Media Rage

Many thanks to Pashmina for alerting me to this article in last Thursday's Telegraph, all about how women are too stupid to download music or work an MP3 player. The whole thing has enraged me so much that I can barely form a coherent sentence, so it's lucky that Gendergeek has marvellously deconstructed it all already.

I was particularly moved to incandescent fury by these little gems of insight from "psychologist and usability expert" Tom Stewart:

"Women are often discouraged by other women from learning about technology. They are conditioned by society to want to be seen as different to men. Building Meccano bridges and piecing together model aeroplanes teach boys to enjoy tinkering with things, but girls are encouraged to play with dolls instead.

This makes them more interested in relationships and how people behave, so they focus on the usefulness of a gadget, not on how it works. For example, they like using mobile phones because they are big talkers, so they see it as helpful to be able to make calls all the time"

I'm not much of a talker as it happens, but I can think of two words I'd like to say to our Tom. Anyone got his mobile number?

Recipe For Failure

This week I've been compiling a High Fidelity-style list of Ten Things I Want To Do Before I'm 40. To wit:

1. Resurrect the lost language of the Picts, brilliantly demonstrating it to be a heretofore unknown offshoot of the Finno-Ugric language family. This will require a certain amount of research to be undertaken in Finland; more specifically, in the big Marimekko shop - the one with all the nice trays and wall hangings.

2. Finish Masters degree, submitting brilliant dissertation about kittens and the internet, on the strength of which I will be immediately snapped up as a PhD student by some tip-top educational institution.

3. Write brilliant PhD thesis about knitting and identity, which will immediately propel me into the uppermost echelons of pop culture academia. Write a series of really quite dry and uninteresting academic books that will nevertheless sell like hot cakes thanks to their colourful, glossy covers and witty txt spk titles spelled out in real wool. Around this time I may also coin a fashionable new buzzword.

4. Miraculously become rich enough to afford a house in Ashchurch Grove, London W12, with very big, very clean windows and a lot of wisteria and ivy.

5. Buy a house in Ashchurch Grove, London W12, with very big, very clean windows and a lot of wisteria and ivy. Fill it with really pretentious books, some of which I will have written (see above).

6. Go around being a bit like Germaine Greer, only without all the talking and going on telly and stuff.

7. Purchase a cottage in Cornwall (or similar coastal county), for the sole purpose of observing the sea during stormy weather.

8. Stop smoking.

9. Learn Spanish, Arabic, Welsh and Finnish.

10. Fail to achieve any of the above. At 11.59pm on the 6th October 2010, scratch out "40" and replace with "70".

Oh Help Me God

The other week I was sapped once again of my will to live by this article in the Sunday Times 'Thirtysomething Middle-Class Wanker' supplement.

In fact the juxtaposition, in one single paragraph, of phrases like 'Cath Kidston tent', 'kids', 'croquet', 'yoga' and 'Lemon Jelly headlining', is still sending shivers of horror up my spine.

Which is, of course, why I've just purchased a ticket to the not-like-the-Big-Chill-at-all-honest Bestival festival on the Isle of Wight, on the 10th September. I'm not staying the night, though, so thankfully I don't have to invest in one of these. And you won't see me dead in anything like these. Inappropriate footwear will prevail! And I don't have any kids, thank Christ, so I won't have to worry about little Darcey and Jake's soiled nappies filthing up my iPod.

Shudder.

Pass me that bottle of water, I feel a bout of nausea nostalgia coming on.

The Contents Of My Navel Handbag

I swore I'd never do this again, but you know, it's cathartic. Or something. Or it says something about modern society. Or something. Yes, that's it - it's an important historical document. It's...The Complete And Unabridged Contents Of My Handbag (2005 Mix)!

1. Notification of undelivered parcel (wireless gateway)
2. Leaflet about the torture of Falun Gong members, in Finnish
3. Flyer for Juno Reactor gig at Nosturi on October 7th
4. Eleven of my own business cards
5. Finnair boarding pass Helsinki to LHR
6. Bach Rescue Remedy spray
7. iPod Shuffle (currently playing: "The Actress" by the Delgados)
8. Black whiteboard marker pen
9. Four sets of keys (office, new flat, old house, house in Scotland)
10. MoominShop receipt (EUR38.50)
11. Phone jack for modem
12. Two AA batteries, possibly dead
13. Screwed-up nicotine patch
14. Cheque for £70 that I have never paid into my account
15. Driving licence bearing an address that's eight years out of date
16. Notification of another undelivered parcel (Nick Cave tickets)
17. Train ticket Reading to London
18. Tube ticket Ealing Broadway to Zone 3
19. Route 266 bus ticket (valid to Hammersmith Grove)
20. Mobile phone
21. Two credit cards (Egg and First Direct)
22. Route 237 bus ticket (valid to Shepherd's Bush Green)
23. Café Rouge (Chiswick High Road branch) receipt (£27.90)
24. Four Nurofen tablets
25. Two pens and a pencil
26. Passport
27. Sixteen Marlboro Lights
28. Thirty-six pence

Never in the field of human endeavour has so much been of so little interest to so few.

Am I Dominating You Now?

Maybe Michael Buerk should try flicking through a copy of the Economist or the Financial Times before he goes on telly next. How many pictures of women do you see, Michael? So we set the agenda in business, politics and the media, do we?

And surely the very fact that he gets to air his ignorant and ill informed opinions on high-profile TV and radio programmes suggests that he and his kind haven't *quite* been relegated to the status of household utensil, as he seems to fear.

He's right in one way, though: unfounded whingeing used to be a character trait associated with women. Seems like the tables have been turned on that score, at least.

Fin

And in what is absolutely my final engagement as Finland's Unofficial Ambassador to West London (and hopefully also as tragic Nathan Barley wannabe), I bring you news that Finland's finest export that doesn't begin with M, the mighty Husky Rescue, are playing in my neck of the woods at Bush Hall on the 8th September.

(If it sways anyone's decision to attend, they've got a guitarist who's the spitting image of Johnny Depp - if Johnny Depp had four haircuts and had met with a tragic, freak face-crushing accident, that is.)

Poke Me With The Soft Cushions!

I seem to have come over all melancholically Finnish today; fingers barely managing to cling on to the rim (steady...) of the Sarlacc Pit of Despair, etc. So what better way to elevate myself out of the misery than to...purchase a pair of tasty Finnish cushions!


Oo, these are going to look lovely on my tasty cherry-red leather sofa. They haven't arrived yet, but I've already named them Colin and Justin.

And if anyone else happens to be feeling the sort of melancholy that can be alleviated by the sight of lovely cushions, just have a look at this lot.

UPDATE: Must...get...hang...of...posting...photos...

Finland Has It All

When travelling to Europe's Most Northerly Mainland Capital, don't forget to do the following:

1. Ensure your alarm clock is set for the same unearthly hour as the taxi that's due to take you to the airport is due to arrive. This will ensure that you have approximately three minutes in which to get up, clean yourself and pack for the trip. This in turn will ensure that you spend the duration of the trip looking like a dishevelled bag lady. They like that in Finland. (No, actually, they do).

2. Ensure that your travelling companion has been out clubbing the night before and has failed to set any sort of alarm at all, thus ensuring that when your taxi stops by his house, he is neither awake nor in any way prepared for the trip. This will ensure that he spends the duration of the trip looking like a dishevelled, erm, bag bloke, thus ensuring he will not show you up. Excellent.

3. Fly business class. It's worth it for a one-night stay, and you get to share a cabin with a bling-ridden transvestite DJ and some world-famous athletics stars, none of whom you can recognise or put a name to. Plus you get free champagne and pickled herring, which is exactly what you need at 7.30am.

4. Upon arrival in Helsinki, note with glee that the temperature is edging towards zero and it is pissing down with rain.

5. Pick a taxi driver whose appetite for sarcasm, beer and existential angst is unparalleled anywhere in Europe.

6. Make sure you've booked into the same hotel as the entire press contingent for the 2005 International Athletics Federation Championship. This will lend a commendable Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas-like ambience to your weekend.

7. Spend the entire afternoon trudging about a bleak industrial wasteland in search of tickets for the obscure electronica festival you've read about on the internet. In vain. Observe butterflies hurling themselves into the greasy grey waters of the world's most blighted marina. Remember that Finland has the highest suicide rate in Europe. Realise why.

8. Head back into town, only to find your path blocked by crowds of Finns politely applauding the front runner in the men's marathon. Get caught up in the (polite, understated) excitement. Cheer wildly as the two GBR runners hove into view. Realise you don't know their names. Cheer wildly anyway. Go Great Britain! Feel huge surge of national pride.

9. Spend vast sums of cash on Moomin merchandise and patterned stuff from Marimekko.

10. Stuff yourself with the finest exemplars of Finnish cuisine, from reindeer carpaccio to, erm, fish. No, actually, the cuisine was very fine indeed. Amazing for a country whose top chef admits his all-time favourite ingredient is the gooseberry.

11. Arrive at obscure electronica festival - held in fantastic, giant industrial factory complex - to discover that tickets are available on the door in abundance. Marvel at how well behaved, quiet and polite the assembled crowd are. Dance like a nutter (in relation to the Finns, who don't seem to enjoy dancing as much as standing around being quiet and polite) to Mouse on Mars, who sound like the bastard offspring of Laibach and Daft Punk.

12. Halfway through her set, realise you're not very keen on Roisin Murphy's nu-jazz solo stuff. Wander off to the chill-out room instead. Notice that the only people making any noise at all are a small contingent of Brits.

13. Observe some Finns handing around something from a small plastic bag. "Aha!", you think. "Drugs!" It turns out to be ear plugs.

I love this country.

You Owe Me, Suomi British Airways

Traveller's tip: when attempting a last-minute getaway to attend an obscure electronica festival in Helsinki, don't book it on a weekend when BA ground staff have all gone home to watch the climax of Big Brother "on strike".

Still, it was almost worth it to witness the scenes of apocalyptic chaos at Heathrow, which was decked out like a season finale of Casualty. Brilliant. But at the same time, what a bunch of bastards.

Wild Boar Is My Mistress

Continuing my quest to become Nathan Barley, last night I attended a semi-hilarious postmodern-ironic thrash gig at Camden's "legendary" Barfly, played by Ed Harcourt's new postmodern-ironic middle-class West London punk band, Wild Boar. They have pig masks and everything! They would have had horse's head masks but they got lost in France! Lots of postmodern-ironic screaming, posturing and songs with names like "Drugs Are Bad" and "Wild Boar Is My Mistress". Still, it was nice to see the hordes of Camden Indie Kids taking it all so seriously. Awww, bless.

In other news related to the unleashing of my inner rock chick (steady...), my tickets for Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds on the 25th Aug have finally arrived. Ohhh, this is going to be so great.

Oh, The Nathanity*

While we're on the subject, I was over in Nathan Barley's neck of the woods today (well, Clerkenwell, but they *did* have Aeron chairs), where my esteemed colleague S. noticed an office with a carpet that was designed to look like distressed concrete. This is the way the dotcom world ends, not with a bang but a shag pile?

In other Barley news, the long-awaited (at least by its paltry 500,000 fans, plus the considerably larger Julian Barratt Appreciation Society) DVD of the woefully under-rated TV series is coming out on September 26th - book your place on my tasty wipe-clean cherry-red leather Klippan now.

And finally...what could be more Nathan than flying to Helsinki on a whim this weekend to see a band called Giant Robot play at the Koneisto festival? Yup, that's right, nothing. I'll be videoing it with my Wasp T12 Speechtool and streaming it here live. Well actually I won't, but you get my drift.

I *am* Nathan Barley and I am proud.

Normal service etc. etc.

* Credos (erm...I think I should stop it now) to NTK for this title.

This Year's Obligatory Cat Post

What - I haven't talked about cats in two years? Surely some mistake. To rectify the matter, here courtesy of Nibus (and probably with a small contribution by the late-to-the-fray viral marketing team* at Whiskas), is a Guide To What Your Cat Is Really Saying.

Catspeak Translator

This is, of course, a load of made-up old rubbish designed to make people think about their brand preferences when it comes to the purchase of stinking processed cat meat.

I mean, where's the cat-speak for "You stink", "This stinks", "Let's not get into who stinks of what", "Whaaaaaaaaa...?" and "I hate you, you stink"? Which appear to be the only non-food-related thoughts that ever flit through what passes for cerebral matter among my two fat, decrepit, tattered, pus-oozing bastards darlings.

* And it's worked, hasn't it? I told you I was a marketer's dream.

OK, I Admit It

The reason I used to hate Charlie Brooker so much is because I really, really wish I'd written the original Nathan Barley.

It's only taken me six years to admit that. I feel an overwhelming sense of disburdenment. Mingled with a terrible headache.

Game On

There’s been a lot of media debate recently about women and computer games. Yesterday's Guardian had a little report from the Women in Games conference currently taking place in that hub of the computer gaming universe, Dundee. Now I reckon I'm fairly well qualified to comment on this topic, given that:

a. I am a woman.

b. I’ve been playing computer games (not continuously, you understand) since the early 1980s.

c. I once got into a fantastic spat* with a Professor of Psychology on this very subject in the Guardian letters pages.

But I can’t see that the people who want to promote the involvement of women in computer games are doing themselves any favours. I mean, just look at the state of the conference logo. It's a little spaceship from Space Invaders, a game that was released in 1978 and which hasn't been seen - apart from at retro-gaming shindigs and in "postmodern ironic" fashion in Nathan Barley-style nu-meeja offices (including the one next door to mine, in fact) - since the 1980s. How is this supposed to engender confidence in women’s ability to contribute to the modern games industry?

The article observes that women are put off from going into the industry because of its “salacious” image. This is probably because the Guardian, like most other media outlets, appears to equate “the games industry” with the Pete Doherty of computer games; Grand Theft Auto San Andreas (or any other moral panic-inducing computer game du jour), thus perpetuating the myth that it's a big, bad dangerous place where women should fear to tread.

It was interesting to read an article in Red Herring (The Business of Technology!) the other week, about women who have actually made it into senior positions in the industry. What struck me was that they'd been successful because they'd played down their gender and just concentrated on getting on with it - while making a few subtle changes along the way.

The truth - unpalatable as it might be to feminist academics - is that the whole of the tech industry is still predominantly male, and the only way for women to get on is to play along with it and make small but hopefully far-reaching changes from the inside. Making a big song and dance about unfair phallocentric hegemonies (as the world of feminist academia is wont to go on) is unlikely to advance the cause of women in technology, and is more likely to set it back - all the way back to the era of Space Invaders, in fact.

* OK, not *that* fantastic: Letter 1 - Letter 2 - Letter 3

Things Like That Drive Me Out Of My Mind

All this talk about the space shuttle reminds me of those conspiracy theories you periodically get about alleged hush-hush US research into interplanetary space travel (all based, of course, on the mythical B-movie space machine that crashed at Roswell in 1947).

Now I'm no expert on alien interplanetary spacecraft (which is why I spend my time writing marketing copy for software companies, rather than being a highly paid NASA technologist), but I *do* have my own theory about the mysterious cigar-shaped and saucer-shaped objects that are regularly spotted hovering in the firmament by weary (and/or drunk) airline pilots.

My theory is that these have nothing to do with space aliens or secret NASA experiments. Oh no. These are private sector UFOs. Specifically, they are instances of the Philip Morris Satellite. The function of the Philip Morris Satellite is to hover in the exosphere above ex-smokers, and beam unhelpful thoughts into their minds. And as Philip Morris Inc. is a commercial company, these unhelpful thoughts come in the form of little slogans, thus:

Cigarettes Are Your Friends

(and its more menacing variation: Cigarettes Are Your Only Friends)

You Wouldn't Desert A Friend, Would You?
If You Stop Smoking, No One Will Like You
Are You Quite Sure About This?
Soon You Will Feel Very Bored
Not Smoking Is Not Cool

And so on.

PS Can you guess which filthy, addictive habit I've forsworn today?

Lingerie Interlude

While I'm waiting for inspiration to post something that doesn't make me sound like a vacuous West London tart (only £2,876.54 a slice from Tatin Catin* on Turnham Green Terrace), I bring you important news from the world of frighteningly expensive French lingerie!

Yes, I know this isn't actually doing anything to dispel the vacuous-West-London-tart image, but frighteningly expensive French lingerie is to me as gorgeous handbags are to Pashmina and, erm, multiplayer role-playing fantasy-quest type games are to James, so please hear me out.

So having paid a visit earlier to the fancy underwear emporium on the aforementioned Turnham Green Terrace, and finding its collection wanting, I've just spent a merry hour or so trawling the online catalogues of the finest purveyors of such apparel, including Aubade, Lejaby and Chantelle.

And I'm totally delighted to report that Lejaby has seen fit to create a whole collection of tweed underwear for the coming Autumn. As if Autumn wasn't fantastic enough as it is! Tweed underwear! Just look at it!

If anyone calls for me, I'll be on the third floor of Selfridges spending money I haven't got.

* I am insanely proud of this gag. Just thought I'd say.

Resistance Is Futile: You Will Be Etymologised

The lovely and glamorous Pashmina has put the investigative cat among the etymological pigeons (oh dear) by unwittingly alerting me to the Oxford English Dictionary's sci-fi vocabulary research site. And just as I was thinking that what I really need right now is yet another distraction from work, as well.

Oh, so many challenges, so little time. So I think I'll concentrate on just one word (and one of my all-time favourites): cyborg. All I need to do is find a written example of it that pre-dates 1960. Come on. Surely this is going to be easier than resurrecting the Lost Language of the Picts?

Must scurry home *immediately* and consult weighty, pretentious textbook.

I've Got A Thing About Chickens

Spent an instructive evening learning there can only be one winner in the game of Try To Match Mickey Rourke Cig For Cig while watching clunky (sorry, I mean "cult") 80s voodoo 'n' amnesia flick Angel Heart. Poor light stopped play about three quarters of the way through, at which point the score was Mickey 10, Patroclus 1. Well smoked, sir.

The more assiduous among you will have observed that I am ploughing through my DVD collection (total: 5) in strict alphabetical order, Nick Hornby style, which means that tonight's entertainment is likely to be fantastic Johnny-Depp-in-angora-sweater romp Ed Wood.

Unless anyone has any recommendations for films beginning with B, C or D that I can buy on my way home...

Important Television Update

I know you've been following this saga with the impatient fervour you would normally reserve for EastEnders or the latest instalment in the Kerry/Brian or Jude/Sienna fiascos (fiaschi*, surely?), so I'll put you out of your misery.

You'll be relieved to hear that I have now got the TV to work (cue shrieks of delight, merry little dances around the living room, possibly a certain degree of underwear-throwing). Excellent.

I also tested my powers of emotional resistance by watching Amélie again. This time I only cried on three occasions, and that was because I was being *manipulated* into doing so by fiendish director, not because the film had unexpectedly tapped into some hidden wellspring of despair.

So hurrah - the frost-covered robot angel is reborn!

* It's Italian for "flasks". Flasks. Hmmm. No, me neither. Cello?

Bearded Ladies

Just a quick post to give a well deserved plug (ah, the power of micro-publicity) to the forthcoming Bearded Ladies sketch show series on Radio 4 (a six-week run starting Tuesday 9th August at 6.30pm). Cello, Pashmina, Mr Pashmina and I had a great time watching the last show being recorded at the Drill Hall on Friday night.

It's always heartening to come across truly funny women, especially when two of the truly funny women in question were also partly responsible for writing one of the Greatest Sitcoms Of Our Time. And it was even better to meet Ori afterwards and discover that, as suspected, all GW writers are as lovely as they are talented. Marvellous stuff.

Late Adopter

I've always been the sort of person who Misses Fads. For example, I got my first Duran Duran poster in 1985, after the band had split up and when everyone else was raving about Morten from A-Ha. Not only this, but I'm pretty sure my poster was of Andy Taylor, rather than Simon le Bon or John Taylor. How much more wrong could I have got it?

Next, witness the fact that I remain only dimly aware of the so-called Su Doku phenomenon that appears to have gripped the rest of the nation. Putting numbers in little squares is the kind of thing I might be made to do in my version of Hell. But give me three years and I'll no doubt come round to it.

And then recently I dropped into the late-adopter section of the popular fiction uptake curve and bought a book by the Dan Brown of cosy teatime literature, Alexander McCall Smith.

Now I love trashy novels as much as anyone (anyone who loves trashy novels as much as I do, at any rate) but Good Lord, this one is fucking awful.

I resent this book on three counts:

1. There's nothing worse than a trash novel with pretensions. Mentioning Immanuel Kant on every other page doesn't make your writing any more profound.

2. There's nothing worse than a trash novel that takes a supercilious moral stance. I read this stuff for escapism, not to be assailed with self-righteous, ill thought-out and inconsistent moral pronouncements.

3. There's nothing worse than trash novelists who show off how clever they think they are by creating an "intellectual" character whom other characters think is clever. For example, at one point the protagonist refers to people as being quick or dead, while another character admires her use of the word "quick" in this context. Look mate, there's nothing remotely clever about that, just as there isn't anything remotely clever about mentioning Plato on every other page.

And this is, of course, why I've never attempted to write a novel myself.

*Cough*

Apparently I got a little bit angry and over-punctuated yesterday. Sorry about that, everyone. Expect future posts to cover such contentious topics as fluffy kittens and hot chocolate with whipped cream.

Mmm, hot chocolate with whipped cream. Is it Autumn yet?

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!