And the runners up are...

Moving house is always fraught with difficulties. And, being either the sort of person to whom difficulties happen more regularly than other people, or else being the sort of person who whinges about them more, I knew I was in for a doozy of a time with probably several suppliers. I was not wrong.

I promised you a winner for Worst Customer Service Award, and this will be officially presented in a later Plog. But, first, let's take a good look at the runners up.

In third place... SKY

Once we had exchanged contracts on our new house, I called Sky, asking them how much their home move service was, as we'd always been happy with their Sky Plus service (even if their customer service on occasion had been lacking). I was told that it was £60. This seemed a lot, when Virgin Media would install pretty much the same thing for a lot less. So we decided to cancel Sky. I called back to cancel the service, and was told I had already paid this month's bill (£30). Bizarrely, and I'm sure entirely against their corporate policy, the call was taken by someone astonishingly helpful. This man in the retentions team told me that they could normally move home for half price, but as I was an excellent customer, they would waive the fee completely. I clarified this, asking if it was true I'd have to pay nothing at all. He confirmed. I said, "Well, I can't ask for more than that." I asked about transferring the broadband, and he said he'd put me through to the broadband team... At which point I was accidentally cut off.

A bit frustrating, but I called back, and got through to a different person. I explained what had happened, and the offer that had been made to me. She said that, no, I had been offered half-price installation at £30. I explained the conversation again that I had had three minutes ago with her colleague. She accused me of not telling the truth. She put me on hold for ten minutes, then repeated herself. I asked to speak to her supervisor. She put me on hold for another ten minutes, and her supervisor reiterated what she had told me. The original offer did not stand. Angry as a boiled bee, I cancelled the service.

I intended to take out Sky again in TheBloke (TM)'s name and went onto their website to use the "refer a friend" service to get Mr and Mrs Nunn a free HD box. Their site kicked me out fourteen times in a row. It was at this point I registered with Virgin Media.

This, in retrospect, may have been a mistake. This brings us to:


Second place: VIRGIN ON THE RIDICULOUS

First impressions of Virgin Media were very good. I used their whizzy website tool to design the package of phone, TV and internet we wanted. It did a little calculation and told us we could have free HD. The cost was comparable to Sky. Brilliantly, it even told me when an engineer could come and install it - in two days' time! This was perfect. I eagerly clicked "purchase".

A day later, I got an email asking me to call Virgin to confirm my activation. This is where the trouble started. I was on hold for 20 minutes with (for some reason, excessively loud) hold music playing in my ear. I finally spoke to someone, who told me that actually they wouldn't be able to install it for a week because I wanted to keep my old phone number. This wasn't their fault, it was BT's service level agreement. I understood this, and we agreed they would install it on 1 October.

The next day I received another email from Virgin, confirming installation on 7 October - nearly two weeks after the first date they said they could install it. I called again, a bit narked. Especially as I had to spend another 20 minutes on hold, being shouted at chavvily by Girls Aloud, loudly. The operator explained to me (finally) that they didn't have any engineers in my area and it was a busy time with the students going back to university. I told him that that wasn't my fault - and actually I was off work when we'd originally agreed for it to be installed, but couldn't be around for the second date. I said I needed to think about it but was likely to cancel the Virgin package.

This, Ploggers, is the time when I used Twitter to vent my frustration about Virgin Media. Brilliantly (and it really was brilliant), someone from Virgin contacted me via Twitter in minutes, asking if they could help, and gave me an email address. I explained the problem to my new saviour (Billy) who promised to do what he could. And he did. Within a day, he'd set up an appointment for everything to be installed on 2 October. What an innovative use of Twitter. I was a happy bunny.

Until the installer arrived. During the course of the visit he:

- Couldn't test the phone line as he forgot to bring a spare phone with him (and ours was a digital one that wasn't charged)
- Forgot his cement (no, I'm not sure what the cement was for either) and had to go back to the depot
- Managed not to leave me an HD cable, resulting in lengthy further correspondence with Billy and leaving me to the joys of the Royal Mail strike
- Realised that after all the guff about BT needing to transfer the number over, they'd actually forgotten to complete this work and it would be another three days before we could make or receive phone calls.

He then looked at me shyly and said, "Can I ask why you VIP are?" (he was a bit Polish).

I said, "Sorry?"

"It say on job sheet that you are VIP customer. You get express installation."

So it turns out that moaning has actually made me a celebrity. Which would have been brilliant, except his installation wasn't exactly express; he was at the house for five hours (including his return trip back to the depot for cement). And he accidentally installed the wrong level of broadband. And no phone. And didn't leave an HD cable.

Then I was supposed to phone and activate my service. I held for twenty minutes again whilst Lily Allen bawled in my ear before giving up. Twice. I emailed Billy again and sorted it out that way. Without Billy I may well have committed homicide by now.

I ironed out the last of the kinks just yesterday when we got HD working for the first time. It looks exactly like normal-D. What a lot of fuss over nothing.

AND in first place... Stay tuned for your next exciting update. Which organisation has won the coveted first place?

RCIHHTDWWMH

Well, results are in. The shortlist of Rubbish Companies I Have Had To Deal With Whilst Moving house (RCIHHTDWWMH) has been compiled.

The nominees are.... (rustling of opening golden envelope):

1. Abbey

2. Ikea

3. Virgin Media

4. DVLA

5. Sky

Place your bets now, and tune in again soon for the surprising results.

Print preview

There are many irritants about most people's working day. From the guy with BO who sits next to you to the fact that the person who used the toilet cubicle before you seemed to have aimed at the seat, to the snacks machine that obstinately refuses to dispense the salt and vinegar crisps that you have already paid for.

Today's gripe. The printer. No, these aren't the usual gripes - takes ages to print, tears up the paper, always a queue. Actually, the office printer isn't too bad for the above. It's more what it says to me. Not speaks, not literally, but every time I finish printing something, a little message pops up on its LCD screen saying, "Goodbye. Print safely."

Let's just deconstruct that for the moment. "Goodbye". Hmm. Well, that's not terrible, I suppose. It recognises you've finished printing. That's acceptable.

"Print safely". Two things here. Firstly, I've just finished printing. Surely if I were going to suffer a nasty accident, this would have happened prior to walking away from the machine. Secondly, just how dangerous is it to print? Dangerous enough to need a safety warning? Exactly what is likely to happen to me? Will the printer cartridge leap out and attack me whilst I'm walking home? Will the paper feed grab hold of my jacket and suck me into the printer's mechanical bits? Will the reams of A4 paper launch simultaneously at my face to give me 500 synchronised paper cuts? I'm now paranoid.

Also, of course, this warning is futile, as you're walking away from the printer at this stage. So in actual fact, it's malevolent. Essentially it's saying, "I'm gonna getcha. You should have thought about safety and the dangers of reckless printing before you pressed print. But now it's too late to do anything about it."

Kind of puts that whole "goodbye" part of the message in a different light, doesn't it?

Lies, damned lies and food diaries

So, this week I am keeping a food diary, for an annual health assessment. I have never been particularly concerned about what I eat, and though I've put on a bit of weight in the last year, I'm still only around 8 stone, so I wasn't unduly concerned.

First stop, questionnaire from a multiple choice list:

Q: How often do you drink alcohol?

A: On special occasions

Q: When you make scrambled eggs or omlettes, how many eggs do you use?

A: I don't eat scrambled eggs or omlettes

Q: What type of salad dressing do you use?

A: I don't use salad dressing.

Witness, if you will, Friday's food diary:

Breakfast: bacon and scrambled eggs

Lunch: parma ham and avocado salad with dressing

Dinner: Chinese takeaway and vodka and coke. There was no special occasion.

I have to itemise all this on the food diary. BUPA are going to think I'm a pathological liar. With an alcohol problem.

I've also found myself lying about the number of Malteasers I've eaten. I know I'm only cheating myself, but it feels wrong to admit I ate an entire treat sized bag for lunch. As if, if I admit it, I'll immediately succumb to diabetes / heart disease / fatness. Lying about it, however, protects me from these things.

Also, does anyone know if the raisins in a scone balance out clotted cream and jam from a health perspective?

Five portions of fruit and veg a week is OK, isn't it?

Table for Nunn

My friend and I arrived at the restaurant bang on time. I gave my name and the time of booking. The restaurant lady looked down the list.

"6.30?" she verified.

"Yes," said I.

"Hmm. Are you sure it's 6.30?"

"Yes," said I.

Then came the best question of the night. Possibly the best question ever. This honestly, honestly happened.

"Can you remember your name?" she asked.

I was stunned. My friend laughed. I didn't mean to be rude, but all I said was, "Yes. Yes I can." There was an awkward pause until I remembered she probably wanted to know what my name was.

If I couldn't remember my own name, I'm guessing I might have bigger problems than a missed restaurant booking.

Industry idiots

OK, so last week I covered, Wankers I have Worked With. Nice Kate reminded me there were some that I'd missed. So the following list isn't so much wankers as tosspots. The irritating, rather than the evil.

Needy Nora - needed reassurance on everything. Despite being a grade higher than me. "Och, Laura, I'm sorry for texting you so late last night on your personal number. I'm so, so, so sorry. I'd had a bit to drink and I just didn't realise. I really hope you can forgive me." It had been about 10.30 p.m., and I'd replied straight away at the time. "That's fine," I would say. "It was nice to hear from you." "Och," she would say, because she was Scottish, "I'm really, really sorry... it's just..." this would go on for literally ten minutes. She is the only person I've ever been in a meeting with where I've thought to myself calmly and rationally, "I am going to have to throw my shoe at her. I cannot think of another way to stop her talking. I am actually going to have to throw my shoe."

Poverty Line Pauline - would spend half an hour every day telling me how poor she was, how hard it was juggling part-time work and a family, and how she wasn't fairly paid for her job. All things I would have a huge amount of sympathy for were it not for the fact that a) she bought a Starbucks and a muffin every morning b) she smoked like a chimney c) she said she drank half a bottle of wine every night and d) in the two and a half years I worked with her, I never saw her actually do any work whatsoever.

Gerald the Golfer - my manager for a short while. Spent at least 30% of his day browsing golf equipment on the internet. The other 70% was spent telling me how his latest game went. As if I gave a shit.

Incest Irene - not so much irritating as a bit... weird. Her husband died suddenly. We were all very sad for her. Three months later, she'd shacked up with his dad.

Suits you

I am an average human being. I have my failings. I can be too reserved, impatient, intolerant and sometimes a bit lazy. But one thing I am is organised. I am horribly punctual, ridiculously overprepared and revoltingly reliable.

Master Nunn however, my brother, is like a polar photo of me. Where I am reserved, Jack is the life and soul. Where I am organised and punctual, Jack is... not.

Hence the immortal sentences this weekend that literally greeted TheBloke (TM) and me when we all met up in Hammersmith on Friday.

"TheBloke (TM)," said Jack, "I've got a job interview on Tuesday and I've only just realised. All my clothes are in the Midlands. Can I borrow a jacket? What size trousers do you take?"

And, brilliantly, half an hour later, "Fuck. I haven't got any shoes. Can I have yours?"

I am led to believe that he has successfully assembled an entire interview outfit from various contacts. That alone should secure him some marks in the "innovation and enterprise" category.

Working 9 to 5

With so many historical secrets, deemed unreleaseable to the public at the time, the hour comes round when their need for secrecy expires and they can at last be revealed to the adoring public. Similarly, I am now able to Plog about things which, at the time, for work reasons or otherwise, wasn't appropriate. All anecdotes are at least two years old and most names have been changed. A bit.

We shall start with a list of Characters I have Worked With:

- Jurrassic Mark - a 60-something, massively overweight colleague who would regularly have two cans of Coke and two croissants for breakfast, whilst telling everyone he was on a diet. The monitors on the floor used to shake as he'd walk past.

- Tommy McFlop - the guy was as reasonably normal as someone who works in banking ever could be, but with just a very strange name. Whenever I had to write an email to him, in my head I'd be saying "Tommy McFlop has only one sock". I couldn't stop it. It was weird. I suppose, given the name, I could have chosen a worse rhyme.

- Picky Nose Percy - as you would expect. Had no shame about it. Did it in meetings. I suspect when he had his photo taken for the department website, his hand had to be forcibly removed from his nose.

- Arrogant Aaron - I'd crawled into work to deliver a training course, despite being on antibiotics for a severe kidney infection. At lunchtime, when I started passing blood, I decided it was time to confess all to my manager Aaron. His response, not, "What can I do to help?" or, "Do you need to go home?" but, "What's our business contingency if you have to go to hospital?"

- Terry Munbling - who talked very quietly, in a whisper, but had somehow been promoted to the head of a department. No-one could ever hear what he said. One unfortunate moment occurred when I sent an email out to the entire department regarding one of Terry Munbling's decisions, and I auto-spellchecked. The email went out to the department telling everyone who worked there about the decision of Terry Mumbling.

- Repeatedly Racist Kate. Was racist. Repeatedly. Was also called Kate.

- Billy the Cunt - the manager I had who was supposed to be responsible for my personal development whilst I was on a graduate scheme. At the end of my first review, he used the sentence, "I could tell you what you was doing wrong, yeah? But then you wouldn't learn nothing, yeah?"

- Berty's Botty - Berty had the lovely habit of standing with his hands down the back of his trousers, having a good old rummage. Every so often, he would extract his hands, inspect his fingernails (which were inevitably caked with - I hope - dirt), give them a good sniff, then put them back down his trousers again.

So these examples have passed through the annals of history and are now safe to reveal. I knew there were perks of working with absolute tossers. Who knows what future secrets will be revealed?

Eggscruciating

Oh dear. I have a confession to make. Today, dear Plogger, I ate eggs.

I can hear what you're thinking: "I didn't realise you were a vegan!" I'm not. In fact, the only people who will be saying, "Oh no!" currently are my parents, my brother, TheBloke (TM) and my friend Hazel if she has a very, very long memory.

You see, dear Plogger, I am allergic to eggs. Not in an anaphylactic shock, swelly face kind of way, more in a, "Jesus Christ, that's the worst fart I've ever smelled in my life" kind of way.

Sometimes when I'm writing my Plog, I hope no future employers read this. I certainly think I've just blown my chances with the Egg Board.

So, how did I discover this? Well, as I child, I never liked egg white. Egg yolk was yummy, but I never liked the white. As my parents were understandably unwilling to cook eggs for me where I didn't eat half of it, I tended not to eat that many eggs growing up.

Until one day, aged 13, I went round to my friend Hazel's house for dinner. Amongst the many delights laid on the table before me was a boiled egg salad. Yum yum. I wasn't a big fan of the egg white, but didn't want to seem rude, so I ate it all up.

Literally half an hour later, the problems started. Burp. Burp. Burp. "Oh yuck," said Hazel. "Have you just trumped?" ("Farted" was a bit vulgar for the 13 year-old Hazel).

"No," said the 13 year-old Laura, quite truthfully. "I just burped. But my burps taste like death and sting my throat like acid."

Then the farting started. Oh. My. God. Weapon of mass destruction. We were shut in her parents' computer study. Quite a little room, if memory serves, with not much (well, not enough) ventilation. I nearly killed the both of us. Embarrassment meant I phoned Mr Nunn to come and pick me up earlier than I'd originally intended.

We drove home with the windows open. I realised it was egg white that had caused the problem, and have successfully avoided it until this day.*

Which brings us to the present day, seventeen years later, and a Wetherspoon's breakfast bloomer this morning. I was, of course, conscious of the egg white situation, and TheBloke (TM) kindly agreed to eat my egg white. However, I may not have been fastidious enough in removing the albumen. Twenty minutes later in Tesco, there was very nearly a full-scale evacuation.

And back home half an hour later, I had to leave the room I was standing in. And then the same thing again. And again. Until we ran out of rooms. The cat threw me an evil stare.

Still, should I ever find myself the subject of torture and capital punishment and I am granted one last request, I shall go for a plate of egg white. And just before they do away with me, I shall let rip and destroy my captors. It's good to have a superpower.

* Bizarrely, I am absolutely fine with scrambled egg.

Age and wisdom

Well, goodness gracious me, what a lovely birthday I had.

There was a trip to Alton Towers, there was dinner with my lovely friends and family (and Katy who smells of wee). There was an embarrassment of lovely presents, all for me. There was even a birthday poem and a birthday cake with candles to blow out. My birthday rocked.

However, the fact remained. I had somehow, somehow turned 30. I am still not quite sure how this happened, but rest assured I will find out who is to blame and give them a stern piece of my mind. Thirty. Three decades. This is clearly a practical joke, as we all know I was only 17 three and a half weeks ago. The candles on my birthday cake alone represented the greatest fire risk Loughborough had ever known.

TheBloke (TM), ever mindful of the sensitive situation, bought me wrinkle cream and an adhesive support for drooping bosoms. Ha ha ha. He is so funny. Luckily he is far nearer the next milestone (I can't bring myself to write it yet) than I am, so I am still winning.

He made up for it though by taking me to afternoon tea at the Ritz on Monday. It was very civilised. We had tea, we had gorgeous little cakes and cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Then TheBloke (TM), again, ever mindful of the refined situation, decided to make Princess Leia ears out of scones. At the Ritz.

And I laughed so much a little bit of tea came out my nose.

We are SO not grown-ups.

Thirty therapy

Ploggers, this will be the last time you hear from me whilst I'm still in my twenties. Yes, the inevitable has happened, and tomorrow I shall be turning 30. This is quite patently ridiculous as I am absolutely certain I haven't changed at all since I was 17. Yet - technically - if you do the maths, indeed tomorrow, I shall be turning 30. Thirty. Old, old, old.

At my age, my parents had been married for about 8 years and had a fat, unprepossessing newborn (me). I - on the other hand - have joint ownership of a fat, unprepossessing cat.

So, what advice would I give myself for my twenties, looking back?

- Remember you're getting less gorgeous every day. Go out and shag as many people as you can while your looks last.

- Don't sign up to Tiscali broadband

Actually, that's about it.

So, this evening TheBloke (TM), Monty Cat and I are travelling up to see my parents and my brother in Loughborough. And then tomorrow there will be all manner of celebrations, including a trip to Alton Towers (to prove I'm not yet a grown up) and an evening meal with my friends and family.

It will be awesome.

Now, TheBloke (TM) is out for an hour, do you reckon I've got time to shag a few more people whilst I'm still in my twenties?

Par for the course

Ah, the joys of corporate life. Today I completed an "e-learning module" on Peak Performance.

My favourite part was a section called "Choose your attitude!" Despite making me want to vomit uncontrollably originally, it wasn't all that bad, and it was mostly NLP stuff - a welcome refresher on the course I did a year or so ago.

However, unfortunately, a part of it accidentally made me laugh out loud. There was a picture of a blue balloon on the page and the section was about making sure your "positive balloon" doesn't burst. The title? "Dealing with little pricks"

I thought this might be more useful in the workplace than I originally realised.

The next section asked me - and this is true - to make a list of "little pricks" that annoy me in the workplace. I duly followed the instructions and pressed submit.

It said,

"Some of our previous course attendees have listed the following as bursting their balloon of positivity:

- A rainy day

- Alarm clock not going off

- Being criticised

- Getting stuck in traffic"

Oops. My "little pricks" list incorporated exclusively names of people in the office.

The cat who cried "Wolf"

I know I have previously alluded to the fact that Monty Cat is a bit stupid. Evidence for the following includes:

- Pretending he's asleep and NOT trying to steal your food... only to actually fall asleep until well after you've finished the meal
- Falling asleep on the windowsill with all four legs stuck up in the air... and falling off the windowsill mid-snore
- Chasing his own tail
- Being scared of his own reflection. Every day.

However, I've recently found out that Monty Cat is a feline Lassie! Or maybe Flipper the Dolphin or Skippy the Bush Kangaroo. (I just mistyped that as Skippy the Busy Kangaroo. Can you imagine that TV series? Sonny: Skippy, Skippy, g'day mate! Skippy: Rack off, Sonny, I'm a bit tied up at the moment.)

Each morning at about 6.45, Monty Cat alerts me to the fact that an emergency is occurring - namely that Timmy has fallen down the well again, or the old barn is on fire. He does this by biting my toes incessantly until I get out of bed.

Once I am out of bed, he miaows at me and trots to the door, looking back over his feline shoulder with a look of dire consequence on his face. I follow him. He takes me to the stairs. If I stop following him, he comes back to where I am, and thoughtfully bites my ankles to remind me of the emergency in hand.

Down the stairs we go. Monty Cat stops at alternate stairs either to ensure I'm still behind him, or else in a cunning attempt to make me trip over him and fall to my untimely death. His little face seems to be saying, "Come on, come on! There's no time to lose! Timmy's this way!" He miaows plaintively. I follow him through the kitchen and into the utility room where Monty Cat seems to think the disaster is occurring.

It's at this point Monty Cat's expression changes to, "Oh, sorry, I was wrong. No emergency after all. But as it happens, you now appear to be standing next to the drawer where you keep the cat food, and since you're here anyway, you may as well feed me."

This happens every morning. The joke'll be on him though. One day little Timmy WILL be stuck down the well in our utility room, and I just won't believe him.

Shaken up

We pulled up outside our new house (house!) with boxes and boxes of stuff in the Mini. An elderly lady stood in the garden (garden!) of the house next door. She had a walking stick and looked a bit frail.

This was excellent news. We need a neighbour just like this to look after Monty Cat when we go on holidays.

"Hullo," she said. "I'm Juliet."

I said hello and introduced myself and TheBloke (TM). Being a friendly person, I shook her hand. This was a BIG MISTAKE.

Now, there is very little I like less than a floppy, wet fish handshake. And I am no stranger to the firm handshake, usually delivered by a manager who's trying to reprimand you for the crime of being female. But oh good God. This woman crushed my fingers as she shook my hand. I mean really crushed. Worse still, she was one of those people who favours the long handshake. We managed to get through, "I'm Laura," "I'm Juliet," "This is TheBloke (TM)", "Here is Monty Cat", "Yes, we're moving in today" before she let go of my hand.

It got to the stage where I was in so much pain, all I could think to do was punch her. And I wasn't sure that punching a woman in her 70s was the best way to recommend us to our new neighbours. Or to persuade her to look after our cat. I wondered if arthritis had perhaps kicked in and meant she was unable to let go. I wondered again if punching her would help. Instead I settled for saying, "Crikey, that's a firm handshake." I wasn't sure what I was hoping to achieve by this, but I felt I had to say something before I necessarily passed out.

It was TheBloke (TM)'s turn. I watched, gleefully as he took her hand. And joyed in the little beads of perspiration that appeared on his head as he tried to keep a manly face on. I swear I saw his eyes fill with girly tears.

Back inside, when Juliet finally let go of his hand and we retired to our new house, he was having none of it. "No, it didn't hurt at all. Not at all." But he was lying. Check out www.sadmuppets.blogspot.com to find out just how much.

Good fences make good neighbours...

We had cleared out the flat at Bethnal Green. In front of the door lay a big pile of stuff, most of it junk, that we didn't want anymore.

There were: cardboard boxes, old handbags, a broken jug, a broken Xbox, an old, slightly broken video recorder, a Roxette music video, some old socks, some more boxes, Groundhog Day on video and a whole load of polystyrene.

I just had to pop back over to the flat to pick up the last few items and do a meter reading. On my way in, a man who I swear I had never seen before in my life stopped me. "You're off, are you?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Oh, I'll miss you; you were good neighbours - I never heard a peep out of you."

I peered at him carefully. He appeared to have come from Parrot Man's flat next door, but this chap was a good twenty years younger than Parrot Man.

"I hope you don't mind," he continued, "but I took some of the stuff you put outside your door." It was like playing Kim's game. At a glance I could see that the video recorder and Xbox were gone. As was (inexplicably) the Roxette music video, two handbags and my socks.

"I don't mind at all," said I. "The Xbox doesn't work though."

"Oh, doesn't it? I did wonder why you were throwing it out. I took your plant too. I thought I'd look after it now you've gone. I water it when you're on holiday you know."

"Oh, erm... I do still want the plant. Can I have it back?" I managed to get this sentence out whilst thinking, "How the holy hell does he know when I go on holiday? Especially as I've never seen him before in my life!"

Luckily at that moment my mobile rang and saved me from further embarrassment. It was Virgin Media. That is another story in itself.

I excused myself and left Parrot Man's housemate to return my pot plant, and let myself into the flat.

Four years I've lived there and have never seen or spoken to whom is apparently my next door neighbour before in my life (though have noticed as I've disposed with broken furniture, lamps, once even an entire fitted kitchen, that they have disappeared into a neighbour's flat).

It made arriving in the 'burbs something of a shock. More tomorrow.

Cat nap

Monty Cat is on a special diet for life. Since having recurring urine infections earlier in the year, the vet has now put him on a permanent diet of wet food specifically for cats with faulty bladders. Monty Cat food now costs us more than £2 per day.

The cause of the faulty bladder? The vet said it was likely to be stress. Of course we immediately felt guilty; the problem had indeed started on a weekend when we went on holiday and left him with Mr and Mrs Nunn... the stress must have been our fault. We worried. We wrung our hands. We shelled out another £50 for another three weeks' worth of food.

Two weeks ago a new two-person sofa bed was delivered to the flat. TheBloke (TM) unpacked it. Before he was able to put it together, Monty Cat decided he'd have a (stressed) snooze.

Look at this picture. Look at it.

Does this look to you like a cat with stress problems? Or does it look to you like a lazy industrial-sized tiger masquerading as a house cat?

Fucking ginger bastard.

Spit and Polish

The best thing about moving house, sorry, the only good thing about moving house is the anecdotes it generates for you, my faithful Ploggerati.

So, TheBloke (TM) was still a bit battered from his single-handed attempt to popularise Face Cricket, and we had heavy furniture that needed moving. Every time TheBloke (TM) leaned forward, he'd produce a profuse nose-bleed expressly designed a) to generate sympathy and b) to excuse himself from any further box moving. Yours truly is as physically strong as a seven year-old with rickets and Mr and Mrs Nunn had selfishly decided to go on holiday to celebrate Mr Nunn's 60th birthday. What total bastards.

This left us with one option: removal men. Or women. We are equal opportunities employers.

So, I called a few. Quotations (I will not call them "quotes") came in thick and fast. £170 seemed to be the average. I had one more guy to speak to.

"Hello."

"Hello - is that Terry?" Terry didn't seem an entirely likely name for someone who had answered the phone with a thick Polish accent, but who am I to judge?

"Yes. This Terry."

I explained how we needed a removal man on Saturday. "No. I not free Saturday. Sorry."

"Never mind then. Thank you." I was just about to hang up.

"I have friend though. George. George my friend. I will call him and see if he free."

"How much will George charge?" I asked.

"£60," said Terry. "If you have to go two times then it will be £120. He has trailer."

"Ah," said I, spotting the catch, "a trailer won't be big enough. And it might be raining."

"OK then," Terry compromised. "He bring van. I call you back."

True to his word, five minutes later, Terry called. "George will to come on Saturday with van for £6o. He doesn't speak good English though. So speak to me if questions."

Saturday came. George came. With his friend who was about a foot and a half tall and a foot and a half wide. I shall call him Cube Man. George takes a look at Monty Cat.

"You have good cat. Is good cat. Also, is too many stairs."

There was not much I could do about this.

TheBloke (TM) enquired if the furniture we needed moving would fit in the van. George surveyed. George pondered. George replied. "No."

I suddenly saw where this was going. We would help George and Cube Man load up their M-reg white van with all our valuables... and then we would never ever see them again. TheBloke (TM) was under strict instructions to get in the Mini and follow the van. And not to dilly-dally on the way. Off went the van with the home packed in it, TheBloke followed behind with... Sorry, slipped into some wartime songs there. Apologies.

Yet George and Cube Man managed to get all our furniture in said van, with a minimum of Polish cursing, and did indeed do it for £60, plus an extra £10 TheBloke (TM) gave them for not driving off with all our shit.

Now, does anyone know anyone you can hire to unpack all the bastard boxes once you get to your new house?

Holding Plog

Ploggers, fear not! I have not abandoned you. Here is a list of some of the things I have been doing over the last few weeks:

- Taking TheBloke (TM) to hospital several times

- Packing everything I own into cardboard boxes

- Trying to fit in an unusually hectic (and rather badly-timed) social life

- Moving house. For future reference, a Mini is not the best-suited vehicle for this enterprise

- Coaxing Monty Cat out from underneath the bed every time the cat across the road gives him a funny look. What a pussy. Literally.

- Dealing with Virgin Media. Watch this space for an update on Monday. It's a story.

- Playing Tetris with bedroom furniture

- Hugging furniture in Ikea. Then realising we can't buy it. Because it won't fit in the fucking Mini.

- Having no internet. Solved now. Finally.

Anecdotes you may look forward to:

- Our new neighbours. Particularly Juliet and her Very Firm Handshake.

- That's about it. Sorry.

Power play

Another Mrs Nunn Plog. I try not to, but sometimes it's just too easy.

"I'm reading Barack Obama's autobiography at the moment," proclaims Mrs Nunn. She pronounces Obama to rhyme with Go-slam-a. That isn't a real word by the way. Other words Mrs Nunn mispronounces include (but are not limited to) "buffet" (boofay) and "chihuahua" (shi-wow-wow).

"Anyway," says Mrs Nunn, after I have finished teasing her about her inability to pronounce possibly the most famous man in the world's surname, "his biography is really good, and I definitely fancy him."

"Sorry?" I say.

"Barack Obama" (Go-slam-a) she says. "I definitely would."

"OK Mum," say I, not even a little taken aback. For I am used to the weird and wonderful way of Mrs Nunn. "You're telling me that you would have sex with Barack Obama?" (Oh-balm-er).

"Yes," she says. "I bet his fantasy is a middle-aged white woman from the Midlands who runs a church orchestra and has her own mini apple orchard. And you know what they say, don't you?"

"No," I said, "I really, really don't."

"Once you've had white, there's no going back."

Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you Mrs Nunn.

Feline fortune

So, what's my excuse for tardiness? Well, I'm going to blame the NHS. That and TheBloke (TM)'s tendency to use his head instead of a cricket bat. Safe to say the last few days have mostly been about hospital appointments, surgery and failing to do any type of housework whatsoever.

Monty Cat, being the ginger git that he is, needs special food to stop him weeing blood. Stupid faulty cat. This costs (per week) almost exactly the same as TheBloke (TM) and I spend on our food shopping per person. And it has to be bought from the vets, at which there is no parking, and which is only open for thirteen minutes every other Tuesday, so long as it's not Whitsun.

So yesterday, being a Tuesday outside of Whitsun, I made the fortnightly visit to the vet to stock up on his special Monty Cat food. I parked illegally as usual, and dashed into the shop.

"Hi, I'd like some incredibly overpriced food please, preferably the stuff branded with 'I saw you coming' stamped on it," I said. Not really.

I said, "Could I get two packs of the Royal Canin feline wet food for cats with urinary problems?"

"Of course," said the receptionist. "Could I take your surname please?"

"Nunn," said I. Thankfully, this didn't turn into one of those interminable conversations where I get looked at sceptically and asked, "None? You don't have a surname?"

"Nunn," the receptionist repeated, "is it for Monty?"

"No," I said. "I find it so delicious that I serve it with potatoes and carrots twice a week. And my bladder has never felt better."

The receptionist looked a bit worried. Then realised I was joking. I'm not sure she approved. The food seemed to cost even more this week.

Furry ginger git.