Get out of town. Having put off taking a proper holiday, and thinking I'd wait until Christmas to do so, I now find I must leave the country quickly (don't worry, just to get my visa re-stamped.) Where shall I go? Weekend in Paris? Berlin?

If anyone is unsure what to buy me for Christmas, just let me know...I have a little list.

No shit Sherlock. Today the newspapers reported that this is the wettest Autumn on record (for 230 years). Someone should chart when the rain fell -- it seems to have been every Saturday and Sunday since August. Interestingly, whilst Gordon Brown asserts it is due to ghlobal warming, some reports show that there is a type of weather oscillation that has no pattern, but sometimes causes mild, wet winters.

Up to the minute...A week ago (today?) Lance and I went to the Hammersmith Apollo to see French & Saunders on tour. Dawn French is the star of Vicar of Dibley and several Alison Moyet videos and is one of Britain's favourite comediennes. Her comedy partner, Jennifer Saunders, is better known in the states as the writer and star (Edina) of Absolutely Fabulous. Seeing them live on stage was a thrill. They are remarkably funny women -- although some of the material, obviously hastily written, was sometimes weak -- and it was a once in a lifetime event for me. I giggled for two hours straight (when not peeking at my Irish neighbour with the sexy deep voice.)

Friday night, Lance, Eddie, Deborah and I saw a "classical music spectacular" at the Royal Albert Hall. An evening of classical music's greatest hits set to laser lights and pyrotechnics. You may sneer, I certainly did at first, annoyed by the blinding laser lights. But eventually I let go of my cultural snobbery and started to have fun. The Royal Philharmonic did a brilliant job of some of the pieces (the O Fortuna was especially well done). There were certain songs, Land of Hope and Glory (better known to us as Pomp and Circumstance, or the Graduation song), Hail Britannia, and Jerusalem where the crowd took out their little flags and sang along. It was moving to see how patriotic the crowd was (I can't recall the last time I saw an arena full of Americans sway and cheer and get teary-eyed to our rather unmelodic national anthem.) The evening ended up with the 1812 overture complete with booming cannons and 19th century soldiers firing shots over the hall.

Saturday night Lance and I (isn't he sick of me yet?) went to G.A.Y. to see Sheena Easton. G.A.Y. is a Saturday night dance club in the cavernous Astoria on Tottenham Court Road and is often host to the most offensive of the bubblegum pop scene (Steps, S Club 7, the Spice Girls,) or 80s icons trying to revise their careers (Boy George, Belinda Carlisle, Ms. Easton). The BBC was filming a documentary about Sheena easton (who was discovered in a BBC documentary and groomed into a recording star). That's the only reason I can find to explain why the place was packed (either that, or Sheena Easton has a rabid following in London). I've never seen it that crowded. She went on stage at 2am and sang six songs from her new disco album, vamped around the stage with her half-naked dancers, and left. Now, I'll confess to having been a huge fan in the 80s, but wasn't much impressed with her first performance in London in over 15 years. She looks fabulous, sounds brilliant, but six songs of disco re-hash does not a comeback make. At the very least she could have thrown Sugar Walls or something into the show. I went home exhausted and nonplussed.

Sunday, went to dinner with Julian and Lara in West Hampstead (very near a charmingly downscale Czech social club where one can eat roasted pork and bread dumplings in the company of scruffy olf Czech men and their czech-fabulous wives.)

Foggy London. There's brilliant scene in The Tall Guy were Jeff Goldblum plays an American actor starring in Elephant!, a musical version of the Elephant Man. The opening songs contains the line, "it's a real pea souper." That's the fog today, thick as pea soup. I love Autumn.

I hate pitching for new business. 12.30am and I'm still working. Getting very very tired.

Down for the count. Woke up bloody depressed that the US was looking at four years of being amBushed. Now, I'm impatiently awaiting the results of the Florida vote recount and the identity of the next President. When we thought Bush had won, some of the British news show hosts could barely contain their disdain. I hadn't realised what the rest of the world (or at least Europe) would think about a President who had travelled so little of the world and would now be its so called most powerful man. He would to work very hard at having any stature -- as someone said, America hasn't elected a President, they've elected a President's son. Ouch. Please please please let it be Gore.

Spice up your life. Last night, after an extremely dodgy chinese meal in Leicester Square, Lance and I stumbled into a group of photographers and policemen. They were waiting for the Spice Girls to arrive at a new club to promote their new album (fabulously skewered in the New Music Express.) Though not a big fan myself -- I once quipped that wiping my ass with $8 would have been more enjoyable than Spiceworld, the movie -- it was exciting to see real-life stars just feet away. Unfortunately, David Beckham was not there.

John has redesigned his website.

So I've refrained from commenting on the presidential election which will free the country from its relentless muttering tomorrow. It's been very pleasant to observe it from the distance of Europe -- only being within its cacophany by choice. I'm terrified of Bush, and the what he'll do to the Supreme Court if he's elected, rendering America in the legal backwater for at least 30years. Even more terrified to hear the BBC refer to his Texan government as the most prolific execution machine in the Western world. Please vote.

...Thunderbolt and lightening, very very frightening, me...We've had hail, thunder, lightening, gale-force winds, and sunshine in the last two hours. The British weather is nothing if not prolific.



Had dinner with the magnificient Lance McDaniel last night at Wagamama's (Soho's communal-style japanese eatery). Drowned my work sorrows with a lovely bottle of sake and pepped up my spirits. Lance never fails to make me laugh. Funny how we began our friendship as work colleagues years ago, hadn't seen each other, then picked up right back up. I especially admire his ability to talk to anyone. He's promised good Mexican food tonight, but I just don't believe that exists in London!