Bloody hell, it's cold tonight. I was frozen walking over Hungerford Bridge tonight, especially my poor hairless head. The neurons and synapses still have n't thawed out.

If only the film I'd just seen could have a left a memory to match that of simply feeling cold on a March evening in London. In the City of Sylvie is truly awful; an art-house stalker movie with beautiful people, just staring at each other. Fetishistic, creepy, and unpleasant to boot.

Sylvie, why did n't you turn around, give your fey-faced, Chatterton lookalike either a ringing crack around the ears or scream your lungs out and tell him to shove it.

Christ, where were the gendarmarie? Put the cuffs on the poor boy and yoke him off to clink.