The Islington Gazette is advertising its current issue with billboards around the Tufnell Park / Archway area, which scream at passers-by in 6-inch high letters: YOUNG MUM DIES AFTER EATING EGG ROLL. It's these kind of headlines that would prompt me to actually buy a newspaper, were I not sailing past on a 134 bus. By which I don't mean I was navigating treacherous waters of N19, I'm just trying to give the illusion of smooth movement… But what kind of egg roll? Do they means the Chinese version, more commonly known in the Islington area as “spring roll”? Do they mean a hard-boiled egg, sliced up and slung in a bap? What exactly could have prompted death in either case, with neither foodstuff having particularly sharp corners or requiring culinary experience to remove any poisonous glands? And, more to the point, how long after eating the egg roll did she die? I'd guess that the majority of people who have shuffled off this mortal coil in the past year did so after eating an egg roll at some point. But I wouldn't blame the egg roll, necessarily. She could have died from anything. “Young Mum Dies After Eating Egg Roll And Subsequently Being Hit By Car”, for example.

There's nothing remotely amusing about a young mother dying, I appreciate this.

Yesterday morning I had an encounter with an insane Russian girl, who used to be married to my ex-boss. A tenuous relationship, sure, but one that has remained fairly solid over the years, particularly when she wants me to do something for her. The latter years of working for aforementioned boss were liberally dotted with instances of me having to run errands for her, and my boss claiming that, as he was paying me by the hour, this formed an integral part of my job. The tasks could range from teaching her how to use Macromedia Flash, to phoning people on her behalf, to debugging her MIDI setup, to just fixing her computer when it became “stoned”. “Rhodri, help me. My computer is stoned.” You mean it has crashed? “Yes, yes. Help me.” I became wearily resentful of her, and, as it was a 2-person business, increasingly annoyed at the amount of money she was leeching out of the business (she had a credit card which was paid off automatically by my boss's business account, and he would attempt to claim her various shopping sprees as business expenses.) In early 2001 I did some sums, and worked out that she was pocketing way more than I was, and all she did everyday was paint nude portraits of my boss (from memory) and make sub-Pet Shop Boys pop music with heavily accented English lyrics. “I want to fly,” I remember her singing. “Fly away, away, away.” I quit the job shortly afterwards.

Her christian name is Elena, although she would change her name on a six-monthly basis, to (for example) Lena, then Lem, then Lem S@dko, then Helen, then Helen S@dko. Then, alarmingly, S@dko Space Angel, then Space Angel, then, eventually, Angel. “My name is Angel,” she would say, proudly. “Now you call me Angel.” Yep. “Whatever you want, Elena,” I would reply, uncharitably. Since I quit the job, she has embarked on a short lived career as a rapper, including a memorable appearance on Living TV (“I want to fly, f-f-ffly”), then had a messy divorce from my ex-boss during which she was awarded an insane amount of money that she didn't truly deserve. She then embarked on a boxing career. “I am the top lady fighter in the UK,” she told me. “I make a lot of money. I fight another lady, I get paid 2,000 pounds. I go to the Olympic Games, America, I become very famous.” She appears to have married the owner of a “boxercise” studio in Herne Hill, and she turned up yesterday at my flat in a swanky car, carrying a brand new iMac (unopened). “Rhodri, put some software on this computer for me.” I spent an hour updating her system and showing her how it worked, at which point she chucked £50 on my desk. “Here you are, fifty pounds,” she trilled. “I love money, you know. I make lots of money. I fight other ladies, make lots of money.” She looked bruised, battered and as hard as nails. I wasn't going to argue. I pocketed the money. “And you know when everything change, for me? When I give up music. I give away guitars, keyboards, I don't play music anymore. Then suddenly I make money. Music is a curse, Rhodri. A curse. You must stop making music. Then you make money.”

She's probably right.