Joy!

Madeleine jumps for it. It is hard being a kid - especially like yesterday when I wear my cow suit to the school-drop. Eitan disconsolate and I am ready to take it off until he gets snippy ("all you want to do is embarrass me!" he wails) and I decide to prove a point. More wailing and I threaten (dare, really) Eitan to stay home if he's embarrassed. Madeleine watches transfixed, scoring so many points on sooo many levels without having to raise a finger. So there I am, on the playground, surrounded by children and feeling like the pied-piper - and you know what? It was totally fun, and I loved the attention... which is why it hurt at bedtime when Eitan tells me: "all you want is attention for yourself" and I had not thought of it that way. Yes, I need to treat these kids like.. little dudes, and not inside my own personal vacuum.

Madeleine joins Friday-night-fives which takes place in next-door Barnes and something from Mad Max - 12 miniature, astro-turf'd pitches, surrounded by 12 foot, meshed ring-fences containing the football action while friends, parents and siblings hang from the outside screaming bloody murder. Madeleine's school team first time together and a year-younger than their competition, who cream them 16-0. My heart goes to her, Jackson and little Mattie and the two others I don't know who play valiantly and are beet red after the forty-minutes of "play." From pitch, we go pool - where Madeleine and Eitan have moved to the next level of development. For Madeleine, this means proper training and equipment - kick board, pull-buoy and flippers. Eitan swims sets. We drive home afterwards exhausted - me included, feeling their happy fatigue+Friday - and everyone in a good mood chattering away. We listen to The Virgins in the car CD who at one point use the "F" word, which gets an immediate reaction - both, in unison: "he's not allowed to say that!" then, slight delay: "Snap! - got you! Snap! Snap! Jinx! Double-jinx! I said jinx first!" The loser, of course, not being allowed to speak until named by the other. Just like I used to do with Katie in second grade. But tonight, there are no losers as we head alongside the Thames at dusk, greeted eventually by Sonnet who is home early when she was otherwise to catch-up from jury duty. Life is good.

Eitan and I discuss body-types for sport - distance runners slight, basketball players tall &c. On swimmers, Eitan notes: "swimmers need a small head so it doesn't get in the way." He's half-right, too, but glazes over when I discuss the concept of drag.

Madeleine wonders if somebody can sleep on the wing of a plane?
Eitan: "You would most certainly fall off. If it was moving."
Madeleine: "You could use super glue."
Eitan: "Super glue can rip your skin off if you pull too hard."
Madeleine: "Cannot!"
Eitan: "Too!"
Madeleine: "You think you know everything, Eitan!"
Eitan: "Well that's because I do."
Madeleine: "Dad, tell Eitan super glue would stick me to the wing and that he doesn't know everything!"
Eitan: "well, Dad doesn't know everything and he certainly doesn't know anything about super glue."

Madeleine observes me writing notes on their conversation: "You sure can right fast Dad!"
Eitan, matter-of-factly: "Of course he can - he is an adult."

Pre-Race Smackdown

I pick up my entrance pack for Sunday and am amazed at the scale: entering the ExCel arena (400 acres!) I am greeted by several bull-horns guiding me to 30 multi-media check-in stands, organised by entrance-number, manned by volunteers taking identity-confirmations, and providing race day numbers. From there, I stumble to the next queue to register online and finally - into the Great Hall (347,136 square feet!) which today includes everything running vs other events like the World Wrestling Entertainments "Smackdown." Oh boy. First stop: Adidas, which has several many thousands of square feet and I take advantage of a "free" gate-screening where my stride video'd and computer analys'd for impact-point inefficiencies; I also have a foot-pronation test - again, computer generated - to determine my shoe-type, fit and so forth. I buy a pair of shoes for $150. I then wander about dazed and check out the 1000s of runners, stalls and hype - there is a run-way show for Puma showing off their very attractive clothes worn by very sexy models doing all kinds of music-inspired contortions and wiggles - definitely not runners. I buy some gear. As many of you know, I am running for Prison Advice & Care Trust, which provides aid and ongoing assistance to families with a member in prison. It is a small charity but meaningful and I am fully behind it - we liberals need to do more than bitch and complain about the world's unfairness. Since PACT small, they do not have a stand. Other charities however have enormous booths and it is inspiring to consider the human effort going into their support. I pick up a few more pamphlets, buy some more running crap I don't need (sweat bands! but very stylish) and head for home, Walkman engaged, tapping my feet and loving London.

Canary Wharf

I am way-East London to pick up my marathon number at the ExCel Center, which is London's largest convention center replacing Earl's Court. My photo unusually faces westward towards the Isle of Dogs and the other side of me is wide, open river - something I rarely see. Eastward one enters the flood planes where yes, you guessed it, Gordon Brown considering residential property development to ease the city's density. Stupid. So Canary Wharf: built on the site of the West India Docks, which from 1802 the busiest in the world. By the 1950s, the port industry began to decline, leading to the docks closing by 1980;he Canary Wharf of today began when Michal von Clemm former chairman of my old firm First Boston came up with the idea to convert Canary Wharf into a back office. Others joined, needing more space than The City could offer. Soon, Olympia & York signed a Master Building Agreement and construction began '88 - the largest commercial project in Europe. One Canada Square, pictured - tallest, was topped out in '90 becoming the UK's tallest building and a powerful symbol of the regeneration of Docklands. Upon opening, the London commercial property market had collapsed and O&Y Canary Wharf Limited filed for bankruptcy in '92. By '95, commercial real estate resurgent and a new set of owners, including O&Y, bought the scheme which today houses Credit Suisse, HSBC, Morgan Stanley and Lehman Brothers. Oops, scratch that last one. I've always felt sorry for the poor snooks who have to work at London's way-out and I make a point of never meeting anybody there. I don't care how important - it is just not worth the hastle from Mayfair or Richmond. After 9-11, many of the buildings in construction capped - nobody wanted to be a target.

Any fan of Bob Hoskins and perhaps the best gangster move ever, "The Long, Good Friday," will recognise this area - or maybe not, given its change from 1980. The move includes a Thames redevelopment vision - and who would control it - for the East End's docklands area, much of it concreted and wide open space at the then. England was a mess, one year into Thatcher, yet the seeds planted for the city's revitalisation.

"What I'm looking for is someone who can contribute to what England has given to the world: culture, sophistication, genius. A little bit more than an 'ot dog, know what I mean?"
Harold, in The Long, Good Friday

The Cow And Kidney Pie

Tower Bridge, Southside

Stan and Silver to us yesterday and we pick up the Shakespeares from school. Madeleine, especially, loves the attention and I can still scoop her up for a playground hug; Eitan now decidedly cool about PDA. Madeleine and I play an endless game of "tag! you're it!" with trees being "homey" (of course). Stan makes his perfect lemon meringue pie and imparts the tradition to Sonnet, who has been experimenting with pies this past year - lucky us. Stan notes that "it is all in the crust."  Me, I think it would be good to have a signature dish and for a moment I consider steak-and-kidney pie, which was on BBC4 yesterday following a national competition for England's best. Pie. By coincidence, we supped at The Guinea last week which is a London institution whose steak-kidney has been awarded tops numerous times across the ages. Located in W1 near Berkeley Square, it caters to office workers and the like with a wonderful bar facing street side. A guy from Park Place Capital, where I shared an office momentarily, went every day to drink pints with his mates, and then return before home. He, of course, being the firm's administrative officer keeping record of all trades. His other vice the Tottenham Hot Spurs, who haven't a chance. So sadly, we say our good-byes to the Stanfills last night, who return to Montrose today. We enjoyed their visit and them, and everybody a bit teary eyed at the parting. 

How to make steak and kidney Pie (from BBC Food):
Ingredients
225g/8oz lamb's kidneys
700g/1lb 9oz chuck steak
1 tbsp vegetable oil
knob of butter
2 onions, chopped roughly
2 tbsp plain flour
2 bay leaves
4 sprigs of fresh thyme, leaves only
570ml/1 pint beef stock
4 field mushrooms, sliced thickly
1 tsp tomato purée
1 tsp mushroom seasoning or mushroom ketchup (if not available, use Worcestershire sauce)
3 tbsp chopped fresh parsley
salt and feshly ground black pepper


For the pastry:
175g/6oz butter
225g/8oz plain flour
8-9 tbsp water
1 beaten egg, to glaze

Method
1. Halve the kidneys and cut out the tubes. Rinse in cold water and peel off the skins. Cut in small pieces. Trim and cut the steak in cubes.
2. Heat oil and butter in a large pan, then fry the onions for 3-4 minutes, stirring. Fry the meat for 2-3 minutes until it loses its pink colour. Stir in the flour and cook for 2 minutes. Add the herbs and stock. Stir until thickened and coming to the boil.
3. Add mushrooms and purée, lower the heat and simmer, covered, for about 1½ hours until, the meat is tender.
4.Make the pastry: wrap the butter in foil and freeze for 45 minutes. Mix the flour with ¼ tsp of salt.
5. Holding the frozen butter in foil, dip it in the flour and grate coarsely back into the bowl, peel the foil back so it does not get grated. Keep dipping it in the flour as you grate.
6. Mix in the butter with a knife until evenly coated with flour. Stir in the water to form a dough. Gently form into a ball. Wrap in plastic film and chill for 30 minutes. Preheat the oven to 200C/400F/Gas 6.
7. When the meat is cooked, remove bay leaves, season with salt, pepper and mushroom seasoning (or Worcestershire sauce), then cool slightly.
8. Roll out the pastry on a floured surface to 5mm/¼in thick and 2.5cm/1in wider than a 1.2 Litre/2 pint pie dish. Cut out the lid so it is slightly bigger than the dish. Cut a strip of pastry the width of the rim. Stir the parsley in to the meat and transfer to the dish.
9. Brush the rim with egg, lay pastry strip on top and seal. Brush with egg and put lid on top. Seal the edges, knock them up with the back of a knife. Flute the edge. Cut a slit in the lid, brush with the egg (but not the edges or they won't rise).
10. Bake for 20 minutes, then brush with egg again. Bake for 10 minutes until the pastry is golden.

B'Ball

It is good to be in-season, though difficult for me to follow the A's and Giants from far away. I check the scores daily but it is not the same as having the constant radio loll in the background. This, to me, is summer. Nor do I know the players like I did coming up - and really, the personalities make the game enjoyable. Rotating through a cycle, awaiting the clean-up hitters, eager for the fourth batter who is usually the home-run slugger. My photo BTW from the British Baseball Federation, whose office in London W1 - go figure. (Vagualy similar) cricket is a Big Time sport in England and the colonies .. er, former colonies .. thrash our team and deliver punishing humiliations, multiple day humiliations in "test matches." The Brits take it all in stride - somehow it feeds into their national sense of fairness and an enjoyment of the under-dog status - so the West Indies beat us, well - we put them in business during the Industrial Revolution and all that. The Baseball Federation exists, presumably, to spread baseball across the home counties and indeed, their website www.britishbaseball.org paints a nice portrait: "At its heart, baseball is a simple game, with two teams who take turns batting and fielding, each trying to score more runs than the other. It has a range of complex rules and terminology and tactical subtleties and techniques, though, that make it a complex sport with a true depth of understanding." And there you have it.

I shuffle a loop of Richmond Park in my cow-suit preparing, of course, for Sunday's marathon. It is my first time out en regalia and I receive an assortment of bemusements. Cars honk; workers raise arms in goodwill cheer; grannies look at me in fear .. my favorite moment passing two elderlies who stare at me for some 40 meters, their heads cocked and uncertain. I give them a well timed and curt "moo" as I pass - they break into laughter. So about this marathon: I plan to have fun and not fuss about the time. Depending how I feel, I may pull out if my legs not ready or I feel a pinch. Of course the weather forecast dire. Yet, I am filled with joy and anticipation and am grateful to everybody for their encouragement !

"Dad, seriously, are you really going to run in that cow suit? Are you going to be on T.V?"
Madeleine

Beef Burger

Consider the classic "beef burger" (in England, sans lettuce, tomato or anything) which took Britain by storm in the 1970s but the country still adjusting when we arrived in '97 - I do recall several formal lunches eating a burger with my hands and receiving shocked - and I do mean shocked - looks from my compatriots. The English, you see, once ate their beef burgers with fork and knife. But now, no longer as we confirm last night at Oriel on Sloan Square. Cultural changes so often subtle.

Today a lovely spring and the chestnut trees bloom. The country turns overnight to green and we rejoice - kids way happy mood, Sonnet day-off from court .. and me, an early swim and without computer as I convert to Apple with some trepidation. Will the transition kill me? It has been 15 years since my last Mac. Then I was with non-profit Help The World See (in '93, I secured HTWS@aol.com - one of the early American Online accounts when it was otherwise normal to have numbers). Business school and since demanded Microsoft and I am hell-bent on getting away from the tyranny's strong-grip; I am also bored of spending endless time fixing, upgrading, guarding and dicking around with Windows. While I love Outlook, I believe there is another, better life over the rainbow. Sorry Roger.

So back to beef: our local butchers, I learn just now with Sonnet, serving East Sheen since 1912. The meat proudly "British" and I learn something rather shocking : meat imported into the UK after one month of freezer-storage can be called "British." No doubt this meat is lesser quality fair and used mostly by restaurants (our butcher tells me) who are after margins. He notes nothing dangerous about such a "loop-hole" but the quality inferior. Well, pinch my ass.

Photo from pinchmysalt.com

Berkeley Barracudas

Another photo from Devi circa 1979 I think .. hard to imagine but at the time Katie and I logging close to 15,000 yards a day or about ten miles .. swimming ! I would not contemplate running this distance at my now, ahem, advanced age - or any age, for that matter. On top of the swimming, we were doing the usual weights, pull-chords and stretching for about five hours a day at King Jr High pool - which was a nasty little place but for many years my second home. Moe would drive us to practice in the Volvo 544 rain, sleet or shine while he would swim his laps and we had our own lane, usually to ourselves though sometimes with another Barracuda. Mondays were the hardest, knowing a full week ahead+my shoulders and body not fully prepared for the mileage and always achy. And the goal then? Well, initially it was Far Westerns which were held twice a year for the short course season (25 yards) and long-course (50 meters) requiring "AAA" qualification times. Then Junior Nationals and finally Seniors and college. Similar to Eitan's room postered every inch with Ronaldo and Manchester United, I had John Nabor who won four golds at the '76 Olympics and set World Records in the backstroke. He stared at me blankly from the back-stroke start and I dreamed of his success. Other hero's were Jeff Kostoff who set every American short-course distance record but failed at the Olympics; old-timer Rowdy Gaines who hung around for '84 to win a gold in the 100 meter freestyle ('80 boycotted, of course) and the great Vladimir Salnikov - the first man under 15 minutes in the 1500 meter freestyle. My mind's eye sees his finish: beefy arms held gently yet triumphantly skyward, eyes closed in relief or pain. Wow. Pictured in front from left: me, Mari, Katie and Leslie Hunt; back row, Tom Vorhees (whose distance records I broke in High School and still hold today - true, Moe?) and Maggie Kelley the backstroker.

Martin And The Death Business

Here is my man Martin, who I will see at noon-time shortly to work on a ham-string pull. Martin has devised a punishing cross-training program for London Sunday, and eventually we will focus on Berlin (which will not be in fancy costume). So the world focused on Susan Boyle and I have to ask: who the f*** is she? Well, turns out she is A) butt ugly; and B) has a lovely singing voice. Bloggers, like me, go nuts - ooo we are all so shallow for thinking she a dud because she is unattractive .. and before her "Britain's Got Talent" performance, she was booed and heckled .. then a standing ovation and tears from the judges Piers Morgan, Simon Cowell and Amanda Holden who, BTW, is only a judge because she is hot. And while it is nice to listen to Boyle's "I Dreamed A Dream" from Les Mis, there is plenty of better stuff in London - tonight, for instance, we are at Cadogen Hall to see the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, Opus 60 (Concert 3 of 4) by Grzegorz Nowak and Emer McDonough; the programme is Mozart: Flute Concerto No.1 and Schumann: Symphony No.3, ‘Rhenish.’ And I could really give a toss about Boyle's appearance.. nor do I care if Mozart performed by trolls, though it would be something to talk about during intermission.

Since Sonnet and I invested in the largest funeral services business in France, OGF, I am learning snippits about the industry. Did you know, for instance, that cremations in France account for ~30% of "disposals" or up from 20% 15 years ago? (in the US, it is 37%, up from 25% in 2000). A growing trend since cremations cost less than the traditional burial causing, no doubt, grief (for the mortician) - modern revenue streams now include "organics," media-histories, and "in-house services" (the backyard? I wonder). Also, death turns out to be a cyclical business - some years more, others less but always a reversion to the mean of approximately 2% the French population .. and the anticipated number of deaths called, matter-of-factly, the "inventory." We bought OGF in a favorable down-cycle following the summer of '04 when a hot French summer resulted in an increased inventory - sadly (and shockingly), many elderly succumbed for lack of air-conditioning or ventilation. Today, this being worked through OGF's cashflow statement. I recently met OGF's CEO and he is not exactly what I would imagine - no black skinny tie nor accompanying black fitted suit .. yes, a bit dour and certainly, too, a sales-man. He knows his business like anybody and came up through the ranks. In short, a company man who could easily be drinking three martini's at lunch then commuting home to Connecticut on the New Canaan line from Grand Central. Of greater importance, this fellow has a genuine understanding of a complex, emotional and necessary service - and so far since us, OGF beating its acquisition budgets .. so yes, it appears recession proof so far. I must ask, however, if not - then what?

Green Fields

Here are the kiddies at David and Tab's country house above Bath spa. Photo taken before dinner to catch the fading sun and believe-you-me there was some bribery involved - no photo? no desert! Finally Madeleine decides enough and off she goes followed by everybody else in one, disorganised charge.
So I am listening to The Archers as I write, and as often with the Archers, I have no general understanding of what the hell is going on. It is nice back-ground noise, you see - like Chopin. The Archers a radio program which airs on BBC Radio 4 as it has done since piloting May 29, 1950 - making it the world's longest running radio soap with more than 15,000 episodes broadcast (originally billed as an "everyday story of country folk"). Since 1998 there have been six episodes a week from Sunday to Friday, at around 19:02 (preceded by a news bulletin). All except the Friday evening episode are repeated the following day at 14:02. The last five years has seen scandal as the Archers have taken on abortion, infidelity and homosexuality ("the gays" they say here). I think most find its regularity soothing - like a nice bowl of bran cereal. This is one thing very English, and nobody can take it away from the old-age-pensioner nor the yuf having recently discovered the programming's charm.
The kids back to school this morning, and of course home-work left until last-minute including a book report for Madeleine. I mean, I procrastinated in college and recall a few unpleasant all-nighters and mediocre outcomes at Brown but, seriously, Eitan and Madeleine too young to put things off so. Each upset when we order their work to! be! done! and Madeleine reports on "Six Dinner Sid" which has been a staple in our house for like five years, ie, not particularly challenging. The book about a cat who canoodles six dinners from six families. Still, she goes at it with determination and tongue jutting out from the right-side of mouth like Charlie Brown. I ask for at least five pages - "five pages! Aw, dad - I cannot even read five pages" and settle for one+a picture of Sid with his food-bowls. Madeleine concludes, in writing: "Six Dinner Sid is a lovely book that I like and so will you!!!"

'netta

Henrietta, known in school and everywhere as 'netta, on her two wheeler. She and Madeleine share a rough house and tom-boy nature, and Madeleine gets her goat by calling her "Henrietta" - kids to be kids. 

We have known 'netta before she was born - in fact, Sonnet and Tabitha met when both pregnant and hiking around North London. Tab and her family in Bath and we have visited their lovely home before and this time with Stan and Silver, who enjoy the English country-side. The kids go nuts on the play gym and David sets up a bona-fide "bouncy castle" which inflates to house-size using a generator. The thing is heavy, too, and takes some effort to get from the garage to the field. 

David recently retired from Morgan Stanley and now advising government - he takes advantage of his specialist experience, love of politics (his first job post-uni on Capital Hill) and his liberal instincts for fairness .. I listen to what he says and much of it goes over my head - it strikes me that few in politics equipped or educated to understand the grand complexity of the financial melt-down. 

Trillions of dollars in play and do we really trust the guys entrusted to met out the stim-u-lator? Or if capable, conflicted? Ever since I learned that Larry Summers, (only) the White House's top economic adviser, took $5.2 million (that is $5-000-200) from hedge fund D.E. Shaw I have become nervous. 

David notes that a bubble occurs when a small, elite group channel funds irrationally to their interests .. which sounds a lot like Wall Street to me.

"You just think you're Dad so you can toss us about."
Madeleine (angrily)

Romans And Goldman Sachs

Well, it is hard not to think of Monty Python and make a snide remark .. but actually, these dedicated servants of Bath have dressed in costume to entertain us. Unseen in my photo the tens of hundreds of people surrounding the plaza to witness the Roman solider's technique when charging an enemy - usually together, marching forcefully with shields facing forward in advance of a surge (the Japanese tourists video everything, God bless them). Hey, it worked for the Romans for a pretty long good while.

Goldman Sachs has announced that it will return to the tax-payer the '08 £6.1 billion TARP they received to stay in business. Good news, right? Well, yes - until one realises that they have accrued close to £5 billion of bonus money in the first quarter of '09 alone. This is aprox. £2.5 million for each of the 443 Goldman partners. Goldman cannot pay out these bonuses, you see, until they have repaid the TARP early and at the severe disadvantage to the US government. And here is what is so galling : no doubt we are in a liquidity crisis thanks to Lehman Bros.' collapse in September '08, which panicked the market and tightened the credit sphincter with a whoop! The government tried to put together a Lehman-saving public-private package which failed because one investment bank balked - yes, that was Goldman Sachs, who had A) amassed huge long positions against Lehman's counter-balance; and B) shorted the fuck out of the financial sector. In other words, the perfect hedge which they completely controlled. When Goldman forced Lehman to fail, Goldman off the hook for millions in obligations while making a fortune for themselves - at least £5 billion - by shorting the subsequent equity market collapse. Nice work for those 443.

"My policy on cake is still pro having it and pro eating eat."
Boris Johson

Aquae Sulis

We visit Dave and Tabitha in Bath this week end, and Saturday morning visit the Romans (several joke: "taking in the waters, are you?"). Sonnet and I saw the baths maybe ten years ago and the kids now old enough to appreciate their heritage, for Pete's sake - but complaining we do here. Since '98 or '99, the ruins have been upgraded including a most excellent acoustical guide; I learn: Britain's only hot-springs originate in the Mendip hills, about two miles from the spa, from rains that fell over 10,000 years ago. The water collects and descends 3,000 feet where it is filtered through limestone and heated to 75C by the earth's core; the ensuing pressure forces the liquid gas upwards through rock until it finds a break - three springs the outlet for roughly 1.3 million litres of water a day which bubbles forth at 45-47C. The early Romans marvelled at the hot-springs and attributed it with spiritual meaning; they converted swamp-land into a temple by 70 AD and a bathing complex was gradually built up over the next 300 years (pictured). During the Roman occupation of Britain, and possibly on the instructions of Claudius, engineers drove oak piles into the mud to provide a stable foundation and surrounded the spring with an irregular stone chamber lined with lead. In the 2nd century, the spring was enclosed within a wooden barrel-vaulted building, which housed the three baths: hot, warm and cold. This an engineering marvel and most certainly the largest building known to Britain and must have been simply awe-inspiring. After the Roman withdrawal in the first decade of the 5th century, the baths fell into disrepair and were eventually lost due to mud. They remained buried under 20 feet until "discovered" in the 18th century and restored today.

Part of the Roman fascination stems from places like here - the springs offered a place of worship where animals slaughtered and sacrificed to the Gods .. meters from where men and women bathed together naked and no doubt cavorted. Imagine today attending church or synagogue in racy clothing let alone nude. Or humping right next to the religion. It remains ever difficult to reconcile these two visions of the ancients.

Did you know that a European cow receives £2.50 a day or a sum > than 75% of Africa wage-earners?

Friday morning seems like a long time ago, but I meet my friend Nick for breakfast; Nick is a pal who is responsible for Ireland's pension scheme and he is worried. Ireland in a bad way and their economy sharply off-rail following years of tax-incentives, property build-ups and financial leveragings. Nick notes that the US has committed $22 trillion of stim-u-lus and will need more - indeed, our government now hiding the costings but using FDIC money - about $100 billion then levered six times, to deal with the toxis. FDIC funds meant to protect depositors, of course, and more importantly: off balance-sheet, away from Congressional approvals. Oh dear. From Nick, breakfast again with Natalie and Sonnet+parents at The Wolseley. Everybody is there it seems, including Tim Taylor who we saw the evening before and learned about his gallery next to the Connaught. No doubt, his audience of middle-aged high-fliers in a world of hurt and Tim, too, must be running scared. My hero John Botts is there also and I say a quick hello - his LBO firm my first job in London. From there, Sonnet and I actually have two hours to ourselves as kids in football camp - and it makes me think how strange life will be when the Shakespeares gone. God only knows what I may do with myself and I get a bit teary eyed thinking of it. But then I see Sonnet making brownies and it will all be OK. Oh boy. From our peaceful time, we pick up Eitan and Madeleine and away to Bath.

Madeleine, crossly: "You just think you're dad so you can toss us about."

I ask Madeleine to say something in French. She, loudly: "Crap!" which silences the restaurant (she means to say "crepe.")

I ask Madeleine how she has learned to count from one to ten in French. Madeleine: "In Spanish class?"

Eitan cries real tears of disappointment as Everton defeats Manchester United in penalty kicks. Wails Eitan: "Berbatov did not even try."

Daniella

Here is Daniella, whose identical twin Sophia is in Eitan's classroom. I call the twins "Daniella-Sophia" to avoid the inevitable certainty that a 50-50 guess will end up wrong. Her middle-teeth are growing in, which I remark upon while dropping Eitan and Madeleine at football-camp. Marcus, meanwhile, returns to Seattle via Tucson, via Dulles, via JFK .. I don't know how he does it, frankly. His stop-over in New York nine-hours so he will visit Katie, God bless him.

And here is some sobering news from my industry: (that totally discredited organistation piece-of-shit rating entity) Standard & Poors reports that the number of Western European companies that defaulted on debt repayments last year was over three times more than in '07, with private equity-backed businesses making up the vast majority. Of the 34 defaulting companies on the agency’s database in 2008, 27 – or 79% – were financial sponsor-backed. S&P further estimates that up to 29% of European speculative-grade companies – those rated BB+ or lower – could default by the end of 2010. I know Obama has indicated "glimmers of hope" but I just don't see it yet. Worse, TARP depleted on the shakiest US gambling houses and now the real clearing-out begins next month when Uncle Sam ranks US banks. Until we are ready to let bad-institutions fail, and wipe out unsecured creditors, we are wasting our time awaiting the inevitable. The problem, of course, this path politically unsavory but it is absurd for tax payers to continue to be lowest on the capital structure.

Dakota

Dakota is growing up cute, and here she is playing "kitchen" at the Princess Diana playground where we meet Dana, Stan and Silver+Marcus for the afternoon. Madeleine used to wear pig-tails but I have not seen them for at least three years when Madeleine became a self-proclaimed "tom-boy" (recently recall that no girls invited to her seventh birthday party). Madeleine remains determinedly independent in spirit, thought and dress - more often in her dungarees ("Jeans, dad!") then a dress. Come to think of it, I have not seen her in a dress for three years excluding the white one for Diane's wedding. I suppose my girl's orientation from football where she is one girl against 120 boys. Swimming, too, is weighted towards the opposite sex. I have never otherwise heard her complain about the lop-sided nature of British sports and remain proud of her strong determination not to let the other fellows have some fun without her (I will most certainly regret this comment in six years, pardieu). So at the playground, the kids battle for some sand-ground turf, build castles with buckets and dig holes through the deeper moist sand .. I remember this like yesterday at Codornices or wherever Grace would take us. Otherwise it is run around until late-afternoon and I am happy to report that Eitan and Madeleine did a swell job looking after Dakota.

Marcelle

Marcelle lives in Sheffield, where she was born and raised. She took care of Silver, Sonnet and Marcus when Silver on a Fulbright and teaching here in '81 - the kids were teased mercilessly and Sonnet reports "girls used to fight each other." Sheffield located in South Yorkshire and in the 19th century became world known for steel - this where crucible and stainless steel invented, you see, fueling an almost tenfold increase in the population during the Industrial Revolution. International competition caused a decline in traditional local industries during the 1970s and 1980s, and at the same time the nearby national coal industry collapsed, affecting Sheffield's status. Their football club fell into the third division. People demoralised and out. Yet, to my surprise and after many years of decline, the Sheffield economy is going through a revival. A '04 Barclays Bank study shows that in 2003, the Sheffield district of Hallam was the highest ranking area outside London for overall wealth with 12% of people earning >£60,000 a year. Knight Frank reveals that Sheffield the fastest-growing city outside London for office and residential space and rents during in 2004, which is the most recent data I can find. No doubt Sheffield hit hard by today's recession but I may yet have to revise my vision of England's Detroit. So .. back to Marcelle, who is a salty old dog and enjoys a drink - I pour her champagne and white wine over dinner - and loves a good tale. She tells me of watching WW2 German bombers fly over Sheffield's factories "and not feeling the least bit afraid," which she notes due to her youth - perhaps. I also learn that her flat burgled recently and she beat off the entrant. And, you know - I am not the least bit surprised. She enjoys watching Eitan and Madeleine and we agree: "youth is a feast for the eyes."

Wanton

Marcus turns a decade. An Asian fellow once told me of a Chinese proverb: "At 45, you know your destiny" so I have a few years to go yet but must say: I am pretty happy to continue as-is for a while yet. Sure, there is material crapolla I would enjoy but really - kids healthy, wife happy .. I've got a marathon to work on. So I'm sitting here on a bank-holiday-weekend blogging and watching "Clueless" with Alicia Silverstone - a total babe BTW and since I have seen her in nothing else since '95, I shall know her in her youth. Paul Rudd also in the movie .. and it's a pretty good teen-flic too which I find entertaining in my .. middle age. It is certainly a vision of being a high-schooler in California and makes us look, ahem, pretty good. Certainly better than the binge-drinking, sexed out "yobs" in this country. Well, it is not so bad in the UK but sometimes it feels that way thanks to the media's interest in teen vices - hey, the kids here just wanna have fun. And mostly they do, for surz.

"Okay, so you're probably going, "Is this like a Noxzema commercial or what?" But seriously, I actually have a way normal life for a teenage girl."
Cher, Clueless

Madeleine, at the Royal China restaurant: "Please pass the tampons." (she means "wanton")

Kibera

Eitan in a party mood and in fairness, I asked him to sit still for several moments so I could take this picture in amber light. This hard for the kid to do. He and Madeleine join us for an adults-evening at Aubergine and mostly they are well behaved. Sonnet thinks to bring colouring books and crayons, which provide 15 minutes of distraction. Once the shock of a formal setting (napkins!) wears off so are they - off, that is, and several instances I am forced to holler: "I want to see those butts in a chair and hands on table!" We're on the earlier side of the dinner accommodating Sonnet's parents+Marcus's arrival from Nairobi today and he too nipped. Still, it is a lively affair and we learn about Solaces orphanage in Kibera, which is the largest slum in Africa and where Marcus and Brian bringing investment dollars for school-building. The orphanage is home to 80 children from 0 to 15 and viewed as a shining-light in its surrounding; the Director a Kenyon women who runs a tight-ship and knows her way around: Marcus leaves his wallet, stuffed with money, in a taxi and a few phone calls from her gets his purse back inside 24-hours. Despite the everything, it is hopeful. How different the world is following a 12-hour plane flight: from Kibera to South Kensington. I marvel.

Easter Week End

The glamour pusses shortly before dinner. Cake from Sonnet. Easter week end is a Big Deal in the UK - coenciding with school half-term break - and London feels mostly empty. Were it like this always. No traffic. Less noise. Museums crowded, as they should be. Easy to make a restaurant reservation .. Sure, if these things held true then London would be .. Zurich, or some other boring place. The Hague maybe. London vibes because people here walk with a purpose - they have somewhere to be and in a hurry to get there. Like New York or Hong Kong and decidedly not the case in many European capitals - in fact, Barcelona and Lisbon feel just the opposite. Mixed into the rush are >200 languages, representing God knows how many ethnic cultures, religions, countries, lineages, histories and what evers. The UK perhaps the most generous of European nations welcoming foreigners and the displaced - sometimes to our detriment as four known African leaders residing here accused of genocide yet allowed yet not deported because our Foreign Services believe their human rights in peril. WTF? This the odd, horrific, exception of course but the message out - UK=safe haven and mostly I am ok with it. The immigrants come for work - the Southeast an unsurpassed work-engine - and the generous social services including health care and education. Some ethnics have integrated into Western society better than others - Indians, and in particular the bad-ass Seiks, are well known for their shop-keeping, community-building and dependable presence. The Pakistanis are viewed with disdain ("dirty paki" something I hear from a taxi-driver or on the street) and now seen as a threat thanks to the 7-7 al Queda suicide bombings in Central London. Africans too have their profile, as do we Americans who took a nose dive thanks to Bush. It is a glorisous place indeed.

Whitechapel Gallery

Stan and Silver at the Whitechappel gallery in the East End, which is worth a note. WC a public art gallery, designed by famous architect Charles Harrison Townsend, and founded in 1901 - it was one of the first publicly-funded galleries for temporary exhibitions in London. (Nikolaus Pevsner described the original Whitechapel as "a wonderfully original and epoch-making building" in a part of London whose social diversity began in the 17th century, when it became the destination for incoming Huguenots, Portuguese, and Spanish Jews. By the end of the 19th century, it was a ghetto for poor East European Jews and Russians). Today it is known for its local outreach programs and supporting neighborhood artists, up-and-comers and the good and the great. Pablo Picasso's 'Guernica' in '38 here to protest the Spanish Civil War, for instance; "This is Tomorrow" in '56 brought Pop Art to the Brit and influenced the Swinging Sixties baby. The gallery recently re-opened following a year's renovation expanding space >70% and I am stunned to see early works by Lucian Freud, Peter Doig, Sarah Lucas and Chris Ofili - cow dung! Also Paul Nash and Ben Nicholson; rare early carvings by Henry Moore who recently had >20 works at Kew Gardens. A room is dedicated to the "Whitechapel Boys," a group of Jewish writers and artists from the East End who made substantial contributions to British Modernism from the 1920s.. Silver discusses this with an elderly Jewish women who is moved that Silver should know her history. Me, I am never surprised.

Sweet Lassi

Madeleine on Brick Lane. That's a mango lassi next to her. Marcus arrives yesterday, flying from Nairobi with his travel mate Brian, who I meet last night over dinner. Brian our age, that is, 42 which he notes "is the bloom of middle-age" which I agree with. He is also a journey-man, and seated next to Madeleine who he tries to engage but, really, not possible their world perspectives so totally different. Brian from a military family so his upbringing uprooted; he started his career in the Alaskan Coast Guard and settled in 49 from 1990-00 where he spent a lot of time outdoors - Christopher McAndles? He has rambled along ever since - most recently joining Marcus across Africa and why not? He helps Scola International build water there. Brian seems like a good travel companion - nice looking guy, good sense of humor - the sort of fellow who adventure seeks out, which is more than one can ask whenst on the road. Halley arrives from Dorset to see Marcus who, afterall, turns 40 on Tuesday. I have tickets to the Enemy, which I have coveted for six months for sold-out Brixton Academy and reluctantly give them to Marcus and Brian - par dieu, it would be unseemly to leave Sonnet with the kids while I out late partying after a family dinner in South Kensington. It is true, I have learned a thing or two in the bloom of middle age.

Habib Bank Zurich

Photo in Whitechapel taken at the East Aldgate tube station - don't think, because of the urban ethnic and generally run-down surrounding, that there ain't wealth here. There is. Whitechapel a dodgy, built-up inner city within Tower Hamlets, London, located about 3 or 4 miles east of Charing Cross (we get here crossing the Tower Bridge, which gives everybody a thrill as we wave at the London Tower and I fascinate the Shakespeares with a story of murder, hangings and torture). More than 1 in 2 in Whitechapel is Bangladeshi or the highest percentage in the UK - it is, indeed, a foreign city. I think the future here promising, despite now, as the East London line of the tube is being extended northwards to Dalston and southwards to West Croydon by 2010. A further extension to provide a complete rail-ring route around south London to Clapham Junction by 2015. Whitechapel also scheduled to be a stop on the Crossrail project also by 2015 - much of the effort spurred by the 2012 Olympics, which is farther east. The transpo changes will most likely lead to a radical redevelopment, making Tower Hamlets more attractive to businesses, but pricing existing residents out of the area. And same as it ever was.

Brick Lane

We visit a gallery with Stan and Silver in the East End, then stroll to Brick Lane for a curry. This the Tower Hamlets council and fascinating - no doubt, poor and ethnic with the shiny city immediately west -the most visible structure being London's most recent sky scraper The Gherkin where Swiss Re domiciled. We choose lunch from multiple venues where outside-proprietors convince us their offers the best Bangalese or Hyderabad or whatever. We settle for one that looks less disco and more family-style. The kids shy away from anything hot while me, I like to tempt misery. I recall a similar place in Cambridge, MA, where Eric and I ate chicken Jal Frezi so hot it made us sweat. Those were good memories from a difficult time - post college, first job, breaking up, pre-Sonnet and my-oh-my the dramz. Brick Lane has gentrified on one side, similar to the Portebello Road which is all high-end antiques on the Notting Hills side while the other a flea market by Golborne Rd and the canal. For Brick Lane, it goes hindu-hindu to .. gay and tailoring. I walk by at least a handful of cool vintage shops and a number of metro-bars. Clubbers know about the biegal bakery which is open 24 hours offering the best bagels and salt-beef sandwiches in London, no question .. we pass a mosque calling to prayer and filling with elderly and young men, who are serious and seem disconnected from modernity. Too bad I think "threat" before anything else.

Me to Eitan, hovering: What do you want to say to my blog?
Eitan: Ummm. Ronaldo ?
Me: Anything else?
Eitan: It's now the Easter Holidays, and dad is making us tidy up even more, which I don't understand. It's the holidays.
Me: And?
Eitan: It's boring.
Me: Why?
Eitan: Dad says he's going to through it (our toys) away if we don't take them off the ground. I tried not doing it, and he didn't do anything about it.
Me: And what does that tell you?
Eitan: That you're just threatening us to try into actually doing it. And scaring us into thinking that we are going to throw the toys away.
Me: So will you put your toys in the future?
Eitan: No.

Mayor's Office

Here is the Mayor's office, mentioned below. This used to be an unkempt, open area as recently as the late 1990s. The South Side where Livingstone's scheme to increase housing stock taken hold - today, where there was nothing as recently as ten years ago, now sees multiple glass-and-steel high-rise condominiums none, I believe, higher than St Paul's. London's housing problem well appreciated by anybody trying to get a foot on the ladder - this city the engine of the UK and in good or bad times, attracts people from everywhere. Prop values may be down 15-25% in some neighborhoods but we all know it will come back. Part of the problem, if one is a first-time buyer that is, London surrounded by "green-belts" where development not permitted. Further, to maintain the historic sky-line, planning permission for anything more than five floors extremely difficult. And nothing can deter the view of St Paul's. Before the global melt-down, Super Gee contemplating developing the wetlands east of Greenwich and near the Thames Barrier. The problem with Gordon's plan being floods - as in, this area a flood plain. Sigh -I am sure it will happen one day, and tax payers will have to bail out (ar ar) the insurance providers. The Thames Barrier BTW architecturally marvelous and built for the once-a-hundred-years flood; it is now used monthly and by 2050, anticipated daily to prevent bankside swelling during the natural course of the tide.

Oh, and since a "bank holiday weekend," it rains.

Tower Bridge

The London Marathon is, gulp, two weeks away and while I run for charity (vs. time) thinking of the course makes me a tad nervous. In '98 when I last ran the thing it was all fine and dandy until mile-24 then .. The Wall. Demoralised and cold, spectators screaming: "only one more mile mate!" I hobbled to Buckingham Palace and finish line on the Mall. It started to rain and I was sick, for like, a year after. 

Still. And yet. For a long-retired student-athlete, there is nothing more compelling than the ultimate race. Studies indicate that one's aerobic abilities decline at a rate much slower than power or force allowing this middle-ager to contemplate a PR (personal record) later at Berlin. 

So, any ways - we head East this morning and here at the Tower Bridge where I shinny across a ledge with a 15 foot drop behind me - tide definitely o-u-t. From there we goof around the South Side near by the Mayor's Office known either as "The Sail" or "The House That Ken Built" (Ken Livingstone being London's first mayor, elected in 2000). His shiny, funky ten-story glass house immediately over-budget and struck by problems with leakage and boarded windows but now it shines. 

How this neighborhood has changed from my early days working in The City when my jogging route Blackfriars, crossing the Thames at Tower Bridge then returning via Westminster Bridge.. there was a lot of rubble, including amazingly, lots bombed in WWII, but now rebuilt and businesses flourish. The great push from here ever eastward into the East End where the 2012 Olympics, we hope, will revitalise an otherwise forever languishing part of the city.