Suwender to Twitter

Yesterday I finally gave in and got myself a Twitter account. To be honest I don't really get it yet, but within a few hours some 30 people I have no connection with are my followers. Some of the time it feels as though you are at the centre of a massive crossed line eavesdropping on conversations that you barely understand: the next you plug into something unexpected, immediate and wonderful. I have drawn the line at Denver Real Estate, web-dating and half a dozen earnest female Christians pushing out depressing messages of hope that belong on motivational posters of sunsets and seascapes. I mean really. Forster's "only connect" may be the motto de jour, but surely a small degree of editorial control is permissable.

Here, in a life-affirming paean to the power of a laptop and a few microphones, is a Twitter find. The digital world bringing raw street music together.

Stephen Fry has almost half a million followers, and no, I don't understand how he has time to breathe let alone tweet.

Do I have a witty, ironic avatar? No - if you really want to see me dribble, I'm lizbolshaw. As usual

A Butt of Sack

There is something rather wonderful about Carol Ann Duffy finally being appointed Poet Laureate, after she was apparently rejected last time round by a Tony Blair, nervous of the impact of her sexuality on a blushing Middle England. The anachronistic royal appointment famously carries remuneration in the form of a £5,000+ per year stipend (which Duffy has asked to be donated to the Poetry Society to endow a new prize) and a butt of sack. Interviewed on Radio 4 this morning, Duffy said that she had discovered that outgoing Laureate Andrew Motion had yet to receive his quota of sherry so she had asked to get hers up front. A butt = 600 bottles.

It may have taken 341 years to get here, but raise a glass with and to her.

If, for any reason, you don't know her work - start with Rapture, her astonishing collection of love sonnets.

The T word

There is hardly a news story now not centred around the R word - the economic reality that started as a slow-down, grew quickly to be an acknowledged recession, and for some particularly lugubrious columnists, is darkly hinted at a possible depression. But to stay with the majority, let's call it by the R word. Working, as I do, writing about and sometimes for business, I am acutely aware of the multifarious ways that the R word is impacting on the culture and behaviour of businesses affected by the nervousness, strangled cashflow and retrenchment that fills the corporate air now. 

Lymehound works for a range of businesses in different stages of their lifecycle: some are babies at that fragile point when idea blooms into reality; others are mature and street-savvy, playing the media, ducking and diving. Like any other business, we have to collect debts to survive, and we have been very lucky in having honourable, well-meaning clients who, because they're pretty happy with what we do, pay us on time or thereabouts. We know that sometimes that has been at personal cost, and we appreciate it all the more because of that. We do the same. Why? Because we have an instinctive knowledge that we should act as we want to be acted on, so to speak. 

Interestingly, the only real problem we, as a new media company, has had in collecting our debts, has been with our biggest and oldest client. This client is one I have known personally for many years, and one I admire. It never occurred to me that this high-profile, well-established, highly-appreciative firm should be our one late payer. I left it a while. But when I was getting no replies to emails or phone calls, I started to worry. Here was a vibrant, savvy firm, led by a high-profile CEO who speaks with gung-ho positivity at numerous events and conferences, who would regularly email me perhaps six or ten times a day, simply going silent on me. I decided that I couldn't sensibly continue to work without communication and said so. And today, she called me to tell me she can't afford to work with someone who needs to be paid on an agreed timeline. It was kind of my fault for having the unreasonable expectation of getting paid in a vaguely timely fashion.

Now I'm a grown-up and know there will be many business relationships that for all sorts of reasons come to an end. But what upset me about this wasn't the fact that Lymehound was being sacked (incidentally in open violation of a contract, initiated and signed by the client only weeks ago) but the absolute breaking of trust. "Trust men and they will be true to you," said Ralph Waldo Emerson. Trust is so much more valuable than legal contracts. Trust is what makes you bust your gut for a client; over-deliver; introduce them to valuable business contacts without any payback or chance of payback. Trust has to do with a feeling that you understand the lay of the land and you are working to do something important together. Trust stops you billing for every hour, every train journey and expense. Trust makes the world go round. 

When  you can't pay a supplier, call him. Ideally call him before he calls you. Tell him how it is. Don't suggest it's unreasonable to expect payment or any other game you might play. Just level with him and keep close. You may think you can do without your suppliers - plenty out there clamouring for your business. But at some stage, maybe next month, maybe next year, you're going to need business relationships that are based on trust. If you've forgotten that, the R word may be the least of your worries. 

Alex Kingston and the Middle-aged Actress

The Sun reports that Alex Kingston is returning to ER for the very final episode, shooting early 2009. Alex Kingston was famously fired from the series for that peculiarly feminine sin - becoming old. Not even old, just less young. Alex's eight series' body of work as Elizabeth Corday in ER, at reportedly $150,000 per episode, was in itself a living example of one of my favourite George Herbert quotes, "Living well is the best revenge." After a bitter and difficult marriage to Ralph Fiennes, for my money she deserved every dollar. 

Why should I care? Well, Ralph and Alex happened to live in the flat above mine in the then rather risqué East Dulwich, and proximity being what it is, we became friends. They were then struggling actors with the RSC, evenly matched in typical thespian penury. I fed them and got lots of free tickets. It was a perfect arrangement. I witnessed Ralph's supersonic rise to fame, memorably including a slightly drunken supper when the phone rang and one of us, among the invited rabble answered it, giggling loudly – it's Steven Speilberg, Ralph, for you. Yeh right, we all collapsed. But, of course, it was. And the call was the approach that was to lead to Ralph's astonishing performance as Amon Goeth in Schindler's List. 

I held loud parties in those days, with French windows wide open to rather a lavish garden at the back and a balcony with beautiful wrought iron that had escaped, due to its location at the back of the house, requisitioning for the War Effort. Ralph used to appear, in indigo silk dressing-gown, remonstrating in a Noel Coward way, about the noise. It was entirely reasonable and didn't seem to dent our friendship. When not engaged in learning lines, or preparing for a new role, he was an enthusiastic dinner guest and danced with the rest of us to UB40 before slumping into an armchair and falling quietly asleep. Always serious. Always self-conscious, many found him difficult. But he was charming to me (and of course then meltingly handsome) and we used to find a quiet corner to discuss literature and occasionally philosophy.

Everyone adored Alex. She was always more beautiful in real life than in front of the camera and generosity shone from her in a completely winning way. Alex, you felt, could not but be herself. I was lucky enough to go to their wedding in Suffolk – and another old friend, Joelle Dupont, was tasked with taking the photos. Which she did rather badly, by missing out half the important people. There were droves of unmistakable members of Ralph's illustrious Twisleton Fiennes clan including a towering uncle in Greek Orthodox robes and resplendent beard. I remember standing in the buffet lunch queue behind Ben Kingsley. No-one talked to him, so I did. Fame can be an isolating attribute. The two went away in a pink Cadillac – a kind of premonition of the Hollywood lives they would both individually build for themselves. But even then the marriage was creaking and it creaked badly before they finally broke apart in the uncomfortable glare of the press. 

Later, when Ralph was filming the Kathryn Bigelow cult classic, Strange Days, I went to stay with him in his own movie set in the Hollywood Hills. We'd arrived late at LAX and wound our way through the warm and fragrant night from the urban smog below in our vast, cream convertible Chrysler le Baron. Ralph was waiting at the gates to his house, dressed memorably in wafty white, and waved us through the sleek and minimalist house to a terrace where champagne lay chilling next to some delicate sushi, with a technicolour, widescreen view over Los Angeles which took one's breath away. It was my first visit to the States, and I will never forget the sheer thrill of it. Somewhere David Hockney talks about his first experience of America being like breathing oxygen for the first time - and that's how I felt. High and energised. Ralph was an attentive host, considering his weird daily schedule that required a nocturnal existence - Strange Days being filmed exclusively at night. He was then newly acquiring the behaviour of a Hollywood A Lister: a masseuse arrived daily; the hazlenut-roast coffee was delivered; he would nonchalantly slip from a towelling robe (as we slurped morning coffee by the pool) naked into the water. We went on-set and met co-stars Angela Bassett and Juliette Lewis, like giggling schoolgirls.

Many years later I was in LA on business and called Alex on the offchance. Alex, husband Florian and I growled away in their 4x4 from my hotel in Beverley Hills to a classic diner where we had huge calorific breakfasts. I still have the photos. And the love handles.

Now Ralph and Alex are both appearing in costume dramas – Alex as Mrs Bennett in Lost in Austen and Ralph as the cruel William Cavendish, Duke of Devonshire, in The Duchess. In real life, Ralph is famously restrained, private. Of course it doesn't always work: that Qantas air stewardess was never going to stay stum about their short-lived liaison at 35,000 feet. But mainly Ralph's life is his own. Alex has always been more open with the press - talking of her struggles to have a baby, for example. Her daughter, Salome, was born a month after my first son, Louis. They never met (and never will, because unfortunately Louis died last year from a brain tumour) but it remains a diurnal connection.

All this from a brief news story in The Sun: what would we do without our red-tops?

Money, money, money

Over the weekend, Reg "I'll get you Butler" Varney left this world aged 92, after many successful years as the Cockney bus conductor in 'On the Buses' - but his place in history was made, not from comic acting, but from making the first withdrawal anywhere in the world from an ATM machine in 27 June 1967. The bank was Barclays. The branch was Enfield in North London.

News of Varney's death came hot on the heels of another historic stat in the development of money and how we manage it. In October UK banking customers completed one million financial transactions (checking balances, paying bills, transferring funds) on their mobile phones, using the fast-growing Monilink service. Check it out here.

And in 687BC Herodotus reports the creation of the first rudimentary coins in Lydia.

Album downloads from iTunes

Although I am a fan of vinyl and the 3D nature of the sound, I continue to be lured into the iTunes store all too frequently and find myself exploring dark corners of the site for little-known recordings -  usually of early blues music or trashy 70s pop. I don't personally find digital music quality (assuming some decent equipment to harness your computer to) significantly worse or flatter than CDs. Occasionally maybe there is a tendency to that 'bright' tone but I think you'd have to be unusually acoustically fastidious to really notice the difference. (Listen to Blue Note vinyl recordings though and I defy anyone not to be amazed how much better they are than any of the digitally remastered CDs that followed the iconic label's heyday).

One major gripe I do have, however, is with the digital sequence of large albums, especially classical recordings. I've just downloaded a 1956 recording of a seminal Glyndebourne production of Figaro (easily my favourite opera) and because individual tracks are arranged alphabetically, you do not listen to it in any kind of sensible sequence. It is absolutely infuriating to have to manually scroll through arias to put them in the right order. And occasionally testing too. Half way through you suddenly come across the overture. It's not exactly astra physics to sort this out iTunes. Please.

RIP MacBookPro and hello MacBook White

I never thought I'd own the shiny white baby of the mighty Mac range: altogether too cute for me. But when yesterday my second MacBook Pro hard drive died in under 9 months, and the fact that it has had to have a new keyboard too, I decided to go simple. Yes I know I could have had another hard drive under warranty, but honestly how many chances can I give the right hand of my life? 

So here I am smiling inanely at the pleasing clickable keys, deep glossy screen and altogether ease of use. I was an early adopter when it comes to Macs. I've had the odd PC affair, but all my main loves have been with the apple way back to neanderthal times when wireless was something your parents listened to. I'm quite glad it's not the ubiquitous aluminium and the keys don't automatically illuminate as dusk falls. Thanks to the new dual core processors it's as fast as my 12-month old top of the range MacBookPro that cost more than twice as much as the albino baby. And it still comes with two firewire ports (unlike the all-new, improved MacBooks).

I may regret this, but so far, my latest love looks like we may go the distance.