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Mrs Cohen's diary: Scarlett sticks with Sodastream - I told her to do that

    * I am not one for early mornings so I was a little put out when the phone went at ridiculous o’clock a few days ago. Sodastream are panicking about my friend Scarlett. She is appearing in a Sodastream advert but is also associated with Oxfam, which wants her to cut links with the company because its factory is a tiny bit the other side of the Green Line. Could I possibly have a word with Ms Johansson, they said? Seeing as I was heading for LA, I agreed to pop in to discuss things with her.

    It was lovely catching up. We agreed that Girl with the Pearl Earring was dull and that Match Point far more gripping. Then on to more important matters. We decided we both liked the ginger beer and elderflower Sodastream flavours. Oh, and it turns out she is staying with Sodastream — she said it was a “no-brainer”. But, just in case, I have reassured the company that if they need a new frontwoman, I would be willing to step in. The only downside is that I was terribly gassy while shopping on Rodeo Drive. I hope no one noticed.

    * Straight from the West Coast to Jerusalem. I hadn’t seen Bibi for ages and he was in a dreadful state. His son Yair is dating a shiksa. About as shiksarish as they come, in fact — blonde and Norwegian. You could tell Bibi was worried because he was hitting the ice-cream heavily — I’ve never seen a freezer with more Ben and Jerry’s. Having not quite recovered from the Sodastream binge I limited myself to a small bowl of cookie dough.

    I told Bibi not to worry about Yair. Every Israeli dreams of dating a Nordic blonde — it’s a phase. Even I had a brief fling with a dashing young chap called Sven while on kibbutz back in the ’60s. I told Beebs that, after a few months, Yair will become tired of physical perfection and settle down with a nice Jewish girl, just like Sara. For some reason he didn’t seem to be that reassured.

    * I’ve been following the phone hacking trial with interest since I was a victim. A while back, there were stories in the News of the World about how I had been seen in a London restaurant with tall Swedish businessman Sven Andersson. Of course, we were only reminiscing about kibbutz days. The only way they could have got that information was by listening to my phone messages.

    I thought about going straight to Rupert, but in the end I just left a complaint on my own voicemail, thinking they could pick it up themselves.

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