Morning And Teddy

Madeleine is a tough riser and here we are, Thursday morning. She chooses to sleep on the pull-out, otherwise reserved for guests, and I wonder how long this interest will last? Eitan does it to. There was a while when the kids experimenting with the floor - as in, no mattress. Sonnet and I would protest but to what effect?

How sad that Senator Kennedy's vacated seat falls to a Republican and Obama's health-care bill now in doubt. Though imperfect, the mish-mash would, I have to believe, be an improvement to the status quo and itself would be improved upon. 40 million Americans going without or to the Emergency Room cannot be good. The Congressional Budget Office anticipates health care costs will be 27% of GNP by 2037 ... my friend Dale argues: so what? given health care is a 'superior good,' the richer you are, the more (in percentage terms) you want to spend on it. This is all fine and good accept that it is not sustainable. And it kills GNP growth. But why worry? As for the political opera - it continues to astound. Dim wits on the public stage; wars revisited and lost by the Son of the Commander. Now Health care. Poor Teddy.

"The alcohol industry is a conspiratorial collective pushing an addictive palliative to numb people to the misery of their own existence. Just as bad as Big Tobacco."

--Sonnet

Drink

I like the photo of my favorite spirit - very 1950s US. Mad Men. I think of my Grandmother in Upper Arlington, Ohio, hosting all-night bridge sessions where my Grandfather stirred a frozen pitcher of Martinis and a pitcher of Manhattans. The following morning, my Grandmother cooked everybody breakfast. Now this is how to drink, unlike these Brits who binge and obliterate themselves. And the Scots, these poor bastards, drink the equivalent of 46 bottles of Vodka each year, or 25% more than the English or Welsh. How do they get up in the morning? The 50 million litres of pure alcohol sold in Scotland last year enough for every drinker over the age of 18 to exceed the consumption guidelines for men every week of the year (source: the Scottish Government). To combat this disease, government intends to raise the cost of alcohol which, today, is cheaper then water on the High Street. They have tried before to great resistance.

And what about the Ruskies who, we all know, can drink. By 2009, the average Russian consumed three times as much pure alcohol as he did 16 years ago. A report I see by Gennadi Onishenko, head of the consumer protection agency, found that Russians drink 16 litres (26 pints) of pure alcohol per year compared to 5.4 litres in 1990 (Vodka BTW accounts for 16% of Russian alcoholic sales). The study calculates that at least 2.3 million Russians are alcoholics, and blames rising mortality rates, particularly among men, on drink. Russia consumes 100% more than the critical level set by the World Health Organisation and an estimated 600,000 die from consumption each year. Yeltsin drank on his death bed.

Raising drink prices a start. Youngsters must be given alternative messages about alcohol and so the media can help. It wouldn't hurt if our role models weren't winos. It starts with the family - myself, I would put these binge-drinkers to work, work, work. These kids beg for it.

My Grandmother would not be impressed.

The Wharf

This what greets people as they exit Canary Wharf tube station. Imagine Monday mornings. Canary Wharf London's answer to Midtown, Manhattan - it is money. One feels the waves of capitalism ebbing and flowing while i bankers filter the nutrients for themselves. Like Wall Street, The City - London's traditional financial district - grew tired. Banks demanded space for their modern trading desks and fat data pipes. The Isle of Dogs, shallacked during the WW II, became the home of bad ass. Bad ass bankers doing bad ass deals making insane amounts of money. Ebb or flow, it matters not. This always so on the Isle - From 1802, the area one of the world's busiest docks until the Krauts put a stop to that. And, I am happy to say, my old firm Credit Suisse First Boston came up with the idea to convert Canary Wharf into back office. Others signed on and the project sold to Olympia & York the year before I arrived at PAZ. The first buildings opened in '91, including One Canada Square pictured, that became the UK's tallest building and a symbol of regeneration. Soon after, the London commercial property market collapsed and Olympia filed for Bankruptcy in 1992. Nobody learns.

Madeleine's school pal Mattie moves to Cape Town next week. Me: "What will you do when you arrive in South Africa?"

Mattie: "I don't know. Watch TV?"

Tom Ford

Tom Ford's menswear collection greets me this morning in the IHT - full page, no less. Ford's work showcased in Sonnet's New York Fashion Now exhibition when Ford up-and-coming. Recall he became known for turning around Gucci then left Gucci to start his own shop in '04. He began with accessories and bling, then eye-ware and finally men's clothing always promoting himself with sex, sex, sex! God bless. His first store opened with fanfare on Madison Avenue in '07 followed by Europe in '08 with a boutique in Zurich. Last year Ford at Selfridges to launch his new fragrance Bois Marocain whose ad offered us, the male punter, a glistening female body (with a "Hollywood") whose otherwise exposed vag hidden behind a small bottle of the perfume. C'est tout. It causes a stirring. Ford also designed costumes for the world premiere of "The Letter" which performed at the Santa Fe Opera last year. I wonder if Stan and Silver caught it?

Madeleine and I in the pet store looking at a small container of live crickets (meant for the snakes/lizards/tarantulas): "Can I have one, Dad? Oh, Please?"

In the pet store, Madeleine spies a container of crawling maggots (for fish food): "Mom would freak out if she saw that."

Me: "Shall we bring some home and put them in a bowl on the kitchen table?"

Madeleine: "Oh-h-h, Dad. I cannot even imagine that."

Madeleine sets the table: "Aw, dad, why do I have to wash my hands after I have been picking my feet?"

Eitan: "Do you think there is more good, or more bad, in the world?"

Me: "What do you think?"

Eitan: "I don't know."

Me: "You will spend the rest of your life trying to figure it out."

Eitan:

Me: "Do you think you can make a difference?"

Eitan: "Well, one tiny thing will make a small difference and one big thing may make a big difference."

Madeleine: "He read that on the bus, dad."

Me, privately: "Eitan, you can make a big difference. You can be somebody and people will follow your lead."

Madeleine and I spot an algae in the pond, which leads to a discussion about the earth's transformation from rock and gas via photosynthesis:"Without those little buggers we would not be here right now."

Madeleine: "Can I use this paper?"

Me: "Sure."

Madeleine: "Can I use the Super-Glue?"

Me:

Madeleine: "Can I cut this photograph?

Me:

Madeleine makes a poster: "Eitan Wanted! Thief!"

Moe names his special meat loaf after Eitan "because he know it's my favorite."

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.