Last, night, J and O's Halloween party. Except I thought I was invited round for dinner, so wasn't dressed up, and was quite hungry. Also delayed by cheking if my car worked (I have been too scared to drive it since Monday), but I took advice from S, and checked the oil wasn't milky, and the water was full, and must get my thermostat replaced. I'm a regular little quasi-mechanic now. But the party was fab: many actor/creative types, and pumpkins with candles (and pumkin soup, obviously), and lots of dressing up and green eye make-up.

Oh, and kids games: J came around about 11ish, and said "who wants to play humiliating games?" and with an invite like that, who could refuse?

The Chocolate Game (one foolish person eating chocolate with a knife, fork, hat and gloves), Apple Bobbing (two intimate people getting a headache), and the Flour Game (one stupid person - me - ending up getting a malteser out of a plate of flour).

School night, obviously, but nonetheless impressed my sister when she phoned at 1130 and I was at a party. Londoners, eh?

So Monday, when I had planes trains and automobiles to catch, I drove over to Finchley in a hurry to say hi to Z in her new house, and deposit a timely and relevant new house gift. Because of the stupid roadworks on the A41, my secret route is closed, so it takes ages to get there, and I have to go through Golders Green and Temple Fortune.

At Temple Fortune, my car overheats, in a BIG WAY, steam, the whole gantze megilla, and I have no choice but to stop at the side of the Finchley Road, which is currently a bus replacement route because of the Northern Line derailment. But with steam coming out of my car, and the headgasket about to blow (£1,000 for sure), I don't really have an option.

This is what I love about living in London: about 54 people make the effort to roll down their window, as they drive past, and yell "you stupid c**nt, what you f***king parking there for?" Like I'm a moron, and would park there on purpose if I had a choice. Jeez.

Eventually, the car cools down, and I loosen the water tank to let out the pressure. Fill up three litres of water (always in the boot, joy of my particular car), and decide I'm safer going home. I forgot to mention that I felt a little foolish, as I was carrying a 65cm pilates ball, which I was about to lend Z, and felt something like an extra in the Prisoner. Got a few (specific) odd looks on that count.

The joy of the fragile city.

For those days when you just type "St John's Wood" into google...

It's exactly two years old: great Nigel Farndale interview with Julie Burchill in the Telegraph.

The Derek Draper Question...
... which was asked in my comments? 3 minutes with google and 192.com, and I know that:

he lives in Primrose Hill

that he desribes himself as "Labour Spin Doctor turned adman"

the DraperGate paper trail is still alive and well online

he only works three days a week

at some - undated - point in time, he, or someone who looks like him and shares his name, went to live in San Francisco. Could be another Derek who's mates with Charlotte?

the whole Manchester mafia thing is alive and well
...amazing what the internet does, eh? You can hide, but you can't run.

In all th excitement, I forgot to say that yesterday was my birthday.

I think there's something wrong with me. I'm not - seriously - gossip enabled. Especially so early in the teshuvah year, but kind of anyway anyway, I don't really care. Don't get me wrong - I'm as up as the next person for a moment's conjecture about why Fred and Freda are breaking up, but I have an acute awareness that the damage my talking does, and it doesn't last long because it feels kinda tacky.

The other element is, that I don't really care. I don't care Which Royal, or Which Premier Footballer, or Which Anyone, and I rarely read tabloid newspapers now, and I never read OK! and HELLO! and other weeklies with exclamation marks at the end.

This is partly brought on by this week's Diana/What The Butler Saw story, and partly because a copy of the Sun found it's way into my home, and I discovered that someone I was at college with is a senior journalist there. All through University, on the student newspaper - Guardian newspaper of the year, that year, natch - all us right-thinking, left-leaning liberal types had to keep him in check, and pretend we didn't know him when he - genuinely - chose to wear a pork pie hat. This was before irony was mainstream, too.

I know all this crap is the oil the media wheel turns to, but I don't care. I don't want to hear often pointless conjecture, and I don't think the price you pay for celebrity/royalty is a bunch of overweight men in overcoats stalking your every move. Like when I went to Famous Neighbours Engagement party, and there were photographers doorstepping us on the way out, I knew they hadn't heard that a girl in Kilburn had lost a lot of weight and wouldn't it be a great story. And I was relieved.

So I'm at a friend's shabbos lunch table, and this United Synagogue-stylee bloke says:
"Reform. Masorti. Jews for Jesus. Moslems. They're all the same."

That's what I'm looking for; a liberal minded centrist.

Jonny Freedland on the Long View on Dieting. Fascinating. I meant to post this last week. There was an Atkins-type blokey (George Cheyney) in the seventeenth century, and guess what? He died.

Feeling well-smug: fixed my Outlook/IMAP problem myself. Turns out, you have to subscribe folders in IMAP in order to see them in Outlook.

So, farewell then, Concorde. Plane on which my parents' next door neighbours wouldn't travel simultaneously, because You Can't Be Too Careful. Things happen, evidently.

My (e)mail has been has been somewhere on the obstreperous-downright unfriendly continuum for exactly two weeks. Fallout from new PC, changing outlook defaults, moving from POP3 to IMAP and not knowing enough. So if you sent me mail and I didn't reply, please mail again. And if you know anything about the Outlook-IMAP interface, especially in relation to folders, come over to my house. Please.

I know I shouldn't admit to watching Richard and Judy, but it's not often that my degree subject is a news story. They had the Professor of Old Testament Studies from Kings' College London in debate with a guy called Laurence Gardner, about his new book, Lost Secrets of the Sacred Ark, which claims that the ark was a superconducitve something or other, and that it's now in France. Apparently.

Stephen Pollard's fabulous article about why John Humphrys should be the first up against the wall, come the revolution.

About five years ago, I organised an event for a large international media conglomerate (it was actually about "information overload", and their PR department invented the phrase to sell more information management products). Humphrys was the keynote speaker. Now I've worked with Cherie Booth, Neil Kinnock, and a host of other "luminaries" as speakers at my events, and most of them are humble and charming, if a little busy. For example, Neil Kinnock had his photo taken with my assistant when he discovered she was from the same place in Wales as him. John Humphrys was among the most demanding of speakers I've ever come across, and treated me and my team like badly paid underlings to whom he would pass his used coffee cup without even a word of thanks.

Lost Weekend
Not exactly, but had a great time in the holy N2/N3 postcode. S's Grandma - Uma to everyone - was a constant source of good humour.

Examples: Friday night, we were talking about the war, and it was twenty minutes before we realised Uma was talking about the first world war. This is what she had to say: all the soldiers came back to the town on horses. And they had blankets. Horse blankets. They were very dirty, needed a good wash, the blankets.

Uma asked me what I did, and in the spirit of expediency I said that I organised events. About two hours later she said to me: "coffee mornings, with raffles?"

She described someone she'd met in shul as "Polish with German overtones."

I suggested that she should write a book, or at the very least become Chief Rabbi (she has a series of fascinating views on women's issues and mixed davening), but she poo-pood my suggestion in the way that only a German grandma can. I hope that when I'm 91 I can still have a good argument, and dance at my grand-daughters parties.

HIGNFY
Last night, in the audience at the LWT studios, Southbank, followed by salad in Pizza Express, and super-witty company from P. I gave my other two tickets to the other P, and we waved at each other across the studio.

Extra guests: Clement Freud was slightly disconnected, in a witty way, and some sports commentator... Claire (??) Balding, was kinda OK in a jolly-hockeysticks way. She was like everyone in my class at school who lived on quite a well-to-do farm and went to University to be a vet, met a Rugby player and settled down to a life of horsey-blonde highlights and swallowed vowels. I know, I can be mean, and so soon after Yom Kippur. Oh, and Jack Dee in the chair. He was nervous. Scowly, nervous, but good.

I'm worried about Paul, frankly. He doesn't know that he's my ideal man, so he doesn't know I'm worrying about him. As you probably know, his wife died about two weeks ago, and while he was about 325% funnier than everyone else, he didn't have it. The last time I saw him, he was a superbrain riffing off the slightest hint of body language or mispronounced word, but last night he was a just a competent funny-guy turning in an OK performance. It must be hard: I think in his situation, he should take a break. Don't know what the deal is with his contract. Anyway, watch it, it's cool.

Do you remember in the olden days when you had to load drivers for peripherals, and you always lost the disk, and then you had to dial-up and trawl through some now-out-of-business hardware company's driver library and then all your DLLs went funny anway?

That was like last year. Just got a serial/USB2 cable for my old printer/new PC - plug it in, and it really does play. "Hello, you have new hardware, everything's sorted." I'm in shock. There's some good stuff about XP, then.

Can't chat - must go and print out War and Peace just for the hell of it.

Go on, google on skrousers. It's just me, then?

RECIPE: Fake Hoffman's Fake Chopped Liver (AKA aubergine dip)
I'm staying with S and N for the weekend, and they put in a special request. This recipe is based on years' of eating the stuff, and working out how to recreate it. Unlike Hoffman's, I don't put 58% mayonnaise in mine.

INGREDIENTS
To make a lot (it's quite rich):
3 largeish aubergines
4 or 5 large onions
3 or 4 large garlic cloves
3 hard boiled eggs
sugar
salt
pepper
oil

METHOD

Slice the onions finely, and slow cook in a little oil. The aim is to get them translucent, rather than crispy.

Garlic: you have two choices. Either crush and add to the onions, which is fine, or for a better flavour, roast in the oven, and then squeeze in the onions when they're about 75% of the way there.

Prick the aubergines with a fork, lots of times, and lay on a roasting tray. No oil. Cook on a high over for about half an hour, and then put under the grill, turning regularly, for about 15 minutes. The aim is to have them squashy.

When the onions are very soft, add some sugar and cook down some more. Let them go brown.

Take the aubergines out from the grill, slice open, and scoop the mostly-cooked flesh into the onions.

Keep cooking, till it gets really mushy. You might need to add a little more oil: play it by ear. Season as you go along: salt, pepper, a little more sugar if you fancy.

Pour the aubergine-onion mixture into your blender, and shsssuuujsh (well know verb for blending something to a pulp). Add the hardboiled eggs, and shsssuuujsh some more.

Do a final seasoning check, and you're ready to go.

It's easy, time-consuming, but ultimately worth it.

For the full-fat experience, add some mayonnaise.

I'm sort of thinking of buying one of these Archos goodies, because it's small and sexy. I don't actually need it...

You know when you have quite a lot to do, but in a moderately unstructured way, and your back still hurts a little and you sort of want to take it easy, but also to acheive something today? That's where I'm coming from. And, as you can see, it's a while since I've sat in front of my own PC without a squillion and seven deadlines breathing down my neck.

Say something, please?

D called me this morning to tell me that he started his first graduate-stylee job yesterday morning, shelf stacking at a niche-market specialist food retailer. By lunchtime, he'd already had a 50% pay rise, and been promoted to assistant store manager. At this rate, he'll be Global CEO by next Wednesday.

Friends came over for lunch last weekend, and I decided to make bread (riffing off the challah theme below), partyl because there wasn't any bread in my freezer, but mostly because it tastes nice and is fun. G arrived and said - both witti- and pithily I thought - "you've either baked bread, or you're selling your flat." A sharp guy, that G.

I was doing research, honest. I'm giving a dvar torah in shul on Sunday. But then, everything came to a standstill when I came across this: frumdate.com.

You really couldn't make it up. It's fabulous. It makes me want to cover my hair and improve my middos and get out my challah recipe all at once.

Well, I just don't know why I spent all that time writing up my fabulous British Gas experience - when someone else beat me to it.

OK, back in the land of the living. After two days of lying around (aka lying flat on my back), I'm back. Like Arnie, only a lot less testoserone.

And thanks to everyone for calls, texts, emails and all other forms of twentyfirst century communication.

Do you think it's possible that I can feel my disc (in my back, as opposed to my CD player?) actually come out?

I've hurt my back (quite badly) - this happens every few years, and it's not happened for a while, so I guess I can't really complain. Well, I do a lot of pilates/Alexander technique/yoga. But anway. It hurts. I haven't slept because the pain kept me awake and now I've criched to my computer like some kind of miserable person who's had no sleep. Apparently - also - I'm in Webuser magazine tomorrow, although the way I feel right now, it would be tough to get to a newsagent.

I'm kinda lucky that I finished two big projects on Friday, but I'd planned to do lots of nice "me" things this week (writing, tidying house, communing with the creator, you know how it is), but hey.

If you know me, could you call and be sympathetic, please?

I finally decided it's time to go organic. There's a bunch (I never know the collective noun for organic delivery services) of players, but my Alexander teacher recommended Paul's, and I arranged that my £10 mixed box would come late Sunday/early Monday. I made a copy of the fire-brigade key that locks the cupboad which has our gas meters in it, made a complex arrangement with them (leaving the door unlocked, key inside, which cupboard of five). Woke up early this morning, excited about an organic breakfast - yes, I know, leaving your organic stuff next to all the meters probably isn't great, but this is zone two, what do you do? If I left it on my front door step, someone would definitely nick it - and: no box. And no key.

Oh dear. The trials of an urban life.

It's my birthday in 3 weeks' time. I usually have a party, but then it's always half-term, and lots of people can't make it, so I've decided to separate my "annual party" from my birthday. And, of course, this way I don't end up with 135 little scented candles, and feel that I ought to go into the chatchke business. But you can check out my wishlist, if you want.

Things I'd like, if someone were to buy them:

A wind-up radio (steepletone DTr2, not to be confused with R2D2)

A new 21in TV (mine just died yesterday)

the most extravagant pair of black evening shoes with a pink bown on the back I saw in Russell and Bromley

world peace

one of those chunky century books everyone seems to use as a door stop

the ability to get by with about four hours sleep and not feel tired the next day

some completer-finisher skills, for a couple of projects I'm working on

It's getting a little... random, no?

And here is my faith: any future agreement will be based on territorial compromise - not just a real estate deal, but a spiritual decision by peoples that have decided to accept one another despite years of hostility. I believe with perfect faith that the entire land of Israel belongs to me. So it is written in the Bible, so my mother from Hebron taught me and her grandchildren. And I know that the dream of greater Palestine passes from grandparent to grandchild in every Palestinian home. Therefore the first compromise is between me and my dream. I compromise with my dream of returning to Hebron in order that I may live free in the new Israel. And my Palestinian brother must give up his dream of returning to Jaffa in order to live an honourable life in Nablus. Only those capable of compromising with their dreams can sit together to forge a compromise on behalf of their nations.

Avram Burg in today's Guardian.

It's Succot on Friday night - it's just that time of year, one Jewish festival after another - and while I didn't build my own Succah, last night I decorated L and S's with S and B. I just know L will be checking this out because he wants to know what I said about him. So not only does he have superlative succah-building skills (especially for a doctor), but he's a thoroughly nice bloke, to boot. Also, he'd make a very good plant.

Reminds me; in my first job, an ad agency in Richmond where I was a fish out of water like you've never seen (only Jew, only person who ate anything), a graduate job starting in like September. So when it got to Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, I'd only be there like a fortnight. Took two days holiday for Rosh Hashana - no problem.

What is it? they asked me.

Oh, it's Jewish New Year.

What, like loads of drinking and and a hangover?

Not exactly, I replied. More like Christmas: lots of family and loads of food.

When it got to Yom Kippur, ten days later, they asked again (and my boss made me take half a days holiday as I couldn't leave early to get home in time for Kol Nidrei). Is this about food as well?

No, I said, it's a fast day.

Right - like a diet after all the excess of New Year?

Not exactly.

When it got to Succot, it just got silly. I mean, what was I going to tell them? Even though it's probably raining in London, we build little huts in the garden and live in them? I mean, p-u-leese.

The Orange Literary doodar-type festival thingy.

I think I'm the only NW6er who came home from Yom Kipppur to have hand-written greetings for a peaceful nu-year slipped under my front door by Williams Cumberbache. Yay.

If I got paid £100,000 a week, I'd hire a secretary to remind me to take my drug test.

It's an incredible coincidence that on the day Arnie gets voted Governor of California, on the strength of my front-of-hosue work for the Off Cricklewood Broadway Players, I get a seat on Camden Council (bus strategy portfolio).

On Friday, when I told a client I wouldn't be around on Monday, as it was Yom Kippur, he said "I don't much about Jewish stuff, what is it?". I explained that it's a day for reflection and planning, and he said, opening his Sony Clie, "we should all do that. I think I'll schedule something in my diary now".

I stayed with Z and D, and we started that fast at Z's parent's house, which was great, and then had a truly spiritually uplifting experience. New North London is a very unusual synagogue: most of the people there are there for the davening/praying, not for the social, or the fashion show (which is also good, I'm not saying it's not). So like, at the end, in most other shuls I've been to, as soon as Neilah (the last service of Yom Kippur) is over, everyone's dashing out, and holding an apple because they're starving, and a handful of stalwarts are davening Maariv (the evening prayer). But at NNL, about four hundred people davened Maariv. Also, rather than just one sermon, there's a series of divrei torah throughout the day, from different members of the community (many of them my friends), which gives you different perspective, a chance to hear different voices, and to see people in contexts where you think of them anew.

Oh, I'm getting all holy and annoying. And today's like the first day of the new year where I haven't committed any "sins" yet. It's a great feeling. Not least if I can keep it going.

Broke the fast at L and S's, with lots of fun people, but frankly I was a bit flaked out by then, so it was tricky.

Tech Support, Please
I've finally gotten (sorry..) around to loading my PalmOS synchroniser onto my new PC, and it all looks like it's synchronising, but the stuff doesn't actually move. So I put a date in my palm for tonight, but it doesn't show on my desktop. Any ideas?

Yom Kippur starts tonight, so in the spirit of virtual-online-teshuvah: if I've done anything in the last year to upset, hurt or offend you, please accept my apologies.

Boy, do I feel foolish. I knew the thing wrong with my car was somewhere near the front, because I could hear a strange rumble when I drove D home last night. I parked up against the wall, and made a mental note to check out under the car in the morning.

This morning, I called the garage first thing, and they said bring it in. So I drove up the Kilburn High Road, getting a few strange looks along the way. The bloke in the garage wanted to drive it round the block, to hear the rumble, but I said I was a bit worried about that. So he got out his yoga mat, and was just about to lie under the car and check it out, when he said to me:

"You've got a flat tyre, love. Shouldn't have been driving on that."

Cue red face, hasty leaving of keys and getting the hell out of there. Women and cars, eh?

So I was up till 1am, getting my wireless network almost-sorted (when I say "I" - I mean D, as I luckily outsourced the whole project to someone who knows more than me), baking a new batch of honey cakes (people for lunch tomorrow, some for the freezer), and now my car is broken (making a *very* scary noise), and I have two projects completing today. I am a little tired.

Don't you hate it when switchboard operators ask "is he expecting your call?" I mean, I don't know if he's psychic, or just sitting around waiting for me to phone. It's business, we're busy.

Crap towns: Cheadle doesn't even get close.

I've heard tel that the Sainsbury's Market in Victoria is to die for.

There are about eight police officers milling around Kilburn tube station. I asked one of the station workers what was going on: "it's the Metropolitan Police PR tour," he said, with a wry smile, "they come and hang about when there's nothing going on, and as soon as something happens, they scarper. Call me a cycnic." I do.