Even God rested today. But I'm working. More pitch work requiring me to coerce my jetlagged brain into thinking clearly, innovatively, and optimistically. I'm failing on all fronts. At this very important time.

Had dinner last night at Satsuma with Lance in Soho. I increasingly hate Soho with its crowds of lager louts, tourists, and screeching queens. Its cramped, dirty streets and lack of cashpoints. It has its bright spots -- the liquor store that sells honey vodka, the Asian market where one can buy edamame, the caipirinhas at that trendy bar I can never remember of the name. But it's usually just tiring. We did see Paul Rudd, the handsome actor who's hiding under a shaggy beard, holding hands with some greasy blonde and rushing through the streets as though many would recognise him.

But that was last night. And today my head is full of pitch scenarios, my career advancement, my to-do list, and Emmylou Harris' excellent new album. (And no, I'm not a fan of country music.)

John, and the rest of America, has discovered the Naked Chef. No he's not naked, and we don't understand what "pukka" means either.