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.