2004-01-15 - 1:54 p.m.

Day four in South Beach and I�m not sure how much more low-level swankery in �nautical moderne� style I can take. Contrary to popular belief, there are small pockets of culture here, but a full seven days for a none-beach person like myself, who risks turning into tempura by sitting out for more than an hour, is pushing it a bit.

Everyone talks about the enormous amount of celebrities that are supposed to walk around, unfettered by the starstruck attentions of the plebian hordes, as if at every other diner you�re nonchalantly sharing a bowl of chips with Beyonce or something. I was shown round a sushi restaurant and the owner boasted that Ricky Martin was a �once a weeker�. When I returned for my obligatory free meal for including them in my piece (dinner merits a free mention, though free booze can up the paragraph count) I�m sat next to Boris Becker, so I didn�t feel cheated. I mean, if you�re going to eat raw fish next to any ginger, German, impregnating-mistresses-in-closets tennis legend, then you�re gonna go for Boris evey time, right? Since I was sat on my own, I pretended that all the admiring glances were for me, and not Bozza and his tall, striking Teutonic blonde stunner of a dining companion. When you�re forced to dine by yourself, whatever gets you through the meal, I guess.

Another restaurant owner kindly joined me for my meal, and proceeded to try and induct me into his cult. I couldn�t quite figure out what it was all about, but he kept saying things like �We�re going to bring down George Bush without him even knowing it�, and �YOU wrote the bible, Pablo � to leave yourself clues, clues from former lives!�, which is difficult to swallow at the best of times, let alone when you�re trying to cram in another mouthful of complimentary Chilean Sea Bass. I agreed to let him take me out on his yacht tomorrow just for curiosity value, so expect me to return wearing robes and speaking in meaningless platitudes. (so, just a change of dress sense, then�)

This afternoon there�s the feelgood charms of the Holocaust Museum to enjoy, then I think I�ll spend the rest of my time lamenting the fact I�ve been thrown out of the new Ritz-Carlton (they never give you more than two days) and looking at the beach from my guesthouse window.

Oh, and I should maybe write that novel, too, seeing as there are only eight days until the closing date.