Blimey. Has it really been two months. Howdy! And apologies to anyone kind enough to drop by only to find I've been a tosser about writing.



What a two months it has been. Went to San Diego to watch my best friend be quite possibly the most beautiful bride I've ever seen and to have the chance to pal around with friends old and new. I loved San Diego -- the beach and the sun and the chance to terrorise others behind the wheels of a car. Also didn't mind meeting James and having my first picnic-on-the-beach date (oh, those summer nights). It was also quality time with my mum -- she really is home even though she's not in the house I grew up in.



Shortly afterwards I flew to Edinburgh for the Fringe festival and the madness that follows. Saw a fascinating, but extremely vulgar play, Stitching, and a foot-stompingly fun Slovenian folk band, and managed to keep pace with Andrew Lazenby who can make a walk across town an athletic adventure. Also indulged in some Scotch Whiskey, the variety of which is truly amazing. From the caramel smoothness of Balvenie, to the smoke and peat of Bowmore, it has a diversity of most people mightn't recognise.



Two weeks later, I flew back to Mykonos for seven days of beach and sun. I was hoping it would have the same restorative effects it did last year, but I quickly got bored of being by myself on a small island lacking new adventures. Unfortunately, there was no German distraction, or new exploration to undertake, and my hotel was filled with a disconcerting group of Christian lesbians that filled the pool with loud testerone-charged chatter.



Currently, my father and his partner are in town -- discovering how easy it is to get lost in London. My father's wearing a cast on his foot and I think is finding it difficult to get around. I've discovered that it's fairly difficult (painful) to walk very slowly. But we're off to Paris this weekend, which I always find exquisite. Hopefully, they won't be daunted by the French.



Next weekend I'm off to Norfolk with some of the Edinburgh gang for a weekend in an 18-century refectory to celebrate my birthday by donning 60's clothing and a London crimelord persona to take part in my first murder mystery. It promises to not be boring.

Tired. This site is tired. I'm tired of looking at it. I'm tired, and tired of having to work weekends. I'm tired of feeling bad because someone I really liked, who I thought really like me isn't returning my phone calls. I'm tired of television...



Tonight's the last night of Big Brother 3 which is a big success here. But really, the people on it are tired. I quite like Jonny but Alex is a mopey fuck, and Jade just couldn't be more repulsive -- although she provides great comic relief:

Jade: Where in the world do they speak portuganese?

Alex: They speak portugese in Portugal.

Jade: Portugal? Is that in Spain?

Poor thing can't catch a break in the press, but she really is rather dim.



We're also knee deep in the Commonwealth Games -- a sort of Olympics for the countries that used to make up the British Empire. I've no idea if it's any good, but will no doubt be forced to watch it somewhere, somehow. I should just turn off the telly and read -- I'm loving Perfume, by Patrick Suskind. And will need to get to reading the branding books I took from Organic.

The fourth and seventh of July. In an attempt to introduce our BT clients to our new colleagues at Agency.com to each other one of our more patriotic ex-pats organised a dinner party at the Big Easy BBQ and Crabshack.



Yes, there is such a place in London. To most people's surprise.



It was predictably tacky -- wood panelling and wagon wheels and plastic cacti and an annoying two man band playing 70's rock and wondering why the audience wasn't singing along to Sweet Home Alabama. And some of the worst cole slaw ever tasted. But the margaritas went down well, and the tequila shots took the edge off of being surrounded by so many drunk American bankers. You see, Chelsea is known locally as tosserville because of the large, obnoxious financial American ex-pat community who crowd the Starbuck's in their flipped up polo shirts and ray-bans. Shudder.



I enjoyed the irony, however, of celebrating my country's independence from the country I fled back to. Thing how much easier my bloody visa would be if we had never declared un-dependence!



Three days later I was sitting in the anteroom of the much more refined Claridges Hotel. Famed for its high tea, Claridges is a stunning piece of art deco filed with dowager type women having their Sunday lunch. We were there for an all too different reason. Some enterprising person booked the table for six in the kitchen of the Gordon Ramsey at Claridges restaurant. It sounds tacky, but it was sublime. Ramsey is the only Michelin 3-star chef in London and lunch, whilst pricey, was exquisite. Seven courses of foie gras, scallops, lamp, sea bass, etc. all accompanied by bottles of wine with each course. Lunch was more than six hours, but the staff and the company were delightful and it was a decadent way to spend a rainy Sunday in London.

The sun's out! Shockingly, it's warm and sunny in London. We may have a summer after all. Had a quiet weekend of shopping, spring cleaning, and laying about. Watched a fantastic Danish comedy lastnight - En kort en lang. A gay comedy that might be the first "gay" film that didn't make me want to throw something at the screen! It's the story of a gay couple who are thrown into crisis when one of them has an affair with the other's sister-in-law. It all ends happily and without an ectasy overdose, AIDS death, techno soundtrack, or male hustlers. It did feature a cute-as-pie male lead, a fantastically designed flat, and a curious woman who smoked a pipe throughout.

Sad, but true. The long silence is because I'm freaked out about life right now. Organic has decided to close the London office and merge some people with Agency.com. I knew nothing about Agency.com and was unprepared for this big change. I know it's only a job, but when you're thousands of miles away from friends and family and you're about to see your team and colleagues scattered to the winds and when you have no idea who will give you a work visa in this job climate -- well, it's overwhelming. I stormed. I sobbed uncontrollably. I sulked. I stayed home for two days overwhelmed by sadness. Organic was more than a job -- it was a full blown, emotionally dependent relationship and then suddenly, it was no more.



With the passing of time, however, I've become hopeful and even anxious about what's coming next. Will it be Agency? They've seemed sincere in their interest. They're not terribly dissimilar to Organic. It would be safe and familiar and more of the same and maybe just a bit better. But am I not being courageous enough? Should I be taking a bigger step in a new direction for my career? Am I spending to much time making too much noise in my own head? Will these hives ever go away?



What's sweet are the former colleagues who've come out of the woodwork to wish us well. Say what you want about Organic (and some day I will say it all) it brought together some very tremendously smart and interesting people.

The English used to dance around maypoles celebrating Spring and fertility and hopeful love and all of that 18th century rot. They would frolic in fields and drink toasts to bounty and taste the first fruits. Now they board up windows and call out the police and protect themselves from the anarchists who take to the streets to protest McDonalds and banks and anyone in formal business attire. It's a strange day in the capital. Happy May First.



They expect 400 anarchists. And thousands of bored slackers. Really, couldn't we learn anything about riots and protests from the French? Shake it up at least? Paralyse the nation? Viva 1968, this is what happens after post-modernism -- press coverage and Starbuck breaks. They waited for the light to turn before crossing Cambridge Circus, for fuck's sake.



Le Pen. Cripes. Anti-semitism and anti-immigration are sweeping Europe. A nutcase gets into the French presidential race and a synagogue in North London is vandalised for the first time in 40 years. What a nightmare. I blame Bush, simply because I haven't heard him blamed for anything recently. I like spite. It feels good. I don't like the Right.



Radio Four reported that the American Jewish establishment has joined forces with the Chirstian Coalition to influence the nation's policy on Israel. Talk about dancing with the devil...



I dream about work now. Haven't slept right in four days. If I look away from my monitor my eyes blur like they were smeared with vaseline. I took a sleeping pill and slept for 10 hours and now realise the depths to which I'm wrecked -- I dreamt about work in slow motion.



I would go home and watch all of the hoopla on the telly but there's the final wine class to get through with an impossible taste test I have no hope of passing and ITV Digital has gone out of business, leaving me with nothing more than the terrestrial channels everyone else gets -- lots of BBC. ITV went belly up today after realising they had gotten themselves into an impossible multi-million pound contract with the Premier League (that's soccer for you yanks) and have left thousands of people without digital television. Sounds tragic, but as the BBC is currently inundated with gardening and pet hospital programmes, digital cable was a necessity. Documentary on the Queen's jubilee tour to Southampton anyone? Or maybe billiard highlights? I better take up reading.



I flirted with a boy in a bookstore last weekend. Then realised that I had the recent Jamie Oliver book in my hand. How embarrassing. (He's become passe, if you didn't know.) The boy was buying a holiday book. I was jealous.



I also developed a rash after eating Moroccan food. My palms went blood red. It was like a dream.



It's trying to be Spring. We had two warm days, but its reverted to its cold, rainy self and we get through chilly days with wet socks and pale, glum expressions. It sounds like I'm looking forward to Summer, but I'm not. We become inundated with tourists, the Tube becomes impossibly hot, it becomes prohibitively expensive to travel and it is reminding me that a few of my friends are leaving the UK to go back to the US for good. That makes me sad.



Make an effort to make friends, make an effort to find romance, make an effort to better yourself, make an effort at work. Make an effort, make an effort. Or sit at home and watch telly. Oh wait, make an effort to get cable. Just muddle through.



My MP3 player is on a Lilith Fair kick. I think I'm becoming lesbian, but I don't have the shoes for it.



The anti-capitalist march just walk past. 200 white youths with Nike shoes, Gap clothing and Jansport backpacks followed by tens of police in riot gear. This is why we boarded up our windows?



I'm going to get a coffee. Maybe I'll taunt them with pound notes.

Has it really been a month since I've updated this? I'll recap briefly. The Queen Mum died. Everyone agreed she was "indomitable" including those who probably had no idea what "indomitable" meant. She was a gracious brave woman, but let's not also forget that she lived in ridiculous luxury all her life. Still it does Britain credit that people are queuing for 8+ hours to pay last respects to their dead queen.



Robert came to visit again. He wears me out, even though I greatly enjoy his visit. We did the usual drinking about town and it was lovely as always to see Mark. But I'm afraid the stress of my job has made me a less than gracious host. I'm exhausted most of the time and preoccupied the rest of it.



So I joined a ridiculously expensive gym, The Third Space, in the hopes of getting in shape. It's going slowly, but so far so good and I do feel slightly more able to handle my life.



I also bought a new iMac. I couldn't resist the lure of the beautifully compact, super-powered machine. Let's face it. The new Apple products are addictive.