Martin, Helen

Madeleine bravely announces she reduces her "buddies" from 115 to 30: "I want the best buddies, not all the buddies that I don't like. I am keeping all the buddies given to me by you and mum."

We have our neighbors, Helen and Martin, to afternoon tea. Helen quite serious - proper- and Martin loquacious. He is filled with stories of the area as he should be having been born in the house he now lives in. Actually born, Sonnet points out. Martin in his 70s, I would guess, and probably 20-years older then Helen - they met via their parents who played tennis together. (side story: Martin's mother, Kitty Godfree, ranked Top Ten in women's tennis from 1921 when rankings began to 1927; she won five Olympic medals at '20 Antwerp and '24 Paris still the most medals ever won by a tennis player; Godfree also won Wimbledon twice. A blue plaque on their house).

Martin an electrical engineer and advises Big Projects on electrical rigging which takes him around the world like Brighton, where he advises on ten miles of undergound traffic tunneling. We talk about the Shard of Glass, soon to be Europe's tallest at 72 floors, rising above London Bridge. Martin tells me he plans electrical platforms every twenty stories for the building phase.He notes "a perfectly nice" 42-story demolished next to Tower Bridge station to make way for .. progress. "A frightful waste of good materials" he adds. "We used to use wonderful materials on our buildings, like local timber and stone, that moved together allowing the properties to age."

I ask Martin about World War II and he recalls being relocated to Devon during the air raids."Only one house on the block had a bomb-shelter" (on our cul de sac). "After the war, it was not very practical for the garden, you see, so he had it removed. He dug it up and drove it away." Sheen was spared most of the Luftwaffe's destruction since we are West London while the planes followed the river in from east, destroying the docklands (now Canary Wharf) and looking for juicy targets in the city's center. A bomb did flatten a part of nearby Palmerstone Road and five new houses recognizable. Martin recalls a bomb falling through the roof of number 53 "but it did not blow. (interned) Polish workers probably did a number on the fuse." By us, pilots dropped their left-over payloads or went after a now defunct electricity plant. Or maybe the Stag brewery to demoralize the public. "The Putney (train) station or Barnes bridge targets- they always want the bridges." How unusual to learn that massive anti-aircraft guns in Richmond Park on top of a hill.

Strange factoid: George Orwell's given name Blair. How 1984.

Katie And The Mountains

Here's my sister - hey cutie - pinched from Facebook. The holidays now long gone and the brown Christmas trees still appear on the roadside. I am always amused by the last tree usually sometime in March or April .. the thought of some poor slob clinging on desperately disturbing. So, today, we are fully into our routines of work, school, swimming, football, Spanish, stage class, music, horses and Kumon. Eitan will have a tutor from next week preparing for entrance exams next year. He has met Stephanie, who is light-hearted, enjoys children and will spend one hour a week with the boy. If ever there was an idea of going truant to fish or catch frogs - not in this house.

Eitan's class examines the world's mountains. He banks the Andes, the world's longest at 4,300 miles and highest range outside of Asia. Eitan tells me Acongcagua rises to 6,962 meters above sea level. I show my knowledge by pointing out Everest the world's tallest, which he flatly rejects. Ok, I think to myself, here comes the battle between Everest and K2 so let the little twerp have his fun. Eitan: "Actually, the world's tallest mountains are on the ocean floor" and God damn, he nails me again. While Eitan doesn't know the name, the island Mauna Kea has an altitude of 4,205 meters above sea level, much lower than Everest's 8,848 meters. Measured from the bottom of the nearby ocean floor it rises over 10,000 meters. Bada bing!

Eitan also studies fantasy stories and surreal pictures "and stuff." Madeleine, as we know, in the thick of Roald Dahl and we agree most of the kids found it "rather strange" that yesterday's Kit Kat Cowboy friends with Dahl. The "inside Roald Dahl's brain" did not go down so well either. A tough crowd.

The Return Of Kit Kat

Strolling along Rue du Faubourg St. Honoree in the 8th arrondisement - a church and the school crossing. Just below the dome on the right, a waft of smoke or steam makes me wonder: what and whom?

This morning I take Eitan and Madeleine to school (they bicker ceaselessly) as Sonnet wraps up her conference. Mrs. X in Madeleine's class invites me to revisit Kit Kat Cowboy and, since the children studying Roald Dahl, I bring Dahl into the story. Initially I was to read "The Enormous Crocodile" but Mrs. X and I decide much more entertaining to go off-piste. So I do. In my story, Kit Kat and Dahl friends and, since Dahl needs some new material, Kit Kat is off to find the nasty troll Gramelin who is the best story-maker around. Gramelin lives in Nottingham Forrest by a never-ending hole. Once there, Kit Kat meets a clever fox. Willy Wonka shows up with the Vicar and of course Matilda and Pelly pass by holding hands. James says a warm 'hello.' The class knows of Dahl's sad history (he lost his older sister and a daughter) and I tell the children that everybody has a hard time sometimes. For Dahl, writing saved his life. My story concludes - we are actually inside Roald Dahl's brain and the pit his endless fear and sadness - but I think this bit of surrealism lost on the youngsters. Probably best for them. Madeleine beams.

"A little nonsense now and then is relished by the wisest men."

--Roald Dahl

Paris Encore

Here we are, leaving St Pancras back to to Paris. Rough life. This time we go for Sonnet's presentation to Les Arts Decoratifs at the Institut National du Patrimoine at the Louvre. She is today's First Act on "Restoring and Conserving Haute-Coutre: The Example of Madeleine Vionnet." Sonnet weaves her story from acquisition to restoration to exhibition then conservation using photo-examples of la mode. A gorgeous red Vionnet dress from the 1920s shown from rags to riches at the V&A's Haute-Couture exhibition last year. Really, the conservationist the museum's unsung hero - who knew they were there, protecting the valuable collection hidden from the public eye? This esoteric trade gleaned from years of experience; the narrow market means each opening attracts considerable interest and talent. Sonnet acknowledges her colleagues. She begins her talk in French and sure enough, an elderly lady in front of me mutters: "Ah, elle parle le francais" and she has won them over.

After the morning session, Sonnet and I have lunch at La Duree, famous for its macarones, with our friend Xavier at Astorg. It is a nice New Year re-union since I have not seen him since Biarritz.

Me: "Have you learned anything in your French lesson?"

Eitan: "Je veux une pomme."

Me: "Great. How about you? Can you offer anything better?"

Madeleine:

Me: "You must know one word?"

Madeleine: "Crap!"

Me: !

Madeleine: "I didn't say crap, Dad. Crepe!"

Me:

Buddy

Buddy Cianci was the mayor of Providence, Rhode Island, from 1974 to '84, just before I arrived for college. Mayor, that is, until the Providence Journal reported Cianci and the Chief of Police tortured a fellow for having an affair with Cianci's wife. Specifically, cigarettes were ground into the dude's back and genitalia. So imagine my surprise when Cianci ran for a second term in '91 and won in a landslide. His slogan: "I never stopped caring about Providence" and perhaps that was so: the city entered a renaissance uncovering the US's largest cement bridge exposing a .. beautiful river; redesigning the down-town train station and opening the city centre to green-space, wooing the Providence Bruins from Maine. New hotels, shopping malls, an ice skating rink.. Providence became an alternative to Boston and a whole lot better than Philadelphia. Artists moved in followed by the gays and then young families. Even tourists sniffed about looking for authenticity. And the zoo.

When I was at Brown I could see the city changing - and I should know since I painted most of College Hill (52 houses in the summer of '87). Cianci connected like nobody's business into Federal Hill, the Italian blue collar community which defined city life. My favorite - and first legitimate -Italian restaurant Raphael's on Vine Street. I took Michelle there for a date and felt like an adult; later my family celebrated my graduation here with then-girlfriend Elise and Roger... Federal Hill otherwise infamous for its mob, who had wired every hotel and building in the neighborhood for the penny rackets (Providence remains gambling free somehow). I was warned about the rough side during my college interview and Cianci made it true.

I knew Buddy from Olivers Bar, an off-campus dive popular with Brown students who were rarely carted (Rhode Island also enjoyed a "grandfather clause" which meant that we under-21s could still drink though drinking age bumped from 18 to 21. There was a time when this the only thing we talked about). So Buddy loved Olivers where he could hook an arm on the bar and surround himself with the Ivy League. And college girls. He also favored the wrong-side-of-the tracks Fox Point restaurant Cafe at Brooke's where I washed dishes when not painting or swimming the summer following Freshman year. Cafe at Brook's owned by three corrupt Jewish brothers Jake, Nate and Saul who also owned the house I lived in. They were scumbags and a lot of coke moved through their restaurant. They still owe me my security deposit, fuckers. Cafe at Brooke's hired super-fine waitresses who I flirted with shamelessly with Joe, the RISD Chef who had never cooked before the Cafe. It was by far the most fun I have ever enjoyed on the job. And again Buddy, who grunted his recognition whenever around me.

So no surprise when Cianci indicted in 2001 on federal criminal charges of racketeering, conspiracy, extortion, witness tampering, and mail fraud. It is in his blood - he wants to be a wise guy. The Judge said of the case: "Clearly, there is a feeling in city government in Providence that corruption is tolerated. In this mayor's two administrations, there has been more corruption in the City of Providence than in the history of this state." Because Cianci faced a jury of his peers, he was acquitted of 26 of 27 charges but found guilty of racketeering conspiracy which put him in the slammer for five years. Worse, it forced him, by law, to give up the mayorship.

And, now that his time served, guess who is back to politics? Our man Buddy. The elections coming, after all, and Providence whispering come to me, Buddy. Come.

Providence loves this guy. Providence is this guy. Cianci has a tomato sauce, "Mayor's Own Marina Sauce" whose proceeds go to public schools. He has a talk radio show; he has made numerous cameo and spoof television appearances. He is type-casting from America's favorite Italian family, the Sopranos, years before HBO. We have not seen the end of him yet, no sir.

"There's no retiring from this."

--Tony Soprano

Viv

This shot from designer Vivienne Westwood's cat-walk some time ago. Dame Westwood largely responsible for bringing modern punk and new wave fashions into London's mainstream. It all started from her second marriage to Malcolm McLaren, who became the manager of The Sex Pistols. Malcolm decided to open a shop at 430 King's Road, Chelsea, in '71 - called, aptly, Let It Rock (also known as Sex, Too Fast To Live, Too Young To Die, Seditionaries). Westwood began to sell her designs to the shop - which included bondage gear, safety pins, razor blades, bicycle or lavatory chains on clothing and spiked dog collars for jewelry. And of course the Sex Pistols wore them. The rest, as they say, is history.

The V&A did a retrospective of Westwood's work the year before Ossie, Britain's second most famous designer. Ossie was a major figure in the swinging '60s scene in London and the fashion industry of that era and the change from him to her quite remarkable.

"I'm not trying to do something different. I'm trying to do the same thing but in a different way."

--Vivienne Westwood

Sink

Yes, I tore out the kitchen sink basin, which Madeleine kindly models, to replace our garbage disposal. Used: wrench, screw-drivers, metal cutters, hammer, industrial chisel ... happily I put my new tools to use which, Edwin snidely noted the other night, would otherwise be amortised over one use. After applying a silicon sealant and forced to wait 24 hours (the DIY'ers worst nightmare) the inevitable: standard plastic pipe kit don't fit. I had more luck assembling Madeleine's Habitrail. A quick call to the local hardware suggests that I might be able to jerry-rig the thing, which I am inclined to do after suffering the plumber's charge from the replaced hot-water cylinder and a burst pipe. Not cheap. Still, the fun is in the doing and I try to keep this in mind. At first, Madeleine thought so, too, joining me to the local Homebase. After about the fifth visit the joy wears thin and the promise of some undefined "treat" an ever-less effective bribe for her to keep me company. She's no dummy.

Last night, while I labor under the sink, Madeleine makes a loving effigy of her teacher, Mrs. X, complete with towel-pipe legs and red shoes. Eitan constructs a chair from cardboard and Xmas wrap and both exclaim, thanks to movie Avatatar: 3D! Once complete it is a nifty little construction and we ponder how to transport it to school. The Shakespeares want the car, of course, but Sonnet holds firm on her principals plus it is inconvenient to her commute which is by bus. I bang away at the pipes.

Mom and Dad and Katie get back from their Miami cruise with Moe's side of the family - 22 in all and forevermore known as the "Jew Cruise" in my family.

Madeleine: "Dad, why are you doing that?"

Me: "Because I am trying to fix it."

Madeleine: "It doesn't look fixed to me."

Me:

Madeleine: "Will we ever be able to use the sink again?"

Me:

Eitan: "Do I have to do the dishes outside?"

Public Snow Job

Private vs. public pay, source: Office for National Statistics.

The public sector creates jobs at the fastest rate in eight years and 4X that of the private sector in 2009, according to the ONS. Also surprising: publics earned 7% more than their private sector peers, a gap which has doubled since the recession began. Official figures show publics get bigger pay rises, work fewer hours and receive pensions up to 3X the privates, which publics can withdraw 7 years earlier (publics retire at 58 vs. 65 for us, the working stiffs) according to The Sunday Times. "However you look at it" says Nigel Hawkes of Straight Statistics, "public sector workers have done better than most in the private sector over the past decade- and the gap is widening."

Since arriving in England in '97, the year Tony and Labour came into power, the public sector has added 914,000 jobs to more to their six-million or one-fifth of the workforce. Youngsters no dummies - they head for the fatted cow: 39% of public sector workers are graduates up from 25% in '98. Only 20% of private sector workers have a degree, a rise of 5% over the same period. Says David Frost, Director-General of the British Chamber of Commerce: "Small and medium-sized businesses - the firms who will be vital for the economy's recovery - lose staff to the public sector because they cannot compete with pay and benefits big state employers offer."

What I find shocking: public's productivity has declined by 3.4% in the 10 years from 1997 - compared with a 28% rise in the private sector over the same period (source: ONS).

This bullshit. I have no problem investing in schools, NHS, roads, infrastructure. Instead we - the private sector - funding sloth. And labour votes.

Me: "What do you think about having a job?"

Madeleine: "A job?"

Me: "Yeah, like when you are older."

Madeleine: "Hmm. I think it would be fun. I would work at the pound."

Me:

Madeleine: "The dog pound. No, no - not that. Maybe the V&A. Or maybe I want to be a musician."

Me: "Anything else?"

Madeleine: "I have no clue."

Dinner And A Trumpet

Arthur, fiance Ruth, me, Anthony and Sonnet the other night. Photo from Arthur.

So today, my "to do" list something like this: 1. fix garbage disposer (which stopped working one month after the warranty); 2. dismount television monitor and remove hamster-chewed cable; 3. insulate outside pipes (that exploded in the night); 4. Install wireless electricity monitor (because the other brand did not work) and assemble tool-kit. On the last one you can see why. I am learning trial-by-fire where the water "cockstop" located or how to turn off the gas (but this another story). While I diddle, Madeleine at swimming then drama class while Eitan mills about - no football since the arctic weather continues. He knows to stay away from me, too.

Madeleine, who has been campaigning for a trumpet, attends a school lesson and comes home even more jazzed. We have experienced instruments before. The thought of Madeleine playing a trumpet in our house disruptive and I told her so last year probably a bit too directly. Both she and Sonnet pouted but, for Pete's sake, this is not a tool that requires finesse. Besides Sonnet once with me me and not with the terrorists. Better Madeleine play something thoughtful - like a recorder or something. But no, Madeleine has her mind set and so Sonnet takes her to the music store in Richmond to pick one up. She walks in the door just now ... and she is armed.

Madeleine, with her trumpet: "Dad, it seems amazing, but in my first lesson I learned two notes. And I know how to play them." She starts blasting.

Me: "Sonnet, are you out of your mind?"

Sonnet: "Madeleine, don't pay your father any mind."

Madeleine:

Sonnet: "Tell Dad to just go jump in the lake."

Madeleine: "Dad, just go jump in the lake."

Hamster Nibble

While in Bath for New Years, Monty (who cost £12) escaped from his Habitrail and gnawed the cable connecting our 50-inch flat-screen TV to the media box (all of which came with the house), pictured. The television still works, but without display. The cost to replace the cable: £395.

Compost Happens

Here is our little island from above (Nasa satellite). It is freezing - in fact, the coldest winter in thirty years the BBC and everyone else reckons. Or at least since the winter Sonnet was in Shefield, Silver reminds her. I get my weather history from the black cab drivers who all have some story about snow packed up to your chin. They love talking about the weather and the Congestion Charge. It used to be Ken Livingston, who they felt no better than the gum on the sole of your shoe, but now he is gone. London hits -3C degrees and -22.3C in the Highland village of Altnaharra, poor bastards. The snow has now turned to packed ice shutting airports and making the local roads treacherous. I fell off my bicycle. The BBC reports that councils have had "tons of grit" stolen - yes, the bad weather brings out the worst in everybody. Especially now that the holidays over.

Our nasty winter began at 6:05AM when Sonnet informed me "we have a little problem." A copper pipe burst shooting water six or seven feet into the air and into our side walkway and neighbors backyard. Using my dinky bike torch, hands numb, clothes wet and temperatures freezing we battle the tides I all the while cursing for not knowing where the house's cock-stop located. Eventually we give up the ghost and frantically call plumbers. I get through to our local who helps me clamp the water valve until he arrives with a wrench. We are damn lucky the burst not in or underneath the house.

From there, I go straight to Homebase and buy a ton of crap for my tool-box including a 1,000,000 candle power torch and a ten-pound grip. I am through fucking around.

Sonnet: "I am meeting (designer) Paul Smith this morning."

Eitan: "What! You have to be joking!"

Sonnet:

Eitan: "Sir Walter Smith is the manager of the (Glasgow) Rangers!"

Me: "Who is going to join me with the compost?"

Eitan, Madeleine:

Me: "So why do we compost anyway?"

Eitan, Madeleine:

Me: "Ok, it is because we humans are destroying the planet. We pollute our oceans and streams and lakes; we fill our skies with particles and exhaust and dump our waste into landfills. We are creating problems that you will have to solve after your mother and I are dead."

Madeleine: "Don't say that Dad! I don't even want to think of you dying."

Eitan: "Can I have desert now?"

Thames Mortlake

The Thames at Mortlake and how gloomy it is. I bike here before work to take this photo. As we can see, the tide is out - otherwise the water rises to the toepath or the height of the small peer. The daily volumes unimaginable unless seen. Mortlake otherwise not to be trifled with - the blue collar village appears in the Domesday Book, and the manor belonged to the Archbishop of Cantebury until Henry VIII, when it passed to the Crown. From the early 17th century until after the civil wars, Mortlake celebrated for its tapestry, founded during the reign of James I/VI. Sir Richard Burton buried here.

The local Stag Brewery (now owned by InBev) and just off this photo has been making making beer for 600 years but now, sadly, closing in December 2010. This does present a unique opportunity and one would think our dear Richmond council would at least open the floor for various considerations of the space. It will soon be London's biggest development, after all, and it might be nice to have a few ball parks or river access before the condos go up. Our MP, Sue Kramer, tuning into this issue and slowly the contractors grip loosens. I am not hopeful though maybe Prince Charles will get involved. He loves a good architectural bashing.

This is also where the Oxford-Cambridge boat race ends.

Snow

A major storm system hits the UK which means one thing: snow! Eitan races into our room, 6:15AM: "It's snowing! It's snowing! It's snowing!" Not even the Manchester United Foosball table from Natasha received this kind of welcome.  Sonnet pre-occupied with the commute as in, like, do I or don't I?  Eventually her worry takes over (the engine of all responsibility) and she pushes herself away to put on her face. Eitan, meanwhile, begs to go outside.  He rouses Madeleine, who normally sleeps for another hour at least, and I have little choice: outside we go.  It is pitch-dark, too, and the street lamps lit - I must beg for quiet as Eitan and Madeleine screech down the deserted block (in the middle of the street, no less) - if nobody up, they are now. Several business men with ties huddle by and give me narry a glance. Nor smile.  Still, watching the little dudes, it is hard not to share their enthusiasim. Eitan makes snow angles. Both build snow-men. Snowball fights. Such simple pleasures and no worries about wet clothes or jammed traffic. All good.

Eitan: "Dad, I am going to make you some tea."
Me: "Thanks, but it is warm."
Eitan:
Me: "Ok, do you know how to make boiling water?"
Eitan: "Of course!"
Me: "So what are the ingredients?"
Eitan: "Uh, water?"
Me: "What else?"
Eitan:
Me: "It begins with 'b'"

Me: "Can you guys name something that kids have that we adults don't?"
Eitan: "A sense of humour."

Bring It On

Since I am at home and it is cold outside, I ponder the New Year and what to make of it.  Firstly, we do not do resolutions. I have never been overly preoccupied with the usual unobtainable - you know, quitting smoking or drink; losing weight or making a raise. More travel. Yoga. Improve myself. Ok, I do worry about my gut and I suppose quitting the drink would solve two concerns but oh, well.  Rather, I am about specific goals - like running a marathon or reading Gravity's Rainbow and being able to discuss it with Connally (yeah, right). This year will be The Mortgage.  Pretty simple that, really.  There is other stuff brewing re Sonnet's work but for now mum's the word.  Mostly I want to do what most dads want to do: be a better dad.  For me, this means turning off the computer or blackberry when the kids around. Making family dinner the unassailable priority on the day. Regulate my authoritative and controlling side. Be more organised. Smother the kids with affection though it drives them crazy. Try not to embarrass them in front of their friends (note to self: in Britain "pants" are underpants, not trousers). Try to appreciate these little dudes are independent and no longer my sole possession. Live in the moment and love every day.

That Girl

Madeleine's (pictured here with Anto on Sunday) first day of school, post holidays, a non-starter on account of 'tummy upset' which gets us (mostly Sonnet) out of bed 4X. Quel horreur.  Eitan meanwhile up-and-at-em, crack-of-dawn with knot-in-stomach at max-i-mum. I really do not know why this kid worries so much - he is tops in his class in reading and writing and knows his times-tables cold. I suppose his nature - I had this too - which means making sure we are tuned into his Sunday evening blues.  But today about Madeleine who still feels a bit, er, green and we draw pictures of volcanoes and dinosaurs.  We also dance to Steve and Lucy's 11th annual "holla-day" mix which arrives by poste. Or I dance to amuse my audience which, to my credit, does get a smile.

Madeleine now sits on the counter top, above the warm water boiler, and watches me type.  We make funny faces at each other.  When I had it sick this meant one thing: television. We had it good, too, with 'Underdog' (and 'Sweet Polly Purebred', ace TV reporter and Underdog's girlfriend), 'Yogi Bear' (and Boo Boo), 'Love American Style' and 'That Girl,' which starred Marlo Thomas as Ann Marie, an aspiring actress who moves from Brewster, NY, to make it in the Big City.  Though Ann has no job or anything, she has a huge apartment and fab, freaky clothes - bright mini-skirts and white knee boots. Big African necklaces. Without, like, Viet Nam and Nixon that would have been one heck 'uv a time.  'That Girl' played from 1966 to '71 and it strikes me this may have been my first exposure New York City and perhaps began one of my earliest ambitions - to live there.  The show captures Manhattan on a spring afternoon with flower boxes, white walled buildings and tree lined streets. Friendly door men. Everything, you know, works out.  This anyways my expectation as I drove up 6th Avenue on July 4, 1989 - the next day, First Boston.

My first New York dirtier, bigger and more stressful then 'That Girl' but I also remember its majesty.  From my third-floor crowded flat shared with three college friends I could sit on the fire escape and see the World Trade Towers. The 41st floor of Park Avenue Plaza offered extraordinary views as well - Gotham City laid flat before us.  We had adult parties. Well, I used to say the two times to live in New York when young or rich and preferably both. Of course this nonsense. Like any great city, the joy is in the ebb and the flow.

Burj Dubai

While on tall buildings and putting a nice point on Dubai's collapse and the end of a generally awful decade (thanks George. Thank you, too, Dick Cheney, Paul Wolfowitz, Don Rumsfeld and all you other elderly white, male, privileged fuck-faces who discredit your entire generation and leave the fall-out for me and my kids. Tom Brokaw won't be writing a book about you, for sure. Good riddance. But I digress). Today the Burj Dubai (from here forward known by me as the 'Barf Dubai) opens.  Yes, the tallest building in the world, pictured circa mid-2008, offers 169 floors of space (2,683 feet high) which is 1,000 feet higher than the nearest inhabited rival, Taiwan's 101 Taipei because that one not tall enough. These Arabs.

The Barf Dubai is taller then two stacked Empire State Buildings and passes three climates from top to bottom and temperatures 10C cooler at the peak.  Pakis and Indians exploited 24/7 at five-bucks a day to make it happen. Insurance or health care - yeah, right. And the air-conditioning - what air conditioning! - the skyscraper melts the equivalent of 12,500 tons of ice a day. It also consumes millions of gallons of desalinated water in a city that already has the world's highest per capita carbon footprint. God bless (data from The Times).  There are 900 one- to four-bedroom flats and another 144 apartments designed by Giorgio Armani since this is, like, the desert which is kinda like Italy. Most certainly the schmucks who paid up to £11 million a property taking a bath as Dubai real estate off by 50% (visit "China New Year" below to see where the party is at).  There is 300,000 sq ft of unlet commercial space. When the World Trade Center opened, may she RIP, the city depressed and shoved the Port Authority into the towers to avoid embarrassment. Imagine the Barf Dubai completely empty - I will take that bet. So what can we say about all this? Folly.

Monty escapes (now retrieved) and gnaws thru the video cable on the family TV. Eitan: "Can we take her back to the pet store?"

Eitan's year off to the worse possible start as Manchester United lose to Leeds in the Carling Cup Final, which he watches with Luke.

We host a dinner party with 'Uncle' Anthony and Ruth and Author who are recently engaged.

Katie back to America where she meets my father's side of the family in Miami for a cruise.

Madeleine and I feed the ducks and Swanns in Richmond Park. Madeleine hurls bread at her favorite. We play tag-you're-it until the light gone.

And that, my friends and family, is a holiday wrap.

China New Year

We spend New Year's in Bath with Dave and Tabitha and their crew - they have finished their home whose center-piece a two-story wall of glass covering most of the back-house presenting sweeping views of the English countryside crossing their 25 acres.  Marvelous.  David formerly a banker now advising Britain's Secretary of State David Miliband with whom Hillary,  famously, places her school-yard affections (she bubbles: "I mean, he is so vibrant, vital, attractive, smart. He's really a good guy. And he's so young!").  Yes, the 'special relation' between our countries alive and well.

David (my David, that is) helping Britain sort her global strategy. Mostly it is the politically club-footed China (Pittsburgh G20, Copenhagen Green House, executing a British drug smuggler despite Gordon Brown's appeal for clemency) whose pegged yuan-dollar, combined with tremendous manufacturing excess, causing all sorts of earthly problems. As a for instance, consider Ukraine whose economy collapsed by China's steel dumping - kaput! - the Orange Party over.  Ukraine has nukes, too.

China also has a leverage problem. Government bets on 300 million people "urbanising" over 20 odd years and builds infrastructure, towns, entire cities from .. borrowings. The construction impetus via Central Planning while the muni's get it done. Open fields collateralise credit issued for developments .. which is all fine accept the land valueless until the people arrive. Banks don't want that hot potato and spread their risk by moving exposure to private investors (securitisation) who believe they own notes backed by safe land.  And so it goes - sound familiar?

From a macro view, China cloaks its borrowing via quasi government "Red Lions" who own Central's liability now conveniently off balance sheet.  All this blah blah means that China's reported 20% leverage to GDP under-reported and may be 70% or more. But who knows? Is it sustainable? Who knows?

Closing the loop, China's mighty industrial surplus finds its way to US Treasuries -- all that dough has to go somewhere safe. This is why interest rates in the US and the Western World remain near zero.  Remove Obama's stimulus and it might be below zero or deflation - but this for another time. The problem with our low interest rates is .. consumption! Americans borrow borrow borrow to buy buy buy and so today, even after 2008, another bubble may be brewing as China shifts hers to ours .. and so on and so forth.  The response to China's tactics trade-tariffs but to work there must must be global accord. Since everybody wants access to China's growing middle classes not gonna happen. We drift.

And does China's model work for China? In 1985, 85% of China's population earning less than $1,000 a year (poverty).  Today, this figure less than 1% while the 2008 per capita GDP $5,970 (fed and consuming)(IMF).  This one of the great stories of the 20th Century.

Pictured, the Shanghai Tower which is under construction and to be complete in 2014.  It will be China's largest at 128 stories.

Practice And Goals

The past few days Eitan and I up at the crack of dawn to work the football skills, which means Dad commanding the boy to run laps, do jumping stars, ball control and long kicks.  I have been waiting 25 years for this, I tell the boy, ever since those cold mornings pool side where Coach seemed to have the best job in the world.  Eitan improves, too - he practices his target-shots aiming for the goal posts and gleeful when struck. Since it starts raining, we call it a day.

We set out goals for the spring school term.

Madeleine: (1) to improve hand-writing; (2) multiplications, 1-11; (3) learn how to make meat loaf "by heart."

Eitan: (1) stop peeing in the bed; (2) 100% every week in Kumon; (3) KPR to League One.

We sign the bottom of the page, which is posted in the kitchen.

Eitan to Natasha: "I am going to clean the counter with extreme prejudice."

Eitan: "Dad, can I make cleaning up after dinner my chore every day?"

Me:

Eitan:

Me: "Is this a trick?"

Richmond Park Fog

 

Here is Richmond Park.  The weather forecast for snow which cheers up the kids. 

"To me a lush carpet of pine needles or spongy grass is more welcome than the most luxurious Persian rug."

--Helen Keller

Sign 'O The Times

 

Last night's train to W'Loo. I now sit next to our hero while Eitan cleans the table/ does the dishes for "Caramel Chew Chew."  I blog.  Madeleine late at the table as she refuses her brussel sprouts.  Today I sample work for several hours but nothing going down. My building empty except for construction workers who tear out the lobby.  I ask if they are going to rob the place? which gets a few smirks.  50-50 which way that one goes.  From my office I drive Katie into town where she meets Sonnet and together they go to a fancy schmanzy spa to soak and massage. All naked, too, and a good thing since KT forgets her swim suit (Madeleine finishes another sprout and looks at me imploring but no-go until plate clean).  I don't really need to know who has a "Hollywood."

In other news, the world has not come to an end but a comprehensive hour-long program on this morning's Radio 4 with Andrew Mahr goes into detail how, inside eight years, the US went from the peak of its influence, post 9/11, to today - second soon to China.  Experts here and there give damning reviews of our strategy under el presidente. Our nation took its eye off the ball fighting Iraq while China squared its position in Africa, Russia, Latin America... we will look back sadly, Dear Americans.  So: do the times make the man or the man make the times?  I fear we have learned the hard way, the latter.

Madeleine excused from the dinner table.

Me: "Will you always give me a hug, even when you are a teen-ager?"

Madeleine: "I'm not sure. I can't see into the future."

Into The Hoods

Last night we visit Southbank Centre to see "Into The Hoods" (sic) which is "the award-winning smash hit from the West End and two Edinburgh Fringe Festivals, Into the Hoods features groovy tunes and wicked dance moves and includes music from Massive Attack, Kanye West and others."  The performers from ZooNation UK Dance Troupe started by Kate Prince in 2000 when Prince teaching at the Pineapple Dance Studios in London, which led to their 2002 debut performance in London of BoxBeat at the Lilian Baylis Theatre at Sadlers Wells.   It is all about funk fusion and hip hop. The Royal Festival Hall on its feet by the end and deservedly so - the performers confident, proud and mostly black though a few white dudes bust some rhyme looking like, well, Vanilla Ice. Remember him, 1990? I guess you cannot blame them, though - they were born uncool.

Price a choreographer whose work, when not teaching at Pineapple, includes theatre, television, music video, commercials, fashion, documentary and live events. Most recent credits are the 'Opening Ceremony - Tour de France 2007,' 'Strictly Dance Fever' (BBC), 'Hey Kid' video for Matt Willis (Mercury Records), 'Blue Peter' for ZooNation (BBC), and 'Top of the Pops' (BBC), 'CD:UK' (ITV), 'Smash Hits Pollwinners Party' (Channel 4) Wembley Arena, and 'The Official Olympic Celebration' Trafalgar Square. She is blowing up with 'Into the Hoods.'  All good.

To think the Southbank Centre almost demolished - Tony Blair pledged by 2002.  Not surprising as it is a 1960s concrete monstrosity (the Royal Festival Hall finished in '65).  Still, this an important place in London's psyche: Southbank Centre started with the '51 Festival of Britain, and described as "a tonic for the nation" (politico Herbert Morrison) - it showed Britain’s recovery from World War II. Today Southbank is culture, happening restaurants, singles bars (Las Iguana shows some serious leg) and the best views of the river's northside.  Magic.

We listen to some 'chill' music. Me: "Doesn't this make you feel good?"

Eitan: "No, actually. It makes me feel kind of frustrated.  And cramped."

Web Brands

This graphic from Strategy Analytics who did some work with young people on "which brands would you want on your mobile phone?"  The top-five obvious. What is catching is Twitter, ranked by MSN which survives thanks to Hotmail, around since, like, the Stone Age of the Internet. I would have thought Twitter right at the very top given the hype and all that - even I, this very week-end, looked into signing up and me, being over 40.  Despite the racket, Twitter only has 55 million users against Facebook's 325 million (VentureBeat) so while Twitter buzzy, the numbers catching up. The SA graphic sets the stall for the Web's next turf battle - your mobile phone.  Indeed, the war began years ago but mobile power now allows cool stuff in your pocket, all the time. My wise Grandmother recalled the family's car - a horse named Bessy. The idea talking to anybody from anywhere - totally bonkers, though she accepted these things gamely.  Inside ten years my guess that PCs and notebooks - at least as we know them - obsolete. The advantage to applications that cross platforms seamlessly.  Jim is all over this for Google and I would not bet against him. Still the future wide open - Google turned 11 this year while Facebook launched in 2004. Soon, as Luke Nosek who founded PayPal and invested in Facebook, once told me: "one day, all search will be 100% personal." If this turns true, Facebook may one day surprise Google.  Or maybe it will be somebody else, working in her parent's garage instead of going to business school. Or college. Hope so.

Blackfriers Bridge

Black Friers bridge, pictured, opened in 1769 after nine-year's effort; it was the third crossing, supplementing the ancient London Bridge dating from several centuries before, and Westminster Bridge. Initial shoddy work, followed by many extensive repairs and a good deal of 'patching-up' - which continues today as we can see - required a new-build and officially (re)opened by Queen Victoria one century later. Yes, Portland stone. The gun-metal grey building at the bridge's terminus is Ludgate House or home of United Business Media while the tall one the Shell Centre (Por..t ..l..and .. stone).

At the photo's bottom, the small barge-like thingy has always been a curiousity as I have observed it in various locations on the Thames. The signage gives it away: "I eat garbage."

Katie and I go to the hot yoga then home for dinner where I make that tried-and-true recipe: rice and beans (thank you, Eric). The kids decide to do a "sleep out" in Katie's room so they drag their buddies to the third floor and spread them across the floor. They also bring other crap until I say: "Enough!" which gets the usual why-do-you-have-to-spoil-our-fun and all that. Upstairs I overhear Stephen Fry read Harry Potter and I hope he got paid - 67 CDs and all wonderful. How Fry keeps his enthusiasm through seven volumes beyond me. Katie also reads the Shakespeares one of her Christmas presents: "The Hobbit" by Tolkein, which Eitan and I discuss walking to the football pitch. We agree it would be pretty cool to live in a tidy hole in a shire in The Midlands somewhere. Though the pipe would have to go.

Eitan, listening to the BBC radio news: "The world is a bad place, mostly."

Me: "Do you know what small talk is?"

Eitan:

Me: "It is when I try to talk to a dude even though I don't really care what he is saying."

Eitan: "Well, there is a difference between small talk and pestering."

Me: "You will do your chores today."

Eitan: "Do you really think anyone in the Premiere League had to do chores when they were a kid?"

1:03PM and no sign of Katie.

Model Train

On Richard Hammond we watch, stunned, a World Record attempt for longest miniature train rail.  In this instance we go for a replication of the now defunct 'Atlantic Coast Rail' also fondly known as the 'Ocean Express' connecting Waterloo station and seaside resorts in the south west. The Ocean Express ran from 1926 to 1964; at its peak it included coaches for nine separate destinations. These were mostly steam engines and the distance, like, over 100 miles.  And now it comes back to life for those suffering the savant syndrome  and we, the viewing public. Every now and then I am reminded: "this is England."  Thousands of volunteers lend Richard assistance while we kids watch mesmerised ("Can you believe this, Dad?" Eitan asks).  The day of the attempt looks like rain (been here before, oh boy).  Since Waterloo a tad too busy, our beginning Barnstable.  Five .. four... three.. two.. one... the train goes 20 yards and .. stops.  Hammond keeps it together while several worried middle-aged men huddle over the toy.  Oh, yes -- we are on the wrong track.  Since Britain, there is redundancy and our trains should have been .. on the other track.   And we are off.  Village people turn out waving local and England flags.  At the terminus some strange dudes in kelts play wind pipes - the oldest, looking at his watch, points out: "it is about a hair past a freckle. We will see you at the pub."  During the meanwhile our train chugs through fields, over rivers and passes via (cheering, gay) towns.  In front of the petite engine, an official dude greases the rail grooves while others, mostly men, follow in all seriousness - they are not allowed to touch the train, you see, or WR disqualified. Sadly, the effort goes kaput at Instow at 11PM.  The show ends on a certain, er, downer. Hammond dodges gallantly noting the English enthusiasm and all that. Some went without sleep for 24 hours. Me, I know the sad truth: founder of the steam engine and once owner of the world's greatest train network, Britain today cannot do a model set. Ah, but what a try -- the attempt alone world class.

Me: "Can you you give us an example of 'subtle'?"

Katie: "If I said, 'you stink' or 'wouldn't you love a bath?'"

Madeleine: "Well, the first one is a complement."

Me, Katie:

Madeleine: "I mean, the first one is a complement for a kid."

Eitan: "Once, when we were learning about the food pyramid, Mrs. A asked what a carbohydrate is."

Me:

Eitan: "And Oscar said it is something to do with cardboad.'

Hampton Skates

We have tickets to ice skate at Hampton Palace and go early thinking the Royal Grounds open to the public. Fat chance, Boxing Day (Starbucks rule: if Starbucks closed, everything closed) so we stroll along the Thames, pictured, killing time and burning the Shakespeares' energy.  We are west of the Teddington Lock so the river no longer tidal yet it flows eastward. I will need to think about that one.  Sonnet opens her tote bag to a picnic of leftover goose and gravlox and we watch the the sun go down at 3:30PM munching away on a picnic bench. God bless Sonnet.  By five the temperature winter-like and everybody in the mood .. to get the afternoon over with.  But happily on the ice rink the vibe shifts towards fun and soon we are having a family time - Katie an expert on blades while Eitan jumps into the mix. Very different then before.  Madeleine holds back and inches around the rink ever mindful of her safety, the wall. At first, even Auntie Katie cannot pry her loose, poor dear. After a half-hour, though, off she goes, the little trooper, and I am way proud.  This what I am used to.