Sunday Chill

Eitan checks out the football scores, pictured. His KPR defeated Hampton Youth 3-nil in an away game this morning. The boys a bit rusty following the year-end break and bad weather post-ponements. Us dads, meanwhile, in full force: Jergen sold a division of his company; Eric back from Amsterdam with his family ("we went one canal too far" and confronted "with an enormous pair of tits" he reports); Jean Luca moving into a new house ... meanwhile the boys grunt and puff, back and forth, their breath visible in the cold air. Madeleine had the option of joining or sleeping in, which she does until 9:30AM. Good on her.

Yesterday we spend the afternoon with Dana and Nathan for tea then scoot back to our neighborhood for dinner with Puk and Lars. Lars a retired hedge-fund manager who has written a book on his experiences to be published by the Financial Times and in Waterstones 27 May. He notes that his book will include "the usual suspects and many people you know." I agree. I ask him if there is a paragraph about my negotiating a sublet in his office in Mayfair? Happily I am spared.

I am picked up for the airport in 15 minutes and will be with Katie in New Yawk this evening.

Eitan: "Have you ever seen (Brazilian football legend) Ronaldihno's teeth? He has teeth like a horse!"

Gross Magic

Eitan has been talking about Madaeleine's birthday present for several days so today, following football, we go to local toy store Pandemonium. He, like a radar guided missile: "Gross Magic." Eitan reads the box on the ride home: "Gross Magic is just revolting. It's the most radical thing in magic you can get. If the idea of dragging a brown sticky blob out of a toilet upsets you then Gross Magic is not for you. It isn't pretty, it isn't nice but Gross Magic is very funny. Gross Magic plumbs new depths in bad taste (and bad breath). Take a filthy snot rag and clean it with the flick of a wrist, liquidize an eyeball into red goo and shock your audience with "live" Cockroach eggs. Yeuchy doesn't begin to describe it." Eitan: "Do you think mom will like it?"

Gross Magic costs more then Eitan's immediate liquidity so we discuss how he will pay for his gift. I give him the option of covering half the cost but the present from me and him. Or he can write me an IOU and take full credit. He thinks about this for a bit then decides he does not wish to share the gift - good lad. Always go for the debt. At home (after a plan to secret the box away from Madeleine agreed) the boy wraps his present with red paper. I lend a hand with the Scotch tape but otherwise it is all him. He shows me the note which includes "9 X 9 = 81." Eitan: "it will help Madeleine in Kumon" and, as always, this kid thinking with his heart.

Sonnet a blur around me as I blog. Saturdays are about kids activities and organising the house. While Madeleine at Stage Coach, Sonnet fills a garbage bag with Madeleine's crapola - old newspapers, random sketches, broken remote control race car, a scarf (cut into pieces), polished stones, homeless crayons, broken remote control airplane and on and on. "Don't tell Madeleine" she says. From there, Sonnet straightens the upstairs and tidies the garage, does a laundry, makes chicken soup for lunch ... she is .. possessed. I ask Eitan what he is worries about these days. He: "Nothing, really. I do think about pollution."

Reza

I pick up Eitan from swimming ("37 laps" he tells me) while Sonnet with Madeleine and Lorena and Camilla at the museum showing the girls the behind-the-scenes+"tea and cake." This grey day starts, for me, at the Wolseley then coffee with my "personal banker" and lunch at Cecconi's. There I see Reza who ran HBOS and Halifax's joint investment business Insight until they were acquired last year by Bank of New York. Reza tells me at some moment in the negotiations he was not receiving the terms he needed and so BONY told him "to quit." So he did, taking the top four executives with him. 24 hours later he had his deal. Bad ass.

Reza Iranian and so of course following the country's elections and protest. He takes a personal interest in Neda Agha-Soltan, whose death in '09 broadcast over the Internet becoming a rallying point for the reformist opposition. Reza tells me that by chance "Neda" means "voice," or "divine message" in Persian and she is now "the voice of Iran." When he learned his alma mater Oxford's "Angel of Freedom" scholarship sponsored mostly by the English, he took it upon himself to raise money from the Iranian community in London and abroad, which he has done with his other alma mater Columbia U. - recall Columbia allowed Mahmoud Ahmadinejad to speak on campus then Lee Bollinger castigated Ahmadinejad in his preamble. Embarrassing for him, embarrassing for the university. Columba and Resa have raised substantial donations while thumbing their nose at the regime, which really Reza's motivation to begin with. Bad ass.

Reza and I also share a love for spirit and we discuss the methodologies behind our Holy Grail: the perfect martini. We agree the best cocktail bars Claridges, Dukes and the Laneborough's Library Bar which has the most lovely glasses, perfect for a yellow lemon rind.

"I openly declare that no one, apart from the government, killed Neda. Her killer can only be from the government."

--Ali Agha-Soltan from Iran

Tron

This is just as cool now as when I watched for the first time the summer of '82 (while at San Diego Swim Camp):

Morning And Teddy

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

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

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

--Sonnet

Drink

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

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

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

My Grandmother would not be impressed.

The Wharf

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

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

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

Tom Ford

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: "What do you think?"

Eitan: "I don't know."

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

Eitan:

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

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

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

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

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

Madeleine: "Can I use this paper?"

Me: "Sure."

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

Me:

Madeleine: "Can I cut this photograph?

Me:

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

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

Martin, Helen

Madeleine bravely announces she reduces her "buddies" from 115 to 30: "I want the best buddies, not all the buddies that I don't like. I am keeping all the buddies given to me by you and mum."

We have our neighbors, Helen and Martin, to afternoon tea. Helen quite serious - proper- and Martin loquacious. He is filled with stories of the area as he should be having been born in the house he now lives in. Actually born, Sonnet points out. Martin in his 70s, I would guess, and probably 20-years older then Helen - they met via their parents who played tennis together. (side story: Martin's mother, Kitty Godfree, ranked Top Ten in women's tennis from 1921 when rankings began to 1927; she won five Olympic medals at '20 Antwerp and '24 Paris still the most medals ever won by a tennis player; Godfree also won Wimbledon twice. A blue plaque on their house).

Martin an electrical engineer and advises Big Projects on electrical rigging which takes him around the world like Brighton, where he advises on ten miles of undergound traffic tunneling. We talk about the Shard of Glass, soon to be Europe's tallest at 72 floors, rising above London Bridge. Martin tells me he plans electrical platforms every twenty stories for the building phase.He notes "a perfectly nice" 42-story demolished next to Tower Bridge station to make way for .. progress. "A frightful waste of good materials" he adds. "We used to use wonderful materials on our buildings, like local timber and stone, that moved together allowing the properties to age."

I ask Martin about World War II and he recalls being relocated to Devon during the air raids."Only one house on the block had a bomb-shelter" (on our cul de sac). "After the war, it was not very practical for the garden, you see, so he had it removed. He dug it up and drove it away." Sheen was spared most of the Luftwaffe's destruction since we are West London while the planes followed the river in from east, destroying the docklands (now Canary Wharf) and looking for juicy targets in the city's center. A bomb did flatten a part of nearby Palmerstone Road and five new houses recognizable. Martin recalls a bomb falling through the roof of number 53 "but it did not blow. (interned) Polish workers probably did a number on the fuse." By us, pilots dropped their left-over payloads or went after a now defunct electricity plant. Or maybe the Stag brewery to demoralize the public. "The Putney (train) station or Barnes bridge targets- they always want the bridges." How unusual to learn that massive anti-aircraft guns in Richmond Park on top of a hill.

Strange factoid: George Orwell's given name Blair. How 1984.

Katie And The Mountains

Here's my sister - hey cutie - pinched from Facebook. The holidays now long gone and the brown Christmas trees still appear on the roadside. I am always amused by the last tree usually sometime in March or April .. the thought of some poor slob clinging on desperately disturbing. So, today, we are fully into our routines of work, school, swimming, football, Spanish, stage class, music, horses and Kumon. Eitan will have a tutor from next week preparing for entrance exams next year. He has met Stephanie, who is light-hearted, enjoys children and will spend one hour a week with the boy. If ever there was an idea of going truant to fish or catch frogs - not in this house.

Eitan's class examines the world's mountains. He banks the Andes, the world's longest at 4,300 miles and highest range outside of Asia. Eitan tells me Acongcagua rises to 6,962 meters above sea level. I show my knowledge by pointing out Everest the world's tallest, which he flatly rejects. Ok, I think to myself, here comes the battle between Everest and K2 so let the little twerp have his fun. Eitan: "Actually, the world's tallest mountains are on the ocean floor" and God damn, he nails me again. While Eitan doesn't know the name, the island Mauna Kea has an altitude of 4,205 meters above sea level, much lower than Everest's 8,848 meters. Measured from the bottom of the nearby ocean floor it rises over 10,000 meters. Bada bing!

Eitan also studies fantasy stories and surreal pictures "and stuff." Madeleine, as we know, in the thick of Roald Dahl and we agree most of the kids found it "rather strange" that yesterday's Kit Kat Cowboy friends with Dahl. The "inside Roald Dahl's brain" did not go down so well either. A tough crowd.

The Return Of Kit Kat

Strolling along Rue du Faubourg St. Honoree in the 8th arrondisement - a church and the school crossing. Just below the dome on the right, a waft of smoke or steam makes me wonder: what and whom?

This morning I take Eitan and Madeleine to school (they bicker ceaselessly) as Sonnet wraps up her conference. Mrs. X in Madeleine's class invites me to revisit Kit Kat Cowboy and, since the children studying Roald Dahl, I bring Dahl into the story. Initially I was to read "The Enormous Crocodile" but Mrs. X and I decide much more entertaining to go off-piste. So I do. In my story, Kit Kat and Dahl friends and, since Dahl needs some new material, Kit Kat is off to find the nasty troll Gramelin who is the best story-maker around. Gramelin lives in Nottingham Forrest by a never-ending hole. Once there, Kit Kat meets a clever fox. Willy Wonka shows up with the Vicar and of course Matilda and Pelly pass by holding hands. James says a warm 'hello.' The class knows of Dahl's sad history (he lost his older sister and a daughter) and I tell the children that everybody has a hard time sometimes. For Dahl, writing saved his life. My story concludes - we are actually inside Roald Dahl's brain and the pit his endless fear and sadness - but I think this bit of surrealism lost on the youngsters. Probably best for them. Madeleine beams.

"A little nonsense now and then is relished by the wisest men."

--Roald Dahl

Paris Encore

Here we are, leaving St Pancras back to to Paris. Rough life. This time we go for Sonnet's presentation to Les Arts Decoratifs at the Institut National du Patrimoine at the Louvre. She is today's First Act on "Restoring and Conserving Haute-Coutre: The Example of Madeleine Vionnet." Sonnet weaves her story from acquisition to restoration to exhibition then conservation using photo-examples of la mode. A gorgeous red Vionnet dress from the 1920s shown from rags to riches at the V&A's Haute-Couture exhibition last year. Really, the conservationist the museum's unsung hero - who knew they were there, protecting the valuable collection hidden from the public eye? This esoteric trade gleaned from years of experience; the narrow market means each opening attracts considerable interest and talent. Sonnet acknowledges her colleagues. She begins her talk in French and sure enough, an elderly lady in front of me mutters: "Ah, elle parle le francais" and she has won them over.

After the morning session, Sonnet and I have lunch at La Duree, famous for its macarones, with our friend Xavier at Astorg. It is a nice New Year re-union since I have not seen him since Biarritz.

Me: "Have you learned anything in your French lesson?"

Eitan: "Je veux une pomme."

Me: "Great. How about you? Can you offer anything better?"

Madeleine:

Me: "You must know one word?"

Madeleine: "Crap!"

Me: !

Madeleine: "I didn't say crap, Dad. Crepe!"

Me:

Buddy

Buddy Cianci was the mayor of Providence, Rhode Island, from 1974 to '84, just before I arrived for college. Mayor, that is, until the Providence Journal reported Cianci and the Chief of Police tortured a fellow for having an affair with Cianci's wife. Specifically, cigarettes were ground into the dude's back and genitalia. So imagine my surprise when Cianci ran for a second term in '91 and won in a landslide. His slogan: "I never stopped caring about Providence" and perhaps that was so: the city entered a renaissance uncovering the US's largest cement bridge exposing a .. beautiful river; redesigning the down-town train station and opening the city centre to green-space, wooing the Providence Bruins from Maine. New hotels, shopping malls, an ice skating rink.. Providence became an alternative to Boston and a whole lot better than Philadelphia. Artists moved in followed by the gays and then young families. Even tourists sniffed about looking for authenticity. And the zoo.

When I was at Brown I could see the city changing - and I should know since I painted most of College Hill (52 houses in the summer of '87). Cianci connected like nobody's business into Federal Hill, the Italian blue collar community which defined city life. My favorite - and first legitimate -Italian restaurant Raphael's on Vine Street. I took Michelle there for a date and felt like an adult; later my family celebrated my graduation here with then-girlfriend Elise and Roger... Federal Hill otherwise infamous for its mob, who had wired every hotel and building in the neighborhood for the penny rackets (Providence remains gambling free somehow). I was warned about the rough side during my college interview and Cianci made it true.

I knew Buddy from Olivers Bar, an off-campus dive popular with Brown students who were rarely carted (Rhode Island also enjoyed a "grandfather clause" which meant that we under-21s could still drink though drinking age bumped from 18 to 21. There was a time when this the only thing we talked about). So Buddy loved Olivers where he could hook an arm on the bar and surround himself with the Ivy League. And college girls. He also favored the wrong-side-of-the tracks Fox Point restaurant Cafe at Brooke's where I washed dishes when not painting or swimming the summer following Freshman year. Cafe at Brook's owned by three corrupt Jewish brothers Jake, Nate and Saul who also owned the house I lived in. They were scumbags and a lot of coke moved through their restaurant. They still owe me my security deposit, fuckers. Cafe at Brooke's hired super-fine waitresses who I flirted with shamelessly with Joe, the RISD Chef who had never cooked before the Cafe. It was by far the most fun I have ever enjoyed on the job. And again Buddy, who grunted his recognition whenever around me.

So no surprise when Cianci indicted in 2001 on federal criminal charges of racketeering, conspiracy, extortion, witness tampering, and mail fraud. It is in his blood - he wants to be a wise guy. The Judge said of the case: "Clearly, there is a feeling in city government in Providence that corruption is tolerated. In this mayor's two administrations, there has been more corruption in the City of Providence than in the history of this state." Because Cianci faced a jury of his peers, he was acquitted of 26 of 27 charges but found guilty of racketeering conspiracy which put him in the slammer for five years. Worse, it forced him, by law, to give up the mayorship.

And, now that his time served, guess who is back to politics? Our man Buddy. The elections coming, after all, and Providence whispering come to me, Buddy. Come.

Providence loves this guy. Providence is this guy. Cianci has a tomato sauce, "Mayor's Own Marina Sauce" whose proceeds go to public schools. He has a talk radio show; he has made numerous cameo and spoof television appearances. He is type-casting from America's favorite Italian family, the Sopranos, years before HBO. We have not seen the end of him yet, no sir.

"There's no retiring from this."

--Tony Soprano

Viv

This shot from designer Vivienne Westwood's cat-walk some time ago. Dame Westwood largely responsible for bringing modern punk and new wave fashions into London's mainstream. It all started from her second marriage to Malcolm McLaren, who became the manager of The Sex Pistols. Malcolm decided to open a shop at 430 King's Road, Chelsea, in '71 - called, aptly, Let It Rock (also known as Sex, Too Fast To Live, Too Young To Die, Seditionaries). Westwood began to sell her designs to the shop - which included bondage gear, safety pins, razor blades, bicycle or lavatory chains on clothing and spiked dog collars for jewelry. And of course the Sex Pistols wore them. The rest, as they say, is history.

The V&A did a retrospective of Westwood's work the year before Ossie, Britain's second most famous designer. Ossie was a major figure in the swinging '60s scene in London and the fashion industry of that era and the change from him to her quite remarkable.

"I'm not trying to do something different. I'm trying to do the same thing but in a different way."

--Vivienne Westwood

Sink

Yes, I tore out the kitchen sink basin, which Madeleine kindly models, to replace our garbage disposal. Used: wrench, screw-drivers, metal cutters, hammer, industrial chisel ... happily I put my new tools to use which, Edwin snidely noted the other night, would otherwise be amortised over one use. After applying a silicon sealant and forced to wait 24 hours (the DIY'ers worst nightmare) the inevitable: standard plastic pipe kit don't fit. I had more luck assembling Madeleine's Habitrail. A quick call to the local hardware suggests that I might be able to jerry-rig the thing, which I am inclined to do after suffering the plumber's charge from the replaced hot-water cylinder and a burst pipe. Not cheap. Still, the fun is in the doing and I try to keep this in mind. At first, Madeleine thought so, too, joining me to the local Homebase. After about the fifth visit the joy wears thin and the promise of some undefined "treat" an ever-less effective bribe for her to keep me company. She's no dummy.

Last night, while I labor under the sink, Madeleine makes a loving effigy of her teacher, Mrs. X, complete with towel-pipe legs and red shoes. Eitan constructs a chair from cardboard and Xmas wrap and both exclaim, thanks to movie Avatatar: 3D! Once complete it is a nifty little construction and we ponder how to transport it to school. The Shakespeares want the car, of course, but Sonnet holds firm on her principals plus it is inconvenient to her commute which is by bus. I bang away at the pipes.

Mom and Dad and Katie get back from their Miami cruise with Moe's side of the family - 22 in all and forevermore known as the "Jew Cruise" in my family.

Madeleine: "Dad, why are you doing that?"

Me: "Because I am trying to fix it."

Madeleine: "It doesn't look fixed to me."

Me:

Madeleine: "Will we ever be able to use the sink again?"

Me:

Eitan: "Do I have to do the dishes outside?"

Public Snow Job

Private vs. public pay, source: Office for National Statistics.

The public sector creates jobs at the fastest rate in eight years and 4X that of the private sector in 2009, according to the ONS. Also surprising: publics earned 7% more than their private sector peers, a gap which has doubled since the recession began. Official figures show publics get bigger pay rises, work fewer hours and receive pensions up to 3X the privates, which publics can withdraw 7 years earlier (publics retire at 58 vs. 65 for us, the working stiffs) according to The Sunday Times. "However you look at it" says Nigel Hawkes of Straight Statistics, "public sector workers have done better than most in the private sector over the past decade- and the gap is widening."

Since arriving in England in '97, the year Tony and Labour came into power, the public sector has added 914,000 jobs to more to their six-million or one-fifth of the workforce. Youngsters no dummies - they head for the fatted cow: 39% of public sector workers are graduates up from 25% in '98. Only 20% of private sector workers have a degree, a rise of 5% over the same period. Says David Frost, Director-General of the British Chamber of Commerce: "Small and medium-sized businesses - the firms who will be vital for the economy's recovery - lose staff to the public sector because they cannot compete with pay and benefits big state employers offer."

What I find shocking: public's productivity has declined by 3.4% in the 10 years from 1997 - compared with a 28% rise in the private sector over the same period (source: ONS).

This bullshit. I have no problem investing in schools, NHS, roads, infrastructure. Instead we - the private sector - funding sloth. And labour votes.

Me: "What do you think about having a job?"

Madeleine: "A job?"

Me: "Yeah, like when you are older."

Madeleine: "Hmm. I think it would be fun. I would work at the pound."

Me:

Madeleine: "The dog pound. No, no - not that. Maybe the V&A. Or maybe I want to be a musician."

Me: "Anything else?"

Madeleine: "I have no clue."

Dinner And A Trumpet

Arthur, fiance Ruth, me, Anthony and Sonnet the other night. Photo from Arthur.

So today, my "to do" list something like this: 1. fix garbage disposer (which stopped working one month after the warranty); 2. dismount television monitor and remove hamster-chewed cable; 3. insulate outside pipes (that exploded in the night); 4. Install wireless electricity monitor (because the other brand did not work) and assemble tool-kit. On the last one you can see why. I am learning trial-by-fire where the water "cockstop" located or how to turn off the gas (but this another story). While I diddle, Madeleine at swimming then drama class while Eitan mills about - no football since the arctic weather continues. He knows to stay away from me, too.

Madeleine, who has been campaigning for a trumpet, attends a school lesson and comes home even more jazzed. We have experienced instruments before. The thought of Madeleine playing a trumpet in our house disruptive and I told her so last year probably a bit too directly. Both she and Sonnet pouted but, for Pete's sake, this is not a tool that requires finesse. Besides Sonnet once with me me and not with the terrorists. Better Madeleine play something thoughtful - like a recorder or something. But no, Madeleine has her mind set and so Sonnet takes her to the music store in Richmond to pick one up. She walks in the door just now ... and she is armed.

Madeleine, with her trumpet: "Dad, it seems amazing, but in my first lesson I learned two notes. And I know how to play them." She starts blasting.

Me: "Sonnet, are you out of your mind?"

Sonnet: "Madeleine, don't pay your father any mind."

Madeleine:

Sonnet: "Tell Dad to just go jump in the lake."

Madeleine: "Dad, just go jump in the lake."

Hamster Nibble

While in Bath for New Years, Monty (who cost £12) escaped from his Habitrail and gnawed the cable connecting our 50-inch flat-screen TV to the media box (all of which came with the house), pictured. The television still works, but without display. The cost to replace the cable: £395.

Compost Happens

Here is our little island from above (Nasa satellite). It is freezing - in fact, the coldest winter in thirty years the BBC and everyone else reckons. Or at least since the winter Sonnet was in Shefield, Silver reminds her. I get my weather history from the black cab drivers who all have some story about snow packed up to your chin. They love talking about the weather and the Congestion Charge. It used to be Ken Livingston, who they felt no better than the gum on the sole of your shoe, but now he is gone. London hits -3C degrees and -22.3C in the Highland village of Altnaharra, poor bastards. The snow has now turned to packed ice shutting airports and making the local roads treacherous. I fell off my bicycle. The BBC reports that councils have had "tons of grit" stolen - yes, the bad weather brings out the worst in everybody. Especially now that the holidays over.

Our nasty winter began at 6:05AM when Sonnet informed me "we have a little problem." A copper pipe burst shooting water six or seven feet into the air and into our side walkway and neighbors backyard. Using my dinky bike torch, hands numb, clothes wet and temperatures freezing we battle the tides I all the while cursing for not knowing where the house's cock-stop located. Eventually we give up the ghost and frantically call plumbers. I get through to our local who helps me clamp the water valve until he arrives with a wrench. We are damn lucky the burst not in or underneath the house.

From there, I go straight to Homebase and buy a ton of crap for my tool-box including a 1,000,000 candle power torch and a ten-pound grip. I am through fucking around.

Sonnet: "I am meeting (designer) Paul Smith this morning."

Eitan: "What! You have to be joking!"

Sonnet:

Eitan: "Sir Walter Smith is the manager of the (Glasgow) Rangers!"

Me: "Who is going to join me with the compost?"

Eitan, Madeleine:

Me: "So why do we compost anyway?"

Eitan, Madeleine:

Me: "Ok, it is because we humans are destroying the planet. We pollute our oceans and streams and lakes; we fill our skies with particles and exhaust and dump our waste into landfills. We are creating problems that you will have to solve after your mother and I are dead."

Madeleine: "Don't say that Dad! I don't even want to think of you dying."

Eitan: "Can I have desert now?"

Thames Mortlake

The Thames at Mortlake and how gloomy it is. I bike here before work to take this photo. As we can see, the tide is out - otherwise the water rises to the toepath or the height of the small peer. The daily volumes unimaginable unless seen. Mortlake otherwise not to be trifled with - the blue collar village appears in the Domesday Book, and the manor belonged to the Archbishop of Cantebury until Henry VIII, when it passed to the Crown. From the early 17th century until after the civil wars, Mortlake celebrated for its tapestry, founded during the reign of James I/VI. Sir Richard Burton buried here.

The local Stag Brewery (now owned by InBev) and just off this photo has been making making beer for 600 years but now, sadly, closing in December 2010. This does present a unique opportunity and one would think our dear Richmond council would at least open the floor for various considerations of the space. It will soon be London's biggest development, after all, and it might be nice to have a few ball parks or river access before the condos go up. Our MP, Sue Kramer, tuning into this issue and slowly the contractors grip loosens. I am not hopeful though maybe Prince Charles will get involved. He loves a good architectural bashing.

This is also where the Oxford-Cambridge boat race ends.