busker

Back to the partying and movie-ing: Of course, an enronian wind blew us no good and we were left powerless in Gaza which totally befuddled Young Miss who lives her life according to 'lectricity.

Instead, I served cold cuts and salad and three different puddings in between which we read from improving tracts or I plucked the guitar across my Dowland repertoire.

To the Spitfire's horror, we were also reduced to "conversing" on my approaching departure and the loneliness of long-distance fathering.

From the day our first daughter emerged into the San Antonio sunlight, I've nursed the fond image of grilling boyfriends and sitting up late at night, horse whip on lap. awaiting the nervous tread of a late-delivered darling home from some den of sin.

Alas, I shall be deprived that pleasure, unless their mother agrees to the strategic placing of webcams etc.

The Game: I'm not a football fan but I tuned in for the commercials so I saw that Ben Roethlisberger TD on a third-down rollout. Duude - talk about short of the goal line! You *saw* him furtively slide the ball over the line.

We wuz robbed.

Metrion: Our fave coffee shop, what with it being round the corner from the Glass Onion music emporium.

Their staff are friendly and informed and I wish the landlords would at least allow some decent signage in return for the crippling rent.

Natch, Her iPodness got on the phone to check the scene over in queensiest Anne (Dan and Joanne are a "couple"; Ted is out; Louisa has dumped Brandon and is waiting for Russell to get the hint and ask her out - Ms Spitfire's forte, meanwhile (so *she* says) chapless herself. Hrrmph - like yeh, not if the looks she gets in Safeway are owt to go by)

Super Bowl Commercials: I enjoyed them and thank-you whoever re-ran that commercial with the bosomy bra-strap busting babe.

Hef: Really! That Mr Hefner and his trio of blond chicks, the goat.

Years back, I was playing the guitar in the Windsor Castle pub up Baker Street when a vicuna-collared smoothie customer handed me his card and offered a job plinking in one of their lounges. It didn't last, I didn't pay earn my £19 per night but I met some wonderful customers, acted as go-between for some lucrative liaisons, and my 2am suppers with the girls was fun and joy.

I was way below the radar of the Bunnies but when my book PR career took off and I attended some posh parties frequented by the moneyed punters, it was an ego-trip to turn up with some of the dazzling ladies with whom I'd kept in touch.

The trick was to gauge my indignation at having my companion seduced away by some Player: not too vociferous but not too compliant.

Good times. Years later when I could afford to dine in the hot spots, arch unsmiling beauties would sashay in and then come rushing over to my table for a hug and a "You must meet my husband, Lord Wotsis-Face."

Clearly no competition or any part of the gal's history, I'd be introduced as an old friend, one of the *Yorkshire* Holmeses, and of course Belinda or Saskia or Juliet would make sure her sugar dad sent over a bottle of the best.

The Stones: Stroke of brilliance to have Mick et co do the half-time music, and I loved the news that none of the footballers could name a single single by the boys.

Mick fit and cavorting as ever, the bastard.

Keef looking like death warmed up and blasting it on the guitar.

Wonderful, brilliant. What a band.

Monday lunch: D threw his usual magnifico BBQ with steaks of the best and single malts flowing.

The totally foxy B was present.

I'd brought along my Jason Whitton review copy that D played non-stop and everyone loved.

B and I danced close and found that, in the immortal words of the Whitton song, "we're not so different....