Last night my assistants sent me drama students, philosophers and sex therapists. None of them played the piano. All of the women wanted to try on my hat. Why? In films Nazi Germany seems full of parties with women doing nothing but trying on soldiers' hats. Maybe that's why we wear them. Actually I wasn't at my desk much, it gets hot under that bulb. I hung around the bar and the doorways to lecture halls, quiet and inherently objectionable. Somebody was presenting a pretty crappily-prepared argument with a lot of clips from youtube about the future of privacy ("Here is Tom Cruise's eyes, in the future, being scanned in GAP, and that is in the future, and will happen in ten... twenty years, yes") but his central idea - that most of us don't actually WANT privacy - I found pretty interesting, particularly as I've just left facebook.
When I got home there was was a late-night movie I hadn't heard of before called "The Final Cut", in which Robin Williams, in his underrated "wrong 'un" mode, plays a futuristic funeral director charged with splicing together compilation reels of dead people's memories using footage from the cameras implanted in their heads at birth by rich parents. It was good, and made me think some more. Then I bunged on Christopher Hampton's mainly not-good adaptation of The Secret Agent, in which Robin Williams turns up again, uncredited, as a greyish, Victorian suicide bomber. He's the best thing in it, which is one of the reasons I want to see it remade (I'm also keen on the idea of steampunk brainwashing). Here's some more of Heather's concrete sex dolls, now destroyed: