Sorry. Sorry.

Me: 'Something really good happened to me over christmas'

Finn: 'Yeah? What's that?'

Me: 'I managed to wean myself off gossip blogs on a diet of shit internet connection and swimming.'

It lasted about two weeks. For two weeks, I neither knew nor cared about the intricacies of John Travolta's son's tragic death, or what delightful outfit Katy Perry is using to pad out her fifteen-twenty. I did keep up my subscription to Gwyneth Paltrow's lifestyle newsletter (goop.com. Do it. You'll never forward something so much to so many people) and people do tend to keep me posted on the highlights of Winehouse-watch. But I was out. I thought. 

It was the bloody GUARDIAN that lured me back, printing just one of a series of out-takes from Madonna's recent press shoot/milky bondage session. I was intrigued. And then I was astounded. 

Surely, if you're Madonna, things like this, unphotoshopped out-takes, do not just....accidentally end up on the photographer's website. They do not HAPPEN to seep onto dlisted.com. Not without a red-string garroting. People I ask seem to think she did it for publicity. But I dunno. I mean, she's Madonna. Surely there's a point where you'd be like 'y'know what? I'm not sure I wanna look like the uncanny opposite of one of those heartwarming pictures of a little girl dressed all up in her mothers floppy hat and double size stilettos... I mean....just for my self esteem and stuff....I mean....people are gonna buy this record anyway, right?' 

But then maybe the record industry is sicker than we know. Maybe the only way to bolster Madonna's slumping sales and save the business was to release some fucking terrifying pictures and wait for everyone to go nuts. 

She would've been better off doing a Poor Britney, it seems. Nobody seems to find these pictures as disturbing and oddly.....moving as I do.  They remind me of the time Finn, a friend of ours and I ended up in an empty Auckland strip club on a Monday night, drinking glow-in-the-dark drinks and watching a 65 year old stripper. She came and hung out with us after. She only worked when they were short staffed, it turned out. Mostly she bred miniature ponies in Karaka. But she liked to keep her hand in. So to speak. 

That's enough now, isn't it. 

I'm in a recording studio. Henning is next to me, Dan next to him reading some guitar wank mag. Finn's through the glass playing an acoustic guitar. I'm not telling anything else about it. Maybe a couple of things. Five out of six people present are wearing blue sweaters, which is a very odd coincidence. There's an amazing deli outside. Grizzly Sutton is mastering the record across town today, but we're here, so we're not there. How's that for a paradox?

The thing we are doing sounds really quite good, also. There are BONGOS ON IT. 

 Tomorrow we're making little movies with Jane. After that we're back here. And then on Monday....

We wrote a setlist for the shows. Is it better to start sorta lowkey and beautiful and build towards a bloody squalling mess at the end, or would you rather we came out screaming and then gave you a little rest? 

Things we've been doing

Sorry for the delay. But back now and I promise to be super efficient. Besides, I'm in London again, and it's distinctly indoors weather.

I spent my last days in Sydney going to the aquarium and putting the finishing touches on a tan the likes of which I've never had before. I can see why people do it, all of a sudden. It's like magic. Or crack. The realisation of, I can turn myself a different colour! And then the natural progression to How far can I TAKE this?

The answer, it turns out, is far enough that people can tell, but not so far that anyone's really that impressed. Cheryl Cole, I aint. Or, to continue the crack metaphor....oh, there's no point even writing her name, is there. But I like the way it makes my hands look like they belong to a wizened crone who spends her weekends tending an orchard in some kind of tropical paradise. Which is kind of what I was. Without the orchard. 

Anyway. While I was wandering the aquarium (Manatees: quite something. They look like aquatic labradors. I've never seen an animal look so CONTENT) and avoiding Sydney cockroaches (dear LORD. Truly, the stretch Humvees of the cockroach kingdom), Henning was having a baby.  Well, not WHILE. Actually, it was WHILE I was having an awkward conversation with my cousin on Christmas Day. The conversation went like this:

Her: 'So what did you get for christmas?'

Me: 'Um....a bikini and a tshirt...some chocolate coins...What about you?'

Her: 'Oh, I didn't get that much, like, just some clothes and some other stuff....Cos, like, I got a BMW for my gradation present, so, you know.'

Me: 'Oh.'

She's probably reading this. Sorry Caroline. I don't mean anything by it. It was just a bit surprising.

But anyway. Henning is famous in Veilworld for, among his many other talents and quirks, being consistently a FAFFER. When we're getting a bill in a restaurant, Henning can be guaranteed to be ordering coffee, which will take twenty minutes to arrive. We once nearly missed the eurostar because he was buying liquorice. He brought a juicer and a feather quilt on a tourbus. We've spent many a morning swearing in a hotel lobby because Henning's 'just finishing his sauna...'

Etc.

So I suppose it should be no surprise that his offspring showed similar inclinations, making her way into the world just after christmas, a mere two weeks late. I guess a womb is not so dissimilar from a sauna, really.

I haven't met her yet but I've seen pictures and she's adorable, which is probably Henning's girlfriend Tania's doing. It's bizarre and immensely exciting though, to Skype video Henning and see him, pajama clad, coffee in one giant fist and baby clutched snugly under his arm with the other.

In business news:

Last night went to the launch of Great Escape festival's New Zealand speciality wing, or something.  I guess every year they focus on one little known distant country's current crop of poster-ready indie-with-a-novel-cultural-quirk bands, and this year it's NZ's turn. Finn did a couple of acoustic songs and we got to see Brendan Smythe who is the nicest man alive and helps us get funding from NZ on Air from time to time. 

Also they had canapes. And wine. It was in the NZ embassy. Whenever we go to the American Embassy, there are dudes with machine guns everywhere. At the NZ one, you walk in some automatic doors on a street just off Picadilly, opposite a steak house, and say to the girl at the desk, 'um...hi, I'm here for the...music....thing..?'

She pushes a button, and you walk through a door that sets you free in the embassy. It's brilliant. And what's even better is the view from the glass walled 17th floor, 360degress of nighttime london and nothing to do but try and figure out whether you're above the london eye or not, and where the Trellick is. 

 

 We're doing a bunch of stuff with Jane in a couple of weeks as well, so there's that to plan. Not to mention this album business, still. I know some people got a bit worried after Finn's myspace plea, but don't worry too much. Flickers and doubts, rather than natural disasters. 

Apparently the London shows are selling, so it's probably a good idea to get tickets now, if you wanna come. Which, of course, you should.