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.

Rent girl

With a little bit of luck, we've let the flat. We're still waiting for an exchange / completion date ourselves, but we've found a couple who'd like to rent the one we're living in at the moment. TheBloke (TM) was a little bit overexcited when he found out they are a lesbian couple and insisted we installed CCTV immediately. I refused.

I told Mrs Nunn the good news about letting the flat.

"Excellent," she said. "That's fantastic. And great that you'll have two girls living there. They'll definitely look after your flat. I rented a property to a gay couple once. I have to tell you, they were great. I had a very good experience with lesbians."

"Sorry, Mum," I said, deftly putting her on speakerphone so TheBloke (TM) could hear. "What did you just say?"

"I have had a very positive lesbian experience," she said brightly and loudly.

You heard it here first.

Bleeding the NHS dry

Day 1 (last Saturday)

TheBloke (TM) appears home early from cricket.

"Hello," I say. "I didn't get your text saying you were coming home." TheBloke (TM) looks a bit sorry for himself and appears to have a Post-It stuck to his head. On closer inspection, this is not a Post-It but in fact a large piece of medical gauze taped to his head.

"Oh," I say. "Are you OK?"

"No," says TheBloke (TM).

At this point, reader, I asked him what we were all thinking, "Is the Mini OK?"

It was. TheBloke (TM), as you know, tried to use his head as a cricket bat, and despite wearing a helmet, managed to get himself a nice crack on the bonce. The ambulance were called but let him go. TheBloke (TM) then drove home for two hours (whilst vomiting and bleeding) instead of calling me to come out and get him. I told him off and put him to bed.

Day 2

TheBloke (TM) is beginning to feel a bit better. He joins the pre-FABE party for Wii and cider.

Day 3

TheBloke (TM) has a worse headache than the day before and is feeling sick again. He elects not to come to the FABE. He tells me I should go ahead to the FABE, which I do. I return early, and find TheBloke (TM) has been bleeding profusely from the nose. I insist on a trip to A&E. TheBloke (TM) submits.

Our love affair with the NHS begins. Four hours in total, a doctor (about eleven years old) who didn't think it was at all serious, but at the last minute decided to do a CT scan... revealing a fractured skull, eye socket and broken nose. He sent us home, with instructions for TheBloke (TM) to take at least one day off work.

People in the waiting room evidently think he's in an abusive relationship.

Day 4

TheBloke (TM) has a little bit of a nose bleed but is generally feeling a bit better.

Day 5

TheBloke (TM) rings me at work to say he thinks he'll go to A&E again as he's got a bit of a nose bleed. This is TheBloke (TM) subtext for "I've lost most of my bodily fluids". I call a cab for him. An hour later, I get a text telling me he's likely to be admitted.

I leave work, pop home and grab a non-blood soaked spare shirt for him (these are becoming rarer in our flat) and head out to A&E. I find a very sorry looking TheBloke (TM) awaiting transfer by ambulance to another hospital, having just filled two bowls with nose blood. He has a large sponge stuck up each nostril. Yum. I suggest we go into the black pudding making business, but he doesn't seem keen.

We are here for three hours. Every time I ask a nurse how long the ambulance will be, I get told "imminently". After another hour passes, and still being told "imminently", I ask what "imminently" means, as in my vocab, it means in the next five minutes or so. I am informed, "That's not what it means on the NHS." How right they were.

He remains for the next four hours in total. I eventually kick off and ask the nurse to phone the ambulance people. Turns out the ambulance bloke "couldn't find" him first time round, so just left again.

The ambulance comes half an hour later. TheBloke (TM) is left in a hospital gown shivering by an open door, while the ambulance driver tries to find his ambulance keys.

I am not allowed in the ambulance, so make my way by public transport. I still manage to arrive at St Paul's before TheBloke (TM) who has been taken on a whirlwind tour of London by the fuckwit driver.

We find out TheBloke (TM) has to stay until Friday, when the specialist can see him.

You know what, I genuinely can't write the rest of this out because I can feel my blood pressure rising. Let's just say that although yes, he probably did need to be in hospital, the hospital he was transferred to gave him nothing other than drugs - and he never even got to see the specialist before he was discharged. (The discharge itself was supposed to happen at 8 a.m.... so off I duly trotted nice and early to the hospital. It actually happened at 7 p.m. that evening. The reason? The doctor was a bit busy. Brilliant.) I had to ask about nineteen million questions and hassle three hundred medical staff, most of whom did not speak brilliant English.

But it was all worth it. Want to know why? No, not the safe return of TheBloke (TM) - that was just a happy by-product. It was the following exchange.

Laura: Hi, TheBloke (TM) is in bed nine and doesn't have any water. Could I get a jug for him please?

Medical man: I... sorry... I no... understand.

Laura: (doing miming) Bed nine. Needs water (more miming). Can you get some (some pointing)?

Medical man: Oh! I sorry - no. You need nurse for water. I neurologist.

Laura: For God's sake, it's not brain surgery.

(I couldn't resist it.)

Anyway. He's home and fucked off his socks on morphine. It's brilliant! And there's enough left to sell on Ebay.

Day 8

The lazy bastard let me cook breakfast AND dinner AND do the washing up.

A moving issue

It has been - for various reasons - a mostly rubbish few days. There have been some highlights (I would definitely recommend Forbidden Broadway at the Menier Chocolate Factory) and the cheese and bacon burgers at the Fourth Annual Barbecue Extravaganza were perhaps the best to date.

I would not, however, recommend The Royal London's A&E department as a fun place to spend your Bank Holiday Monday afternoon.

Or, as TheBloke (TM) keeps reminding me, "Do you remember that time you went to the barbecue when I had a fractured skull and a broken nose? Did you enjoy your barbecue?" Git.

That is by-the-by. It has been a fairly rubbish few days. But, something strange happened today. Something strange and a little bit wonderful. A company called "Move Me" called me. I assumed it was a removals company - I have been touting for a man and van as we're (hopefully) moving house soon. So I chuntered on to him about various quotations we'd had and how I wasn't yet in a position to make a decision.

He then told me he had a broken leg. I said, "Oh, well you're not going to be doing any removals any time soon, are you?" He sounded a bit confused.

I eventually found out why. The company he's from don't do removals. They do a brilliant, brilliant (free) service that enables you to change all your address details with utilities companies online, or, where you can't do it online, they provide templates for all banks and building societies, they have all the addresses on a database and you can print off the letter, sign it and put it in the post. Job done!

Weirdly though, I have no recollection of seeing this site. And, weirder still, it wouldn't let me sign up as I was apparently "already registered". When I tried logging in (using all the various passwords I'd ever choose), it wouldn't let me. So I genuinely don't think it was me who registered my address. Still, a simple password change request, and I've got full access to the site. Admittedly as a Mr Laura Nunn. The phone number and email address was right though.

I have a moving fairy! Woohoo! Not quite as good as a guardian angel, but at the minute I'll take what I can get.

FABE

Ladies, gentlemen, boys, girls, literate squirrels (I know you're out there, you scheming rodenty bastards):

I apologise in advance for the weather on bank holiday Sunday. Of course it will rain. Of course it will, because I am holding the FABE (the Fourth Annual Barbecue Extravaganza). Our history of Annual Barbecue Extravaganzas ranges from lovely, lovely weather to "Oh fuck, the wind has blown out every single one of our matches, there's not a chance we can get this barbecue lit and it's bollocking freezing. Shall we go home and grill this lot?"

So, tomorrow it'll rain. Or possibly snow.

TheBloke (TM) has already decided to start the weekend off well by managing to get a cricket ball in the face and is now in bed with a bleeding head and a black eye. (Don't worry, he's fine. Though I am currently working on a special effects machine that'll make him think he's seeing double. Oh, come on, it'll be a laugh.)

There will be burgers. There will be sausages. There will - of course - be plastic cheese. There may even be ketchup and Pimms*.

And there will probably also be rain. Or possibly snow.

*Ketchup and Pimms is not, I repeat not a cocktail. Do not try this at home.