very sorry for the over-use of parentheses and total lack of lexical elegance in this post. I think the luxury air-conditioned apartment we've rented and the mini Marlboro Blues have affected my creativity. Normal service will be resumed.

Clam Down, Clam Down

Relax, my friends, I haven't been kidnapped by drug barons or adopted as a golden-haired Goddess by a remote jungle tribe (more's the pity).

No, it was a mere three-day sailing expedition to the beautifully unreconstructed Mochima National Park (palm-fringed beaches, coral reefs teeming with exotic submarine life, eating fish straight from the sea having observed it swimming about prettily among the coral moments before, etc. - you know the score).

So, I can confidently report that you truly haven't lived until you've swum naked at midnight in the limpid waters of the Caribbean, your every graceful move illuminated by thousands of tiny pinpricks of light emanating from God only knows what tiny sea-bugs. Really magical.

I think I'll dwell on that rather than the sunburn, intense heat, humidity and unsightly rash (for which I point the finger of blame squarely at the aforementioned magical glowing sea-bugs).

I can also report that, rather as you wouldn't have expected marmalade to go so well with sausages, the ideal soundtrack to the stunning backdrop of palm fringed beaches, jungle-covered mountains, shanty fishing villages etc. surprisingly appears to be Nick Drake. Quite why a suicidal 1960s English folky type should complement this all so well I don't know. But he does.

More anon, unless the mooted sailing trip to Tortuga (if any Depp fans could kindly remind me of what Captain Jack Sparrow says about the place, I'd be most grateful) comes off.

Intimations of Mortality

Sometimes when they get a lot of advertising in and they have to fill up a corresponding amount of editorial space, the glossy women´s mags like nothing better than to torment their readers with such intimations of mortality as "20 (or 50, or 100, depending on how many pull-out gatefolds Lancome want that month) Things You Should Do Before You´re 35".

(Usually I haven´t done more than three or four of them, ensuring a depressingly regular confirmation of my suspicions that I am a complete and utter loser, unworthy of the air that I breathe and the space that I take up on this earth.)

However, should I ever be called upon to compile such a list (perhaps when I finally get offered that lifestyle columnist job on the Sunday Times), I´ll make sure that the number one thing is "Sip Cuba libres on the lantern-illuminated deck of a weather-beaten yacht in the midst of a Venezuelan thunderstorm."

See, that was meant to sound romantic - because it was amazing, the strange yellow light, rolling thunder, sheet lightning illuminating the jungle-covered mountains in the distance, tropical downpour, Moroccan lantern swaying in the eerie wind etc. - but actually it just sounds really, really bourgeois. I think you´ll be stuck with Kate Muir for quite some time yet.

The Alexandria Quartet is really good, though. I urge one and all to purchase and read a copy immediately.

The Tourist Swamps

This post is brought to you live from the tourist swamps of Northern Venezuela, where the local time is daytime and the local temperature is something approaching the surface of Venus. Nothing to report so far except the unsatisfactory length of the local cigarettes. Jet lag resulted in vicious marital argument during which a glass ashtray may inadvertently have been smashed. Now contemplating going to Brazil. They have longer cigarettes there, apparently. Bring it on!

Dear Old Venny

Well so far, Venezuela could be anywhere, although the palatibility of the butter (which is as good a guide as any) dictates that this isn't the First World, yet neither is it quite the Third World (never, ever contemplate eating the butter in sub-Saharan Africa). And the breakfast pastries were filled with meat, in a kind of worrying croissant/Cornish pasty crossover act. Hmm, I'm never going to get that travel writing job on the Sunday Times, am I?

Which reminds me, if some Black Books fan could kindly remind me of what Jason the Travel Writer said about Venezuela I'd be eternally grateful.

Lastly, I am finally reading The Alexandria Quartet (when in South America, read a book about Egypt, etc). I fear it may be the literary equivalent of "Nature Boy" by Nick Cave. In a metaphorical kind of way. Not because anyone in it dresses up in a deep sea diver's suit or gets up against the pink and purple wisteria. Ahem.

You've Never Done What?

Pashmina's been challenging me to name Ten Things I've Never Done. Luckily I'm in a better mood now, if I'd done this earlier you'd have been treated to all kinds of self-pitying, hand-wringing nonsense. So here goes:

1. Finished reading The Alexandria Quartet
2. Seen Grease
3. Been to Finland
4. Counted the miles to the four corners of the world
5. Been dumped
6. Deciphered the Pictish Ogham inscriptions (one day, though!)
7. Lived on my own for more than a month
8. Quoted Sappho in the original Greek
9. Finished one of these lists

Ooh, and Feast of Wire by Calexico has just arrived. Let joy be unconfined!

Petits Fours De Bonheur

I completely failed to start a fight at the tech industry dinner, mainly because I'd accidentally turned up in a silly 1960s-style minidress when everyone else was a) a man, b) over 50 and c) the CEO of Intel. I reckon I could have taken a few of them out with one or two well aimed petits fours, though.

H. thought Boris was the worst after dinner speaker she'd ever witnessed, and made her feelings known by slow clapping from the back of the room (sadly she stopped short of actual heckling). But as far as I'm concerned any after dinner speech that features Prometheus *and* Euripides is perfectly acceptable.

Got home to find that Mr P had whimsically purchased an indecently large 42" plasma screen TV, which'll be useful for when the next series of GW rolls around (eh, ladies?). Until then I guess it will just blot out the sun for a while and then get nicked.

Other than that, nothing to report except a rollercoaster of tumultuous thoughts and feelings that oscillate between wild excitement ("I'm going to chuck it all in, move to Finland, invent a completely new literary form and write the greatest prose the English-speaking world has ever known!") and miserable despair ("I'll probably just stay where I am, arracher tous les jours les petits lambeaux de bonheur* and never do anything that has any value whatsoever.")

Perhaps I should put it to a vote. Finland or bust?

* I hope I've remembered this correctly. It's been a long time. UPDATE: I didn't. But I like my version better.

Are You Looking At Me?

Tonight H (the self-styled Jordan of the technology industry) and I (the self-styled Nick Cave of the technology industry) are off to some swanky IBM do at the Savoy, where H intends to schmooze men in suits with golf clubs, and I intend to start a fight. I don't know yet with whom, but the tech industry needs shaking up and horrible, awful violence is the only solution I can think of.

The after dinner speaker is well known technology guru Boris Johnson. I'm hoping he can give me some direction on what to put in this Java application server article. That'd be just grand, thanks Boris.

Comedy items spotted this morning on the walk into work: None.

...And Moving Swiftly Back Again

Arrrgghhh. I feel horrible. This could have something to do with the three hours' sleep and total lack of sustenance I've had (or rather, not had) over the past 36 hours or so. And to round off the misery, Amazon have just seen fit to deliver (No! They can read my mind!) a CD of The Boatman's Call. Which is now sitting here on my desk like an atom bomb waiting to go off. I can't get to Venezuela quickly enough.

Sadly though, in all the turmoil of the past three months I've completely failed to learn any Spanish, so I'll probably be drugged, mugged *and* kidnapped the minute I set foot inside Caracas airport. The only phrase I've managed to commit to memory (and then only for its comedy value) is tengo tos, meaning "I have a cough". Still, with the number of Marlboro Lights I seem to be getting through, at least it'll be the honest truth.

Moving On Swiftly

Comedy items spotted this morning on walk into work:

1. A notice advertising a Primary School Ferret Racing Match. So *that's* where the missing Turnham Green ferret got to. Clearly it was a top stud, kidnapped by the local schoolkids to spawn a race of atomic super-ferrets.

2. A gigantic, filthy plush womble, lying on its back by the bins outside Starbucks.

In other news, upon noticing my own reflection (as you do) in a shop window, was dismayed to find that I am looking very fucking Chiswick today. Pink tweed coat, swirly patterned bag in shades of chocolate and lilac, iPod headphones, grande skinny latte in hand. Whatever would Nick Cave say*?

I have to get out of here.

*"I went to bed last night and my moral code got jammed/Woke up this morning with a Frappuccino in my hand". Of course.

The Long Dark Thing Of The Whatever

Oh look, 2am, a time when all decent people should be tucked up in bed asleep. Not me. I am tormented by feelings of nausea occasioned by yet another surfeit of Sainsbury's "Taste The Difference" Luxury Mash. Tewkesbury mustard-flavoured this time, mash fans.

Do they really make mustard in Tewkesbury? Where *is* Tewkesbury anyway, and what makes its mustard any more luxurious than mustard from, say, Bourton on the Water? This is just a sample of the myriad pointless thoughts keeping me awake this evening. Not a very representative sample, but still. The world in a grain of sand, etc.

Mashed potato-related woe aside, today was A Good Day. Well actually, it was fucking awful, but in a good way. A splendid lunch was had (many thanks once again to cello for organising) with some Very Important People, including the nation's foremost grammar pedants and comedy writers.

Being such a highbrow convocation and all, not only were the salient issues of the day thrashed out, but the phrase "icy, rocambolesque pop-socks" also received its first - and probably only - outing. I'm not sure the world is ready for that kind of literature yet. Although they do sound like something a frost-covered robot angel might wear if it was trying on shoes in Clarks.

And finally, music-wise, it's time for a change of direction. If I hear one more crushingly beautiful sad song, I'll probably throw myself under the wheels of the E3 as it ploughs towards Greenford. So, any recommendations for happy, life-affirming stuff that will fill me with uncontrollable, soaring joy (not asking for too much here, am I?) will be received with heartfelt gratitude and appreciation. Thank you and good night.

You Owe Me, Suomi

Finland, Finland, Finland,
The country where I want to be,
Pony trekking or camping,
Or just watching TV.
Finland, Finland, Finland.
It's the country for me.

You're so near to Russia,
So far from Japan,
Quite a long way from Cairo,
Lots of miles from Vietnam.

Finland, Finland, Finland,
The country where I want to be,
Eating breakfast or dinner,
Or snack lunch in the hall.
Finland, Finland, Finland.
Finland has it all.

You're so sadly neglected
And often ignored,
A poor second to Belgium,
When going abroad.

Finland, Finland, Finland,
The country where I quite want to be,
Your mountains so lofty,
Your treetops so tall.
Finland, Finland, Finland.
Finland has it all.

Finland, Finland, Finland,
The country where I quite want to be,
Your mountains so lofty,
Your treetops so tall.
Finland, Finland, Finland.
Finland has it all.

Finland has it all.

Help Raise £100,000 For Leukaemia Research

We interrupt this stream of egomaniacal garbage to bring you an important announcement, nay, plea.

My ex-colleague (and all-round lovely person) from Big Red O days, Brian, is trying to raise £100,000 for the Leukaemia Research Fund. His son Jamie died of leukaemia in 1999 aged nine.

Jamie was a cellist in the Battersea Young Strings orchestra. The orchestra is holding a fundraising concert in Jamie’s memory at 6pm on 26th June at St John’s Concert Hall in Westminster.

The money raised will go to fund research into better and less aggressive ways to treat the disease and to prevent relapses. The LRF is the only national charity that is entirely dedicated to investigating cures and treatments for leukaemia in adults and children.

What Can You Do?

Tickets for the concert are priced at £8, £12, £15 and £18.
Box office telephone: 020 7222 1061 from 10am to 5pm Mon-Fri (Mastercard, Visa and Switch accepted)
Purchase tickets online
Purchase by cheque: send with an SAE to the Box Office, St John’s, Smith Square, London SW1P 3HA.

Donate online to the LRF.

Read Jamie’s parents’ story.

A La Recherche De L'Aile Verte

Oooo, I have it on the very best authority that the long-awaited Series 2 of Green Wing will be filming in my neck of the woods next week. As if things weren't exciting enough already, what with a splendid lunch meeting with some Very Important People planned for Monday, and, er, dinner with, umm, Boris Johnson on Thursday, and then jetting off to Venezuela on Saturday. I feel like Jeremy Paxman. Did I overrule you? Did I?? Answer me!!

Woah

Just taken delivery of a huge parcel clearly addressed to Mr P and me, which turns out to be full of letters, bank statements etc. addressed to some people I have never heard of in a place called Wilberfoss in Yorkshire. I am at an utter, utter loss to explain this. Anyone?

Lucretia Cyborgia

Someone recently asked me (not entirely without provocation, admittedly) what the difference is between a robot and a cyborg. So it's probably time to clear this debate up once and for all.

A robot is an entirely mechanical contraption programmed to do routine tasks like reconstitute dried potato powder while cackling like a maniac, hoover the bottoms of swimming pools and wreak monstrous destruction on mankind.

A cyborg is an organic being that uses technology (debate continues on the extent to which the technology needs to be embedded into the organism for it to qualify as a cyborg) to extend or enhance its organic physical capabilities.

Thus: the Daleks are robots, but Davros is a cyborg - although not a very good one, because it's difficult to see how placing oneself inside a gigantic knobbly metal skirt can result in anything but physical limitation of the most frustrating and risky sort.

The jury is still out on whether the combination of Thora Hird + stairlift (see Quinquiremes passim) is an Intimation Of Cyborg Things To Come, or simply an Old Biddy Who Will Not Die*. I favour the latter.

Also: everyone knows that the only halfway decent cyborg is Seven of Nine, and then only for her supreme mastery of dismissiveness and contempt.

* I thought she *was* dead, but others claim otherwise.

Does Not Provoke Comedy

While applying one of the very expensive and totally incomprehensible cosmetics I purchased the other week in the irrational belief that they would magically turn me into a modern-day Calypso, I noticed the phrase "non-comedogenic" on the label. I pondered this all the way to work (beautiful morning for a walk, by the way).

Non-comedogenic? Does not provoke comedy? Surely there's nothing *more* comedy than paying hundreds of pounds for approximately two millilitres of gelatinous gunk that appears to produce no effect other than a significant lightening of the purse? (I don't actually own a purse. I had one when I was 12, but in an episode of unplanned anti-capitalism I threw it out of the car window while travelling at speed down a French motorway. Never bothered getting another.)

I was quite disappointed to discover the real definition. What's acne got to do with comedy? Etymological progression really took a wrong turn there. No doubt cello will have a sensible explanation, though.

Send That Stuff On Down To Me

Retail therapy and sinister songs about murder and gambolling lambs being the solution to all life's woes, I've taken my credit card out for an early morning jog and secured two tickets to see Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds at Alexandra Palace on 25th August. Wheeee!

Now to acquaint myself with his entire back catalogue, even the ones that you're not supposed to listen to until you've gone deaf, and the ones you're not supposed to listen to because they make you want to to do reckless and stupid things. (That's pretty much the entire back catalogue. Oh.)

I have to pretend I liked him all along in case I get identified as a charlatan and impostor by the real fans. Heaven only knows *what* they might do to me. Any tips for what to do/say/wear and what not to do/say/wear will be gratefully received.

There Goes The Neighbourhood

An otherwise very pleasant Sunday lunch in our local wannabe London gastropub (you can tell by the way the sausages and mash are billed as “Luganica sausages and crushed potato with balsamic gravy”) was marred today by the presence of one or more “stars” of implausible teen epic Hollyoaks. That one that was also in woeful post-pub sit “com” Two Pints of Lager. You know the one. Honestly. You’d have thought that in sunny Acton W3 we’d be relatively sheltered from D-list celebs – we haven’t even got a Starbucks, for fuck’s sake.

Still, the divine Ms P* reckons it’ll earn her £10 from Heat mag once she’s embroidered the truth a little. “And then he got his cock out, huge it was, gigantic. We tried to reconstruct it later at home with the retractable tape measure, but it ran out. Amazing.”

I'm not going back in there until they can guarantee that all
celebrities - apart, possibly, from Johnny Depp and Nick Cave (and only if they're together) - are barred from the premises in perpetuity.

*Cousin and notable West London femme fatale.

Abruptly, The Sound Ceased

Today I finally discovered my latent delegation skills, with the result that my work life has suddenly attained a state of blissful calm. Excellent. I think I'll set a deckchair out on the office roof terrace (which is *well* Jackson) and catch up on all that reading I haven't done. Maybe finish the Alexandria Quartet. Or Quicksilver. Or Gravity's Rainbow. Or re-read Foucault's Pendulum. I'm sure no one would mind.

Speaking of Foucault's Pendulum, earlier I unthinkingly referred to the stationery cupboard as "The Gateway to Agarttha", which I found hilariously funny, especially since it's not actually a cupboard but a small cardboard box. Sadly my colleagues didn't find this appellation as entertaining as I did. I think they might be getting a bit fed up of me. Maybe planning a coup of some sort. I've always been (irrationally, I thought) worried that C* keeps an Uzi in his desk drawer. Maybe I'm about to find out.

* This initial has been made up

Nausea

No, not the seminal Jean-Paul Sartre novel, but a feeling of intense digestive discomfort caused by consuming far too much of J. Sainsbury's "Taste the Difference" Luxury Mash. Which just serves to illustrate the yawning, unbridgeable chasm between Sartre and me.

There She Goes, My Beautiful World

Where has Nick Cave *been* all my life?

No one say "Australia".

Like The Comedy Zone, Only More So

I'm absolutely delighted that James Henry, of Green Wing writing fame, has seen fit to append an entire chat forum to his Vorderman-approved blog. Excellent. Another place on the internet for me to spout pretentious, ill-informed and possibly made-up nonsense. And as if this weren't enough, there's the added bonus that upon reaching 750 posts, I will attain the status of "frost-covered robot angel", which is surely the greatest status anyone could ever wish for. That's one in the eye for the retro Elite brigade.

A Bit Mad

As part of my continuing quest to spend every single penny of the money I haven't got on pointless and transient rubbish, I paid a visit yesterday to my "stylist", Christophe.

I can only assume that Christophe interpreted my indecisive, monosyllabic mutterings as "please make my hair look like a particularly messy and overgrown birds' nest, to the extent that people phenomenally more attractive and groomed than I will point at me in the street and, if they have any, shield their children's eyes. And then please charge me an arbitrary but eye-wateringly large sum of money for the privilege."

All the while he was creating this distressed confection he was making oily observations like "you have beautiful curly hair" and "it's very fine, but there's a lot of it. A lot." Which (misguidedly) made me feel that with just a bit more effort than I'll ever be prepared to put in, I too could look like Madonna. Or Sting.

"I dunno Christophe, it looks a bit mad," I said as he presented me with a mirror in which to admire his masterwork of art naif. "It's beautiful," he replied. Yeah. I bet the bastard laughed all the way home.

Yesterday wasn't all bad, though. My business partner H. and I got caught in the tractor beam (that's no moon, that's a beauty counter, etc.) of Gift Time at Lancome, and ended up spending hundreds of pounds on cosmetics we didn't understand just so we could get a free make-up bag to throw on the pile of other free make-up bags we've accumulated in this manner. Which is probably just the sort of thing that Albert Camus had in mind when he dreamed up all that stuff about absurdity.

Still, it was all a splendid antidote to this very sad Wilco album I've downloaded from iTunes. More money well spent. Hurrah for capitalism!

Election Newsflash

I'm slightly worried that some people might assume from my flippant and trivial manner that I don't know there's an election going on. I do. Charlie Kennedy nearly lost my vote with his anti-Labour party political broadcast, but that would mean I'd have had to vote Green and I'm too old for that now. So don't worry Charlie. Just as long as you abdicate in favour of "Emperor" Ming Campbell as soon as you get in. Not that my vote is going to make any difference in Ealing, Acton and Shepherd's Bush.

Up The Shithole*

No, not another unsavoury San Francisco carpark practice, but the exciting news that in spite of popular demand, the late, unlamented London Lifestyle (TM) bible Shithole* will shortly be making its second online début.

The inaugural meeting was held last night in the Blue Anchor, an impromptu editorial team appointed (stand by to receive your surprise contracts) and a schedule of features for Issue 1 lovingly scrawled across the back of the Evening Standard and a number of fag packets.

Not only this but a domain name has been acquired, a vast webspace purchased, and all I need to do now is learn HTML, acquire some web design skills, locate my missing comedy talent, buy a new digital camera, develop an imagination and/or get my hair cut, and we'll be away!

In other news, I am very sad to be missing tonight's glorious, fairy-lit début gig of future post-rock legends Marineville. [BLATANT PLUG: The Star, Guildford High Street, errr, forgotten what time, £4 on the door]. I have no doubt that in a year's time I shall be frantically pretending to have been there.

A La Recherche De L'Appartement Perdu

Flicking through the free copy of New London Lifestyle (TM) magazine fabric (love that lower case, *so* 1999) that came with this month’s issue of comedy bible Elle Deco, I happened upon a ridiculous article about my hippy ex-landlord and one-time manager of Daisy Chainsaw, who for purposes of legal safety we’ll call Nuthatch Doggo (which actually suits him better than his real name).

Turns out that Nuthatch has taken his often-expressed desire not to lay a heavy vibe on anyone to its logical extreme, by reincarnating himself as a personal yoga teacher to Madonna and Sting (Sting, you say? Would he have achieved such wealth and recognition if he’d named himself Proboscis, or Ovipositor, I wonder?). I was heartened to see that in spite of his new A-list starf**king credentials, he’s still styling himself on Leo Sayer.

Which got me to reminiscing, like the fifth-rate Marcel Proust that I would love to be, about our joyous 1998-era flat in West Ken. This lurid den played host to not one but *two* legendary parties, each featuring much insalubrious action, including a live sex show (you know who you are); Hawaii Elvis and Las Vegas Elvis escorting a Razzle sub-editor off the premises for lying on the living room floor grasping at women’s crotches; my friend S sprayed from head to foot in gold paint; two other friends attempting carnal unity in our tasteful mirror-fronted wardrobe; the Second Coming of the Messiah; an impromptu fireworks display on the roof terrace *and* a number of friendly visits from the Environmental Health and HM Constabulary.

Happy days. Still, as Proust will attest, you can’t carry on like that forever. Can you?

Was It Rob Newman Or Antigone Who Said

"Is this it? Am I supposed to just...go on living?"

Whichever it was, the answer is "That's about the sum of it."

Thank you, Channel 4, for bringing so much comedy into my life.

In other news, I can sensationally reveal that the new Dr Who will be played by Davros. In order to exterminate himself, Davros/Who will be forced to trap himself in a place that Daleks can easily access, but where the only exit is down a flight of stairs. Namely, the first floor of Marks & Spencers on Kensington High Street. Teatime sci-fi was never so reflexive. Or British.

Fear And Self-Loathing In Slough.

Guided by the principle that you didn’t see Jack Kerouac or Henry Miller sitting around of a weekend worrying about whether their section headers should be in 14pt Arial or 16pt Univers, I just went out in search of some picaresque excitement, action and adventure.

It soon became apparent that I’d picked the wrong town for that, however, so what with being a girl and all I settled for the oldest known antidote to extreme sleep-deprivation and self-loathing, to wit: spending money I haven’t got on pointless rubbish.

Now usually buying books will cheer me up (one day I might even try reading them) but today it only served to prompt a massive bout of vituperative self-abuse (not *that* sort).

“Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas? What, you mean you don’t already own it? What kind of complete, total loser *are* you? What’s it doing on your favourite books list in your profile then, you charlatan!”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, not *another* book about complexity theory! You’re only going to put it in the bookshelves in a fruitless attempt to impress people cleverer than you. Loser!”

“Enduring Love? You already own that, you silly cow. You might even have read it too, if it wasn’t rotting away in the cellar of one of those falling-down houses that you insist on buying and then abandoning because you can’t finish anything you start (cue Elliott*)”.

Still, that last one is one in the eye for Belbin.

Not content with the haul of books, I then wandered about in search of more unnecessary tat, getting more and more riled up at the entire global clothing industry’s ludicrous attitude to bikini sizing, which effectively means that I will never, ever be seen sporting a fetching two-piece swimsuit, and especially not at any point during my forthcoming sojourn among the eight-foot, golden-skinned Amazonians of Venezuela (which, if you put it like that, is probably all for the best anyway. Thank you, Dr Pangloss).

And in a final nod to my utter inability to be consistent or decisive about anything at all, I spent about four hundred pounds on nicotine patches that will see me through another two-month period of being a non-smoker, after which I will reward myself for my commendable abstinence by immediately reverting to a filthy 20-a-day habit. Great.

* STATUTORY WARNING: may provoke etc. etc.

I'm being commissioned to write an article about "silent attrition". Believe me, I know all about that, but only as it applies to the soul. And speaking of which, some NTK sadist has seen fit to turn EHA back on. Just as we thought we might finally be free of its joy-sucking snarkocentrism...

Make the choice, adventurous stranger,
Click the link and bide the danger
Or wonder 'til it drives you mad
What would have happened if you had...

Haven't written in a while, as I seem to have been going through what my Dad would call a "personal reorientation". I now find myself living in my French house, only instead of carting rustic French furniture around in a Transit van, I am looking after my ailing mother who is being treated for ovarian cancer. With any luck, the malignant cyst that was removed two weeks ago in the Centre Hospitalier de Béziers (top marks to the French for their quality hospitals and attractive surgeons) was the end of it, but if not there are dark days of radiotherapy or chemotherapy ahead. It all depends on the results of Mum's next (exploratory) operation which is scheduled for the 3rd July. So fingers crossed that all will be OK.

Mum's sudden hospitalisation meant that I had to leave my job early, and leave both H. and the country in great haste. I arrived on some godforsaken Ryanair flight to Montpellier carrying nought but a modestly sized suitcase (filled mainly with designer furnishing fabric) and my work laptop, which I hope they're not expecting to get back any day soon. That and the bleedin' Alexandria Quartet by Lawrence Durrell, which I have been carrying around with me for seven years without ever finishing even one of the four novels it comprises.

Apart from the emotional rollercoaster of Mum's illness (though she herself insists she feels fine), the sudden uprooting and the 40+ degree heat, living here in the Languedoc does have some advantages. Instead of mangy one-footed pigeons there are hoopoes, goldfinches, swallows, herons and swifts in the garden and a black redstart nesting in the hole next to the front door. On returning from this evening's walk along the old railway line we were greeted ar the door by the first snake I have seen for ages - a beautiful little adder that we at first mistook for a lizard. And I finally get to play house in my house - so I've been spending a lot of time painting walls and shutters, improvising curtain rails, staining wood, rearranging the bathroom and reading endless copies of Maison Francaise and Coté Sud.

On the other hand, it is lonely (I don't feel I'm quite ready to join the hordes of retired expat Brits with their choir outings and bridge parties), broadband is a shimmering distant chimera (although I'm going to a France Télécom demonstration of ADSL on Wednesday) and money is tightish, although I have already been given some freelance work with hopefully more to come.

I'm going to bed - more updates to come, but don't expect Peter Mayle.

Hmm, feeling a bit dangerously crazy these days...have caught myself buying all kinds of weird things, like the Collins Complete DIY Manual and a book about how to make cushions (if anyone thinks that doesn't really sound crazy, be aware that I have never made anything with my hands in my entire life, unless you count a yellow blanket for a doll's bed that I knitted when I was nine). Earlier on I found myself bidding for a power drill on ebay and even earlier I was on the Ford site configuring a dark blue short wheelbase medium-roofed Transit van. What's going on? Why have my hands gone numb? The thrill of imminent freedom is making me light-headed, have hatched all kinds of crazy plans about setting up a furniture shop in the cellar of my French house in which I will not only sell *lovely things* I picked up for next to nothing in the local depot-vente, but also beautiful cushions that I will have made with my fair hands (yeah right) from the bargain designer fabrics I've been buying by the bucketload on ebay. It all seems perfectly reasonable to me, but whenever I try and tell H. this is what I'm going to do, he looks at me like I'm a nutcase. Maybe it's the dilated pupils, wildly unbrushed hair and complete lack of make-up that I'm fetchingly sporting these days.

Meanwhile, back at work, my boss has apparently been telling everyone I'm leaving because I can't handle the stress. Thanks for that. Actually I'm leaving because I think that spending 15 hours a day either at work or travelling to and from work is inhumane. And dealing with the corporate politics of a company with 42,000 employees and several thousand battling egos is something that no decent adult should be required to do. Not to mention the fact that I've got just a mite fed up of the explicit Gulf War metaphors the company uses to describe its marketing strategy. Plus has anyone noticed how fantastically boring the corporate software industry is these days? Although rumour does have it that we're on the cusp of the Second Dotcom Boom - a rumour that, I'd like to point out in anticipation of future finger-pointing and recriminations when it all crashes again, was single-handedly started last week by Timothy J. Mullaney in Business Week. Hope he's right, I have high hopes for online sales of my rustic French furniture, Art Deco stoves and exquisite cushionry. Vive la révolution!

The contents of my handbag:

£3.01
90.80 euros
$1.02
Receipt for one copy of the Times, one copy of Maison Francaise, purchased Munich Airport
Eurostar first class boarding pass and receipt - London to Paris
Receipt for NHS prescription
Petrol receipt
Piece of yellow notepaper bearing logo of my employers and someone's hotmail address
Bus ticket valid to Archway Station
Taxi receipt NW1 to Waterloo Station
Swissport boarding card Geneva to London
First Direct cheque book
Taxis Parisiens receipt - 40 euros
Taxis Parisiens receipt - blank
Lufthansa boarding card - Munich to London
Work security badge
Orbit chewing gum wrapper
Three St John's Wort tablets
Three weeks' worth of Cipramil tablets
One silver and green amber bracelet
Key to Peugeot 206 convertible
Two biros
Two black pony tail bands
Two modem adapters
One toothbrush
One American Express Corporate card
Unidentified receipt for 8.20 euros
Handouts from a Powerpoint presentation

Tomorrow promises to be a beautiful sunny, Spring day in London - and what better way to spend it than by joining thousands of other lovely people in protesting the devastation of Baghdad. Assemble at 1200 midday at either Gower Street or Embankment: further details here.

Troops Poised To Attack Iraq

The trouble with newsfeed services like the mighty NewsNow is that in this time of crisis, you find yourself constantly gaping at the screen, watching the countdown to war unfold minute by painful minute, until you CAN'T TAKE IT ANY LONGER...

07:54GMT: BBC reports troops poised to attack Iraq.

12:52GMT: Troops poised on brink of war, affirms Reuters.

14:00GMT: The Islamic Republic News Agency says Tariq Aziz has been killed, according to a bloke in Bulgaria with the gift of second sight.

15:00GMT: The Sun claims that Tariq Aziz has defected to Kurdistan, according to a bloke in Bulgaria with a large telescope.

15:47GMT: UPI reports 17 million leaflets dropped on Iraq to persuade soldiers to surrender.

16:25GMT: Troops still poised for attack, according to Channel 4 News. Some of them are getting a bit of a stiff neck.

17:58GMT: Xinhua News Agency reports Aziz appears on telly warning of "bloody war." Bloke in Bulgaria insists he saw him down the betting shop in Sofia putting a fiver on Bush to win.

18:19GMT: U.S troops remain poised for attack, confirms Reuters. U.K. troops, meanwhile, are having a cup of tea and watching Corrie.

19:26GMT: Reuters reports that 17 Iraqis surrender as a result of leaflet drop. Marketing Week reports all-time lowest conversion rate of any direct mail campaign.

19:35GMT: Fox makes a late entry into the media fray with the breaking news that Allied troops are poised to attack. Rumours begin to circulate that "the troops" actually consist of one Eagle-Eyes Action Man surrounded by handbag mirrors.

Right, that's it - I'm off to seal up the bedroom with duct tape and stuff tins of beans under the bed.

Iraq. Is it about the oil, or is there something more sinister going on? Sounds like a job for the Random Conspiracy Generator...

H. is correct that I'm old before my time. It's 9pm, I'm doing yesterday's Times Jumbo Crossword, half the clues have got something to do with Inspector Morse and I find this only mildly irritating, and I'm thinking of going to bed. I can guarantee that at this very moment, 600 miles north of here, my 92-year old grandmother is doing exactly the same thing. Granny probably isn't using Google to solve the Inspect Morse clues, and she doesn't have to get up at 5am to finish an essay on the cyborg potential of the internet, but still.

An amazing thing happened today (and it's only 8:53 am!). I received, unsolicited, a letter from my MP Frank Dobson (Lab., Holborn & St Pancras), assuring me of his belief that war on Iraq is still unjustified. Regular visitors to these pages may recall that back in September I used the Faxyourmp.com service to ask Frank to urge Tony not to go to war. I did receive a letter back quite promptly from Frank saying that he opposed war without the backing of the United Nations.

This morning he has sent me an extract from Hansard from 26th February at 3.29pm, in which he is recorded as saying:

"I am simply not convinced that all-out military action on Iraq can be justified at this time and on the scale envisaged [...] I share [the Prime Minister's and the Foreign Secretary's] concerns about weapons of mass destruction, about the vile and muderous Iraqi regime, about terrorism and about the need to uphold the United Nations. And I recognise...that every alternative course of action...is likely to result in protracted misery and a large number of deaths for the people of Iraq. The Government argue that these concerns justify virtually immediate military action, and that they would be resolved by that military action. I find those claims less and less convincing.

[...] I do not believe that the Government have made the case that, after 12 years of not protecting the Iraqi people from their vile and oppressive regime, it is now a moral imperative that we do it within the next few weeks. [...] I do not believe that we have made the case that there is any connection between the current Iraqi regime and al-Qaeda. [,,,]

[...] Even less convincing are the claims of the United States about the enforcement of international obligations, when we consider its failure to implement Kyoto or obey the World Trade Organisation. It is tending to behave rather like a small maverick state. A small maverick state is a nuisance. It is a real problem for the rest of the world if the only remaining super-power turns maverick."

I think it is fantastic that Frank has taken the time to write to me and send me his views. I am comforted that my local MP vigorously opposes the war. And I think it's fantastic that Faxyourmp.com is giving people the opportunity to have this kind of dialogue with their MP, rather than just whingeing about things in the pub. There's still time to persuade Tony of the massive public opposition to the war. If you feel like this, write to your MP and make your views known!

Got flashed twice by speed cameras last night as I was trying to break my Reading-to-Kentish Town record (which I did) and arrived home thinking dark thoughts about the police state. Why, if a decent, tax-paying corporate whore can't drive her middle-management silver convertible at 90 miles an hour in the middle lane of a deserted motorway at 1am, what can she do any more?

Actually I see it as a sign from God that driving is evil and that I should stay at home and be happy. As H. says, "it's never too late to drop out". It can't be a coincidence that my next MA exam falls on the same day as I am supposed to be giving some dumb presentation in Madrid.

You could put all this in context of the looming War on Iraq. I can't be the only employee of Corporate America to be feeling that we've somehow got caught up in a bad bunch, that we've accidentally got in with the bullies. That the nation that pays my wages is doing so out of the dinner money it stole from the poor kids with glasses and freckles. As the days wear on I feel less and less comfortable about it all. Maybe it's time to change schools...

Quinquireme is back in the house, after a frightening foray into the world of the wealthy middle-class Caribbean vacation. A week of watching H. sip Pina Coladas under the palm trees on the tropical paradise island of St Lucia (my zero-vice-tolerance meant I quaffed nothing stronger than pineapple juice the whole week) has left me with a patchy tan and a feeling of nausea and horror at the senseless luxury enjoyed by the unthinkingly well-off. Made even worse by the realisation that my grip has finally been weakened and I've been sucked all the way down into the Sarlacc Pit of the Bourgeoisie.

It was never meant to work out this way - I always wanted to be an archaeologist or a waitress. I was never supposed to become a highly paid corporate whore with a silver sports car, a silver mobile phone and a silver iPaq. That kind of thing used to fill me with revulsion. Now look at me! You try and make excuses like "I wouldn't normally have gone to St Lucia, really we were just visiting my fiance's parents, who live there on their yacht", but that doesn't sound too good either. Anyway, Christ, I sound like I'm asking people to pity me. Actually I'm just giving vent to my self-loathing. I'll stop now.

Meanwhile...im Osten etwas neues: Albert the Gorilla is back! Go Albert!

The Great Firewall Of China

Just learned from nibus that Albert the Gorilla has fallen victim to the notorious Chinese firewall', thus putting an abrupt end to simian dispatches from Shanghai. Tunnel for freedom, Albert!

In other news: H. was attacked by a 'youth' in the illicit 24-hour off-licence on Saturday night. No harm inflicted, but tut tut the rising crime wave (and still FPD Savills want £295k for their poxy railway-benighted cubbyhole on Prince of Wales Road).

H., J. and I went to Somerset House on Saturday to try and track down the owner of The Wisdom of Epictetus, only to find that it's been turned into some sort of art gallery and is no longer the place to go to look up your ancestors. Any suggestions as to a suitable starting place would be much appreciated.

The Wisdom Of Epictetus

Struggling to write this from a condition of indescribable weakness and sickness - well OK, I have got a cold. But my legs are shaking a bit, and I nearly fell asleep in the car on the way home. DVT nothing, the real danger of long-haul flights is catching your fellow passengers' bugs. Thought I'd better write something though, if only to appease the EHA "crowd" (there's at least three of them) who have temporarily appeared - hello chaps and welcome. Make yourselves at home, feel free to toast a nice muffin or something before settling down to browse through the fascinating treasure trove of original thought and pithy observations that is my archive.

Anyway, update: home from San Diego, nothing much to report. Next stop: St Lucia, departing 8th Feb. Weekend highlights: watching the incomparable El Sid play a relatively well-attended gig in the world-famous Chat's Palace in Homerton, followed by a trip to Chichester (the San Diego of the English Riviera) to show the engagement ring to H's grandmother. Next project: trying to fill in the gaps in H's family tree, with particular reference to a mid-19th century Fellow of a London college who once owned a book of philosophy entitled The Wisdom of Epictetus. If that's not a strong lead, I don't know what is.

Moon Landings, Suspiciousness Thereof

Right, here I am, back from Geneva, and on my way out to San Diego (actually departing on Saturday), where I will have the privilege of being in the same room (a very large room, admittedly) as Dr Buzz Aldrin, Astronaut, Airman, Scientist and Patriot!

In anticipation of the probing questions I am going to put to Dr Aldrin regarding the authenticity of the moon landings, here is a reminder of some aspects of the lunar conquest that don't quite add up.

Engaged

What a day for news - a suspect has been named in the Camden "body parts" murder, the US has sent 11,000 troops to the Gulf, and H. and I are engaged to be married!

Yes, readers, he proposed to me last night in someone's back garden in N16, amid fireworks being set off by youths outside a kebab shop in Stoke Newington High Street. Both families duly informed and we are utterly exhausted with the whole rigmarole already. Going to buy the ring on Saturday. Wedding not until next year - possibly on an island in the beautiful river Orb in the Languedoc. Now facing the hideous prospect of having to read Brides and Setting Up Home magazine (shudder).

Don't be concerned though; this isn't going to turn into one of those wedding blogs. Normal claptrap will be resumed forthwith. And lest I forget in all the excitement - a very Happy New Year to all my readers and may 2003 bring you happiness, plenty and fulfilment.

Charles Dickens once lived in Camden (16 Bayham Street, to be precise). If he came back today, stories like this would make him feel right at home. I reproduce a particularly nineteenth-century portion here:

The mutilated bodies of a woman and teenage girl have been found dumped in bin liners behind a pub in Camden, north London. A double murder inquiry has been launched after the remains were found by a homeless man foraging for food in a bin in Royal College Street. He carried the leg parts to a nearby hospital for tropical diseases where shocked staff called in police. One of the black bin bags found behind the College Arms contained a torso, believed to belong to a white girl aged as young as 14. Two sections of a leg, thought to belong to a white woman in her 30s, were found in another bag at the scene.

Everything about this story makes me feel sick - children murdered at Christmas time, people with nowhere to live being forced to scavenge for food over Christmas. At the risk of sounding like a Daily Mail reader (I assure you nothing could be further from the truth), is this how far our "progress" has brought us?

Still, on more cynical note, I hope this latest atrocity will be the final pin in the bloated pig's bladder that is FPD Savill's ploy to sell one-bedroom flats on Prince of Wales Road for a third of a million pounds a go. "Oh, but this *is* a nice area. Really it is. So there are a few murders, and the filthy Silverlink train runs right outside your bedroom window, but it's a small price to pay for the convenience of living so close to Iceland, Woollies and the Drinker's Paradise off-licence..." Would be house-buyers are strongly advised to get a grip.

Aha, found the answer to the Beacon Hill question, thanks to www.thorneycroft.com. Apparently it's named after one or more Beacon Hills in Wiltshire, as a Wiltshire landowner, Thomas Poynder, owned the land in Holloway on which this and other streets were built on the 1870s. So in a way, it is named for the ancient beacon fires lit by prehistoric colemen, just not in that actual place.

I'm not much in the habit of linking to "interesting things I found on the internet" (that's really for the boys, I think), and still less to things I read in other people's blogs. But I've got to make an exception for this fabulous thing I found via Ben Hammersley - someone has started to write up Samuel Pepys's diary as a blog! We're probably witnessing the start of a new craze for 2003 (I'd write up Dorothy Wordsworth, if I had the time), but you do get the feeling that however cool and modern this is, the paper versions are still going to be around when the websites have long gone. Whoever said we're living in the new Dark Ages was undoubtedly correct.

[...] I wrote the above, and now I've had some more thoughts about it. Now I've linked to Pepys's diary on the sidebar there, it's like he's here among us, walking the same streets, eating the same leftover turkey etc. It's like a telescoping of time, ourselves and our past selves suddenly living side-by-side. And I love the whole linking thing - links to maps and explanations and descriptions of places etc. When I was very little I had a persistent fantasy about writing a diary and putting it in a huge tea-chest with all of the objects and photos of people, places etc. that I had referred to in the diary. In my teens, I did keep a diary in a box (actually a series of yearly biscuit tins) together with related objects, and I have several of these boxes in my cupboard still. So I suppose in a way I was envisaging a kind of blog format, with the source text and the links to mentioned objects close by... who'd have thought that it would come to be so easy and take up so little space!

Merry Christmas to you all - hope you had, and continue to have - a fab festive season.

I've just started reading The Fields Beneath by Gillian Tindall. It's an incredibly detailed history of Kentish Town, intended to be a blueprint for uncovering the history of inner suburban areas everywhere. It's beautifully written, completely authoritative and with an excellent wry sense of humour woven in.

Who would have thought that town planning could be so fascinating - anyone who's read Emergence and liked the sections on organic versus planned developments will enjoy the minute (I mean really minute, there's practically an inch-by-inch description of where the River Fleet and its tributaries used to run) detail in this book of how urban areas develop and are built. I'm on my way to becoming a Kentish Town bore, and am already delighted at the knowledge that Anglers Lane, which my street runs off, used to be a track taken by people going to fish in the river Fleet (also known as the Ken Ditch, from where Kentish Town takes its name) before the river was encased in an iron pipe and built over.

Note to Mark - you would really like this book - get it from the Owl Bookshop! Same goes for anyone else who lives in Kentish Town, Camden, Highgate, Holloway and surrounding areas. Maybe I'll even find the answer to my question about Beacon Hill in here.

By electing to spend Christmas Day together just the two of us, it seems that H. and I are conforming to no demographic known to man. He's a meat-eater and I'm a vegetarian, which essentially makes it Christmas dinner for one, yet the fridge is full of stuff designed for extended families - 18 chipolatas (the lowest denomination available), half a pound of pork, sage and onion stuffing, a month's worth of potatoes, and a giant net of sprouts. Unable to face the prospect of a giant bag of carrots, I've opted for one of those teeny trays of baby carrots, with some baby leeks thrown in for good measure. H is getting smoked salmon for a starter (another giant pack, most of which will probably end up in the cats' dish) while I'm having an onion tartlet. For the main course, H. is getting a kind of pre-stuffed chicken breast affair, and I'm having vegetarian Lincolnshire sausages. For pudding I'm making a tarte tatin - it was going to have pecans in it, but I seem to have eaten them all already.

Christmas Day is the only day in the year that I ever cook, so we're not expecting Nigella Lawson quality, or even Delia. But if the worst comes to the worst I guess we could always crash Jamie Oliver's place up the road, break his arms and nick his turkey dinner. Incidentally, I confirm that there is no Sainsbury's within miles of Oliver's Kentish Town pad, so I can only assume he actually shops in Somerfield like the rest of us.

Went to see the Two Towers last night in the seriously horrific new complex in Fulham Broadway (shudder). I *loved* the film, it's got such amazing scenery, and the Man, the Elf and the Dwarf are great, although the Hobbits continue to be deeply irritating, especially Elijah Wood, who has about five lines in the whole film and spends the rest of the time looking pained and pathetic and in need of a good slap. The Ent was just as I had imagined from the book, and Gollum is spot on.

The Two Towers is all about impending war, and I spent at least half of the film in tears because it's all about to come true, and we're on the wrong side. It's difficult to feel good about Aragorn & Co pelting the Uruk-Hai with arrows, and the Riders of Rohan turning up at the 11th hour like the Prussians at Waterloo, when you're plagued with a queasy feeling that Sauron and Saruman are just Bush and Blair with beards. The Middle-Earth/Middle-East connection is too close for comfort too. Well, if it comes to it, I'm with the Ents, even though the "Which Lord of the Rings Character Are You?" test has me down as Galadriel.

Wooo - one superhuman effort later, and all the Christmas cards and presents have been wrapped, sent and delivered, the Christmas tree has been bought and decorated, peace has been made once more with my grandmother (whose 92nd birthday it is today - happy birthday, Granny!), the cleaner (whose name is Lolita - I kid you not) has been given her Christmas bonus, and all the work-that-had-to-be-done-before-Christmas is complete! Wooooooo! I'm off to have a nice hot bath and a game of Tomb Raider to celebrate.

When, oh when, oh when will it end? It's the week before Christmas and I have back-to-back meetings all week, was in the office till 9.15 last night ploughing through piles of rubbishy work things, the Christmas cards haven't been sent, the Christmas presents haven't been wrapped or sent (but at least this year they've been bought), I'm owed four thousand pounds in expenses and consequently haven't got any cash, I got a speeding ticket, the VAT man is after me and I haven't eaten anything sensible for days. Things have been like this for two and half years solid now. Is it actually going to be like this for *ever*?

Apart from all that, I keep meaning to say something about the Lilac Time. I used to have this huge crush on Stephen Duffy (I await charl's disdain) when I was 15 and he was in the charts with that dreadful "Kiss Me" song. Then when I was 17 he came out with the first Lilac Time album, now tragically discontinued, which was the greatest album ever (I await nibus's disdain) - beautiful folk-pop melodies and quirky lyrics that managed to stay just on the cool side of twee. How I *loved* him.

Sadly, in the early 90s I went all indie and rave, and Stuffy and I went our separate ways. Last year, though, I bought the Compendium album, which now lives in the CD player of my horrible soulless company car, and it's like rekindling an affair with a childhood sweetheart. In my mind, over the intervening decade and a half, he wrote all those love songs for me and for our long-lost romance. In a parallel world, I could have been the Girl Who Waves At Trains. In this world, it turns out that I am just the Girl Who Keeps Excel Spreadsheets. Perhaps it's not too late - Stephen, if you're reading this, please come and rescue me from corporate purgatory.

A mammoth work week just gone, featuring 15-hour days and a particularly enjoyable 48-hour stretch with no sleep and no food other than vending-machine hot chocolate and vending-machine blueberry Frusli bars. At one point I somehow managed to get myself quoted in the press in Norway. Still, by yesterday it had become clear that my project (product launch) was an overwhelming success and that [whisper it] senior management was very pleased. Given that senior management is currently in New Zealand gearing up for the semi-finals of the Louis Vuitton Cup, I personally doubt the veracity of this.

In other sailing news, huge excitement welled up on Tuesday as it seemed that against all odds, Sanjola had pulled into the lead of the Atlantic Rally, ensuring safe passage into the history books for Cap'n Dicko and First Mate Jennifer. Sadly it turned out that our seafaring heroes were heading in entirely the wrong direction, and had to pull a quick U-ey round the Cape Verde Islands to rejoin the others mid-fleet. Looks like they'll have no trouble fulfilling Cap'n Dicko's ambition of being in St Lucia for his birthday though. Go, Yacht Sanjola!

Ooh, and as ordained, Smat has now got a blog. And a new job! Go Smat!

Got to go, Simon Schama's on telly. The Picts, Simon!