Dad Night And A Break In The Weather

Here we be before dinner. Sonnet, who has been suspiciously absent from my blogging, at the Design Museum for a cocktail schmoozer. Initially, as I have the Shakespeares to myself, I thought ice skating and Chinatown but that nixed by Manchester United v. AC Milan ("David Beckham playing for AC Milan!" Eitan yelps) and kick-off at 7:45PM (thanks to the dead Monty we still have no TV so Eitan goes to Jackson's). We cycle through different options - Persian, Fish-and-chips, burgers or noodles before agreeing on the ghastly "Giraffe" which provides African themed fair with accompanying plastic toy cartoon animals. Sambo's lives. Even this thwarted by road-works to Richmond village so we end up at a local Thai (dumplings "lovely" - rest, thumb's down). So the venue .. forgettable on (another) rainy night but we do have engaging conversation. Madeleine blurts that a girl professed her love for Eitan making our hero distinctly uncomfortable. Madeleine, meanwhile, teased for pal Marcus "and we most definitely are not getting married." The first blush of the opposite sex - could it be?

Magically, the skies clear and the temps rise and I am reminded why we live here. It is green. Daffodils poke up. I run along the sweet smelling Thames while the tide is "in" and the rowers eye-level creating a strange optical allusion (river seems convex). The water volume shifts line 8-10 feet from high to low-tides - skullers prefer the tide-out as their lower position shields them from wind. This a long winter and any improvement welcome especially when as glorious as this evening's sunset.

Winter OOOOO

Nodar Kumaritashvili ripping down the track before his untimely death on the same course (photo from the mirror.co.uk). These dudes race at speeds up to 100 mph around narrow high-banked curves experiencing centrifugal pull of up to 7G. Seven gee! From my way back physics I recall that a g equals the force on the body from acceleration or gravity, in units equal to one g. So the 200 Kumaritashvili experienced forces of 1,400 pounds. Steering is done by flexing the sled's "runners" with the calf of each leg or exerting opposite shoulder pressure to the seat. Kumaritashvili's ending tragic yet I would suppose that this why the sport seductive - the joy a razor's edge.

Me: "No matter what, I will always love you."

Madeleine: "I know, Dad. You say that all the time."

Me: "That bus driver sure has a lot of responsibility. What other jobs have responsibility?"

Eitan: "A plane pilot?"

Madeleine: "A teacher!"

Eitan: "An accountant."

Madeleine: "A dentist."

Eitan: "An orthodontist!"

Madeleine: "I Prime Minister. Or that other thing."

Me: "A President?"

Madeleine: "Yeah, that one."

Eitan: "Being you."

Me:

Eitan: "Well, it's a lot of responsibility taking care of us."

Rain (Again)

It has been over-cast and grey every day for three months (my unscientific assessment). Today I am forced to wear my wellies and poncho but at least I arrive to work dry however I may look. Eitan was to up-early for football practice but one look outside and no way ("today would be a good day to go bowling" he laments). So Periodically I am forced to write about London's climate - it is an easy blog - sort of like GQ Magazine reporting on shaving. So here goes: London has a temperate marine climate, like much of the British Isles, so we rarely see extremely high or low temperatures. Our winters chilly, rarely below freezing though in January 1795 we set the record low of -21.1C. Back then river froze. And while snow uncommon (urban heat makes London up to 5C warmer than the surrounding areas), it does happen every now and again.

For me, it's not the cold and wet that depresses. No, it is the loss of sunlight since we are 50-degrees Latitude. This means 1,461 hours of sunshine a year. I count every minute (all data from the Met Office).

The troubled EMI, owned by Guy Hnds, has put their Abbey Road Studios up for sale, which must be terribly demoralising for anybody at EMI. Recall Hands needs €120 million cash by June or he loses control of EMI and his mult-billion €uro bet.

"I'd like to be under the sea

In an octous's garden in the shade

He'd let us in, knows where we've been

In his octopus's garden in the shade"

--The Beatles, from Abbey Road

Mr Squash

Some of you may have wondered - just who is Mr Squash? following yesterday's blog below. Well, here he is purchased, I might add, with Madeleine's hard earned dough from toy store Pandemonium.

You may have also noticed that my photos are not as sharp as they should be. This because of rain endured whilst walking Manhattan with Tim. At some point I will A) take my beloved Canon to the shop or B) buy another camera. Of course B depends on A.

The Shakespeares on holiday - they lay in this morning listening to Harry P, yaawwn - and Natasha remains sane by arranging play-dates ridding the house of Eitan while Madeleine entertains Ella chez nous. I like Ella, who is the new kid in the class following the departure of Madeleine's pal Mattie to South Africa, poor kid probably still does not know what hit him. Sonnet and I secretly interested in Ella since Madeleine otherwise has shun all girls. Exhibit A: 8th birthday party. Exhibit B: 7th birthday party. In class Ella is a cheerful presence with hand up often, unintimidated by her peer group. Sounds like Madeleine. I like.

Everyone grumbled. The sky was grey.

We had nothing to do and nothing to say.

We were nearing the end of a dismal day,

And then there seemed to be nothing beyond

Then daddy fell into the pond!

And everyone's face grew merry and bright,

And Timothy danced for sheer delight.

"Give me the camera, quick, oh quick!

He's crawling out of the duckweed!" Click!

Then the gardner suddenly slapped his knee,

And doubled up, shaking silently,

and the ducks all quacked as if they were daft,

And it sounded as if they old drake laughed.

Oh, there wasn't a thing that didn't respond

When Daddy fell into the pond!

--Alfred Noyes

Spenger's & Condé

I find - and scan - this old post-card "Spenger's Fish Grotto" which has been in Berkeley for, like, ever. Johann Spenger, a Bavarian immigrant, opened a crab counter here in 1890 to complement a small fishing fleet. His son, Frank Sr., opened a restaurant in 1930 and died in '73, leaving it to his son, Frank Jr. This was in the way-back when the Berkeley pier an important dock for bay and Pacific crawlers and before the 80 separated the restaurant from the water, though the highway surely increased Spenger's customers - for many years it was the number one restaurant in America by volume and revenue. Go figure. The neighboring Brannon's, a blue-collar, old school Irish Bar with 75 cent vodka tonics as recently as last decade was in the Top Ten thanks, I would assume to Spenger's - what better way to hit the road then a belt of something following dinner? Moe and I used to go to Brennan's for carved roast beef and sour-dough sandwiches on the way back from his law office where I sometimes joined him on Sundays.

My earliest memories of Spenger's from six or seven - I associate it with The Rockford Files, which I was allowed to watch afterwards and a treat since well past my Friday bedtime. I took a date there once in high school and was mortified by the geriatrics crowd which, sadly, had become the main customer - just look at the picture and you can see why. The food was awful, killing a good memory. The restaurant closed some years ago but the area around it - 4th Street - yuppiefied with book shops, restaurants and clothing stores and, of course, a Pete's coffee. Spenger's made it possible.

Switching gears, the kids on half-term which means no school for the week. Eitan and I plan to go bowling, mano-a-mano, while I think of something equally enjoyable (?) for Madeleine. We spend the day with Emily and James, who recently took a job at Condé Naste, where he is on the main Board and responsible for the company's digital strategy - James at Yahoo for many years then an early guy at Skype (which was bought by eBay for a gazillion dollars). Condé has 80 publications including our favorites The New Yorker and Vanity Fair and, like print everywhere, readership down. His has a big job and is the guy to bring it on.

Me: "Dinner is ready - please listen when we call you."

Eitan: "I was out of the bath but I was listening to the radio."

Madeleine: "Eitan when you go upstairs will you get my Mr Squash?"

Eitan: "No."

Madeleine: "I knew you were going to say that. Dad, will you ask Eitan to get my Mr Squash since he is going upstairs?"

Me: "Who is Mr Squash?"

Madeleine: "He is one of my buddies."

Me: "And what makes him special for dinner tonight?"

Madeleine: "He just is. I have been missing him."

Eitan to his football: "Stranger, we meet again."

Ps: the post card photo from Ray Haywood during my year in Switzerland. We exchanged letters frequently.

Mufti

Eitan and Madeleine on their way to mufti day at school. So I investigate this expression. mufti, and here is what I learn: "Mufti, or civies (slang for "civilian attire") refers to ordinary clothes, especially when worn by one who normally wears, or has long worn, a military or other uniform." (Wikipedia). Now it is a day where schools allow the students and staff to wear normal clothing instead of their schoo uniform. In return, students are usually required to pay a small fee whose proceeds go to fund raising efforts - today, for Haiti.

While Eitan's mufti does a '60s musician, Madeleine aims for the 1940s which her class now studies. I was with her the other morning and the children exposed to London during WWII which is recreated by discussion, film and work shops, which sees the kids acting out various rolls - tearful mom, brave older son and scared younger daughter; a BBC reporter and so and so forth. Thousands of children evacuated during the bombing and this resonates immediately with the youngsters. The main thing to get the kids thinking about how it felt during those desperate dark times.

Alexander McQueen - RIP

Alexander McQueen took his life in Mayfair yesterday. At 40, he had become known for his unconventional designs and shock tactics. McQueen worked as head of Givenchy for five years before founding Alexander McQueen and McQ Labels. McQueen's dramatic designs, worn by celebrities like Rihanna, Bjork and Lady Gaga, met with critical acclaim and earned him the British Fashion Designer of the Year award four times. I first became aware of his work with his "lobster shoes," pictured, which are like nothing else - they are alarming and horrific, changing the model's dimensions and making her that much more objectified for it. Brilliant. Sonnet notes she acquired one of McQueen's costumes days before his death.

"If you ask any lady they want to be taller, they want to be slimmer, you know, and they want a waist. I'm not here to make people look like a sack of potatoes."

--Alexander McQueen

Elvis

Re this pic, Eitan says: "I think I look famous and my teeth are whiter then usual and I look a bit broader." Yes, Eitan experiments with hair gel. The jacket, meanwhile, "is turned inside out because in the 1960s the jackets were very important." Tomorrow, you see, the weirdly named "muftie day" where the children dress as they wish and the theme ... 1960s. The kids study art - Art Week! - and the '60s seem to have some .. resonance. Eitan jingles "Lucy In The Sky Of Diamonds." They also do and watch drama and must bring in a re-construction of a London something. Most kids, including Eitan and Madeleine, do Big Ben though the craftier bring the London Eye or Tower Bridge. I suppose it depends on the parent's involvement and on this one we ain't.

Death And Drink

This one from this morning, shortly before departing for school (Sonnet to work early and I get to do the school-run, lucky me). Our sad news yesterday: Monty died following a brief illness which sapped her strength. Madeleine momentarily destroyed considering how the hamster may have suffered. Eitan, too, upset but he internalises his grief without a tear. We tell Monty stories on the walk to school, like the time she was on the lam and the whole family on hands and knees to trap her excluding Sonnet who stood on a chair - who would have thought such weakness? Eitan notes that "our house shouldn't have a pet" following four goldfish and now the second hamster. I assure the kids this the way of the world: pets die and you get another one. Monty compares nothing to the passing of Robin's beloved Ray and I make sure, without undermining grief for Monty, that we keep life in perspective.

Today I enjoy a Malcolm Gladwell (author of "The Tipping Point") story in the New Y orker about cultural influences on drink. Enjoying, that is, until he notes: "On the Brown University campus, beer -- which is to Cama rum approximately what a peashooter is to a bazooka -- was known to reduce the student population to a raging hormonal frenzy on Friday nights." Well, I assure you, that back in the day we drank Ortlieb's beer, which I have never known outside of Providence, and it is plenty strong. A case was less than a fiver.

This presents a nice segway to college which, indeed, included a lot of booze. Brown ranked the country's 13th "party school" by Playboy Magazine my Freshman something, no doubt, we felt proud of. Such honour, it seemed to me, about right given the school's popularity, which made Brown the most competitive school to get into that year (excluding the military academies). How appropriate, then, my first college night spent playing "Pixie" which had something to do with paper cups filled with Ortliebs and smashing empties on one's forehead. Or that old stand-by "quarters," ie, bouncing a quarter into a cup then picking the drinker. Brown's social scene enhanced by Greek fraternaties, dodgy non-carting dives like Oliver's and off-campus parties - we sought 'em all. New York and Smith not far away when otherwise dull. Yes, drinking an important lubricant but what I remember most that first year was the dancing - every Thursday "Funk Night" and the parties and frats all spun beats until the early hours. Once I caught an evening train to Manhattan, spent the night at the Palladium discotheque, then a morning train back to school. Yes, it all went together. Not easy with all the other demanding pressures but ah, what a time.

Car Crash

Check this out: data from 1961 forward, looking only at periods where growth was positive in every quarter (thank you, The Secret Economist). This is nominal Non-Financial Debt growth regressed on Real GDP growth. Debt grew slower than GDP prior to '73 and then blasted off - check out Georgie from '01 to '07:

Period DtGrowth Rsq

61-69 0.37x .98

71-73 0.59x .98

75-80 1.34x .96

82-90 2.8x .98

91-00 2.07x .998

01-07 6.02x .984

Since the 2001 recession, nominal nonfinancial debt has grown at almost 10x the rate of GDP to current data. This is unbelievable.

The US debt laden economy now features (end 2008 data) nonfinancial debt per household in excess of $280,000 with a median household income of $69k. Every $1 trillion in incremental non financial debt is roughly $8,000 per household, well over 10% of median income.

Does the Fed think it can raise the rate of inflation so that it will raise free (real) cash flow in the economy? What is going to be the impact on this country if (when) the government debt bubble deflates like the Nasdaq or housing? For this there is no backstop. Be afraid.

Le Trumpet

Madeleine warms up, pictured. All six notes are the same to me but God bless her - she drags her suitcase to school and back and no complaining. Monty bolts.

Eitan's tutor is so pleased with Eitan's story about a kid who eats some mints and becomes invisible that she posts it on her wall for her other students to read.

Eitan and Madeleine practice Michael Jackson's "Thriller" moves before - and during - dinner.

Me at the dinner table: "So what do we know about sex?"

Eitan: "Aw, Dad - not this again."

Me: "Well, is it between two or three people?"

Madeleine: "Two people. Obviously, Dad."

Me: "Can a person and an animal have sex?"

Eitan: "Well, I suppose if they want to..."

Madeleine: "That shadow over there is really cool."

Eitan: "Imagine a person and a monkey?!"

Madeleine: "Once there was a bird who sat on an elephant's egg and the baby elephant could fly!"

Eitan: "Madeleine you're crazy."

Me: "Do you think sex feels good?"

Madeleine: "No way."

Me: "Well maybe not the first time but how about the second?"

Madeleine: "No."

Me: "Third?"

Madeleine: "No."

Me: "Fourth?"

Madeleine: "No."

Me: "Fifth?"

Eitan: "Five times?! Why would anybody want to have sex five times!?"

Me: "Do two people have to be in love?"

Madeleine: "I have had enough of this conversation now."

Eitan: "You are so not British, Dad."

Me: "Well, that's nice to know. What makes you British?"

Eitan: "Well, it is the way you talk. And you never understand anything."

Sonnet: "And you have to like waiting in queues."

Me: "Plus I would need rotten teeth. And bad breathe."

Eitan: "See?"

Sonnet: "It is the goal of February to eliminate "Oi" and "Whatever" from your vocabulary."

Eitan: "Oi, whatever Mom."

Sonnet: "Not funny."

Birthday Girl

Madeleine turns eight - pictured, and takes breakfast in bed which has become a birthday tradition thanks to Sonnet. Note her "buddy" which is a gift from mom. Madeleine opens her presents which include books, a rocking chair from us and "Gross Magic" from Eitan (who hands me £12 or the amount he borrowed on top of his savings to get Madeleine's gift). My gift to Madeleine a bug box since bugs have fascinated her ever since I can remember. An added bonus (the promote tells me): "bees and brilliant garden pollinators while ladybirds and lacewings such as greenfly, blackfly and spidermite. One ladybird is able to eat more than 5,000 aphids ... " Go figure. This week Madeleine made a bug book with various garden bugs patiently observed, drawn and noted. The afternoon otherwise spent at the movies and home-made pizza for dinner - the birthday girl's request.

Madeleine: "I cannot believe I sat next to (class mate) Emily in the movie theatre - that is like a zero percent chance out of ten."

Me: Madeleine are you feeling kind of blue? I get the sense you are blue."

Madeleine nods: "I don't want my birthday to go."

Me: "Everybody gets the blue meanies every now and then. Me. Your mother and Eitan."

Madeleine: "Mom, can I put the hot water bottle in my bed? And wear my new pajamas Aggie got me and stay up late listening to Harry Potter?"

Me: "Now if that does not make you feel better, nothing will."

Madeleine: "How do you know?"

Me:

Madeleine: "Monty having babies would make me feel better."

Me:

George

Any given day of the week, pictured. I am up early to see George the taylor and we are the only people alive in Fitzrovia. His shop is below street-level so I climb down a steep flight of stairs - he looks through the window tentatively to ensure I am a customer. Inside, his space cluttered with wide rolls of different cloth, finished and half-finished suits, thread racks and mannequins. Clutter. George has been a master of his trade since arriving from Cyprus in '49 and I have to assume his shop has been here ever since. While I am only picking up today we drink coffee which he boils on a bunson burner ("Turkish coffee the only thing the Turks have left" he says) and we exchange pleasantries. He pokes fun of my Jewishness and I his age - "you will be hunched over too, young man, what is important that you get something in return for what you have given up." What I like about him most is the twinkle in his eye - he loves his work - and he always has a joke. Today: "A man has a terrible disease and goes to his doctor - 'I'll pay you anything for a cure' he says. The doctor tells him he must drink the milk from a woman's breast. After a time, the man finds a willing woman and soon she whispers breathlessly 'may I offer you something more?' He asks: 'Do you have any biscuits?'"

Yes, London is a modern city but every now and again one stumbles upon a clue of what it must have been like before the congestion charge and CCTV or wi-fi and McDonald's. Surely it was a place, and fairly recently too, which was markedly different from New York or Tokyo or Paris or Amsterdam. Now I am not so sure.

Model

Linda Evangelista whistling. Yes, I fetishise but don't we all? At least we did - the so called "supermodel" elevated to pop culture status by the '90s with multi-million dollar contracts, endorsements and campaigns. Beauty and glamour and money - we had it back then. These gals oozed confidence - Christy Turlington for Maybelline in 1991, Claudia Schiffer and Chanel; Cindy Crawford and Rolex while Kate Moss dated Calvin Klein. With Naomi Cambell and Linda above: the "Big Six" - a group who dominated magazine covers, fashion runways, editorial pages, and advertising. You name the medium, they owned it (Nb this group potted in the '80s: Cheryl Tiegs (owned that poster), Christie Brinkley (owned that poster too), Paula Porizkova and Elle Macpherson - while super, they did not reach similar celebrity status).

The world's infatuation with the outer edges of beauty has resulted, of course, in unrealistic expectations for the rest of us with potentially harmful outcomes. In our house, Madeleine has commented that she is fat - nothing could be farther from the truth. This kid plays football, swims, excellent in gym and healthy. Her classmates preoccupied with clothes and make up (Madeleine's Tom Boy shuns this). Sonnet and I do our best to counter Madison Avenue's endless messaging. Today's youngsters receive bold pronouncements of image and sex while peer groups enforce a set of rules - you're with us or you're with the geeks. Madeleine is eight tomorrow. I can only imagine her tweens.

Eitan: "Whoever smelt it dealt it!"

Madeleine: "Whoever said it stank did the prank!"

Eitan: "Whoever stopped to wonder did the butt thunder!"

"We don't wake up for less than $10,000 a day."

--Linda Evangelista, 1991

Terra Firma

This beautiful sculpture greets visitors first thing at the V&A if entering from the Westward side. Shocking perhaps? I have seen her before.

We all know the recession has taken its toll on private equity but none have been hit harder, perhaps, then Big Wave investor Guy Hands whose buyout firm, Terra Firma, bought EMI Music in 2008 for €2.2 billion of equity or 30% of the €7.6 billion Terra Firma raised for its two most recent funds (Nb: I spent my MBA internship working for then CEO Jim Fiefield and there are many funny stories of incompetency - like the physical baton handed from office to office indicating the "critical path" of required steps during the monthly financial reporting).

When Hands made the bet, he put in over €100 million of his personal account, a figure today surpassing €300 million. In poker, this is called "all in." Unfortunately for investors in Terra Firma, Hands personal conflict - considered favorably at first for aligning interests - has brought ever desperate actions. Exposure to EMI should have remained in Terra Firma IV but, when that partnership surpassed its limitations, Hands went into Fund III (this practice generally frowned upon if not banned by limited partners). Investors in III and IV got two sips of the poisoned chalice.

And worse, EMI requires yet another equity injection to avoid a catastrophic breach of covenants. Without cash, the company will fall to the banks and Hands's investment toast. Hands's investors have a tough call to make. So how did one of the industry's luminaries find himself here? Hubris, for one. Hands believed he could cost-cut his way to improved cashflows all the while not understanding the talent, who balked. Secondly, he missed, even at 2008, the Internet's destructive powers on the music industry. New sales plummet and the catalogue, while still valuable, is now valuable by half. Finally, Hands ignored the Golden Rule of diversification. Were these things not enough, his professional objectivity shattered by his own, personal exposure. This is one party I am happy to have missed.

"Doing a diversified portfolio with fewer people to support it is more risky than doing a concentrated portfolio but having enough people to look after every individual deal."

--Guy Hands, 2005

A Model - The Stairwell - Musson

Ana Carolina Reston, a 21-year old model from Brazil, passed away last week due anorexia. She weighed 88 pounds.

Last night Sonnet, Lizzie and I join favorite law firm Brown Rudnick for champagne and Jeremy Musson, an architectural historian, writer and broadcaster with a particular expertise in .. the stairwell. Brown Rudnick located at 8 Clifford St in a 17th Century brickstone which enjoys a remarkable foyer whose frescos, it is believed but not confirmed, by British painter Sir James Thornhill, famous for his Italian baroques (baroque BTW from pearls - as in their imperfections). Musson takes us on a journey through similar stunning entrances - Versaille, the Louvre, Chatsworth, Hardwick Hall, Hampton Court, Petworth; he describes the eye drawn upwards, towards light, presenting a viewer with geometricly pleasing shapes .. and paintings that, more often then not, depict some serious matter like Hellfire or Damnation. Musson explains the artist's challenge of creating something to appease the moving viewer who, afterall, is walking by the wallpaper. Not easy, he convinces us. It is hard not to admire Musson's ecentricity, which I find as interesting as his subject. He makes jokes over everyone's head. He name drops the Greek ancients. He gesticulates wildly. He is madly in love with his subject. There is no doubt in my mind that Musson went to the St Paul's school for the strangely talented boys. It is also clear that England's top 1% the smartest in the world, which they once ruled. God bless.

Me: "You call that cleaning the table?"
Eitan: "I would call it a rough job."

Sonnet: "Have you ever heard somebody lie?"
Eitan: "I have seen footballers lie."
Sonnet: "How does that make you feel?"
Eitan: "It is not respectful to the fans or the referee."
Madeleine: "Billy stepped on my foot and said he didn't."
Sonnet:
Madeleine: "To the teacher."

David Gerrard Zuma

Photo from 2008. How these kids change. I have dinner at Zuma, London's hottest Japanese, with Gerrard and David who returns from Davos where he accompanied David Miliband as Special Advisor (an aside re Zuma: while the sushi sublime, it is the crowd that attracts, in particular the young women - 24 to 29, I would guess, toned, polished and on show. Colorful skirts and slender legs. Not the slightest trace of disappointment nor life's struggle. Theirs is tonight).

David met about everybody at Davos and his most fascinating story about Wen Jiabao, China's PM, since China David's particular interest is China which, he notes, will urbanise 300 million people inside 20 years creating huge opportunities for the West. China's expanding middle class will demand things like technology, services and education which we are well placed to provide. If, for instance, Britain can realise 1% incremental GDP growth from Asia over ten years, our £1.5T deficit will shrink to nothing.

Gerrard, who invests hedge funds using demographic quant models, holds a different view: he notes that the British population under age-40 will shrink by 25 million by 2040 while the US under-40s will grow by 25M if replenishment and immigration rates hold true. The industrialised world's declining population has profound implications for our economy's ability to sustain an aging population. When I was born, the West accounted for approximately 30% of the world's population. By 2040, it will be less than 10%. One had better be on the right side of that investment. Dave and Gerrard buying the long-bond.

Eitan: "I'm doing a writing project where each of us has to write a chapter of the story."

Me: "What was your chapter?"

Eitan: "I am doing 'the closet of the unwanted'."

Madeleine: "Excuse me, Mom, but this has nothing to do with the conversation. Can you twist your tongue like this?"

Madeleine twists her tongue upside over.

Eitan: "Madeleine! Stop interrupting!"

Madeleine: "You're just upset 'cuz you can't do it Eitan."

Eitan: "Can!"

Madeleine: "Show me, then."

Eitan: "Dad!"

Me:

Madeleine: "Can I have my cookies and milk in the bath?"

Sonnet accommodates her.

Madeleine: "I have learned four notes with my trumpet."

Me: "Out of six?"

Sonnet: "Don't listen to your dad. Why don't you play them for us?"

Madeleine belts out her notes which sound suspiciously the same.

Madeleine: "Maybe I will be a professional trumpet player when I am older."

Tony Redux

Well, the last time we saw Tony Blair was January 13, 2009, when he was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom by el presidente. Bush said Blair given the award "in recognition of exemplary achievement and to convey the utmost esteem of the American people" (pssst: poodle).

The last time, that is, until Friday when Tony appeared before the Chilcot inquiry into the Iraq war, where he denied making a covert deal to invade Iraq. When asked about reasons for invasion Blair said that the British and American "attitude" towards Saddam Hussein had "changed dramatically" after 9/11 though Saddam, 9/11 and Britain had nothing to do with each other. Blair also said that he would have supported the invasion of Iraq even if he thought Saddam had no weapons of mass destruction. Blair stated his belief that the world safer as a result of the invasion. Meanwhile today a woman blows herself up in Baghdad, killing 45 Shi'ite pilgrims and wounding 100s of others. I wonder what the Iraqi's think?

In '97 Blair was a fresh face following that stiff board John Majors. Blair's ability to bond with a mourning nation post Diana secured ten years as PM -the longest ever for Labour. By the end, he was past his sell by date, drained by the unwanted war, his popularity decimated by spin and mis-truths. So Friday Blair defends his war in the same glossy way that lulled many of us into a false sense of confidence. Or at least, good faith. Now he points to Iran as the next satin - as if Iran today justifies Iraq in '03. Blair fails to acknowledge the inconvenience caused by his folly.

"I feel responsiblity but not a regret for removing Saddam Hussein."

Tony Blair, January 29, 2010