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Song:
Rehab - Amy Whitehouse

Video:
Nothing's Gonna Change Your Mind -- Badly Drawn Boy
(Have you seen it? I like that one, very original.)

Another Stephen Fry article:
(I felt like that the other day when I lost my newly bought tube of Germolene. It has still not re-appeared.)

Sock Fury

I am angry. I am really angry. I am so angry I can barely go to the lavatory. I am fuming. I don't think I've ever been crosser. If you poured boiling jam down the back of my neck, set fire to my trousers, defecated on the back seat of my car and forced me to stare without blinking at the cartoon of myself that accompanies this article I couldn't be more furious. Hopping mad about sums it up. The reason for my ungovernable fury is simple to relate. I've lost my sock. The one I had intended to put on this morning. Its twin languishes alone on the floor of my bedroom, denied the awesome privilege of sheathing my right foot because of the immortal cheek of its wayward brother. I've had to find another pair. To put the lid on the whole sorry business I spilt coffe granules all over the kitchen floor. These two appalling catastrophes have combined to push my blood-pressure up so high that there si some danger of my sustaining a severe nose-bleed.
Now, I'd be the first to concede that in the cool, clear light of logic there is nothing bowel-shatteringly significant about these two incidents. I dare swear that in a day or two I will have forgotten all about them. Well, give it a week. What is so infuriating is the fact that I am incensed by two such nugatory, not to say trivial, hiccoughs in the life of one who generally speaking doesn't have too much to kvetch about. You see, a human being has only a certain amount of choler to expend and I have a horrid feeling that I could never, ever, in my life be more angry about anything than I was fifteen minutes ago when I ransacked my room in search of this blasted benighted god-forsaken bloody sock, which even as I write this is probably laughing itself sick behind the wainscotting or wherever it is that the foul thing has chosen to hide. And it won't do. Whatever strange moral,ethical or evolutionary purpose anger was designed to server, getting batey about errant footwear can't be said to come anywhere near the top of the list. Yet I swear that if you were to attach an irometer or crossness sensor to my brain its needle would shoot straight to the red line where the dial reads 'Danger. Extreme Overload. Evacuate' quicker than a rabbi from a gnu.
The same is true for happiness, of course. If I were left a billion pounds by an eccentric tycoon, asked to open the bowling for England, given a new cartoon for my Listener column, offered the car park built in Bicholas Ridley's back garden, I should of course be madly, deliriously, absurdley happy. But not any happier than I was when, at the age of eleven, I discovered a ten-shilling note in the pocket of an old pair of shorts. Certainly no more ecstatic than when I was taken by my mother, aged six (me, that is, not my mother: she was significantly older), to see A Hard Day's Night. I simply do not possess the capacity to feel any greater joy than that which lit me from within when Rolf Harris gave me his autograph backstage at the Britannia Pier, Yarmouth. Any simply felicity gauge would back up my claims.
So what price the world? If I tremble with rage at a mislaid gentleman's half-hose or wriggle with pleasure when a bearded Australian writes his name on a ticket stub, what have I left in the emotion-bank for genocidal injustice or universal peace? It's no good trying to imagine that those suffering from torture and cruelty and poverty feel excatly as if they've lost a sock, only it happens to be a very beautiful sock, with wonderful clocks and an attractive heel-panel, because it simply won't wash. Well, with a modern powder at today's lower temperatures and a little liquid fabric conditioner it'll come up lovely as a matter of fact... what I mean is that the argument doesn't cut any ice.
Am I then to assume that my life is so empty, my existence so vapid and barren, my mind so shallow, facile and unsympathetic, that the only event capable of engendering wrath in me is the loss of a small, foot-shaped tube of cotton? That really is a ghastly notion. If I thought it was truw, I would have to end it all. But what kind of a suicide note could one leave? 'Realised that my anger about the sock was unjustified and proved me valueless. If it is found amongst my effects please have it stuffed and mounted and presented to the nation as a warning to others.' Not much of an epitaph is it?
I suppose I'll have to fill in my credit card mail-order catalogue and send away for.... 'The Sock Caddy, available in executive green or boardroom burgundy and personalised with up to one of your initials. Two tough, weather-resistant, distressed leather trays that provide tweenty-four hour, round the clock protection for your socks. We call it the Bedroom Friend.'
But imagine waking up to the sight of such a thing. I'd be livid.

Rome

I left from Sheffield in the afternoon and took a very late flight from East Midlands that arrived after midnight at Rome Ciampano airport. It took longer than usual to get the luggage, and it proved quite a problem to find an ATM to get Euros. The next hurdle was trying to get a taxi to my hotel. There were no taxis at the stand, but 50-something Spanish tourists who were jumping the queue to get their party into the few cabs that arrived every 10 minutes or so. Of course everybody was going to the city center, so there was not much point in sharing a taxi.
It pissed me off to be standing at the airport in the middle of the night - I had only a few hours before I had to be in the office as it was, so I pushed in and captured the next smaller taxi that arrived. I paid 60 Euros for the trip, because it was "verry farr, signora!" I had not expected anything else. The Axa suburb where the office and my hotel are situated is about 40km from Rome center, and of course there is not efficient public transport. The area used to be countryside until not so long ago and the new living quarters look more like Florida than Italy. There's a lot of space and you need a car to get anywhere. Luckily Marina was picking me up from the hotel in the morning so I didn't have to organise a taxi.
I wasn't very impressed with the hotel which apparently was a spa and fitness hotel. Unfortunately the large outside pool was closed, and I never got around to finding the gym. The internet access didn't work either, and there was no hot water in the evening. Am I posh or what?!

The training in the office went OK, I think. What was annoying was that the people who most needed the training weren't taking part because they were busy, ill or not bothered. I will have to enforce attendance in the other offices, otherwise what point will it be for me coming over in the first place?! Federica was sort of disruptive at times, trying to shorten the sessions etc. Everybody was very nice though, and Irene is Dutch indeed and looks it, too.
I brought chocolates and shortbread to "brighten" the atmosphere, and hopefully some of the stuff was useful. On day 2 a freelance vendor, Antonio, took part. He didn't even speak English, so he waffled on in Italian, which I do understand enough to follow a conversation. He asked the right questions though and got upset about the right issues, so I guess at least the LocStudio training was useful.

On Saturday morning I made my way into the center to my new hotel. It was nice enough, even though the single room was tiny. And I found a bottle of complimentary wine on my room!
I raced around the city center on foot, and checked out the main sights, which was tricky because of all the tourists blocking the way! I must admit that I have no clue of Rome's main attractions anyway. The city is massive though, and I have to come back with more time. I definitely didn't make St. Peter's. There are random walls and columns everywhere. It's strange really to have all these unused ruins in the middle of a working modern city.
For lunch I went to a small taverna round the corner and had black squid risotto. I also had a glass of wine from the complimentary bottle, which gave me an immediate headache. By 6PM I was knackered from walking many miles and I retired to my hotel. I had a pizza at the hotel's restaurant and then some more glasses of wine. I did not finish the bottle. It was an experiment: The night before I had had wine as well, and when I woke up the next day I felt knackered and my eyelids were swollen - like they sometimes do from an allergic reaction. So on Saturday night I drank some more wine to test my reaction. The result is clear: No more alcohol for Kerstin. After my weeks-long abstinence it now doesn't feel good at all. In the morning I woke up feeling slightly depressed, bloated and my eyes are swollen, too. I guess tee-total is the way forward from now on.

My flight on Sunday wasn't before the late afternoon, so I decided to put my luggage in storage at the Termini station and go to the Museum of Modern Art. I would have gone to this other museum which has a Warhol exhibition, but it proved impossible to find it, so sod them! When I arrived at the left luggage point, the queues were miles longs, so I forgot about that plan very soon. Instead I took a taxi directly to the museum and squeezed my bags into the lockers there. So I did get to see some culture after all.

Otherwise everything was quite Italian, as one would expect. Don't get me started on my "Italian Rant". Let's just say that should I ever express the wish to move to Italy, please remind me that it doesn't become me.

Did I mention that my home internet connection has broken down?! WORST CASE scenario!! I hope by the time I post this Stephen has managed to get me back online. I couldn't check the forums for days because the hotel internet wouldn't let me log on - I did manage to keep up-to-date with the latest youtube developments though. Thanks to the global girls' team! :-)

On Monday I will have to catch up with my work stuff, and Félix from Portugal is visiting, so I have to spend a couple of hours with him -- training him on Microsoft!
Tuesday afternoon I will race down to London for the Pigalle gig! And Wednesday morning I will fly to Paris to go straight into the training sessions... They are trying to kill me! Emmanuelle has scheduled 4 sessions for Wednesday afternoon, because her people can't be bothered to turn up on Friday. I am planning to go to the Louvre on Friday morning instead, sod them!
Friday afternoon I fly straight to Vienna for the DJ gig. Kristine's flight from London arrives at roughly the some time in Vienna, so we can make our way to the hotel together. It doesn't look like the Ronnie Scott's gig is happening now - it would be very short notice if it did - so I can go back to Sheffield on Saturday evening already. Or maybe I will stay the night in London - Kristine needs the hotel room anyway because she's not flying back before Monday.

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