Vote

After swimming this morning, Eitan accompanies me to the news agent to get the Sunday papers. He is motivated by football and ManU, who tied their match last night after trailing 1 to nil (the sports now spread on the table and he belts out the scores and news: "Dad! Chelsea is trying to buy Stevie Gerard from Liverpool!"). In the car this morning the boy reminds me that he was once transfixed by Bob the Builder, then Spider Man and now football.

Britain is towards the bottom of the European league table when it comes to female representation in our government. Despite the Iron Lady Thatcher, there are 125 of women MPs or 19% of the total. This compares Sweden (47%), Spain (37%) and Germany (32%). Since 1918, when women became eligible to stand for parliament, there have been 4,365 men elected to the Commons and 291 women. The figures are more startling in the British board room where there are 16 female full-time Executive Directors in the FTSE 100, according to The Guardian. This despite board pay increasing 37% the last year. This group makes up, er, half the vote. Hello Gordon Brown.

Marbles

The Elgin Marbles, removed in 1801 by Thomas Bruce, 7th Earl of Elgin, include 17 figures from the east and west pediments, 15 (of an original 92) of the metope panels depicting battles between the Lapiths and the Centaurs, as well as 247 feet of the Parthenon which decorated the horizontal course set above the interior architrave of the temple (my photo of the east pediment). The marbles represent more than half of what now remains of the surviving sculptural decoration of the Parthenon. Elgin's acquisitions also included objects from other buildings on the Athenian Acropolis: a Caryatid from Erechtheum; four slabs from the frieze of the Temple of Athena Nike; and a number of other architectural fragments of the Parthenon, Propylaia, Erechtheum, the Temple of Athena Nike and the Treasury of Atreus. The cost to Lord Elgin was £75,000 and the last piece arrived in Britain in 1812. They were eventually sold to the British Museum for £35,000 in 1816. Not too surprisingly and spurred by the 2004 Olympics in Greece, the Greeks want their treasures back.

Eitan is more interested in the evening's ManU v Blackburn Rovers and we make a ten minute tour of the Greeks than bolt. Before so, I beg Eitan to look at the Rosetta Stone which he does for several focused moments as I describe its importance. His mind, Dear Sister, is elsewhere.

British Museum

I am mano-a-mano with Eitan and we head into Central London to do some shopping and go to the British Museum - pictured. We start our morning at Lillywhite's, billed as the largest sports store in Britain, to buy - what else - Manchester United gear and football boots (also red). Backing up, this past week has been busy for all of us as Sonnet recovers from her race and the kids their last week of spring break and football camp. Both play football all day and poor Natasha has to drag herself over to do the drop-off (otherwise she is with us in the afternoon). On football, Madeleine says: "Fun, ldals, energy. Cold. Fong, tiring, feet ache" while Eitan weighs in: "Brilliant." It keeps 'em busy, any case. I am in Rotterdam Thursday night and manage to sneak in the Contemporary Arts Museum (mediocre) and the Nederlands Fotomuseum located in the old, now burned-out docks which have moved to greener pastured (Rotterdam remains Europe's biggest port). I view an exhibition on "The Child Ideal, 1840 Until Now" which includes, amongst other things, a montage of tweenie runway competitions in Texas and the Mid-West. Here the young girls are dressed like adults in cowboy, swim suit and fancy dress before parading themselves in front of an audience. We learn the outfits run from $2,000 and many girls go to as many as 100 competitions in a year. We all know who motivates and the parents invariable hold cigarettes and expectations to the camera for us to ogle. Also up are the finalists for the best urbans with images from around the world.

Sonnet reads the kids "Harry Potter" and it all starts from here. Both are mesmorised by Hogwarts and beg for her reading before bedtime. Vaguely I follow JK Rowling's case against a fan preparing a Potter dictionary, which Rowling wants to prevent. Her trump card: "If I lose I may not have the enthusiasm to write my own." Fans are unsettled.

Westward Ho!

I take this moody picture from the center of the Waterloo Bridge pedestrian walkway facing Westminster Bridge or due West. Westminster Bridge opened in 1750 establishing one of the most important links across the Thames, joining the ever expanding (and important) Westminster to what is now Waterloo. The thing stood for 70 years before structural checks revealed problems with the foundation resulting in a rebuild - designed by Thomas Page and Charles Barry. The new bridge opened to great fanfare in 1862 and today is one of London's busiest foot and road bridges. And most proud crossings, I might add. It also serves as a convenient link between the London Eye and Houses of Parliament - as can be seen for sure. The kids and I have seen a river's eye view on many occassions taking the Tate-To-Tate from the Tate Britain to the Tate Modern.

Huzzay!

Sonnet finishes the marathon in 4-21 and is relieved and happy to have it done. We meet her by Downing Street below Pall Mall and next to St James's Park where there is a runners meeting area. As usual for the British, it is perfectly orderly. Sonnet's time is taken from a shoe-chip as it otherwise takes her 20-minutes to cross the front-line with her 35,000 associates. At the end-zone, both kiddies are a tad wiggy from waiting (it pours rain and hails) relieved momentarily by fantasy sword-fighting which gets the evil eye from Dad (on the train ride home I command: silence! until Clapham Common, which elicits funny faces and hand-gesturing). It has been a long day and we are all happy to be home. Sonnet is in the bath while Eitan listens to Manchester United v Arsenal, currently one-one. Madeleine plays with her doll-house upstairs singing to herself. A nice Sunday of accomplishment overall. Everybody is proud to have a marathoner in the house.

And today's race winner is: Martin Lel in 2-05-15, a new London record. Another three men are under 2-06 making London the deepest marathon in history. Smashing. The women's race is won by Irina Mikitenko of Kazakhstan, in 2-24-14, well below Paul Radcliff's standard of 2-15-25 in 2003 and perhaps one of the greatest athletic performances ever, which I watched start-to-finish on the tele (properly reclined on the sofa). It is hard not to be inspired and in truth I would love to line up again for the long-race (my body has a different plan). Bravo!

Mile 19

The kids and I find a good observation and await Sonnet. The Shakespeares are bored and restless but we carry-on. It is fun to watch costumes including Mr and Ms. naked (several), Elvis (many), Green Bay Packers (football helmet and pads legit) and Mr Happy - pictured. We are not quite sure about Mr Happy but he gives us a thumbs up and a thrill. Unfortunately, he also passes before Sonnet. Oh well, these jokers are here to run.

London, we know, is one of the World Majors and part of a two-year series of elite marathoning that includes Boston, Chicago, New York and Berlin. An unusual feature about London is the fund raising: race organisers note the London Marathon has become the largest annual fund raising event in the world. 2006 saw £42-million for charity, bringing the grand total to £315-million. In 2007, 78% of all runners raised money. Sonnet for her part sponsors the Anthony Nolan Trust and happily brings in £1,800 for breast cancer. Go girl!

Race Day

Sonnet is out the door by 7AM while I and the kids have a more leisurely morning. After bagels, we drive to the train station, train to Waterloo, underground to Canary Warf and Docklands Lite Rail to Cutty Sark - pictured. Phew! We arrive just in time to see the elite men race past. They are thin and lite on foot - the surface area of their lungs the size of a basketball court. This is true actually. According to my very old "Running A Marathon:" gas diffusion is directly related to surface area (Fick's equation). Normal lung space is 50 to 100 square meters in an adult and perhaps twice that for a marathoner. At rest, only 30 to 40 m² is employed for gas exchange, with as few as one-third of lung capillaries perfused. With exercise, however, both pulmonary blood flow and tidal volume increase to enlarge surface area for gas exchange. By perfusing more capillaries and ventilating additional alveoli, the surface area for gas exchange is increased and diffusion increases proportionately. So there it is.

Both kids are troopers and stay close by my side as everywhere is jammed with spectators. We connect with Nat and Justin at the Cutty or Mile-Six. It's a good meeting point as it allows us to hustle underneath the Thames via the Greenwich footpath to Canary Wharf to see Miles 16 and 19.

Madeleine on the Marathon: "Do they have to do that?"

Game On

The marathon is nigh. Sonnet is horizontal in anticipation of tomorrow. She carbo-loads the past few days and finishes her training with yoga and sports message. Her kit is laid out and tonight I am sure we will be to bed by 2100h. Sharp. The race begins at 0945 in Greenwich where Sonnet will take a train with some 35,000 runners. Just like rush hour - face stuffed in arm pit. Runners are like a bunch of rabbits BTW twitching and pissing where ever a free bush. Tomorrow's 28th race will include most of the world's elite excluding Paula Radcliffe, who suffers an injury. Somewhere in the crowd will be our gal huffing and puffing. Sonnet's last marathon was New York in 1996 in her twenties. Tomorrow is the last chance for her 30s, though perhaps this won't be the last chance - she has already signed up for the Richmond Half Marathon next month. I will take the kids to meet Justin and Natalie and their children at the Cutty Sark. We will then bolt to Tower Bridge to see two passings before the finish. Oh, and the weather: rain by mid-day.

La Dernière Reine

Marie Antoinette was a dog. No matter what the text books report or the paintings try to hide - this basic fact holds true. That out of the way, Marie was also a remarkable, and tragic, Queen of France from 1775 to 1793 when her head was chopped. I learn of her from yesterday's visit to Le Grand Palais in Paris where she and her treasures are on display in a fabulous exposition. As the Kirsten Dunst movie says: Rumour, Scandel, Fame, Revolution. This pretty much sums it up. M-A was a vivacious child who pursued music, theatre and the arts. At 14 she was married to King Louis the XVI to secure France's best with Austria, a long-time arch-enemy. From there it is all about extravegance, which knows no bounds. Despite her lavish lifestyle while most of France suffered deprivation, she was revered by her public and every gala watched breathlessly by society. M-A bore her country two children but sadly Louis XVII died, age 10, and her daughter taken from her during the revolution. Eventually she is charged of treason and with XVI is restricted to Versailles until her destiny fulfilled at the block. On display are her final letters which suggest a cold and cruel conclusion to a most operatic life.

"The more sophisticated the circles in which one moves, the more it is taken for granted that a women's promiscuity is no more a reflection on her general morality than a man's."
Barbara Amie, wife to Conrad Black

T5

Undoubtedly Heathrow's Terminal Five has not been smooth since The Queen (photo from the Daily Mail). Luggage has been lost. Flights have been canceled. Today it is announced that British Airways will re-route to their old Terminal 4, disrupting other airlines at their cost. Naomi Cambell throws a hissy-fit when her bags go missing and she, Dear Brother, is now no longer allowed on British Airways. Ever. Naomi is for once cheered. Terminal 5 has been under construction, like, always and has cost nearly nine-billion dollars to complete. It is for good reason called the largest roof in Britain. I have now had the pleasure, without problem, of using T5 twice and it is indeed impressive: gun metal steel, expansive views, marbled floors and people everywhere. The terminal is ten stories and the first weird thing is the departure drop-off, which begins at the top-floor. From there, a traveler proceeds through gate check, customs and security then travels downwards to the waiting lounge crossing restaurants, shops, coffee bars and duty-free. The staff all seem pretty jazzed to be here and most are friendly and provide advise on how to catch a plane, which is by no means obvious. So unlike the media and everybody else, I do not have a gripe with BAA. Expectations were high. The airport screwed up. Luggage will be returned and eventually Terminal 5 will World Class. It screams success - success! - and finally there is a terminal that lives up to London's billing. It is all money.

Wolverhampton

I am in Wolverhampton in the West Midlands yesterday to visit a pension. It is a nice two-hour train ride from Euston Station, North London but unfortunately the tube there is miserable. I don't often travel rush-hour so it is a shock to be underground with so many people - all pretty unhappy, I might add. London's transportation needs an upgrade and barely creeks along following mis-management and public-private investment schemes that have not worked, thank you very much Gordon Brown who implemented them as Echequer. We hope the 2012 Olympics, now transforming East London, will do the same for the rest. At least we can dream and keep our fingers crossed. Wolverhampton I know from their football club, but otherwise this a first-time visit. There is an impressive church, St Peter's, which was built in 1425 receiving a ho-hum in a country dotted by many older (picture from the City Council). An art museum nearby is trying. A highlight is the discussion I have with a pensioner showing off his military emblems as part of council show. He describes the various pins and medals pointing to several Americans: "those were worn by the dough-boys" his voice scratched. "They were in WWI. And saved our bacon. And Europe's too." We have a chuckle about California and why anybody from there would be here. Hmmm.

Eitan and Madeleine's yard sale net: zero. Both are chastened and we discuss ways to improve cash-flow. Eitan suggests lowering price (check), better stuff (check), more signs and knocking on doors (check-check). I think the lessons learned plus our neighbor Nicki sees the idleness and puts her and our kids to work cleaning her garage. Enterprising her.

I'm off to Paris for the night. Heavy rain is predicted for Sonnet's Marathon.

Yard Sale

Well, here is an interesting photo taken this evening in front of our house (missing from shot: yard sale propaganda, in front window). Yes, I walk inside and assaulted by the little Shakespeares who scheme, with Natasha, for tomorrow's Big Event: Yard Sale, dude. All their crappola is laid out in the living room with price tags (oh, so precious): broken helicopter (£2), plastic sword (£5.99; behind Eitan's head, pictured), flashing sun-glasses, broken (£3.55). Madeleine also plans to sell her clothes but I put the kabol on this one. Between encouraging remarks and (mostly hidden) guffaws Sonnet and I are deeply proud of our young entrepreneurs and their introduction to capitalism. I may further add that this is the first bona fida in either Eitan or Madeleine's class and totally self-motivated. Neither Sonnet, Natasha or I suggested secondary value to their junk but hey, if they can extract it - good on 'em.

Eitan fills a full-page reading list in return for a subscription to one of the sports dailies, excluding The Sun and Page Three, thank you very much. The boy is proud of his accomplishment driven forward by Manchester United box scores. Tonight we will send in the cheque.

Monterey

Moe and Grace on the OP, Monterey, where they visit Katie who stays the week end following her Op-Ed project. We love Moe's shades. In fact, in Los Angeles Adam took me to Melrose to buy some sporty kicks (also known as "trainers") at Sporty L.A. then we hunted sun glasses but with no success. Over-sized aviators are à la mode and particularly silly on my peanut-sized head but hey they're fun and fashionable. My problem is not the frames but the prescription which steals the immediate gratification (Adam helpfully notes that "seeing is not the point"). Back to reality, London is embarrassed by the anti-China protesters who try to tackle the Olympic flame yesterday - this despite a year's planning and 2,000 police re-enforcements and 11 bad-ass Chinese who arrive on a chartered jet with mission to shadow and protect the thing. The Chinese wear track suits and surround the torch, communicating via ear-pieces. Organisers say they are employees of the Beijing Olympic Organising Committee but nobody is really sure - Ministers report that they have no knowledge of their diplomatic status. I think these dudes will apply serious whoop-ass to any hippy or peace sympathiser foolish enough to get in the way. Meanwhile at our favorite airport, Terminal 5 cancels all flights yesterday thanks to bad weather. T5 and British Airways just can't get a break.

I jump into Madeleine's bed this morning, much to her irritation. She warms up for a game of thumb-wrestling (One-Two-Three-Four! I declare a thumb war!). Eitan barrels in and on top of us to make a morning sandwich. Madeleine hollers, Sonnet screams, and I'm out the door to swim some laps.

Rules

On blogging: no doubt obsessive. I try to make one or two entries a day which takes maybe 30 minutes of focus. On the weekends I often spend too much time in front of my computer so I try to keep it away - this is not easy, Dear Brother. Mostly I aim to communicate the kids to the grand-parents and extended family, at least this is whom I have in mind as I write. Sometimes the news catches my eye or I find a thing weirdly British which I post. I do not intend to be mean-spirited (unless railing against Bush politics) nor gossipy. I do not include last-names and try to avoid specific locations or venues. I also write for the future - it is fun to revisit older postings and things I would not otherwise recall. At some point Eitan and Madeleine, already tired of my photography, will look aghast at my missives concerning them. Then I will take my weblog private or stop writing but for now and as long as I feel it safe &c. I continue.

Spring?

We get a legitimate snow, the first of the season and it is April. We have not had powder for at least a year. The kids are excited any way and squeal for the outdoors. We head for Richmond Park where Eitan works a snow man - pictured. All the kids in the neighborhood have the same plan and we see snow-ball fights and snowmen galore (Madeleine: "what about snow woman? Yeah?!). The fun is fun until it ends in tears as Madeleine is cold and soaked and feels her brother unfair. No sympathy from me: No rules in a snowball war. Afterwards at home the kids swap out of their wet clothes for pajamas and Eitan gears up for Manchester United v Middlesborough (he now fantasizes Rinaldo giving Penecheck a nut meg - Penecheck being the Chelsea goalie and a "nut meg" is through the legs). Madeleine reads with Sonnet and we button down the hatches for a day indoors.

Cards

Eitan returns from the toy store blowing his cash on 26-packs of football trading cards (35 pence a pack). For him, he gets the better deal when the first opened offers Steven Gerard "Man Of The Match" in all-black. He pumps his arms and dances around the room. I do remember how such simple things made for joy - who can forget the feeling of a rare comic book made valuable in your collection? My youth was spent between Comics & Comics and Comics World, both on Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley. On sunny Saturdays I walked across the Berkeley campus with allowance in my pocket. Back then, a comic book went for 25 cents and I would buy the monthlies then troll through the older boxes on a hunt for a trophy. The most dear - Spider Man #1 -10, say, were on display behind the cashier away from our grubby hands. Afterwards I would hit Blondie's for a peperoni slice then a bench to read my new issues. From there, the goods sealed in plastic now sit in my parent's basement appreciating daily, presumably, in value.

Monterey

Katie is in California for her Op-Ed Work Shop and Grace and Moe join her for the weekend. She sends me this photo from yesterday. I recover from last week's trip and everything else by sleeping until 11AM, oblivious to the kids who build a fort in the bedroom. Madeleine gets right into my face: "are you awake yet, dad?". Half-term break begins and Eitan and Madeleine have two weeks no school. Lucky them. We stay in London conserving Sonnet's vacation days at the museum for summer, when we will spend five weeks in Colorado, New Mexico and California. Lucky us.

On the tabloids, Chris Tarrant and his former wife have settled their divorce, with Ingrid Tarrant securing about half the couple’s £25 million fortune including £5.5 million cash. After 15 years of marriage, the couple separated in September 2006, after Ms Tarrant, 53, hired a private detective and discovered the Who Wants To Be A Millionaire host and radio DJ was having a long-running affair with a primary school deputy head teacher. Middle aged men and their dicks - pathetic.

Athlete

Sonnet prepares for the Big Day - 13 April - when she will line up for the Flora London Marathon. It is her fifth marathon and first in 12-years. Whether she breaks four-hours or no, we are all proud of her commitment while her V&A colleagues find her to be a tad eccentric (sometimes, Dear Sister, Sonnet runs three-hours before work). The kids just find in normal and I roll over at dawn's crack when she laces up her trainers. The photo BTW was taken at a race in Clapham Common three years ago.

While on running: it is spring in London so I celebrate with an eight-mile loop around Richmond Park with Edwin, who bikes over from Chelsea. I do this despite several martini cocktails last night at the Lanesborough's Library Bar with my French friend Louis. Rest assured today I get no sympathy from Sonnet nor Edwin, who in my book is a professional athlete and a 2:49 marathoner, he reminds me. Despite my weighing anchor, we manage an enjoyable lunchtime comparing our running, races and injury. No doubt I am an imposter not having trained for something since maybe 2002, but it is always great to see Edwin and be outside when the sun is shining. Oh yeah.

I tell Eitan that Liverpool's Peter Crouch was stretching his butt at Wednesday's game and the team was doing the wave.

Arsenal v Liverpool

Arsenal ties Liverpool 1-1 in the all English Champions League quarter-final last night (Roy and I catch the Big Show). The Gunners go up 1-nil in the first half but conceded the tie two minutes later. Worse, Dutch referee Pieter Vink failed to award Arsenal a second-half penalty against Liverpool's Dutch striker Dirk Kuyt - Vink, whose home town is 5 kilmotres from Kuyt, failed to spot a blatent foul five-yards from his nose. Don't think for a moment the fans let it go and, Dear Brother, I cannot recall hearing mostly respectable men shouting C--- at the top of their lungs. Of course we already know the English take their national past-time seriously from start to fisticuffs. In fact, the world's first professional soccer league was formed here in 1888 which now includes 72 clubs evenly divided among three divisions but the Championship is the one that counts: this is where the Big Boys play. Manchester United, Chelsea, Arsenal and Liverpool duke it out for glory while the bottom fear relegation to a lower division. The top teams are over-capitalised and house the world's best talent (shame our stars cannot win the World or European Cups when forced to play together). Football rakes billions of pounds while unifying a nation behind key internationals and providing identity otherwise lost from different class and cultures.

Madeleine pulls a sick-day, the fist spring of the season, so her timing good. We sit around for Natasha and she fills in her picture book. Mostly Madeleine wants some extra attention - no problemo from us missing a day of school for that.

ManU

Eitan watches Manchester United v. Roma in last night's Champions League action and is thrilled by the result: 2-0 (guess who won). His biggest hero and most valuable trading card, Christiano Ronaldo, strikes first with a powerful header while Wayne Rooney provides the security during the second half. The boy plays inside footie as he watches and exults when ManU scores; Madeleine is bored but refuses to go to bed despite the hour: "that's unfair, dad." Consequently, everybody drags this morning and I push the kids to yoga. Unbeknownst to me, there is Spring Assembly and Madeleine forgets her lines. Panic. I race home, returning in time for a front-row seat and a gaggle of well sung cheer (Eitan gives me the blank stair while Madeleine happy to bat eyes). Tonight I will go to Arsenal v. Liverpool at Emirates.

"They breathe through gills which look a bit like feathers. The gills are on the sides of their heads."
Madeleine at this morning's assembly. She describes a tad-pole

Verdict

Back in London and feeling loved: "Dad!" the little Shakespeares scream as I walk through the door. Then: "What did you bring us!" There is no disappointment as I unload new clothes and presents straight from Targé. Things are otherwise back to normal that is to say, Diana is Top Of The News. Lord Justice Scott Baker, the poor sod forced to render a final obvious decision on Paris, reports that Al-Fayed's claim that the Duke of Edinburgh somehow murdered the Princess and his son holds no merit. This after ten years, investigations by the Paris and London Police, Scotland Yard and the media. Plus £6 million of tax-payers money to field a defense (though it may have been worth it if Fayed's legal team had been successful putting the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh on the stand. Their effort failed). Adding further humor to the tragedy is Paul Burrell, Diana's faithful, ass kissing butler and blowhard, who the judge accused of being "pretty shabby" and lying to the jury, possibly because: "Whatever he said might have an impact on his future enterprises." (Mr Burrell now resides in Florida - won't return to England any time soon). The real loser, Dear Reader, is us - the aggrieved Diana fan who cannot get enough of the beloved People's Princess. We buy the crapolo every day keeping the story alive and alive and alive and .. .. .

Los Angeles

My last week ends on a good note as Astorg closes on the €800MM hard-cap and with a new relationship from Finland that I introduced to the partnership. It sets up a weekend of goofing and Adam and I take full advantage. Steve lends us his long-board and we head to Malibu and several classic breaks. While the waves are not what they could be - who cares? I'm on the Pacific and everything sparkles. It is no dreamland, California - people do live here. Adam makes films and this is the mecca. Unlike most parts of the world where cinema screens are in decline, L.A.'s movie theatres are part of the landscape. Also part of the urbananity: highways. Big ones which Joan Didion wrote about. The Santa Monica 405 is ten lanes and still doesn't break traffic's grip: Saturday and Sunday see stop-and-go - I can only imagine rush-hour. This place needs London's congestion charging or toll-roads and a gas tax would not be bad either. Unlikely, of course, given carbon's importance in, well, everything here. The fantasy would not exist without cheap energy. Easy to forget when surrounded by ocean and mountains on a sunny day. NYC, Dear Brother, is not the only self-absorbed city in America - and for good reason.

Californication

I fly to LAX Friday where Adam picks me up and straight to Century City, West LA, and a warehouse party. It is a pretty crowd and the creatures pictured are blown-up on a wall in various sexual situations, mostly in nature. Party goers mingle and dance. Adam's friend is a photographer and shoots photos - pictured. We then head to Canter's, a 24-hour stop for dinner and the late-night scene which is on. A mixture of locals, quasi-celebs, Hispanics, blacks, families and us finish beer, omelletes and toast - by the time we are home it is 3AM allowing us two episodes of "Californication" - a new favorite on Showtime about a degenerate living in Venice and desperate for his X and their daughter. There is a lot of drinking and meaningless sex and a fascinating new character explores hell-on-earth. A fabulous start to the weekend.

"I love women. I have all their albums."
Hank, Californication

Guy

Guy and I spend yesterday afternoon hiking a redwood grove seven minutes from his house. During our five mile effort, we see maybe five people and Guy kindly asks if they have their $5 day-pass which, of course, we are happy to issue on the spot. We receive confused or worried looks before the prey is let off their hook. Guy is abuzz with the Democratic nominee and has been an early supporter of Barack Obama, who he has met one-one-one during several sessions (amongst many things, Guy has formed a national security think-tank). Afterwards and at home, Moe prepares a wonderful chicken soup with garbanzo beans and vegetables plus loaded with spices: turmeric, ginger, paprika and hot pepper. This morning we are up for the gym and his pals give me grief about whatever (this would be called "giving the micky" or "taking the piss" in good old England). Just another happy day in Northern California.

The Berkeley Gang

In Berkeley I catch up with friends I have known over 30 years - pictured. They all do interesting and different things. Otherwise my day is spent running between the East Bay and San Francisco with the afternoon anchored by BlueRun Ventures's AGM which reports good news. BRV invests in start-up companies and several present including a 24-year old fellow who has solved the Internet's high definition video compression problem (too much data for the pipes). He yawns while giving a demo which is convincing. Also on hand is a founder of slide, which BlueRun backed two years ago and is now the 9th most popular property on the Internet thanks to their "widgets" and partnerships with social networking sights like MySpace and Bebo. They did an "up round" last month with a pre-money valuation of $500 million thanks to Fidelty and T.R. Price and despite no revenues. While the mark-up is nice, we await cash. I stay at the Ritz Carlton, which does not compare with the Mandarin Oriental's views nor service, thank you very much.

Cal Rec

Moe pumps it up this morning at the Cal Rec Center, where he meets his crew who also work iron. The routine is to the minute: 5:25AM wake-up, 5:45AM out-the-door, 5:55AM arrival for a 6AM opening. I'm on GMT following yesterday's flight where I got bounced to a center seat for a family-with-child. The Bay Area smells of spring and the weather accommodates. Driving across the Bay Bridge the fog settles in pockets over San Francisco while otherwise it is blue skies and a brilliant sunset. There is a lot of construction work I notice, not least the bridge, which undergoes structural works following 50 years of neglect. Plus the sky-way going up parallel to Oakland-Treasure Island which has been under construction like, forever. Costs went over budget and the Gubernator put the stops on any new funding (Arnie, it is widely agreed, hates Northern California and especially the East Bay where the bridge connects).

Arizona

The women-Wildcats win the NCAA Division I Swimming Championships outscoring Texas in the final day (they were runner-ups to TX last year). Way Back When, our family rose at 5:45AM for swim practice. Dazed and miserable, Katie and I ate breakfast and piled into the Volvo for two hours of further misery (Dear Reader, we anticipated every red light en route with joy). The worst days were early in the week (so many to go before a day off!) and when it rained. Moe would do some laps then head off to San Francisco and work - lucky him, I always thought. We covered 7,000-yards or about 5 miles per session - in a 25 yard pool, that's 560 laps. We did this twice a day. Plus weights or bands and stretching. Some times stair-running at Memorial. I am not sure I would wish this on anyone - accepting my own kids (great photo from Pat's blog re-montage).

Easter Sunday

The kids eat chocolate and go bezerk (Eitan now runs around the house acting drunk). Both kids gnaw various parts of the choco rabbit and show me the effects: No ears! No eyes! His bum! (Eitan now on the table and I shout at him). Madeleine breaks her remainder into tiny bits and suckles each ("Eitan! Get off that chair!"). It is snowing which adds the morning excitement. Sonnet and I have been watch Le Carre's "Tinker Taylor Soldier Spy" which aired on BBC in 1979 and Sonnet tells me is a favorite of her parents. Alec Guinness is George Smiley, brought in from the cold to entrap a mole inside The Circus. ("Eitan- back in the house!") Of equal interest is London from the 70s - it all looks so damp, claustrophobic and, well, a bit shoddy- the hallways crooked, elevators ancient and everything post-WWII grey. And the smoking - fags, pipes, roll-your-owns - it doesn't matter, they inhale (the Tube allowed smoking until 1984 - can you imagine rush-hour?). The background is, of course, the Soviet Uninion which is really the main character of the series. Gripping stuff. (Sonnet takes Eitan and Madeleine for a walk)

Fort

Saturday - Morning - Wet - Cold - Typical - Easter. The kids suffer cabin fever but neither Sonnet nor I budge for a walk. Fortunately Aggie is stopping by shortly for a surprise afternoon allowing us a few free hours of bliss - without doubt we shall be napping.

Eitan practices his farting noises. Madeleine does her Kumon. Eitan puts together his "perfect team" and arranges his trading cards accordingly.

Madeleine

Taking this photo, I tell Madeleine she is a little character. Says she: "but I'm not even on T.V."

Eitan on top of Madeleine who is on the floor under the couch pillow screaming. I holler "what is going on!"
Madeleine: "We're having some fun dad!"

Madeleine: "Eitan threw a grapefruit at me!
Me: "Eitan, put the grapefruit in the kitchen!"

In other breaking news, Eitan's front-lower incisor comes out following weeks of struggle, tears and some blood. The thing had become admittedly gross turning an easy right angle from the gum. The good news for him is two-pounds (I tell the boy I will "cross his palm with silver"). The good news for everybody is that the incoming tooth won't be impacted.

Madeleine and Eitan put all their "buddies" on Eitan's bedroom floor and the kids camp out with their stuffed animals. They are allowed this Friday and Saturday plus they listen to a story on the CD-player. I sneak upstairs to listen (ease-drop) which nets a comparison of pokamon cards, football players and Peter Rabit. Also: the best candy.

100 Freestyle World Record

Grand-Mère

Here is one of Sonnet and Marcus and their Grandmother Richards at Whispering Pines in the summer of '72. Some things are timeless. Eitan is jazzed this morning because Manchester United is three points clear in the Premiership following their victory over Bolton. Second placed is Arsenal followed by Chelsea. The boy races into our bedroom and spreads the news papers everywhere: "See dad! See! Manchester United is the greatest football team in the word." He describes the feats of his celebrated Rinaldo, who scored the first of two goals against the Wanderers (nobody uses a club's name). Otherwise it is a quiet beginning to the holiday weekend - freezing too, of course. There could be snow Saturday and Sunday which reminds me: every God damn Easter we have spent in the UK the weather has been miserable. To combat the elements we plan to go to a museum where the kids can burn off some energy and, just perhaps, learn a thing or two.

This morning from downstairs:
Eitan: Give me back my [Pokomon] card!
Madeleine: It's mine!
Eitan: Is not!
Madeleine: Is!
Eitan: Liar!
Madeleine: Well YOU are a Bigger Liar!
Eitan: Well YOU are a stinky pants!
Madeliene: Am not!
Eitan: Are!
Madeleine: Not!
Eitan: Are!
Madeleine: Moooommmmm! Eitan called me a Stinky Pants!

Tennis

The kids play tennis, their "third sport " after football and swimming. Today is otherwise the last school before Easter, a Big Time Holiday in this country and a long weekend (strangely, however, half-term break is not for two weeks . One would think them combined). I will be in the US from Monday to see parents and some work. Plus friends and shopping - the US currency has never been weaker and I vaguely recall the exchange rate to be 1.4 dollars to the pound in when we arrived in '97. Today it stands at over two bucks to the pound making London outrageously expensive for tourists and everybody but a purchasing power dream when off the island. Be assured that Sonnet has prepared a shopping list for the kids and I will stick to a few favorite shops like Banana Republic and Union Square.

I'm Nuts

Heather Mills, who won £24 million from her four-year divorce to Sir Paul but lost the subsequent gagging of the case, appears - ahem - most unsavory this week. The deciding judge accused Mills of being "her own worst enemy," saying her behaviour during the proceedings was "distasteful" and her evidence "not just inconsistent and inaccurate but less than candid." Oh dear. Of course we, the shocked public, lap up the circus and take our sides. Game on! Mills at one point was well-regarded for her lost-leg, pluck and charity work but this quickly eroded when her 1980s XXX was exposed (Heather first denied the photos then said it was a sex-help guide) followed by testy interviews and finally the BBC where she went bezerko - pictured. Yes, Heather has the crazy-gene and one must wonder why McCartney skipped the pre-nup - though those old photos may suggest a reason. In any case, it has been a nice diversion from the real news - Iraq - financial melt down - Tibet - who needs religion, really? Karl Marx we love you.

Zzz

This poor kid - happily a-snoozing - wakes to find me perched with my camera. Says she: "Go! Away! Dad!" Fair enough. Still, my heart aches to see this little girl in the early sun tucked away with Doggie, who has been with her five years. I am awake thanks to Sonnet who will run three hours. The London Marathon is less than a month away and I watch her put on her kit: high-tech trainers- check. Sweat-whisking black tights and top - check. Breathable, insulating, water retarding top - check. Sports shades - check check. Yes, looking like The Terminator, Sonnet bolts for Thames toe path and Richmond Park loop. Eitan, meanwhile, enters the bedroom dressed for school and two hours to spare. I read him a book on a dog and Alaska (thank you, Stan and Silver) followed by the usual morning routine - me yoga and stretching, Madeleine Kumon (maths) and Eitan reading (recall that he is working towards a subscription of his choice including daily coverage Manchester United). We get silly with some disco then head for school where I volunteer for an hour or so. A full and satisfying day and it is only 10AM.

The Fonz

Now I love France. I speak French. I have two Paris funds (Rothschild and Astorg) and visit maybe ten times a year. I, like many French, am impressed by the hard-driving, reform-pushing President Sarkozy not least because he's the son of a Hungarian immigrant father, was raised alone in France by his mother and is Jewish. Further, Sarkozy seems impatient and direct and above-boards - qualities that the pompous ass Jacques Chirac had and lost or never had.

So it is with regret that Sarkozy's popularity has plummeted and he is known in France as "President Bling-Bling."

And why the change, Dear Reader? It is one thing to divorce your wife for a younger model but entirely another to rub your neighbor's face in it - which is, of course, what he did marrying Carla Bruni. Sarkozy is often seen in flash clothes at the trendiest restaurants in the 8th arrondisement wearing an enormous Rolex and aviator Ray Bans. He grants interviews in his jogging shorts and sends text messages during top level meetings. Plus his famous temper - he has been known to storm out of a press conference.

The French, you see, are the most stylish and reserved people in the world when we exclude the Italians. Sarkozy's sartorial yoof is out-of-step with his country and the campaign image from only last year.

And how is he viewed across the channel? Well, the Queen - who Sarkozy and his slapper Bruni shall meet this month - is a tad, ahem, expectant. She presumes royalty and may get Steve McQueen. Fleet Street loves the match-up affair and for myself, I no-doubt await my subscription to Tattler and Hello. Viva la France !

Sonnet and I sneak out to lunch at the River Cafe to celebrate today, Tuesday.

Supremes & Love

Madeleine on her way to school. While on Pretty Guns - it is not lost on me that the Supremes will tomorrow decide whether Washington D.C. can restrain ownership. This the first time in 75 years the High Court has (had the balls to) review our most cherished and controversial Amendment II. On the BBC this morning I listen to a black woman from DC who lost her 14 and 19 year old children in a drive-by shooting twelve years ago (her children were bystanders). Her position: guns should not be in circulation. Period. The counter point from Suburban DC where the interviewed (white) woman must keep her bedroom rifle's safety trigger on at all times. She also wants a hand-gun for her family's security.

Flipping past MTV, I ask Eitan what songs are about. He ducks the question. I pursue a bit and he rolls his eyes when I suggest love. Then he becomes quite angry - girls, and God forbid kissing - is a no-go area. My suggestion that one day this is all that he is going to think about gets me a hard pinch.

The kids, Sonnet and I agree to present where we wish to be by age-14 (for me and Sonnet, in five years). Eitan belts out Manchester United! but I ask them to write it on a piece of paper by Easter when we will talk about how to get there.

A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.
The Bill Of Rights

.44

Sonnet and I watch Dirty Harry continuing my exploration of psychopaths. The beauty of Harry is that he is crazier than Scorpio, who terrorizes San Francisco with a long-shot rifle and machine gun (actor Andy Robinson was so effective as the crazy that he damaged his career - Dirty Harry was Robinson's second film and he never did much after). It is neat to see the sky-line without skyscrapers - 1971 was pre-Trans America Tower - and there is the old Kezar Stadium, former home to the Oakland Raiders and San Francisco 49ers. In the movie, Harry tortures Scorpio on the 40 yard-line as the camera fades back on a foggy night-lit aerial - the recess of a tormented mind, Dear Reader. The .44 magnum is the film's hero and her view is often upwards into the gun - pictured - allowing us to worship the metal, ohh oh ohhh. America and guns - the Brits have their problems but not gun violence. Plenty of studies may show that more guns reduce violence but I just don't buy it.

Madeleine is at a birthday party and since it is a blustery Sunday, Eitan and I watch Italian league football on the BBC - today's match between Polarmo and Inter, who lost to Liverpool Wednesday in a UEFA cup upset. Eitan can hardly sit still and practices his ball handling moves in the living room, in front of the T.V.

"I know what you're thinking. "Did he fire six shots or only five?" Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kind of lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself a question: Do I feel lucky?....Well, do ya punk?"
Harry Callahan

Dan Quayle or George W Bush?

You decide:

"I believe we are on an irreversible trend toward more freedom and democracy - but that could change."

"Republicans understand the importance of bondage between a mother and child."

"What a terrible thing to have lost one's mind. Or not to have a mind at all. How true that is."

"People that are really very weird can get into sensitive positions and have a tremendous impact on history."

"The future will be better tomorrow."

"[It's] time for the human race to enter the solar system."

"Illegitimacy is something we should talk about in terms of not having it."

"If we do not succeed, then we run the risk of failure."

"Lookit, I've done it their way this far and now it's my turn. I'm my own handler. Any questions? Ask me ... There's not going to be any more handler stories because I'm the handler ... I'm Doctor Spin."

"Verbosity leads to unclear, inarticulate things."

"We'll let the sunshine in and shine on us, because today we're happy and tomorrow we'll be even happier."

"We're going to have the best-educated American people in the world."

"Don't forget about the importance of the family. It begins with the family. We're not going to redefine the family. Everybody knows the definition of the family. [Meaningful pause] A child. [Meaningful pause] A mother. [Meaningful pause] A father. There are other arrangements of the family, but that is a family and family values."


All quotes from Dan Quayle

Bonus! Bonus:

St. Louis, MO --(UPI)-- Vice President Dan Quayle today visited St. Louis, MO, which bears a heavy population descended from German immigrants. In order to show support for the newly-unified country of Germany, fatherland of many in the audience, he repeated John F. Kennedy's words of support 30 years earlier, but this time in English, "I am a Jelly Doughnut!" Political commentators agreed that something was lost in the translation. Dan Quayle explained his remark by saying that he had been told that those who lived in central America enjoyed jelly doughnuts.

Led Zeppelin

This morning, driving to swim practice, I introduce Eitan to The Greatest Rock And Roll Song Ever: "Stairway To Heaven." We cruise across an early morning Richmond Park at full blast and the boy takes in his legacy including the trip ("There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold - and she's buying a stairway to heaven"), its mystery ("In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees - and the voices of those who stand looking"), the pondered questions answered ("If there's a bustle in your hedgerow - Don't be alarmed now - It's just a spring clean for the May Queen"), life's choices ("Yes there are two paths you can go by but in the long run - There's still time to change the road you're on") and above all, the optimism ("And when she gets there she knows if the stores are closed - With a word she can get what she came for.") 'Nuff said.

George Bush takes one from Dan Quayle:
“Removing Saddam Hussein was the right decision early in my presidency, it is the right decision now, and it will be the right decision ever."
El Presidente - yesterday

“Happy campers you are, happy campers you have been and, as far as I am concerned, happy campers you will always be.”
Dan Quayle - 1990

Kew

Madeleine in the botanical greenhouse. Meanwhile at the Tate Modern, artist Dominique Gonzalez-Foerster has been commissioned to fill the Turbine Hall after Doris Salcedo's subterranean crack. Gonzalez-Foerster's works have included "performing shadows" and she is known for her "visitor participation, atmospheric" stuff. She will be the ninth artist to occupy the hall when her work is unveiled to us in October. Can't wait.

After pizza dinner, the kids go disco nuts and dance around the house until they are mindless. It is a joy to watch their energy which is endless, especially Madeleine whose today was swim team, football and performance class.

I ask Eitan, breathing over my shoulder, what he would do with a computer: Says he: "Play a few C-BB's (some game), write down notes. Make a blog." Anything else? "No."

Fit

Sonnet and I have a raucous dinner with the CIO of the Carnegie Foundation at The Ivy (no celeb spottings this time). Kim is in town for several of her funds and we are honored to have her to ourselves. Not surprisingly we discuss the wacko that is Elliot Spitzer and agree: WTF ? Kim notes that the risk assessment of being caught, however calculated by male, is quite simple for her: 100% busted. 100% I'm gone. We've experienced a number of divorces in our group from a reckless dick and when kids are involved there is no forgiving the mistake, if that indeed is what it was. People are just plain mean to each other and this is about as low a blow as one can strike - life is too hard anyway to fuck it up so terribly.

Madeleine is up-and-at-'em today, in swimming suit and almost out the door when Sonnet and I roll our eyes heavenwards and ask for ten more minutes of sleep. Last night Sonnet was at our school's "field of dreams" auction fund raiser, which brings in $20 grand I learn. Her contribution was a tour of the V&A's fashion gallery, which went for $500. The tops was a full-catered dinner for six by Eitan's teacher who, by-the-by, is quite "fit." Hers went for $700. Sonnet's plan to run the Fleet half-marathon Sunday in jeopardy as she has a nagging side injury - with a month to go before the London marathon, no taking chances.

Eitan, Madeleine and I dance some early-morning disco to Hot Chip, trying out a few new disco-moves. I show them the "wave" to their delight and Sonnet's bemusement. The beauty of your kids is you can be one.

El Presidente explains yesterday the mortgage crisis to the ROW:
“You know, these mortgages can be pretty frightening to people. I mean, there’s a lot of tiny print."

OP

Here is Steve on the Ocean Pacific. Steve is a child-school friend, fellow swimmer way-back-when and photographer par excellence who now resides in Dallas where he goes to Cowboys games when not with his daughter and family. Or maybe with them. Sonnet this evening attends the New York Ballet performing at London's ENO for the first time in 25-years - a real treat. She is with Dana and Tabitha for a gals night on the town (Dear Reader, ballet is not particularly my thing as my wonderful in-laws, who so graciously took me to the New York Ballet in '96, know from their experience). This morning I take the kiddies to early morning yoga then sit in Madeleine's class to help the "coconuts" table alphabetise their objects. Fun stuff for them and me.

Some more British slang used by the yoof:
Scabby - lucky
Snog - to make out, aggressive kissing
Take the piss (out of) - To mock. "Are you taking the piss?"
Fag end - the last part of a period of time. "Fag end of the show"
Scrote - Jackass
Slapper - slut (a personal favorite)
Nutter - crazy person
Git, twat - incompetent, stupid. "You little git"
Fit - good looking