Kai's Dad is doing really well. That's the first thing to say.

The damp in the flat has reached its most disgusting extent now. The kitchen floods constantly due to the delicious English summer we're having, and yesterday, as I was going to bed, Kai came padding out of the bedroom in his socks looking dazed and tired saying "There's dripping". And so there was, inside the house, in the corner of the room, about three feet in to the space of the ceiling, an enormous damp patch, a soggy and rapidly degenerating piece of ceiling plaster and a steady drip. Kai grabbed a bucket, and we pulled the stuff nearest to the drip's destination away from that piece of floor. Pulling it back, it became clear that this was far from the first time this had happened - a cloud of green grey spores flourished in to the air, and a stench of rotten damp carpet and wall suddenly filled the room. The whole carpet is fucked, I'm never fucking sleeping in that room again and I want to get my stuff out of there as fast as god damned possible. Kai's in charge of calling the landlord because if I called him I'd tell him to GET YOUR FUCKING ACT TOGETHER YOU BASTARD. Which wouldn't go down too well.

And we've spent so much bloody money on improving that flat. He's not going to sort it out, I can tell you that now.

I noticed, on this subject, that Sainsburys are doing a 100% mortgage (sigh). I won't be able to even begin to look at stuff like that until Kai's working again.

Wieeeeeeeerrd city. This happened to two friends recently: wrote a sit-com pilot; an American monied comedy TV enterprise sees an early craft, says - "Nah, it's not our bag kids, try harder and see ya later". They continue to develop the script, and do a pilot, and are gradually alerted via various friends going to auditions to an American sitcom of a *remarkably similar nature* to the fact that the aforesaid American TV production company had taken the boys original script and passed it to their in house development writers to mess with, who came up with some changes that were approved and a pilot was prepared. All, without acknowledging the original writers, never mind actually like, telling them about it properly. Jaysus. So needless to say, a certain amount of "What the hell?" ensued and now the boys have got credits on the American show, and they get a bit of dosh per show that goes out. Wow. So, they now have an American writing track record, plus, if the show *was* a hit, then blimey, they'd be monied. While all this was going on, a representative of said American company told another UK writer that they never base sit-coms on ideas from UK writers, they would much rather get the writers involved. Yeah, rrrrrrrright.

I've come back to work to the vague feeling (accompanied by a screaming jagged pain in my side then a constant searing pain on my back, right) that I've got appendicitis. However, I also came back after a week in complete UK isolation to the new Beastie Boys single. Kicks, bootie, yeah. Managed to remember also to buy the Notorious BIG single "Mo Money Mo Problems". I like that Mase kid. There's a lazy funkiness to those guys beats that isn't all screaming and in your face - I like that. Well, up to a point. I can't stand it when it becomes R Kelly-esque sludgy 'R&B' (and since when did awful commercial pop drivel become R&B? I mean, jaysus…). By those guys I obviously mean Mase, rather than BIG, who is obviously dead. So he's being very lazy in his beats then.

Descending from the clouds both going out and coming back fiercely reminded me of coming down in to Seattle in the dark. American street lighting seems so different to the UK's. There, the light seems to globe around it's source, making a 3D light zone around everything - but the lights don't seem to travel to high up. Maybe I'll always be reminded of factory made nut-loaf, warm mineral water and seeing the Space Needle coming out of the darkness.

Stood on the ramparts of an un-advertised Iron Age fort, looking out to sea. It's in pristine condition, about 3 feet thick made of dry stone walling. The feeling of connectedness was overwhelming.

Also went to Cobh (that's pronounced 'Cove', for you non-Irish decent folks) on the way back. The land of my Fathers. Literally - my Dad was born there, and I have no idea how far the line goes back before the family actually came from elsewhere - although Hurley is a Cork surname. It means originally: Of Fishermen - or as my dad would have it, "Man Of The Sea". The original Irish name was, uh, sort of spelt O'Michearla but the English couldn't pronounce it properly so they changed it to Hurley when they were doing public records. The Irish didn't even use surnames until the English decided they were supposed to (for Tax collecting purposes, obviously).

There was a 'Heritage centre' in Cobh that talked about the famine, and the relief ships that came over from the States full of food. It failed to mention of course, why there was a bloody famine in the first place, and what exactly the English were doing to help while famine relief came in from Irish emigrants in the US. I just… they got away with so much and when have they ever formerly apologised for the genocide and torture, the mass expulsion to America and Canada of innocents. It's all very well them getting hot under the collar about the Japanese apologising, but have they? Well, actually, they may have, but I can't remember reading it anywhere.

Oh, and I am never, ever going on holiday with Paddy again.

The decorating of the front room is now nearly complete. It looks fantastic now with the floor painted grass green, the walls 'antique' cream (whatever that means). I put my Calder inspired mobile up, and did real curtain hanging with hooks in walls and all sorts of things. Sat down in Owen's Heals sofa yesterday looking around at everything, knackered but chuffed. The reason for the rush - Kai's Mum is staying with us for a week while his dad in hospital having a heart operation. He's in theatre now, as I write this. Good luck, Jim. You'll be fine though, you don't need my luck.

Greta Scacchi walked past me this morning and stood a couple of people down in the taxi queue at Victoria station. The queue was so long, I thought I'd rather walk part of the way so trolled up towards The Mall. She looked lovely, by the way.

Ok, folks well you ain't hearing nothing for a week - I'm going away, and there's no access where I'm bound so… well, er - come back in a week or something.

I couldn't wake up. When I woke up, I could hardly speak, so I phoned up and let messages for the people that mattered at work, then went back to bed.

I've been coming in to work later and later in the last week, and today took the record - 2pm. I don't know that it's illness. It hit me today like a mallet covered in Felt. Blind misery knocked me for six.

I sat in the tube, trundling it's way in to the west-end, finishing my book, the protection from my self, too early. It didn't have a particularly satisfying ending, and I had nothing else to occupy my mind with. Sitting there, breathing in the foetid, warm, underground air already breathed in by thousands. At the other end of the carriage four students got on, wearing their clothes that screamed "I'm an individual!" out at everyone. Opposite me sat a couple aged about 35 talking about inconsequential things, and a middle aged man sat two seats from me, occasionally glancing my way or trying to steal a look in the glass of the window on the opposite side of the carriage.

Looking at the students, I thought - "Is this it? Is this all everyone has to look forward to? The endless fucking drain on everything about you that you fervently believed when you were 18, all of life stretched out before you - ground down to this - the endless banality of yet another tube journey in to work in wowee London. Grey, miserable raining day; grey, miserable, drowning lives.

Even the prospect of wanting to nest, have a kid - that burning ember embedded inside me. What will that do? What is it supposed to do - act like natural Prozac or something? Is that all I have? Is this fucking miserable soul destroying existence all I have?

So that's why I couldn't mail my friend this morning without wanting to tell him. Without wanting to say "I'm dying here". What good does talking do? It's always going to be the same.

Don't want this
. Don't know what I want.
. All I know is that I don't fucking want to feel like this.

…. and then suddenly half way through the day it feels different. Moyra's attempts to get me on to the tech-women mailing list she got on came through. I've been introducing myself to these amazing people all day, and seeing conversations playing out in my inbox that make my heart begin to patch itself back together. I'm still shaky though. I don't get it. Well, I think I do get it though. God damn, I hate existential thought - I wish I'd never heard of it. You have such a thorough understanding of the workings of your head - the decisions you know you have to make… the thoughts you are entertaining then dismissing as too awkward or awful to contemplate - and they're still there, bubbling, seething… bastards! Leave me alone so I can be happy for more than 3 hours at a stretch!!!!!
.Apart from all of that, she says, with a cheesy, moth bitten grin, worn down to show the fake plastic a little too obviously… I'm doing just fine.

Watching the original "Blade Runner" on ITV last night, with of course the knowledge that the voice over was added afterwards because studio execs were worried no one would 'get with the program'. It suddenly sounded ludicrous in parts. Yes, we understand the life-span symbols! The dove flying away when Roy dies? Guess what, it isn't that difficult to work out.

Felt seasick mid day. Now I'm just tired. Tired of London: tired of life. I'm knackered.

By the way, have you seen the New Statesman website? Bloody hell. You can't just come out and say "Look, guys, this sucks like a sour lemon", unfortunately.

Tried a few searches in Amazon music. Man, even their site is difficult to navigate - what is going on? They've got a surprising list of American music omissions (where were The Rachels - are they too avant garde or something?) but I did manage to buy myself a copy of Moonhead that extraordinary album. I haven't had it for years. I've got it on tape, but you know - it ain't the same. Oh, that soaring, beautiful beginning to "Moonhead" itself. You can just see someone driving through mountain desert in the dark; everything outside the car bitterly cold… They're the nearest American music got to home grown gothic - I don't mean "Goth" garbage, but truly bitter, dark and brooding American music. Do you know what I mean? You probably don't.

Louis and oh, some other bloke in Rialto are currently in the building doing a live chat. Bizarre to say the least to stand in front of someone who genuinely has no recollection of you, despite the last time we saw each other round at that bloke from the Grouch's flat… uh, can't remember his name he was the other head barman anyway. Still, he always showed little interest in getting to know me anyway. Guess I wasn't cool enough. Kinky Machine's first album was great, second album ok, Rialto suck the big one. Posed rubbish calculated (so Louis hopes) to make them famous. Does that mean Kinky Machine were too? God knows, but they were one of the best live bands I saw that never made it. Depressing.

How interesting has today been?

…

Woke late. Still recovering from the weekend. Woke late to the sound of Danny clumping through the house, having just got back from work at…uh… 9.45. AM. That boy doesn't know whether he is coming or going. He's certainly not doing either right now, just sleeping like a little kid in all his clothes.

Talked to Pat again today. She has some interesting ideas. I talked to Tony today about the Channel and the launch of Windows 98 in order to try and avert us looking even more dopey that we already do, Channel wise. He did his "I'm proud of you" thing down the phone.

"Because it's not about community, it's about commodities."

Sounds similar to something I said to Lotti in a mail the other day: "all commerce and no commune" - makes Cait feel vulnerable and scared.

Sad. I sat and listened and none of it… well, I lie. Some of it made sense to me but I'm not paraphrasing when I say that The Man said to me in a meeting "We just want them to buy something, and leave". If someone had said that to him 6 months ago, he would have got angry enough to start a row. But, like I say, right now he's acting out the part of 'The Man'. If he believes what he said…

What happened?

There was a giant TV screen in the foyer of the Megastore for the England match. People stood staring at the screen - many people, making those choreographed body movements. Straining forward, straining, straining… and shaking heads in unison… then up again…. and yes! They jump in the air and yelp! It looked like they were waiting for a Prime Ministerial announcement about the end of the world in a cheap science fiction film.

Waiting for the IE database to appear. I've now got 4 days to completion, and "Project X" too. Holey moley. I'll do it though. I always do, somehow.

I am about to die. I stripped half a room of wallpaper using a steamer hired from the Hire Shop. The wallpaper was fine, it was the wall plaster falling to pieces and ancient… oh, even the thought is disgusting to me… ancient glue gunged in to the wall, probably made of whale blubber or something - the steam ungluing it from the wall and sludging it down in waves that splattered on to my by now ruined boots.

That, then the party. Pat was there! I don't see her often enough, she's so… just so lovely it's almost as if she isn't real. Lottski, Yoz, Dave, who I suddenly realised looks like Bill Hicks when I watched the video. No drugs. What I don't like is that because I was in the mood, having no drugs became a focal point of thought for a while. I think I picked that up from er, someone. But it was lovely seeing everybody. I guess I'll have to wait until our friend returns to have an evening of heavy duty smiling.