KPR V. Target

Eitan this afternoon following his semi-final cup match, which the lads loose to a good team, 3-nil. Eitan says: "I was disappointed" and gives no further commentary, full stop. He now does his home work. The poor kid does not like Sunday evening and, like me, has anxiety before the new week. Or sometimes it is the Blue Meanies. I used to have this especially bad in New York with the responsibility of a new job I did not fully control and found overwhelming. Sunday then, in fact, the worst. Sonnet cheers up the mood by offering "Harry Potter." She knows how to make everybody feel good.

So the football match: KPR plays Target, and we drive to the Cranmore Boys School in West Horsley, Surrey for the action (Eitan: "this is, like, in the middle of no where"). No sat-nav, no-way. It is a beautiful sunny day like we have not had in months but bitterly cold - I wear a down vest and down jacket and stomp my feet to keep warm. The boys anxious and it shows: Robert blocks a cross pass - hand ball! - and Target draws blood on the penalty. Their kids big and fast, and know how to play together using fast-breaks, open pitch and competent passing to keep KPR off-balance. One little dude flicks the ball so adroitly around ours that I think of a movie reel on fast-forward. He is that quick. Eitan is neutralised and while he is able to skirt around individuals, Target's depth wears him down by the time he is near enough for a strike. By half, Target leads 3-0 and our coaches huddle up the boys for a new strategy: "Get in there and play!" (Eitan tells me later). While KPR does not score the second half they stymie Target from increasing their lead; our goalie Maxime makes several heroic saves including a full body stretch parallel to the ground Super Man style. Wills, the sun of a taxi driver and KPR's defensive backbone, delivers several crushing tackles. By game's end, KPR has redeemed some of the first half and rewarded with donuts. The rest of us huddle around and urge the scrum towards the parking lot and warm cars (Eitan and his chums would happily play until sundown). We eat M&M's on the ride home and listen to Aston Villa v. Reading in the FA Cup semi-final.

Eitan: "You know, Dad, every song you sing is awful."

Me: "Some might say it is a good thing that I like to sing."

Eitan: "Some might not have ever heard you sing."

Me: "Oh, says the choir boy."

Eitan:

Green Boots

Eitan shows us his new boots. He is now a size 'four' in juniors. I recall when his feets smaller than my hand. Our favorite flowers vase has the boy's foot imprints from age one month - Katie did this for us when she first met him. So any ways, Eitananticipates his semi-final Cup game in West Horsley or about an hour's drive off the M25. Late game time kicks off at 1:30PM.

We visit Mitch and Rachel and their friends for dinner and wine last night. Camille a costumier for film and has all sorts of table-engaging histoires. We talk about movie sex scenes where the actors tape flesh coloured under-pants over their bits - g-strings apparently do not work since the backside booty crack visible. Only recently, Camille taped a merkin onto Nicole Kidman's patch. Now that is intimacy. And, should you think such scenes sexy, imagine at least 20 (mostly men) on set and maybe four or five takes. For someone like Kidman, who charges over $1 million a day, the pre-takes performed by her 'double' right down to the covering. No time wasted and nothing left to chance. Apparently she and most actors are friendly and professional when it comes to the tape-job.

Mitch and Mike also have good stories - they met at Selfridges dept. store (London's Macy's) straight from college in the Exports and Accounts Department where they issued VAT reclaims. Now all first jobs generally horrible and this one especially offers humorous opportunity. In one instance, Mike informed his colleagues (often ladies at Selfridges for >30 years) that he was an Intuit with certain religious obligations --on a certain day, Mike wore a skull cap and brought a rug to work and told his colleagues and customers that he had to face the North Pole and rock in prayer on the top of every hour. We crack up. This brings back loving absurdities from my summers painting houses in Providence, Rhode Island, which remain some of my favorite treasures today.

Kids have gotten into pop music and we all bust up over the radio song "gotta get that boom-boom-boom" by the Black Eyed Peas.

Munich

I go for a jog following the plane, where we find this enormous cement field in the middle of Munich. I assume I pose on extremely valuable real estate and wonder: why fallow? Of course it is reserved for Oktoberfest which, I am told, sees six million people descend upon the city and 600,000 at once on this spot - the world's largest fairground. Germans and tourists gather inside white tents and drink beer from 10AM until 11PM when the police shut things down. This year the 200th anniversary. The celebration lasts 16 days and, a taxi driver informs me, not unusual for someone to drink more than six litres in a day. Women, he adds, show their tits. Sounds like fun to me.

Our first meeting in offices overlooking this space. We joke, of course, about such convenience - but really it is just the opposite since parking disappears in an instant.

"It feels like a kegger at the psycho ward."

--Wired Magazine on Oktoberfest Etiquette

David

Here is David, who I have been running around with this week. We are at the Paris airport heading for Copenhagen. David my age and investing venture capital for his career. Before HBS he was with start-up UroMed that went public; post business school he ran Forge Ventures which was a joint venture with Mayfield, Enterprise and Johnson & Johnson to buy medical companies. He then became Partner at Hamilton BioVentures, where he produced top-quartile results for the fund he invested and now Correlation Ventures.

A problem with any partnership that an individual might be very good while his colleagues suck (private equity funds usually set up as partnerships - a General Partner or "GP" manages the money while limited partners ("LPs") contribute the capital; they spilt the updside 20%:80%+some management fee to the manager usually around 2% yearly on the dough over the fund life). This phenomena pronounced in venture as 'exits' few, even during good times, and often skewed to one principal in the firm. A bad fund absorbs the winners to repay the LPs and individual success might net .. nothing. Imagine, for instance, you are the guy who invests $50MM of a $200MM fund; your decisions return 4X while the rest of the fund nil. Despite producing $150MM of capital gains you get .. zilch. This not a happy scenario yet not unusual given the industry's awful performance since '00. During this time, too much money concentrated around a few large firms unable to make small bets where the real money is. Nobody gets rich putting >$30MM into a financing which needs a >$500MM exit to get some multiple. Not too many of those going around (yet <$200MM m&a's happening all the time in the United States). Pity the few who are good.

Madeleine on the trumpet as I write - four times a week for ten minutes practice (Sonnet and I sign her recitals). She is harnessing the power and while it might not be exactly music it is something .. good.

Me: "You are really getting into music I see."

Eitan: "Yes, like mom said - cheesy pop music."

Eiffel Tower

Eiffel kept a small office on the tippy top of his edifice. Presumably there was an elevator back then.

The Eiffel Tower, the tallest building in Paris, is the most visited paid monument in the world. Millions ascend it every year, including us with Mary and her crew in '08 (time flies). The thing built for the 1889 World's Fair and the facts: 324 meters tall equal to 81-one stories and the tallest structure in the world until the Chrysler building surpassed it in 1930. Excluding the broadcast antennas, EF the tallest in France until 2004 when the Millau Viaduct surpassed it. Bastards. And while the tower an iron structure, weighing aprox. 10,000 tons, it has a low density weighing less than a cylinder of air occupying the same dimensions as the tower. The walk to the first level over 300 steps, as is the walk from the first to second. The third and highest level is accessible only by lift.

I take this picture shortly before an afternoon meeting from the Trocadero, site of the Palais de Chaillot, in the 16 arrondisement across the Seine from the EF. The first time I was here in '81 with my family visiting Aunte Marcia and Uncle Larry who lived in the 14th near the Bois de Bologne when Larry running a substantial business for Citicorp as an expat.

Me: "Did you practice your trumpet?"

Madeleine: "No. I didn't have time."

Me: "You had time to watch a movie last night."

Madeleine: "Why do you have to be so harsh?"

Eitan (in the car to swimming) "Montrose is the perfect city."

Me: "Yes?"

Eitan: "It is so clean. It is not dirty like Waterloo."

Madeleine: "Or Hammersmith!"

Me:

Eitan: "You would never find a cigarette on the ground."

Madeleine: "Why does Huckleberry Finn smoke a pipe?"

Me:

Rodin

In Paris, I have a few free hours and, since sunny and spring-like, we go to one of my favorite museums. I am reminded of how sensual Rodin's works - pictured. Rodin's sculptures warm and intimate, provocative, nothing like the base materials of his craft -we look at something otherwise a formless marble. I learn that Rodin's older sister Maria died of peritonitis in a convent in 1862. Rodin was anguished and felt guilty because he introduced Maria to an unfaithful suitor. From her death, Rodin turned away from art and briefly joined a Catholic order. Father Eymard recognized Rodin's talent and, sensing his lack of suitability for the order, encouraged him to continue his sculpture. Without the Father, there would be no Thinker. Or Gates Of Hell or The Burghers of Calais. These things often a razor's edge and, just sometimes, we may appreciate a gift to humanity.

Me: "Have you kids ever found any money?"

Madeleine: "Once I found twenty pounds at that hotel."

Eitan: "I found five pounds, a two pound coin, two pounds and a 20p"

Madeleine: "You found 20p? I did not know that."

Eitan: "It's true Madeleine."

Me: "I once found £120 pounds at a cash machine. Somebody left it there."

Madeleine: "Did you steal it?"

Me:

Madeleine: "That must have been sooo nice."

Me: "how many pennies in a dollar?"

Eitan: "100."

Me: "So if I have a quarter, how many pennies in that?"

Eitan: "25."

Me: "And if I subtract a dime from a quarter, how many pennies left?"

Madeleine: "I am never going to understand this American money."

Self Portrait XV

So I start my week with Correlation Ventures in London then the Eurostar to Paris that evening (photo in hotel). Travel takes its toll, so I better believe in the funds I am selling (and investing with) and with Correlation I do. Recall this a group who brings heavy quantiative analysis to VC, which has not been done before yet, we believe, holds promise given the industry's inefficiencies. Anybody who has raised venture capital, as I did with Ezoka.com, knows it is a disruptive if not torturous process (Ezoka was pain-free and I used to say the easiest thing I had ever done though my biggest mistake a piece of shit partner. But that was my decision and my responsibility).

US venture firms raised under $15 billion in 2009 or levels not seen since '92 or '93. 2010 will be lower. Some (most) believe this a good thing: early-stage companies better valued and capital efficient; fewer "copy-cat" businesses formed; fewer bad ideas funded (who can forget justballs.com) and, one would expect, fewer failures and less disruption. Or, as we say: the industry right-sizing. The data shows us the great vintages - where investors make a killing - follow poor fundraising years. 1993-1998, for instance; Bill had '97 fund that did net 6X return to limited partners before Metro PCS went public and valued around $23 billion at its peak in '02. This returned the fund again several fold.

The other thing about venture: human bias messes things up. If the VC does not like the entrepreneur, she is unlikely to invest in the plan no matter how good. Follow-on rounds, which the data tells us a bad bet, account for more than half the capital employed. Why? Investors must justify their Board seat and time; she does not want her investment to fail. She likes the founder and so on and so forth. A better strategy: back a different, better company. There is plenty of selection.

Correlation aims to reduce the emotional drag nil by using the hard-facts. Fund investors raise an eyebrow – remove experience and intuition? Implicity, the belief that only the best VC knows Google when Google a business plan. We think the data knows better. And while this may be so, one clever fellow asks: “will this Jumbo fly?”

In photo, I am in Paris and missing Sonnet and the kids. It is a long week ahead and tomorrow meetings then Copenhagen.

I Will Take You Down

I keep this pinned by my desk (thank you Stan and Silver for sending the best).

Stratos and Vasso over for the afternoon with their children who bond with ours - especially the boys since they both collect "Match Attacks" and sit around trading football cards. Vasso has been at P&G for over 15 years since business school while today she is the Director of Trends and Innovations. She decides, for the company and the fashion industry, what sells in six months, twelve months and five-years. A fascinating job. I wonder if her views held secret and she explains that for a time, they are - competition - but then much of her work spent getting others to accept her vision of the world. Once this probably meant some considerable travel but now technology allows instant, interactive communication. She can "touch" her franchise instantly from London or meet thought leaders online. In any case, she is the one to get it done (an aside: we talk about cat walks, where I have some street cred).

Today the last day of the Winter Olympics and while I have watched none of it, I am sad to see it go. The daily press keeps my interest and the US scores more tin then ever before (Canada sets the standard for Gold medals earned by the hosting country at 13). None of this matters, though, because tonight it is Canada vs. the US'A in ice hockey's Gold medal round. We will watch at Karen and Andrew's - Canucks! Go USA!

I have a busy week ahead with several funds, three cities and an m and a. Go team.

Tommy The Hamster

Madeleine and her pal Marcus and I troop over to the pet shop for another hamster (it is raining). This one named "Tommy." Amazing how a little ball of fur can make our girl so happy. I find her wide-awake at 3AM thinking about her new pet. Walking home, Tommy tries to cut his way out of the box showing two sharp teeth and a pink-nose - this illicits either warmth or shock from the various passer-bys. None can deny Madeleine's enthusiasm. Madeleine freaks out as the hamster creates an escape hole and I note we might have to stop traffic to fetch the critter? She glares, oh boy. We make it home where a shiny Habitrail awaits.

I visit Boots pharmacy and discuss the differences between Talcum Powder and Baby Powder. The chemist notes helpfully that "ladies these days are no longer putting powder on their bits." The difference: Talc is a mineral from a crushed up rock. Baby powder is corn starch (and various perfumes).

Eitan spells out f-u-c-k a d-u-c-k: "Is that a bad word?"

Me: "Ok, get it off your chest. Let's hear your swear words."

Eitan: "Bloody hell! Bitch!"

Madeleine: "that other word that starts with a 'B.'"

Sonnet: "Bastard?"

Madeleine: "That's the one!"

Madeleine dries the dishes: "Should I do that one next?"

Me: "Madeleine, make your own decisions."

Madeleine: "I decide not to do the dishes."

Sonnet nears completion of the seventh and last volume of Harry Potter: "Maybe I'll stop before the last word."

The Arch

What a strange and wonderful monument at the heart of Paris that honors France's fallen soldier, particularly during the Napoleonic Wars. On the inside top, a list of Generals and wars fought; underneath, the tomb of the unknown soldier from World War I. Access is via an underground tunnel, thank goodness, as the circling drivers mad. I see two near collisions while another attempts a dramatic inside-to-outside move that earns little respect: "connard!"

The Arc commissioned in 1806 by Napoleon after Austerlitz - laying the foundation took two years - and completed in 1836 delayed by changing architects and the Bourbon Revolution which stopped things cold. In the end, Napoleon had his satisfaction as his cold dead body passed underneath on December 15, 1840, on its way to the Invalides.

I learn that in '61 JFK and Jacqueline Kennedy paid their respects at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, accompanied by President de Gaule. After Kennedy's assassination, Jacqueline Kennedy remembered the Arc de Triomphe's eternal flame and requested an eternal flame be placed next to her husband's grave at Arlington National Cemetery. President de Gaulle went to Washington to attend the state funeral and witnessed Jacqueline Kennedy lighting the eternal flame that was inspired by her visit to France.

So back to London and without fail, rain. I have never lived in a climate like this. England is not like this. We celebrate life with our friends Jan (Dutch) and wife Nes (Turkish) drinking martinis and talking late.

Paris - Omen

I arrive in Paris for the sunset, which falls over a damp cityscape. Yes, rain here too (photo from the WWW, uncredited). The Parisians pay the weather no mind clustered beneath their canapes drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. 'Tres chic' indeed captures the 8th arrondisement. The men scruffy, still wearing scarves though nearly March, and hairstyles 'messy.' The women own black knee-high boots and black tights. Sometimes a skirt or mini, sometimes not. Dark lipstick.

I have dinner at a bistro and play with my Blackberry and ease-drop - most conversations of work which is not surprising since an easy pre-dinner subject. To my left a handsome fellow and two attractive women put down a fourth who arrives then it is hugs and kisses and red wine. Seems about right.

So here is my insight: the French less narcissistic then us Americans. While the French fascinated with themselves (no doubt - they are French), they are not hell bent on destroying their country. Exhibit A, Healthcare, an omen portending things to come: If Obama unable push through reform - we all agree, including Repubs, healthcare broken and not sustainable as is - then what hope is there for the next three years? Republican stalling and blocking may score political points but at what cost to the Republic? (just the other day conservatives called new MA Senator Scott Brown a Judas and Benedict Arnold for voting for cloture on the Senate jobs bill). Such political opportunism leaves our country with no ability to address China, national debt or Wall Street reform. Who is the real Judas, I wonder?

"I came to Washington to be an independent voice, to put politics aside, and to do everything in my power to help create jobs for Massachusetts families. The Senate jobs bill is not perfect. I wish the tax cuts were deeper and broader, but I am voting for it because it contains measures that will help put people back ...to work. ... I hope for improvements in that process going forward."

--Scott Brown, Senator, MA

C'Est Etre L'Esclave Du Tabac

This Parisian anti-smoking ad receives critical attention which is not surprising as it equates fags and porno suggesting an abusive, submissive relationship. God bless the French, who have no problem putting it out there. At least they are not hypocrites.

I join my book club last night for Richard Holmes marvelous "The Age Of Wonder" which telescopes the voyages of 18 century discovery - astronomical, chemical, poetical and philosophical -that made up this magical period. We are most intrigued by Sir Joseph Banks (who I know intimately from O'Brian's "Master And Commander" series) who, as a young man, joined the Royal Navy's search for a "transit of Venus" and, on the way, discovered paradise in the unspoiled Tahiti. The Endeavor moored here for three months while the sailors and Banks enjoyed a most accommodating welcome. The Tahitians had no alcohol, tobacco nor drugs and sex was their euphoria. We are shocked to learn that women snuffed newborns to remain available to their passions. From there we visit the poor immigrant William Hershel who opened the heavens, literally, with his home-made telescopes and lens, which sometimes required uninterrupted polishing for 16 hours a stretch (since I did not finish the book I cannot comment on miner's lamp or the first balloon ride). So we ponder: is our world better with wonder lost?

Eitan has choir and Sonnet takes Madeleine for a hot-chocolate, where she does her Kumon (always better outside the misery of routine). I am reminded of similar moments with my mom - like going for hamburgers at Copper Penny on University Avenue or Ortman's for bubble gum ice cream on Friday afternoon's after school. Eitan going through a phase, let's hope, of lurking around the house trying to scare the bee-Jesus out of Sonnet, which he does from time to time - I snigger as I did this too, poor Grace.

Sonnet meets Naomi Cambell, who arrives one-hour late for her appointment. Sonnet notes that "her people are scary."

Madeleine: "Do you remember when you used to give me Starbursts for breakfast?"

Me:

Madeleine: "If I made my bed."

Madeleine puts her forehead on the table: "We're not having this for dinner again?"

Book And Bradbury

Madeleine gets her book on - I do not recall the title from work but it really does not matter. She is into it. London's grey cold weather continues and I am forced to wonder: am I participating in a Ray Bradbury novel? Who can forget "All Summer In A Day" which I read around the seventh grade. Recall the story about Margot, who has been relocated to Venus from Earth somewheres in the future. On Venus it is constantly raining and the sun visible for one hour every seven years. Margot is the only child in her class who remembers sunshine so the kids bully her, locking her in a broom closet. Suddenly the sun arrives, the teacher takes the class outside where they whoop for joy in their new freedom; then a girl starts crying, a raindrop falls and thunder. Everybody runs inside remembering Margot who they find pale in the gloom and darkness - the sun has come and gone.

Bradbury was born in Illinois and still alive and kicking. He has the UK down cold.

"I think the sun is a flower.

That blooms for just one hour."

-- Margot

Louise Goldin

Of the photos I take yesterday from my mobile, this one captures the strange lonely scene best. The young woman pictured perfectly miraged: connected to us and yet a million miles away. The models tone dark - expressionless with heavy eye-shadow never making eye contact as is the norm at these things. A jutted walk makes their appearance all the more alien. Designer Louise Goldin's clothes dazzle, too: slinky, shiny leggings, wedge shoes and padded curves. The show in Covent Garden in the basement of a deserted building off the square and ideal for runway lighting and atmosphere. I am invited by new friend Izzy, from Croatia via Duane so not surprising his friends ueber cool; Izzy is dating Goldin.

Before the catwalk there is champagne or coffee and I observe the crowd: tall, leggy, young women gossip and make eyes at each other; dudes with beards and killer hair. Lots of funky styles from over-stated pin stripes to form fitting black leather jackets with faux fur collars. Skinny jeans (which, dear reader, I wear) de rigueur. Izzy and I bond over our blue converse Chucks while his stunning Egyptian friend and I discuss her many-crescent necklace which settles between her bosom on top of a black lace dress. I note their beauty (er, ambiguous?). I hold my own with black glasses and striped skull-cap, which I refuse to take off. I can do this style thing sometimes. Eventually the lights darken 45 minutes after the start time, creepy stage-appropriate music fills the space and the models walk. Electric.

Louise Goldin BTW English, having studied at the Central St Martins for seven years where she got her BA and MA. She quickly became know for her knit skills and use of colour, recognised earlier this year winning the British Fashion Council Fashion Award - an honour which guarantees her sponsorship in London Fashion Week this, and next year. She has a range of shoes at Top Shop. Goldin on her ascendency and much needed following Alexander McQueen's suicide.

Golden on today's collection: "It's space military."

Chrome

Reviewing Madeleine's photo from this morning, and all my photos for that matter, I realise many (most?) are a battleship grey. A combination, no doubt, of reduced sunlight and rain+dull overcast skies. At the fashion show I meet a single-mother living in Shoreditch (the cool part of town where all the gays are) whose older boyfriend in a band in Los Angeles. They commute. I am surprised to learn she does not like El Lay - most Brits adore the idea of California and all else unobtainable to them. But don't we all? I digress. She finds the relentless sunshine monotonous and lack of seasons unsettling. What do people talk about? she laments. And the traffic - nobody has time for the beach. It cannot all be Baywatch, I admit, but my high school experience pretty 90210. We compare notes on working and child-raising but, in honesty, I cannot imagine being solo for the biggest Project of one's career. It would not be half as much fun, for one. And requires tremendous courage and fortitude. Respect.

Eitan: "I really love a back scratch. Even when it's not itchy it feels so good when someone itches it." Pause. "Are you really going to write that?"

Fashionista

We have your typical London Sunday: up at 6:30AM for Eitan's swim practice; Sonnet takes Madeleine to the Betty Jackson catwalk at Somerset House; Aggie arrives 9:30AM to take both kids to the Waterloo IMAX where they see African Safari 3D then lunch at the dreadful Giraffe ... meanwhile, I go to the afternoon Louise Goldin show who is the fashionista of the hour and the pap there in full force, as are the celebs, but I will post something on them or this tomorrow.

And here is Madeleine on the Waterloo Bridge. I ask her about her day and get the usual "good." I probe: "'Good' like what happens every day at school?" (she now sits on the counter next to the oven, which is the warmest spot in the kitchen). Sonnet reading "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" which is the seventh of seven volumes (just asking the title, interrupting Sonnet's flow, gets screeches from the Shakespeares). Any attempt to gather more insight into Madeleine's (or Sonnet's) day for the next 100 pages null and void. Like Louise Goldin, I shall revisit.

PM Gordon Brown under fire for abusing his staff. I can see this - he seems to me a dour personality. Sure, his style maybe suitable for a good financial melt down but who would want to work for him? Despite it all, the Tories indefensible 28 point lead over Labor six months ago fallen to a measly six. They panic and David Cameron promises us, the people, stock in the banks we have baled out. Free money! Go figure. For the record: I will vote, for the first time in my life I might add, conservative in the June elections. A 50% tax rate does that to a fellow. Conservatives commitment to junk Heathrow's third-runway another. Most recently, Govt. has introduced a car-park charge in Richmond Park despite massive local resistance and protest (a rally drew 1,000 old-age pensioners and a few families). Unfortunately for us, the over-flow will be on our block as visitors attempt to avoid the charge. Conservatives have said bluntly they will repeal the charge earning my and a few other votes.

Ok, over dinner Madeleine notes that the fashion show music "loud" and the venue "dark." She "very excited" and describes the scene - "mostly younger, middle and older people" and many of the women "had funny hair." When pressed: "curly and straight and stuff." She remarks that Tony & Guy did the styling which is cool because the same franchise did her hair last week. I promise myself not to ask Sonnet how much.

Gone Bowling

Eitan has been clamoring for bowling so yesterday we do. Here we are on Queen's Way in Bayswater touching Hyde Park's north side. Queen's Way is one of those strange, incredible streets found only in London. Crowded, a bit run down and rather low-brow (as is the neighborhood, despite Tony buying a pad on Connaught Square) it attracts young people from everywhere by the horde. As it should: the other side anchored by Whiteley's shopping mall - London's first mall suffering from the economy and Westway which opened in Sheperd's Bush and home of Tiffany, Apple and everything bling. In between, the street has restaurants and pubs from every quarter: Lebanese, Italian, German, Japanese, American (Subway, Starbucks, KFC - fast food), Iranian, Chinese, French, Scottish, Dutch .. it is the only place in London as Cosmopolitan as we know the city to be - over 250 languages spoken here after all, making us the most linguistic capital in the world [An aside: in 2000 Government surveyed 850,000 London school children's first-language finding Lugenda (Uganda), Ga (Ghana), Tigrinya (Sudan), German and Japanese equal at 800 per tongue; English 608,500.]

But I pull back to bowling. Eitan's first exposure to the sport(?) in Whitstable and from various birthday parties - bowling en vogue with the neighborhood's Year 4. The atmosphere makes me think of Shakey's Pizza only our neighbors Nigerian (I think) and Chinese, whose barely walking children cause me grave concern given the flying bowling balls. Eitan takes the first round pumping his fist triumphantly: "You are going down, sucker." I win the second - saving face for the over-40 set - whilst nailing the only strike of the afternoon, puncturing the boy's elation. Did I mention this a friendly match?

Eitan is fabulous company - everything I could ever wish for in a boy who happens to be my son. Hair uncombed, curious and with a sense of humor, he and I hang out for the afternoon with never a moment of boredom or awkwardness. Will this change when be gets older? I wonder. Will he one day be embarrassed to have me around?

Eitan: "I should not have to do chores."

Me: "And why is that?"

Eitan: "I am just a kid. I will do chores all the time when I am an adult."

Me: "Well, we work so we can eat and have fun and live."

Eitan: "All I do is work for you."

Me: "Good point. Maybe we should get you a real job so I can retire early."

Eitan: "You would never do that."

Me: "You bet. The 'help wanted' adds in tomorrow's Sunday Times."

Eitan:

Eitan: "There is only one job I want to do."

Me: "Let me guess - play for Manchester United."

Eitan: "No - it could be for any team in the Premiere League."

Me: "Alright then. Let's gear up our morning drills."

Eitan: "Tomorrow then?"

Eitan, worriedly, at this morning's breakfast table, as I read the papers: "Did you find a job?"

Be Warned

On Eitan's door: "Danger! Do not mess with me. A fierce boy lives in this room and if you enter past the line you're dead!"

Sugar High

Me: "Describe the photo?"

Eitan: "This is a picture of me eating three ice creams at a time. First I took chocolate ice cream, then I took the pink ice cream bar. Then I took vanilla ice cream. And then I had half a chocolate bar which gave me a lot of sugar and I became quite ballistic and started saying words like 'Poppa Bear' and 'Big Daddy" and 'sugar' in a Southern accent."

Me: "Anything else?"

Eitan: "My brain didn't work."

Me: "Hmm."

Eitan begins singing: "I am a DJ party."

Madeleine spends the night at Jackson's. Sonnet leafs through bathroom design brochures. Eitan tries to do his homework for his tutor.

Biba And Van Gogh

Sonnet dresses in her best dungarees and spends the day at the V&A Battersea Storage Facility which is on the river next to the Battersea Power Station. Eventually, the museum will move its storage outside London to reduces costs, but for now, Sonnet and a colleague must sort the wheat from the chaff. Pictured, a possible treasure - Sonnet think it might be a Biba, a fashion label from a groovy shop on Kensington High Street in the '60s and '70s. So the storage: "A sixties warehouse filled with over-flow from the V and A's collection, architectural remnants, broken bits of pottery, mannequin and lots of dust" she says.The last point not surprising since the building's other neighbor a cement facility.

It is another glum London day - surprise - made worse by the rain which starts once I am in town without umbrella. I go from meeting to meeting, ending the day with a colleague at the National Gallery reviewing the Impressionists, one of my favorite things to do and much better than another cup of coffee in some nondescript conference room (I have already been to the Wolseley). We only have an hour or so but this more than enough to check in with van Gogh's sunflowers and clouds.

Me: "Anything you want to say for my blog?"

Sonnet: "Like what?"

Me: "I don't know. Be creative."

Sonnet: "I am looking forward to spring."

Me:

Sonnet: "How about 'I painted my toe nails purple."

Me: "Really?"

Sonnet: "Lavender, actually."

Eitan: "You're a hippy!"

Sonnet: "You should talk with your hair growing down to your shoulders."

Me: "Touche."

Eitan: "Dad, I hate to break this to you, but you have a rash of pimples my friend."