It's so sad. I am becoming obsessed with wallpaper. I love this from Osboure & Little but am equally drawn to the more traditional styles of Cole & Son.

And as for paint colour, I don't think I will ever get that right. The fact that I can do whatever I want should fill with me glee, instead of the dread which is currently consuming me. I know I will never get it right. But then as long as I like it, is all that matters, right?

Who knows. And after the walls and tiles and fixtures come the curtains. I wish I had just stayed renting: the excuse for owning a boring, craply decorated apartment is implicit.

I moved to the West Village, temporarily, or maybe not so if the pissarse of a UK law firm I am a cretin enough to hire fuck with my life as they are currently promising to do and do not deliver to my account the remainder of my closing funds in requisite time. It seems highly likely I shall be soon depositless or moved into a different interst rate entirely since they are checking off the list of items which can get them removed from the Roll of Solicitors all with respect to my case.

But it's all been fun. Today, for example, I almost got to cry, almost, on the phone.

"Tell him it's his client. I am the client on this case. I am the one paying the bills. His bills. Tell him to call me. He's calling me on my time and I am the one paying for it. It's not that he has anything to tell me, particularly, but I shan't believe he exists otherwise."

But enough of that. My woes interest you not. They interest me not. Not after a dinner for one and three glasses of chianti at Pesce Pasta on Bleecker Street. I sort of more than two thirds got to wondering whether the whole thing might not be just a blessing in disguise and I should forfeit my deposit on the Tribeca shoe box and run, run, run to Italy and buy a hotel or something in Emilia Romagna and just live there. Where nothing but maddening crowds could turn into being just nothing.

My new neighbours are having an al fresco dinner party. Careless abandon from wine has made them forget that the garden to their townhouse is bordered by a wall which houses a window to my bathroom. They regale each other with tales from publishing, heedless to the fact that I am 2 feet away struggling over stress induced bowel movements.

I hear someone pronounce that "Money is like cancer!". True that oh West Villaged townhoused one! I want to kick your arse but instead I find myself thanking you for unlocking the secret to my constipation.

Buona notte tutta

Quentin Tarantino was in Gueros last night looking very much the worse for wear and galavanting around informing the staff of his inability to eat off anything but plastic plates. So unimpressed was the crowd that I might have been in New York but I think Austinites have a far healthier attitude towards celebrity. They really don't give a shit.

I think I might have been able to live here if the traffic wasn't so bad and all of Austin consisted of lots more streets like South Congress and more Lake Boston. So much about it reminds me of Curacao, even the ridiculous air conditioned buildings rising out of nowhere, surrounded by lined cliffs and bony vegetation. But it isn't Curacao and even though Austin rocks, it depresses me on the whole. It's a good weekend trip and then a Jet Blue flight back to NY.

Yeah and Jet Blue. What is up with that? They may have won best airline awards from Conde Nast for 4 years in a row, but not one of their TV channels shows any operation/plastic surgery shows. WTF? I had to read. So wrong.

My baby died. Some genius told me that the hard drive was fried and now my ickle infant is in rehab in California.

Bless him. He will come back a clean slate. Wiped clean and uploaded with out of date software. MF Apple refused to give me Tiger. Time # 1,984,373 that I should have lied.

But yeah. It's all gone. Everything. But I have been saved. Well 98% anyway.

Ladies - if you take no other advice from me, take heed, whenever a nice chap asks you to back it up for Daddy, turn around and say, oh yes dear, indeed.