Something old, something new

So, last night saw a much-anticipated event - Kath and Jon's wedding. Kath's been a close friend since school, and though we're all firmly in our late twenties now, it's still a bit of a shock whenever one of my close friends decides to get married. You feel a bit like their parents should be saying, "Don't be ridiculous. Now get upstairs and tidy your room." But they didn't. And off to Birmingham for the wedding we went.

Prior to the wedding, I took my little old car for one last drive. I will try and add some photos, but I'm not having much luck. Ooh. There we go.

There was a sad moment when I came downstairs later that morning and heard Mrs Nunn on the phone, asking the scrap dealer how much they'd pay for it. £60. Poor little car. If anyone fancies a most excellent Vauxhall Astra, £100 with tax until March and can pick it up from Loughborough, let me know. I would like it to go to a good home with little girls who'll love it and bring it carrots.

Anyway, onto the wedding. It was a lovely day - Kath looked beautiful, and it was so nice to see my schoolfriends again. I'm getting into this photo thing now:

From left to right, me, Sarah, Katy (who smells of wee), Kath (she's the one in the wedding dress), Karen, Helen, Erica and Hazel.

We all looked gorgeous apart from Kath, who absolutely minged. I told her that several times during the evening, and she shot me several of her "die Laura" looks, which were patented during A-level History.

Here is another photo for you.

Again, left to right, Sarah, Hazel, Karen, Katy (who smells of wee and whose big ugly face is thankfully partially obscured), me, Helen and Erica.

And below you can see us doing the Macarena. Has to be done at a wedding. It is a law. You can see by Helen's face how seriously she is taking the proceedings. Well, maybe you can't. I can zoom in on my thingy. Trust me. She looks very serious.

Anyway, a lovely evening was had by all.

Do not ask me for any more photos. I have quite, quite spoiled you. Go out to your New Year's parties and have a fantastic time.

Happy New Year!

Getting personal

My car and I have made our final voyage together. Please see yesterday's entry for thoughts around this.

What I will tell you is this - in full support of my stand-up career, my car has striven to represent me comedically: the driver's door flies open at inappropriate moments, the passenger side gets wet when it rains... and today, in an impressive display of comic timing, the rear windscreen wiper flung itself off at 85 mph. It's nice to have such an empathic vehicle.

We have said our goodbyes, and tomorrow it will pose with me for a final photo shoot.

When I got back to London a few days ago, I had a Christmas card in my letter box. Unusually, the envelope said who the card was from, rather than its addressee. It said, "From your neighbour no. 31". The inside of the card said pretty much the same.

Now, I know number 31 to say hello to. But do not know his name. Therefore, wouldn't this be the perfect opportunity to get acquainted? Could he not have written, "From John (no. 31)"? No way. This is London and we must be anonyous at all times. Obviously I sent one back to him, "Have a great new year. From no. 32".

London is a strange place.

Car-ing too much

Today saw a sad chore that I've been putting off for a while. It was time to clear out my old car, before driving it back to my parents for one last time before we're parted.

I say "clear out my old car". For most people this would involve moving a couple of CDs from one car to the other, and perhaps moving across a map or some de-icer. Not me. I will freely admit that tidiness isn't one of my key strengths. Add to this the fact that I've had the car since I was 18, and it often served as an extended bedroom when I was at university, and you might be able to imagine the extent of detritus.

There was a lot of detritus. Old petrol receipts (never sure why they give those to you - they're separate from VAT receipts, and I've never yet returned a tank of petrol. "Sorry - it was an unwanted gift..."), flyers that had been put on my windscreen, bottles of ancient water at varying levels of emptiness... A lot of detritus.

But there was also a lot of other stuff. I'm trying to be all grown-up and unsentimental, and have indeed thrown most of it away, but amongst other things there were wedding invitations, maps to the houses of people I don't see anymore - ex-colleagues, ex-boyfriends, friends who have faded away. Some directions to a place near Naseby that I don't even remember visiting. There were mix-tapes from exes - despite the fact that I've not had a cassette player in the car for about four years. There were catalogues and samples from when I used to work in sales. I even found the 1998 catalogue down the back of the rear seats, along with some of my old business cards.

The car and I, we've travelled a long way together. According to old directions found this afternoon, we've been as far north as Bridlington, as far south as Chichester, as far east as Norwich, and as far west as Cardiff. We've been to weddings together (thankfully no funerals). The car took me to university for the first time... and more importantly, it took me away again three years later.

In those first few weeks at uni, it saw me a few times come just to sit in it, and breathe in its smell of newly-lost independence.

It drove me to my first flat in London. And my second. And my third.

It has seen me laugh so hard that I've nearly steered it into a lamp-post. It has seen me cry so much that, unthinking, I turned on the windscreen wipers - to clear my view. It has seen me turn from a shy 18 year-old to an aspiring stand-up comic in her late twenties.

I will miss my car. I like to think it will miss me too.

He's behind you...

Yesterday I witnessed a man in his fifties, dressed as a woman. "Nothing shocking about this," you might say. "We are open-minded individuals, accepting of each others' foibles."

What if I told you that this transvestite had his arm around a seven year-old boy at that time? "Still," you might continue, "no harm in that."

What if I then told you that the middle-aged man in drag then said to the small boy, "Do you have a girlfriend? Would you like me to be your girlfriend?"

NOW you're shocked, aren't you? Even worse, literally hundreds of people not only failed to rush to the child's aid, but instead laughed and clapped.

Later on in the evening, two twenty-something girls lezzed it up with hundreds of people cheering them on. The one calling herself "Jack" was wearing hotpants. There were children present.

Panto at Loughborough Town Hall. Doesn't get weirder than that.

(Oh yes it does, etc. etc.)

Bored games

Something unheard of happened today. I will try and break it to you gently. I lost at Monopoly. Worse still, I lost not only to Erica (who I always beat at Monopoly, always - I can't believe she'd break a tradition like this at Christmas time, of all things), but I lost also to my little brother.

Obviously this has ruined Christmas. If anyone wants me, I shall be sulking in the scullery. We don't actually have a scullery, but if we did, I think it would be a fab place to sulk.

I hope this terrible news hasn't ruined your Christmas, like it has mine. Have a good one!

J'ai bavardé

Today has been the loveliest of lovely days. I spent this morning in my home town. In fact, part of this morning, I spent in the precinct in Loughborough chatting to a bone fide music celebrity. I had absolutely no idea who he was (even when my little brother sang bits of his songs to me), but if anyone who doesn't only listen to Radio 2 is reading this - does Basement Jaxx ring any bells? I'm dead celeb me.

More excitingly than that (considering I know nothing about music), I saw lovely Hazel! We had lovely lunch and caught up on more gossip than you could throw at a medium-sized hedge. I also saw Hazel's lovely mum, whom I'd not seen for ages, because Hazel has rudely decided to live in New Zealand.

After saying adieu to Hazel, I zipped over to Coalville, famed for "Coalville family incest"; I saw my friend and ex-colleague, Liz, who I've not seen for a good two years. She gave me even more gossip about people I used to work with. In fact, I have so much gossip buzzing around my head now, I could fall over at any point. It's a very dangerous situation to be in, especially with Christmas so close. Just last year there were three fatalities in East Yorkshire, when three old ladies dropped dead from an apparent gossip overdose.

I shall have to be careful.

The geese are getting fat...

I woke up this morning feeling rough, with a capital rrrr. I've bravely been battling my female equivalent of man-flu (bird flu?) all week, but finally gave into the headache and sinusy-ness (that is a true medical term) and took the day off work.

I am feeling a bit better now, thank you for asking.

So, now it's officially getting Very Close to Christmas. I'm not a massive fan of Christmas Day, but I have an action-packed few days lined up. There will be shopping, there will be lunch with Hazel, there will be catching up with other old friends, there will even be a wedding.

There will also be a Midnight Mass service where Dad and I will go and sing carols and take the piss out of the sermon.

And there will be mince pies. I love mince pies. And teasing my brother. They are two of my very favourite things.

Garage music

"I'm sorry," said the nice-but-not-bright woman responsible for Tower Hamlets parking. "It's been a mistake." I was losing my new parking place. Worry not, I got different one.

"The thing is," she continued, "I don't usually do parking bays. I'm normally garages and sheds."

One wonders exactly how much admin a shed causes.

A separate note: Joni Mitchell. Now, I've always resisted Joni's charms, despite many people's recommendations. I think Both Sides Now is a really great song, and I'm partial to a bit of Big Yellow Taxi too. On the strength of this, I bought an album of hers. It was only a fiver.

For God's sake, woman, what's wrong with staying in the same octave for let's say a bar maybe? We all know you can do special up-and-downy voice thingies, and ooh, aren't you clever? But it's a bit fucking annoying after a while. And that song Circle Game (it goes round and round) is basically ripping off The Wheels on the Bus.

And whilst we're on the topic, why has no-one else noticed that Bob Dylan sounds like Roland Rat? "Eeeh, Rat Fans..."

It's all a big con. The Carpenters, on the other hand, now that's class. Apart from that whole incest-plus-anorexia-and-untimely-death thing. Don't be so picky.

The bells, the bells

I'd just got in from work and my doorbell rang. Not my external doorbell on the block of flats which makes a noise like an enraged metal detector, but the doorbell that's actually on the door to my flat. It plays the first two bars of "Oranges and Lemons". This was weird. Not the chime. I'm used to that. The fact that my doorbell rang means that it was someone from within my building who was calling on me. I live in London. I have lived in this flat for about two years. Of course, I have never spoken to any of my neighbours. I am not a freak.

I answered the door. It was a lady in her slippers. It would appear the oh-so-efficient council have allocated me a parking space... which she is also supposed to be parking in. She told me she'd been clamped previously outside the flat and was worried about the same thing happening again. I said that the council had told me that they didn't have any clamps, and they just towed people. She said, "Yes, that's right, they towed me." Technically not clamping then, really. But I can't talk. I managed to lose my Astra once in a very silly way (see http://laurasplog.blogspot.com/2006_03_01_laurasplog_archive.html).

The slipper lady story is admittedly not a particularly interesting anecdote, but to be honest, I'm struggling a bit today. I don't want to write about work stuff, as I think it's a good rule of thumb to separate my work and personal life. (i.e. I don't want to lose my job or get sued.) I don't want to write perjoratively about anyone who might be reading this blog, which rules out most of my friends and family. I don't like writing about love life stuff... because aside from the fact that my dad reads this, the bloke you're accusing of having a small willy / planning to marry / slept with his brother might stumble across the writings... again.

Which leaves me talking about my slipper-wearing neighbour and the not-terribly-interesting parking anecdote.

Sorry.

Hazel

Christmas is definitely approaching. I can tell this because the weather has gone cold, I have eaten far more office Quality Street than is entirely healthy, and best of all, my good chum Hazel is back in the UK! Yay!

Hazel's a schoolfriend, 13 days older than me. I've known her since we were eleven. She's seen me laugh so hard that orange juice comes out of my nose. She's seen me cry over dead pets and rubbish boyfriends. We worked on trigonometry and figurative language together. We learned our avoir and etre verbs together. We bought alcopops and bonded over Truth or Dare. Then the cow sodded off to the Southern hemisphere. You can't trust anyone.

So Hazel selfishly lives in New Zealand most of the year. This is a blatant attempt to make me spend most of my salary on going to visit her. I think she has shares in Virgin. Luckily one of our friends out-manouevered her this year by cunningly getting married in the UK (the sacrifices we make...) and forcing Hazel to come back and be a bridesmaid.

I cannot wait to see her, but wait I must as I'm at work until Friday. Then, as fast as my little Corsa's wheels will carry me, I will bomb up the M1 and irritate her to the best of my ability. She is quite difficult to irritate though. Or at least she hides it well. I suppose there was that whole "moving to the other side of the world" thing...

I will of course be stealing her passport. She can come and live with me. In the loft. She'll love it.

Don't tell her yet though. I don't want to ruin the surprise.

Let there be shiny things

Have you ever had one of those days when things have gone a bit suspiciously right?

Look:

• My new shiny car arrived exactly when it was supposed to, and all seems to be correct (i.e. it's a brand new Corsa as opposed to a lime green 1983 Skoda, as per my dream last night.)
• The people at the Tower Hamlets parking place were both friendly and (fairly) efficient.
• My iPod played a random selection of jaunty tunes on the way to work.
• As I left the building, the postman was coming in, and he gave me a parcel which wouldn't have fitted through my letter box. Had I left five minutes earlier, I'd have been forced to go to the hell that is Bethnal Green sorting office to collect it.
• My cold hasn't yet monopolised my day.

Of course I realise what's happened. I haven't yet woken up. When I do, I'll be fluey, my green Skoda will be waiting for me outside - clamped owing to parking restrictions, and I'll have six hundred packages to collect from Emma Street sorting office.

I haven't yet told my old car about the new car. It doesn't know its death sentence is approaching. I know that sounds dramatic, but I love my old car so much. I really do feel like I'm putting down the family pet. But that deserves another entry. And maybe a sonnet.

Just to lighten the mood - a horribly politically incorrect joke for you (a public domain joke - not my own): "Ipswich has a dyslexic Santa. Keeps leaving prozzies under the tree..."

Oh come on, admit it. You laughed. Now go away and think about what you've done.

The family that plays together...

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! I knew it! This will really make you chuckle.

A week or so ago, I decided to do some fancy tracking stuff on this blog, so I could get a rough idea of how many people were reading it each day, how long they were staying for, and how they'd stumbled across it. It's useful to see how many of you are returning visitors, and how many of you run away screaming after just one visit. (And why so many of you are based in Oxford, when I don't know anyone who lives in Oxford, and don't even like the place, I'm not quite sure.)

Tee hee, here comes the funny bit. I know now that three people have found the site after Googling (and I swear this is true): "Coalville family incest". Do you think they were looking for hints and tips? Or perhaps a support group?

Was this you? If so, do get in touch and let me know. Or maybe a family member / sexual partner would like to drop me a line.

Unsurprisingly, no-one has found the site by Googling "glass orb scruffy twat". Yet.

It's been a good weekend. I'm getting a cold, so yesterday I just hibernated with some chocolate and Love Actually on DVD. Today I caught up with a friend and went for a walk. Proper weekendy stuff. But not the stuff great blogs are made of.

What the duck...?

I've just seen something really distressing. Really, really distressing. If you're a child of the 80s, look away now.

It's been a good Saturday. Lots of relaxing, tying up a few bits and pieces I needed to do - just what you want at the end of a busy week. I put the TV on, and as I'd nothing particular SkyPlussed, I had a bit of a surf.

I stumbled across "Channel M" - apparently a Manchester-only TV channel. Today's feature was a primary school choir competition. Don't vote for them. They were all shit. I looked for the number to text that particular message in, but there didn't seem to be one available.

Anyway, the presenter doing the links seemed vaguely familiar. I sat through "Away in a Manger", sung by children who should have been imprisoned in said manger for crimes against music.

The presenter came back on. He was definitely familiar. Middle-aged, and definitely familiar.

I listened to nasty Mancunian children sing "Walking in the Air", which would have been more appropriately titled, "Screeching, plus recorders and a fat nine year-old who can't play the glockenspiel properly." Less catchy though, maybe.

The presenter said a little bit - and I suddenly recognised him. This was Andy Crane! Andy Crane of CBBC fame. You know, the one who had Edd the Duck. And that butler! And he was also on that thing on ITV about computer games, with Violet Berlin, who had a very big lisp.

Andy Crane. On regional TV. Presenting a - let's face it - utterly shit choir competition, in which probably only the parents will vote. And probably only then to stop their loud-mouthed progeny from opening their vile-sounding gobs.

The worst thing was, at the end of the programme (yes, OK, I watched it to its tedious conclusion), he didn't even get a credit.

Poor Andy.

I'd still do him though. Obviously.

I wonder I am still talking - nobody marks me

Last night I saw the RSC's Much Ado About Nothing at the Novello in London. Wow, wow, wow. With spicy salsa music and set in 1950s Cuba, I liked it a lot. I saw a fab production about two years ago at the Globe, which was an all-female production. I had had reservations about that at the time, but Josie Lawrence's Brummie Benedick was an utter delight. I want Josie Lawrence to be my friend. She looks like a nice person. If anyone knows her, perhaps you could let her know, and she could come round for dinner. Thanks.

Anyway, I digress. Last night's production featured Tamsin Greig as Beatrice, and she absolutely sparkled. The sharp dialogue was spot-on, and Beatrice was played exactly as she should be - a tough, witty, intelligent woman... with a bit of a well-hidden soft side. If I have a criticism (and this does seem churlish), it's that Greig was too good. Whenever she was on stage, my eyes were drawn to whatever she was doing, no matter how insignificant, meaning that other characters' roles faded against her bright light a little.

(Side moan about ticket prices - balcony seats at nearly £30 - what is the world coming to?)

The evening was marred slightly by the fact we were sharing the balcony with a large party of school kids, many of whom whispered and had their mobile phones go off throughout the performance. However, I did get my amusement value during the interval when I was in the Ladies:

Chav Girl: This is shit, innit?

Friend: Shit man, innit, yeah?

Chav Girl: We're goin' 'ome, innit? Choo wanna come wiv us?

Friend: You goin' 'ome, isit? Yeah, man, shit.

Chav Girl: I don't even see the point. This is set in the fifties, and the one we're studying's set in Elizabethan times, innit?

Methinks a "U" grade at A-level this way comes...

Non-PC

On Wednesday, I did my first gig for over a month. I fully expected not to be match fit, and to be pretty rusty, plus I was trying out a bit of new material, so really wasn't expecting too much from the gig - which is normally a pretty quiet one anyway.

However, being close to Christmas, the gig had taken a booking from 40 computer programmers on their work night out. Imagine a room full of pasty male virgins. If you're not too turned on by this thought that you immediately have to rush away from the computer to sort yourself out, do keep reading. One of the PMVs (pasty male virgins) was so horrifically drunk and obnoxious, that he kept grabbing the microphone from the performers, usually to say something hysterical like, "You look like David." It was comedy gold.

So, never shying from the dark humour, when I got on stage I said absolutely nothing. I fixed the troublemaker with a long, silent look. And then said quietly to the rest of the audience, "Looks like the ladies of Ipswich are safe tonight."

It was a strong opening to a really nice gig. I think being away from my material for a while actually meant I was fresher, and more happy to play around with the stuff that I did have. The new stuff went down OK too. I lost a few of the more tipsy PMVs towards the end, as their drunken concentration didn't stick with me for the longer anecdotes, and I certainly wouldn't list it as one of my best ever gigs, but on the whole, I was pretty pleased.

Even if the troublemaker did actually fall asleep during my set. Believe it or not, that's not even the first time that's happened to me. Perhaps I should take a hint.

Four questions and a funeral

Questions:

• Is it ethical to pretend to a chugger that you don't speak English, only French? Before you scream, "Of course not, you buffoon," let me remind you that these "charity muggers" are paid a wage to hassle people and often earn on commission. Given that your answer to question one is, "Yes, then, of course it is ethical. And a jolly good idea," please let me know what you should do when said chugger switches to fluent French. I tried saying, "Ou est la boulangerie?" and enquiring after Francoise, but it didn't seem entirely relevant in its context.
• Why do old ladies take so long to unwrap boiled sweets? And do they deliberately purchase brands with extra-rustley papers?
• Do architect undergraduates do more work than engineering undergraduates? This was debated noisily by three engineering undergrads on my train back from Redhill today. One claimed his architect friend had had a "mental breakdown" in his first year. That explains the Dome.
• Is it OK to open the door to the gas man dressed in your pyjamas? Cause he's due round this evening and I can't be arsed to change.

So many questions. Also, sorry for the misleading title. There is no funeral in this post. Sorry for any inconvenience caused.

Now answer my questions.

Homing Phone

I have a mobile phone for work that I really can't use. I'm rubbish with it. I think it might also be a rubbish phone, but I have no evidence to back that up, other than the fact that I have to lift it with both arms, and even then I occasionally slip a disc.

Still, cunningly I managed to lose said phone a few nights ago at a work night out. It didn't seem like the end of the world - I'm due an upgrade anyway soon, but I thought out of courtesy, I might as well give the venue a ring to find out if anyone had picked it up and handed it in.

They had. Bastards.

Denied a shiny new phone. PLUS I had to walk half an hour today in the pouring rain to go and pick up the brick. Ho hum, it is hard being me.

When my bag was stolen last year, did anyone hand in my iPod? No they did not. But you can bet that had my work phone been in my bag, it would have been posted back to me summarily, with a polite note.

Doctor who?

I have a confession to make. I am slightly addicted to ITV3's repeats of Bramwell. For those of you who were doing something else during the late nineties, Bramwell was a drama series, based around a ficticious Victorian female doctor. She did lots of shocking things like having pre-marital sex and riding a bicycle.

I am definitely addicted to it. It is on every Wednesday at 9 p.m. SkyPlus records it for me weekly.

My favourite thing about Dr Eleanor Bramwell is that she is the Doctor of Death. Every week she makes yet another shocking mistake, leading to the untimely death of either one of her colleagues or an innocent child. Sometimes they escape lightly and just lose a limb or become vegetative as a result of her utter incompetence.

I'd say she put women's rights back a good few hundred years. Still, it's good fun to watch. I like playing, "Guess who comes a-cropper". You can usually tell within the first five minutes.

Katrina the Cleaner

I'll admit I was worried. Very worried. In an uncharactaristic fit of feeling completely intimidated, I handed over my keys to a Polish stranger, who demanded I bought "Cif Yellow", told me my flat was "very dirty" and that she would start on Friday. I had very little input into this decision. Other than the recommendation from a friend of a friend, I knew absolutely nothing about the woman to whom I'd just given total access to my property.

And yet, coming home yesterday evening, I was greeted by the smell of chemical lemons (is there a finer smell in the universe?) and bits of dirt which I'd come to think of as fixtures and fittings were completely gone. London's a hard-water area, meaning that limescale is pretty much impossible to remove. But my cleaner has achieved the impossible. My flat is so clean, I could eat dinner off the floor. In fact, I think I might. I can't be arsed to wash up.

Me and the cleaner - it could be love.

Mr Ned the stalking force

Apologies, apologies, apologies. It has been the busiest of busy weeks, though absolutely no excuse for not updating.

Exciting things this week have been Book Club (J. G. Ballard's Kingdom Come - don't bother, though our Book Club discussion was heated and engaging), plus a work do. Enforced fun has never been high on my priority list, but as I'm still fairly new to the job it was a really nice way of getting to know people better.

So... the sharper-eyed (or obsessive-checkers) amongst you may have noticed that there was a not-terribly-complimentary comment on the Plog yesterday afternoon which was gone by this morning. I did delete it - which is not something I've ever done before with someone else's comments. I may yet reproduce it in full here, depending on public demand. Shout now or forever hold your peace!

The main reason I deleted it (other than the fact that it called my poor Plog vomit-inducing - has anyone been sick as a direct result of reading this? Hmm? Hmm?) is that I think the comment is not from whom it purported to be.

It claimed to be from the guy with the glass orb at Bethnal Green last weekend. In fact, the commenter signed himself "Scruffy Twat". I don't know about you, but I think this is somewhat unlikely. Firstly, I didn't say the guy was a scruffy twat. I said he was dressed scruffily, and that he looked like a twat. I then - if you remember - self-deprecatingly (I hope) undercut my own judgement by showing how he was actually pretty normal, and how our first impressions of fellow Londoners can be wrong.

Anyway... If this were indeed from the "Scruffy Twat", do you think he spends his days Googling himself with the keywords "glass orb bethnal green twat"? I don't see how else he would stumble upon the Plog.

More likely, this is the work of Ned. (See http://laurasplog.blogspot.com/2006/07/bum-deal.html and more recently the entry on 13 November). Because I can't prove it, I won't retaliate with my favourite Ned story. But I genuinely can't think of another person who bears a grudge towards me and has put forward veiled threats of violence. Twice.

Still, where more public (and stupid) to do it than a blog with a readership of over 600? (Thanks guys!)

600 people reading this. That's a hell of a lot of vomit. Apologies.

Falling Down

This morning the bus braked sharply and I fell right on my face. Right. On. My. Face.

This is not something a dignified 27 year-old, working for a respectable blue-chip company should do.

Generally.

It was a proper prat fall. I was a prat, and over I fell. You know what the most upsetting thing was? Was it that no-one expressed concern or asked me if I was OK? Nope. That is London, and that is what I expect. Was it that the bus driver was probably playing a game with himself to see how many people he could topple? Nope. It was that not a single person laughed at my - let's face it - brilliant clowning.

Grumpy bastards.

Having a domestic

"So are your cleaners fully insured then?" asked I to the man at the cleaning agency. Yes, so pathetic am I that I would like someone to clean my one-bedroomed flat. Because I just can't be arsed.

"Yes," said the nice man at the cleaning agency. "Say for example, one of our cleaners had your keys and decided to come in one day with all her friends for a party, and completely trashed the place, we'd be insured for that."

"Oh. Does that happen often?" I queried.

"Hardly ever. Or say, for example, one of our girls decided to let themselves into your flat and burn it completely to the ground. You'd be covered for that too."

"Oh good," said I. "Though I have to admit, you're not really selling it to me."

"How do you mean?" asked the man. "I am the managing director."

Luckily I also have the recommendation from a friend who lives in the area. I think I might be going down that route instead.

Utter balls

"Dear me," said the exasperated man at the cashpoint, where we had been waiting for a good five minutes. A lot of people wanted to get their cash at 3 p.m. on a Saturday in Bethnal Green.

I felt the same mild irritation, but it was the last thing I had expected him to say. "Why was this?" I hear you ask.

Well, I first spotted my fellow-queue member as we were both waiting at the pedestrian lights to cross Roman Road. He was unremarkable - a bit scruffily dressed, iPod, standard Londoner. Except in his left hand he held a glass orb. Like a big paperweight, except completely round. Like a crystal ball. Whilst he was waiting to cross the road, he did tricks with it, rolling it round his hand, moving it from his left to his right hand, up and down his wrist. He was very good at it.

The more I looked at him, the more I realised he was a little bit odd (most people would have accepted that at the crystal ball stage, but I can be a bit slow on the uptake). Closer examination proved him to be very scruffily dressed - no socks, shoes with massive holes in, last season's French Connection - you get the picture. I labelled him as one of London's eccentrics, and studiously ignored him playing with his balls.

We ended up in the same NatWest cashpoint queue. He continued with his tricks, and added to his repetoire a little moonwalk-type dance on the spot.

He looked like a twat.

So to hear him say, "Dear me," sounding utterly like a normal person, was a bit of a shock. I wish people would be a bit more consistent. It would make my job as stereotyper much easier.

Santa Secrecy

Secret. Fucking. Santa.

Excuse the language, but really, I hate it. Those of you who know me will already be aware that Christmas is not my favourite time of year. I loathe Christmas songs, despise cold weather, don't like parsnips, and - in a very non-girly way - I don't actually enjoy shopping. At all.

But Secret Santa really takes the biscuit. I've been in my new job for less than a month, and the only information I know about the colleague whose name I drew randomly is - wait for it - he's fat. Not exactly a personality trait.

Still, this year, my Secret Santa will literally be taking the biscuit. Because as being fat is the only hobby of his that I know about, a tin of biscuits seems to fulfil that rather nicely.

Yesterday's news

For those of us who live in London, there is a new sport to be had. Since the arrival of approximately three million new free evening papers, it is now a real achievement to arrive at your tube station or bus stop paperless. Every three feet you are accosted by an out-of-work promotions person, trying to hand you a newspaper, often in quite an aggressive manner. The papers are rubbish. London Lite, Standard Lite, The London Paper - all of them are recycled garbage tidbits about what Paris Hilton might have said to Lindsay Lohan and what sort of handbag will go with next month's earrings.

So, running the paper gauntlet, and your chosen level of politeness ("No thank you", "Sorry", "No", "Fuck off, you paper-toting bastard") is a new London hobby. Once arriving at your tube station of choice, utterly paperless, you may feel smug. You have won. You have run the gauntlet. Well done.

Of course, now you're on the train, you then have to crane your neck as far as it will possibly stretch, so you can read your fellow passenger's copy of London Lite. What was untouchable three minutes previously is now - of course - the most interesting thing ever written in the entire English language - ever. You find yourself actually caring about whether or not Britney's divorce will go through, and mentally curse the person next to you for daring to turn the page of their own paper before you've completely read about the slight tendon sprain of a cricketer you've never heard of.

If someone leaves their free paper on the train, pounce on it! It is yours! You are great! Take it home with you so no-one else can have it!

London is a weird place sometimes.

Room 101

So I guess you're wondering how I ended up spending an evening finding out random facts about a complete stranger. Including the fact that she's going to hand her notice in tomorrow so she can go travelling around Australia. Her brother is joining the navy, and will become a lieutenant, and she is a big Top Gear fan.

I'll be honest, this was definitely an instance where I should have perhaps used Erica's patented SAWO technique (Scowl And Walk Off). I didn't. For that I suffered. Not in any major way, just in a kind of socially embarrassed way. It wasn't as bad as the time I paid to spend an evening with a Chinese prostitute. Well, not quite.

Here's the story.

"Is this the queue for Room 101?" I asked the girl in front of me at the London Studios. It was. We made polite conversation until my friends arrived. And then, as it would have been rude to ignore her once I had no further conversational need of her, I continued to include her in our conversation.

The thing is, we then filed into the studio audience together, and sat next to each other for the entire recording.

After the taping, we filed out of the studio together, and, my friends went to Embankment and the girl and I walked towards Waterloo together. She lived in Stratford. I said, "So, are you taking the Jubilee line home then?"

"No - it takes ages. I'm going on the Central Line."

"Oh. Me too."

Ten minutes' wait for a Waterloo and City Line train, fifteen minutes of train journey, and my least favourite part? Saying goodbye as the tube finally pulled into Bethnal Green, and then doing that awkward smiling thing for about six million years between the train stopping and the tube doors opening.

And she was another fucking Kate.

Wetwang weekend

"I can't believe I was sick over my own feet," said Sarah*.

It was indeed that sort of a hen night. Lots of giggling, lots of alcohol and a very embarrassing flashback to early 1999. Katy (Who Smells of Wee) had brought along a video that Hazel, Kath and I had made and sent to her whilst she was abroad, when it was still the twentieth century. We were too lazy to send letters.

Three questions about the embarrassing video.

Question One: why did 1999-Laura think that Katy would be at all interested in details of the bloke at work (whom she'd never met) that I almost used to fancy but didn't really any more? She was then lucky enough to receive a blow-by-blow account of my 1999 work's Christmas party, which she didn't attend. I was considerate like that.

Question Two: my 1999 haircut. WHY?

Question Three: we were all fairly intelligent girls - did it not occur to us that Katy might not actually have a video player in a Swaziland village hospital?

Anyway, it was a good weekend, and Jessica and I now know where Bridlington is.

I have been busier than a hamster in a spin-dryer since Thursday. On Thursday evening my primary-school friend Sara came to stay with me. I hadn't really seen her since I was eleven, as she's been living in the US for the last few years. We had a very nice evening, thank you for asking.

On Friday I drove up to Loughborough, breaking the journey on the way to Bridlington. We passed many places with brilliant names: Pocklington, Wetwang, and, our favourite, Nafferton. Erica has the weakest bladder. This is official.

Saturday was Hen Night Galore. Kath's all grown up and nearly married. I, however, am still immature and take delight in pulling silly faces at inappropriate moments. RASP.

Sunday I belted back to London as Nice Kate was arriving at 3-ish. It was lovely, lovely, lovely to see her. We caught up on all the news. We labelled several people of our common acquaintance "shithead tossers", talked about inappropriate things a bit too loudly in an Italian restaurant, gave dirty looks to the loud Polish people on the next table, ate far too much chocolate and then Nice Kate stole my pyjamas. I'm considering changing her name from Nice Kate to Pyjama-Stealing Kate. Though that is a bit specific. I'll let you know what I decide.

That's loads. I've written loads. So don't moan it's been ages since the last entry.

* Name has been changed to protect identity. Kind of. OK, it hasn't.

Quantity surveyor

The results of the survey are in. According to my loyal readership, based on the number of comments on various entries, the issues that get you most fired up are:

- Being called Katherine / Katy / Kate
- Caesar dressing
- Jacket potatoes

This is worrying. I spend time crafting Plog entries for you, all of you, and you repay me by interest in the utterly mundane. Now go away and think about what you've done.

Admittedly, there was some interest in my Husband Applications (still open - new extended deadline! http://laurasplog.blogspot.com/2006/10/fortunately.html), but beyond that I'm disappointed in you.

All of you.

Or both of you.

Or just you. I have no idea how many people read this.

And whilst I'm on the subject, a few months back I tentatively put my email address on my profile, half expecting my mailbox to get rammed with stalkers / spam at the very least. Nothing. Not a dicky bird.

It's all take, take, take with you, isn't it?

(OK, can anyone tell I didn't sleep well last night, and woke up slightly fractious, like a small child who's had too much excitement and not enough nap-time?)

Estating the obvious

"Hello. I'd like a parking space in my estate for my new car please. Is there a waiting list?" asked I, to the able estate parking department of Tower Hamlets.

"Where do you live?" she asked, quite reasonably. I told her, but I won't tell you, for fear you will stalk me, thus giving me a taste of my own well-deserved medicine. Ha! You lose.

"That shouldn't be a problem," she told me.

"Great," I said. "Is there a waiting list?"

"Yes," she replied.

"How long is it?" I asked.

"I don't know; I don't have it in front of me."

"I kind of meant in terms of time - are we talking a few weeks, or a month, or six months?" I asked.

"Oh, well you won't get a space immediately."

"OK," I said. "But do you have a rough idea how long it generally takes?"

"We've just had some back," she said.

"Sorry?" I asked.

"Yes. We've just had some back. It's unusual."

"How do you mean?"

"Some spaces have been returned. There are lots at the minute. You can have one. But you'll have to join the waiting list."

I was confused. I gave up. "Can you send me the forms?"

"Oh, that takes ages. It has to be issued by us, then go in our internal mail, and it'll go out second class to you."

"How long will it take?" I asked.

"Ages. About eight days."

"That's fine," I said. "My car isn't due until mid-December."

"You've got ages," she said. "When you get the car, you can join the waiting list."

"But where shall I park it in the meantime? I was hoping to join the list now, so the space would be ready for when the car arrives."

"If it comes on a Friday," the parking woman continued, "you should be OK until Monday. But don't quote me on that."

Great. Clear. As. Mud. Is everyone's life as confusing as mine?

Tales of a swooner

Are you a fainter? I am. Touch wood, I've not fainted for a year or so. Still, the last one was on the tube, which was a particularly unpleasant faint, as Londoners literally do step over you. "This is a busy town; we are in a rush, we care not for your weakness. Were you a gazelle, the lions would get you, you weakling. Be glad you are not a gazelle. Now get out of my way." That is the general London philosophy.

So, best faint ever? Where "best" means most impact / most embarrassing situation / most amusing outcome.

I have many close contenders. I will save them for another day. My number one, all time best faint ever would this:

Picture the scene. I'm 16 years old and working as a silver service waitress at a hotel near my parents' house. I'm not a big fan of waitressing, but the guy I fancy is working the bar that evening, so I wear my short black skirt.

The evening is going well. The restaurant is busy, I'm getting lots of smiles from the guy. My waitressing skills are brilliant. Go me. Then, just after I pick up a stack of 20 plates, I feel a bit funny. I wander over to the bar area to see if I can sit down. Too late. I wake up a minute later, with 19 broken plates next to me, my legs akimbo, and the bloke I fancy standing by my head, laughing.

I am then sick over his feet.

Best Faint Ever. Tell me about yours.

Plans for winter

There was a lot of stuff I nearly did today. I nearly went to yoga, but decided I'd rather have a lie-in. I nearly saw a play, but the tickets were sold out. I nearly tidied the flat, but instead spent a fair amount of time watching repeats of The Wonder Years (which actually is pretty good).

This evening, at 8 p.m., I realised that not only had I not been outside today, I hadn't even unlocked my front door from the night before. So I forced myself out of the flat to Sainsbury's. Oh yes, I lead a hedonistic life.

Thing is, when I did go outside, it was a bit cold and nasty. So I'm advocating hibernation from now on. Stock up on the badly-cooked jacket potatoes, turn the central heating up as high as it will go, and don't re-emerge until at least April. Probably May.

Go away now. I want to sleep.

Half baked - again

I have a question. It's a serious question. Don't laugh.

Has anyone, in the whole history of humanity, ever successfully cooked a jacket potato at home?

Oh, I eat them at work all the time, and they're always fine. Any cafe in the world can provide you with a decent jacket. But something goes wrong when I try and make one myself. Delia says rock salt, olive oil, cover it in foil and whack it in the oven for two hours at 180 degrees.

Somewhere else says microwave them at first, then put them in the oven for an hour.

I have tried everything, and the middle is always hard when I test it. So I stick it back in the oven, leave it for half an hour, and, if possible the middle seems to get even bloody harder. Eventually, hunger gets the better of me and after two hours or so, I usually end up mashing up all the hard bits with butter and dumping a pot of cottage cheese on top and pretending I can't hear the crunch.

So, come on, can anyone actually claim they know the secret to baked potato making? Or is it all a con, and do cafes actually just buy "jacket potatoes" from a factory who make them out of cat fur and polystyrene?

I need to know. I have another potato at home, and don't know what to do with it.

I love stalking, I do

"When I needed a neighbour, were you there, were you there? When I needed a neighbour, were you there?"

Yes, yes I was. (Though you might not have heard me. I was the one hammering on the floor with an old Nike.)

"I was hungry and thirsty, were you there, were you there? I was hungry and thirsty, were you there?"

Yes, if you remember, I was at the restaurant with you. We both had a starter and a main course and we shared a dessert. We split the bill. Remember? You fancied the waitress.

"I was cold, I was naked, were you there, were you there? I was cold, I was naked, were you there?"

Hey, hey, steady on a minute with the accusations. No I wasn't! There are a lot of people who look like me. Why would I be in Balham on a Thursday night? I don't live anywhere near Balham. I didn't even know you were going to be naked. That was a bonus - I mean, coincidence, I mean - I wasn't there. So it doesn't matter. Stop questioning me!

Wherever you travel (even if it's Balham), I'll be there, I'll be there...

A hymn to stalking. What more could I want?

National Affront

Things I've done this week:

• Been to see The Alchemist with my friend Elinor at the National. Quite nicely done - especially the farce, and they kept the pace up. As per our long-standing tradition of several years, Elinor fell asleep.
• Had an argument with the National staff, as they insisted I left my (normal-sized) bag in their cloakroom, but refused to take any responsibility for the contents. This Plog does recently seem like a long list of people who've pissed me off. Generally I'm lovely. So long as you agree with me, and occasionally bring me chocolate.
• Hammered on my bedroom floor at 2.30 a.m. with an old trainer. This was a vain attempt to encourage Angry Cockney, who lives in the flat below mine, to turn his TV down. Sadly, it would seem he's not fluent in Trainer-Based Morse Code. He will learn.

Seriously though, I am a lovely person. Honest. Please send chocolate.

Return of the Bum Deal

I took my mobile out of my bag to turn it off before I went into the theatre. As I held it, it started to ring. More out of surprise than desire to have a conversation, I answered it. It was Ned from http://laurasplog.blogspot.com/2006/07/bum-deal.html fame. This surprised me a bit, as the last time I saw him, I'd accused his girlfriend of taking it up the arse. Still, if he wasn't going to bear grudges, I certainly wasn't. To set the scene a bit, Ned was someone I knew when I was first starting out in comedy. Whilst I'm still treading the long road, he gave up comedy, mostly owing to popular demand.

I explained to Ned that I couldn't talk just then as it was literally a couple of minutes until curtain up, but I said I'd call him at the weekend. He said not to worry and that he'd email me. He asked about gigs I had lined up. I told him that I've started a new job, so don't really have any in the pipeline (is that a bad choice of word given the circumstances?) at the moment.

Fine. The next day I am lucky enough to get the following email from Ned. (Spelling and grammar belongs to the original.)

Hi Laura

No need to call me at the weekend to catch up as you said you would just now on the phone. I would say that I'm not a two faced person and therefore I have no interest in catching up with you or anything of that nature.

The reason I called is because I'm a little disappointed with your blog comments about my stupid Kiwi girlfriend. Not greatly disappointed becasue it doesn't surprise me, unfortunately.

I only asked about gigs as I think my girlfriend, the stupid Kiwi, might want to talk to you face to face about your comments.

Pathetic.

Ned

My reply:

Hi Ned

Just a couple of questions for you:

a) Do you really think it's healthy to refer to your own girlfriend as "the stupid Kiwi"? I appreciate your integrity in maintaining accuracy, but sometimes kindness towards other people's failings is the best way to make relationships last. If you keep expressing your self-confessed "lack of surprise" towards her lower-end IQ, I'm sure her self-esteem will suffer.

b) I don't really like to bring this up - given her aforementioned learning difficulties - but did it really take her four months to read all the way to the end of the Plog entry, written in July? I suppose there were some big words there. Well, one. "Respectability". Six syllables. And possibly something of a foreign notion.

Finally, thanks for asking about the gigs. To be honest though, I'd really rather not catch up with you at one of my gigs. I've seen what happens to an audience whenever you get within striking distance of a microphone, and it's not a pretty sight. It's not your fault. It's just that people don't like you very much.

Sorry to write such a negative email, but console yourself with this: at least you're getting plenty of backdoor action.

Laura

OK, OK, I didn't write that at all. I wrote a relatively civilised email back, apologising if he'd been offended, but trying to illustrate how this Plog is a piece of writing - all identities are altered, and whilst characters are of course based on people I really know, it's mostly a tangled combination of reality and fiction. Still, I don't think I'll be invited to their wedding. Which is probably a good thing, because I think she's still married to someone else.

Half baked

Overheard in Sainsbury's in Whitechapel last night (30-something man to shop assistant):

"Hi. Hoping you can help me. Can you tell me where the eggs, bacon, sausages, fruit juice and things are, please?"

Bless. I reckon this was the first time he was allowed out without his other half. Had I been the shop assistant, I'd have been very tempted to reply, "They're in the Breakfast Aisle. Just between the Lunch Aisle and the Elevensies Aisle. If you see the toasted teacakes, you've gone too far."

Luckily for him, Sainsbury's doesn't employ anyone as sarcastic as me.

Yoga. Period.

Beginners' Yoga. Yoga for beginners. How scary could it be? Besides which, it was two minutes' walk from my flat. What a great thing to do with a Saturday morning. OK, I'm pretty unfit. OK, flexibility's not really my thing, but you never know - it could turn out I was brilliant at it.

My first worry started when everyone was told to get a belt from the belt shelf. What on earth would I need a belt for? Tying myself up in strange and twisted shapes, apparently. This was a bit embarrassing.

Not quite as embarrassing, however, as when the yoga tutor asked the group loudly, "Who is on their period today?" As quietly as I possibly could, I raised my hand. So did one other person. "No shoulder stand for you," continued the unabashed tutor. "Tie yourself up with the belt instead."

I am not quite sure why having a period prevents you from doing a shoulder stand. Perhaps if I'd gone to a more advanced class, this would have been explained.

"Do this!" instructed the yoga teacher, just to me, indicating stretching her thumb as close to the wrist as she could. I did what I was told. "I thought so," she said. "You have hyper-extensive joints. This means that you can stretch further than other people, but you will have to use your muscles differently."

"Is that good or bad?" I asked.

"It just is," she replied, somewhat cryptically.

Aren't you all glad that I do these things for you, and write about it in full so that you never have to put yourselves through it? Hmm? Where is my thanks? Give generously.

aPLOGogies

Apologies, Plog readers. I have been a tardy Plogger, and for this I must suffer.

I started my new job this week; whilst so far I've not been asked to deliver anything unduly difficult, it's always really tiring starting a new job - getting to know people, getting a feel for how people work.

Highlights you've missed this week:

• Avenue Q is twenty-two types of brilliant. I was humming "It sucks to be me" and "Everyone's a little bit racist" for two days afterwards. Best new musical since Jerry Springer the Opera - and that's official.
• Dinner with Mel, Rick, Ted and Fran - friends for whom the children's action song "One Finger One Thumb Keep Moving" took on a meaning which I'm sure was never intended by its composer. There was much food. There was much drink. There was more innuendo than you could throw a squirrel at.
• Sorry for ending that last sentence with a preposition. I know you were all thinking, "How clumsy. She should really have phrased that, 'There was more innuendo than at which you could throw a squirrel.' I shan't read her Plog again." And you'd be right.

And - super, super, super news - shiny laptop is now all broadbanded up. WHOOSH. That's the sound of my super-fast broadband whizzing past your rubbish 20th century ears. WHOOSH.

And it's Friday. What more could you want from life? WHOOSH.

Carbing on

Last night I began to feel slightly sick. A bit faint and wobbly, and very definitely sick. Part of this may have been that I was watching a film with Gwyneth Paltrow in, and she was very, very thin. I became a little bit obsessed with her pointy bones. Yuck.

I thought about what I'd eaten over the last twenty-four hours:

• A bacon omelette
• A chicken Caesar salad
• Lots of coffee
• Some raw carrots and cheese and chive dip

Without meaning to at all, I'd accidentally been following the Atkins plan for more than a day. To rectify this situation, I immediately ate two bags of crips and a Mars Bar.

Believe it or not, I felt no better at all. In fact, I threw up quite profusely. Dieticians know nothing.

Trouble with the Plog

The trouble with the Plog is that people actually read it.

"You'll never guess what I did this weekend," I might say to Erica.

"You bought shiny things, test-drove a Corsa and beat your friend at Trivial Pursuit," Erica might reply.

"Let me tell you about the embarrassing situation in the Halloween shop," I could say to Nice Kate. Nice Kate would then relate back to me in my own words exactly what happened in the Halloween shop.

This is problematic. It means I can no longer regale my friends with my (let's be honest) hilarious anecdotes. Instead it means that as I have nothing new to say to them, I have to listen to their (let's be honest) frankly dull stories about their tedious, and in some cases unnecessarily protracted lives.

Luckily, once they read this, I won't have any friends left, and the problem will go away.

Let the shininess continue

What a lovely weekend it was. Good food, good company, a relaxing weekend chez Mad Parents, beaucoup de shiny things and catching up with last week's Spooks in the evening.

And I beat Lee at Trivial Pursuit. I never beat him at Trivial Pursuit. He has beaten me at least ten times. But last night I won. Possibly in revenge, he deliberately put his nasty fingermarks all over my shiny new laptop.

This is unforgiveable. To console myself, I shall be purchasing lots more shiny things. Hooray!

Magpie Girl

Today will henceforth be known as the Saturday of Shiny Things.

There is a rubbish company, called nicepc.co.uk who are not nice at all, neither do they appear to have any PCs for sale. This appears, at the very least, to be in violation of the Trades Description Act. After phoning them at least three times last week to check my laptop would be delivered on Saturday, they phoned me at 4 p.m. on Friday afternoon to say that they had no more stock. Of anything.

Wankers.

Anyway, undeterred, I purchased a laptop from Curry's this afternoon. Curry's are also bastards, but to be honest, I'm running out of shops that I'm not actively boycotting. So far (from memory) I have the Carphone Warehouse (Billy in particular is a fuckwit), Curry's, Dixons, BT, Tiscali, Thames Water (OK, not technically able to boycott, but fairly pissed off with them), Chiltern Railways, Midland Mainline, First Great Western, Nationwide... in short, pretty much everyone I've ever had a product or service from. Oh, and every plumber in the world.

I digress. Shiny laptop is mine.

And this afternoon I also test-drove a shiny new Corsa. Liked it a lot. Have made my mind up on the car front, and any day now, I shall be ordering myself the shiniest of shiny new cars.

And lo, as the prophets foretold, Shiny Saturday came to pass. And they were sore afraid.

Getting personal

Yesterday I had an appointment with a personal shopper. The idea is that I get some shiny new clothes to match my shiny new job. Plus I get someone with taste to choose them for me. What could go wrong?

I turned up at Debenhams for my appointment, after what can only be described as a pretty rough day, and met the lady who'd be in charge of my outfits. After running through some questions about my preferences, she said, "OK, I'm going to go and bring a selection back for you - I'll be about fifteen minutes. Have a coffee." I did. Fifteen minutes passed. No personal shopper. Twenty minutes passed. I looked at the walls. Half an hour passed. I began to worry about my personal shopper. Maybe she'd been brutally injured in a retail-related disaster.

After 45 minutes, I poked my head out of the personal shopping room. She was stood about three feet away, chatting to a colleague. She made some flimsy excuse about checking with the manager about the petite range, but I wasn't convinced. I reckon she was saying to her mate, "You wouldn't believe the dog's dinner I've got in there. Go on, have a peek. She thinks that you can wear turquoise with brown! Hilarious!"

Anyway, I have lots of new clothes. And a matching necklace. It was a good end to an otherwise rubbish day.

Well-wishing

Last night saw my second Buddhist class. This one was about loving kindness, or something.

We had to wish ourselves well, then wish a friend well, then wish a neutral person about whom you have no feelings well (the man who works in Costcutter in my case), then wish your enemy well.

This was difficult. I could wish myself well, no problem. I could wish my friend well (did the vibes make it to New Zealand, Hazel?). I could even wish the man in Costcutter well, although he does scowl at me a bit sometimes. But my enemy? Well, firstly it was hard to choose just one. There are lots of people I don't like. I might make a list one day.

But I tried very, very hard and eventually managed to wish happiness for Evil Kate. Ah - you knew there was a Nice Kate, didn't you? Well, ying and yang and all that - where there's Niceness, there must be Evility. That's a real word. Honest.

Though it did occur to me midway through my meditation, that perhaps (just for the purpose of the exercise) I should stop calling her Evil Kate.

PS If you're called any form of Katherine, and I don't already know you, could you please refrain from getting to know me? I already know a Nice Kate, Evil Kate, Kath, Katherine, Kathryn, Kayt, Katie, Katy, Katy Who Smells of Wee and a Cathy. It's getting a bit much. Stop it now. It's just silly.

Halloween story

Children, cover your eyes. Adults, be sure you want to proceed. For I am about to tell you the world's scariest Halloween story. This will disturb you for the rest of your life.

Just a month or so ago I was in Georgia, USA with Mrs Nunn. It was a pretty good holiday. The weather was warm, the shopping was great and we even had a BBQ in a typical Georgian roadside cafe called Smokey Joe's.

Except one day, Mrs Nunn discovered something at the outlet mall that would terrify me for the rest of my life. It was a Halloween shop.

"But Laura," I hear you say. "Laura, you are famous for not being scared by anything spooky. You tease your friends regularly for being frightened by horror films. The ghost train is the one ride you're not scared of at Alton Towers. Everyone knows you have absolutely no imagination."

Draw in closer, little ones. The tale I have to tell is chilling.

Mrs Nunn and I were wandering around the Halloween shop, giggling at talking pumpkins, bats that flew round overhead and clever skulls that insulted "guests" that would walk between them. It was cool.

Then we found the costume section. Hundreds and hundreds of different outfits, from Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, right through to (my personal favourite) a costume which made you look like the lady from the lost dog cartoon. (See http://www.costumesinc.com/p10962/Lost-Dog-Costume--Adult-Humorous-Costume.html)

It was a lot of fun. This is where the tale turns chilling. Look away now if you're easily scared.

It was all a lot of fun... until Mrs Nunn found the Naughty Nurse costume. We giggled over it. And then she decided to buy it. I am not joking. Her exact words were, "It'll cheer your dad up." I told her that if she did buy it, whilst I was there, I would write about it on my Plog. And her brother reads the Plog. And then she'd be embarrassed, wouldn't she?

"No," replied a stubborn Mrs Nunn. "Write what you like. For I am a naughty nurse, and I care not for your Internet musings." Or words to that effect. But she made me promise that I wouldn't write about it until Mr Nunn's birthday because I'd spoil the surprise.

Mr Nunn's birthday has come and gone.

Shudder.

Fall back

So the clocks have gone back. This is my least favourite moment of the year. I'm a summer person, and the dark nights really depress me. The government, clearly in tune with this common problem, decides to make things that little bit more unpleasant by putting the clocks back and therefore making it dark an hour earlier. Genius.

Apparently it's to make the mornings lighter, to stop the Scottish schoolchildren getting run over. I reckon if they're not clever enough to spot the headlights of an oncoming vehicle, well, that's just survival of the fittest.

I have some friends who claim to like all the seasons. They love the freshness of spring, the warmth of summer, the crunchy leaves in autumn, and the coziness of being tucked up inside in winter. These people are clearly delusional and must be dealt with. You know who you are. When I am in charge, there will be no autumn and no winter. Britain will be towed to somewhere just south of the Mediterranean. Hope this is OK with everyone.

Gassing

"Your mother's in a mard," said Mr Nunn.

"Why?" I asked.

"I turned the oven on, and I checked it had lit, and left the room. But it must have gone out, because she said the room was filled with gas."

"So why is she upset?"

"I don't know."

"Put her on."

"Hello," said Mrs Nunn, her voice clearly indicating she was indeed in a mard.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Your dad left the gas on without checking the oven was lit. So when I went in and could see what happened, and pressed the ignition, there was a big burst of flames. He could have taken my head off!"

"Hang on, hang on," said I. "You could smell gas in the room?"

"Yes," sulked Mrs Nunn.

"And you knew the oven was on?"

"Yes..." Mrs Nunn continued.

"So why did you press the button to light the gas? Wouldn't it have been better to open the windows and turn the oven off for a bit?"

"Humph," replied Mrs Nunn.

Rumour has it that Mr Nunn was just getting ready to put his head in it. Or maybe hers.

Friday feeling

I have struggled to think what to write today. I have started this entry four times. So instead I will just tell you some random things about my life.

• Today Gordon Brown was on my flight to Edinburgh. He was wearing a poppy. Already.
• I saw Nice Kate today in the office, which was a nice surprise. Except the bitch forgot my birthday present. Luckily I am back in the office on Monday to prise it from her greasy little fingers.
• Both Nice Kate and Lee (both expert in the field of Minis) agree that it could take six months after ordering previously-mentioned Mini to arrive. This could mean no delivery of a Mini until this time next year. I am a patient person. I can wait*.
• Hazel texted me a few lines of some Shakespearean sonnets. From New Zealand. Hazel is cool.

That is enough things about my life for now. Shoo.

* This is a big lie. I am not patient at all. Why are you still reading this? Go and do something useful.

Car-azy

"So what model are you interested in, Miss Nunn?" asked the Peugeot salesman.

The answer I wanted to give was, "The Mini One, but the bastards have stopped making that until April next year and I can't afford a Cooper." Instead I said, "The 206."

"Not a problem, not a problem," said the salesman. "What other cars have you test-driven?"

"The Mini One, a Vauxhall Corsa and a Toyota Yaris," said I.

"Not a problem, not a problem," said the salesman. I was beginning to wonder why it would be a problem.

"So, what do you drive at the moment, Miss Nunn?" asked the salesman.

"A Vauxhall Astra."

"Not a problem, not a problem. Oh, hang on a minute. No, we do have a problem. Your car is shit. Sorry. I've just looked at it on the scale - see here? This is where the Mini One falls - 'Not shit'; here's the Corsa - 'not too shit', the Yaris - 'a little bit shit', and your K-reg Astra falls right down here - 'shit as a weekend's camping holiday in Scarborough'. So you see, Miss Nunn, it is a problem, and you may not test-drive the Peugeot 206. You are not good enough for us."

"Not a problem, not a problem," I said.

Not really. I did test-drive the 206 and the 207. They were OK. But I want the Mini. It's a bit like having your heart set on a Radley bag that's quite expensive. You know the one in Next is also made of leather, has all the zips and pockets you need... but it's just not the same.

The Astra and I have decided to stay together until I can get my grubby little mitts on a new Mini. By hook or by crook. Off to buy some hooks.

Meditations

I'm not sure Buddhism and I are made for one another. Things I like:

• Being busy
• Shiny possessions
• Taking the piss

Last night I went to my first meditation class at the London Buddhist Centre. I walk past this place every single day, and despite the fact it's about 30 seconds from my flat, I've never been. So I thought I'd give it a go.

It was a two and a half hour session. On fucking breathing.

"OK. So breathe in and out, and then count one. Do it again and count two. All the way up to ten. Then start again. After that, we'll count one, then breathe in and out, count two, and so on. Don't worry if you're getting confused. I'll recap. Don't worry if your mind wanders. Just bring it back to the breath once you notice."

I got bored after "two". I also worked out quite quickly that I could breathe, count and make to-do lists in my head at the same time. Am effective multi-tasker.

At one point questions were invited. A girl spoke for all of us:

GIRL: I was wondering - what's the purpose of this breathing thing? I mean, what are we trying to achieve?

BUDDHIST: Oh, um, well. (Big pause.) That's a very good question. Um. I'll have to think about that.

OTHER GIRL: So am I supposed to be emptying my mind of thoughts?

BUDDHIST: Oh, um, well. (Bigger pause.) That's difficult to answer. Does anyone have any thoughts on this?

Two and a half hours of fucking breathing. I could have done that at home and watched last night's Spooks at the same time. The best bit was the tea break where we got chocolate Hobnobs. But I reckon £7 for a cup of tea and a Hobnob (even if it was a chocolate one) is expensive, even for London.

Funny Pharmacy

You know when you go to Waterstones and you say to them, "Do you have Cloud Atlas and Great Expectations?" Generally they tap something into their PC, and a minute or two later, you have two fabulous paperbacks in your hand, don't you?

They don't say, "That'll be ten to fifteen minutes whilst we check the words for you."

So, how come at the chemist's when you're picking up a prescription, it takes such a long time? Checking they've got the medication - fine, 30 seconds, maybe. But why the extra ten minutes? They've already seen they've got it, so why don't they grab it off the shelf and give it to you?

This is my theory of what happens:

You: Here is a prescription for my regular herpes cream, and the stuff I take to stave off ringworm.

Pharmacist: Let me just check that we have those.

PHARMACIST GOES TO BACK OF STORE

Pharmacist (to other Pharmacist): How long a break do you reckon we deserve?

Other Pharmacist: I could do with a fag. Those Nicorette patches aren't really doing it for me.

Pharmacist: That's not a Nicorette patch! That's a contraceptive patch.

Other Pharmacist: The boxes do look similar, don't they. Still, least I'm not pregnant.

Pharmacist: I thought you were. Aren't you off on maternity leave in a couple of weeks?

Other Pharmacist: Oh yes. You're right. Probably ought to cut down on the fags too. Fancy a pint?

PHARMACIST COMES BACK

Pharmacist : That'll be ten minutes.

TEN MINUTES LATER

Pharmacist: We don't actually have your herpes cream. Could you come back tomorrow?

Carry-on

It was Friday night. I had flown back from Edinburgh to London, and now I had to drive from London to Loughborough. My car started making a funny burning smell.

I stopped off at my flat and phoned my dad.

"Dad, my car is making a funny burning smell."

"What sort of burning smell?"

I pondered. "A nice burney sort of smell."

"A nice burney sort of smell?" repeated Mr Nunn. Apparently this description wasn't very scientific. This opinion was ratified by the RAC man.

Yes, my car is getting to that age where "Guess the new smell" becomes a favourite party game. This time it was a carrier bag wrapped around the exhaust.

Fat lollers

There ought to be a word for the lolling of an overweight, sleepy, ugly man across your bus seat first thing in the morning.

Such a plump personage lolled directly onto my shoulder this morning. Even after I pushed him away, and gave him my hardest stare, he re-lolled. He was a repeat-loller. I thought about changing seat, but the only other seat available was next to a man who seemed to be in the last stages of TB. And whilst, from a literary perspective, wasting away from consumption sounds a pale and interesting type of thing to do, I'm not sure how it fits with my current career plans.

The Number 8 bus is like Russian Roulette, except instead of a gun, there's a bus, and instead of bullets, there are passengers. And instead of the possibility of having your brains blown out, there's the possibility of being very slightly inconvenienced.

I am brilliant at similies.

Don't panic but...

I had a very nice birthday, thank you for asking. And thank you to all friends for cards, texts, emails and smoke signals.

In the evening I went out with Kath, Sarah and Katy for a nice dinner at Patterson's restaurant. Unfortunately Katy spoiled the evening both for us, and for the fellow patrons, by bringing in her peculiar smell of putrid ammonia. Other than that, it was nice to see everyone.

Today, the squirrels are gathering. I fear they might be in league with the pigeons, and possibly the foxes, who are becoming less and less bothered by my presence. Dean's theory is that the squirrels and the foxes are having a turf war. I think it's more sinister than that. Yesterday a bus was burned out on the Roman Road - looked like terrorist work to me (though was apparently just a fire). Who's to blame? Definitely the squirrels. Do not bow to their regime. Continue about your everyday life. But might be worth stocking up some bottled water and toilet paper just in case.

I have a feeling Squirrelgeddon is mere days away. Look at the evidence. What words spring to mind when thinking about squirrels? Furry? Maybe. Cute? If you're deluded. Bushy? Yes. Bush. And what's the name of the US president? Anyone else seeing the link here?

No. Thought not.

History in the making

Well, as today is my 27th birthday, I guess I have to admit defeat on the husband hunt. Technically I still have about ten hours or so, but I'm beginning to think I should probably have started looking a little bit earlier.

It's probably for the best. I don't really want the responsibility of a husband. I recently thought about getting a rabbit and decided it was a bit too much to take on. Husbands need constant care, feeding and walks, by all accounts. And I'd have to get a small one because my flat isn't large.

Hopefully I have a nice evening planned. Dinner with my friends Sarah, Kath and Katy (who still smells of wee).

Oh - by the way - this might interest some of you: http://www.historymatters.org.uk/output/page96.asp

It's a project to record an average day in people's lives for historical purposes. They've chosen the date because apparently nothing important has ever happened on October 17. Thanks guys. Nice idea for a project though. And in four hundred years' time, historians will be saying, "What idiots! They thought that day was unimportant, and all the time it was Laura's 27th birthday. Weren't folk simple, back in 2006?"

Katy smells of wee

Ladies and gentlemen (and, potentially, squirrels), I have a new job! Yay! This will come as a surprise to those of you who know me as a successful stand-up comic, but believe it or not, at the moment comedy is still very much a hobby to me, and the hard cash comes from a day job.

I don't write much about work on my Plog, deliberately. I don't want to get in one of those nasty legal situations for saying something about the company in public, and also, it's not that interesting for anyone who doesn't work with me. So I haven't been telling you that I've been job-hutning, albeit within the same company. I've been working on a secondment for the last few months; I've been loving the job, but there was nothing permanent to it. As I wanted to progress my career, rather than go back to my old job, as my secondment has been drawing to an end, I've been thinking about what to do next. And the last few weeks have been very hard for me. I've been working away from home a lot, and on top of that, have had stress with interviews, preparation and so on.

And on Friday, I got the job I wanted most of all. Anyone who happened to be near Mansion House on Friday evening may or may not have seen me do a little dance.

And a lovely weekend ensued. Saw some friends for lunch on Saturday - Erica, Dean, Katy and Helen (hello!). Helen likes my Plog and has told all her colleagues about it. They know me as "Laura the Stand-Up" which is marginally better than "Laura the Cock", which is what Katy calls me. Katy never reads the Plog. She is a doctor and illiterate and smells of wee. And I can say that because she never reads the Plog.

Erica and Dean came back to my flat with me and baited the squirrels. Until one of the little furry plotters tried to attack Erica and she ran away, screaming like a little girl.

Squirrels - seriously

Squirrels. We need to talk about squirrels.

They are cute, they are fluffy. Generally, I like squirrels.

But I'm a bit worried. I live in Central London - admittedly there are quite a few parks surrounding me, but the most abundant material is, by far, concrete. And yet the squirrels are gathering. Occasionally I used to see one or two ambling around the trees near where I live. I'd enjoy seeing their little bushy tails and watching them scamper around the ground. Now, every single time I return to my flat, there are at least three or four squirrels, giving me a very hard stare and refusing point blank to get out of my path.

I fear they are gathering, I fear they are plotting something. I fear the thing they are plotting is evil.

Everyone knows squirrels are supposed to go into hibernation at this time of year. Not the squirrels near me. Not only have they conquered their natural instinct but they have also mastered technology. I saw one of them yesterday with a notebook marked Evil Strategy and a bluetooth headset*.

I think the best way to manage this is to infiltrate the squirrel group, to become "one of them" and to find out what they're really up to. As I have had limited luck with the wedding plans, I'm trading the bridal dress in for a squirrel suit. Will report back.

* I didn't really, but I bet they've got them.

Room with a view

Sorry, sorry, sorry. Have been a rubbish blogger. Things have been a bit silly this week and will continue to be until next week.

I spent the first part of the week in Birmingham. For once my hotel room was lovely: 17th floor of the Radisson, with brilliant views of the (slightly concretey) city. And, because there weren't many rooms left, I got an Executive Room, complete with flat-screen TV, underfloor heating in the bathroom, and a complimentary bottle of wine.

Typically I wasn't actually in the room all that much; aside from the 14-hour working days, I managed to catch up with some Birmingham friends who have a new baby, and my parents also came across to see me. We went to Le Petit Blanc - a Raymond Blanc restuant. It was very good, especially considering I thought Raymond Blanc wrote The Snowman. Turns out he can cook a decent dinner too.

It was a slightly upmarket restaurant. This didn't faze Mrs Nunn, who walked boldly in with her three carrier bags from Poundland and insisted on being seated far away from the smoky bar area. And would they mind holding on to her carriers? Thank you.

Great tit

So, Norwich for the past few weeks and Birmingham this week. Living the high life.

I don't mind Birmingham, actually. I've got a few friends living there, and every time I go, it seems to have become a little more upmarket.

My brother likes the fact that a shop in the new Bullring (shopping centre) is covered with large metal breasts. In fact, I believe it greatly influenced his choice of university.

GPS: Greatly Pigging Stupid

Jessica and I have had something of a falling out.

"Turn left," said Jessica somewhere near Southwark yesterday afternoon. I turned left.

"Recalculating," said Jessica.

"No, Jessica. That's not fair," said I. "You said to turn left, and I turned left. Why are you recalculating?"

Jessica's recalculating bar edged slowly up from 0% to 95%. As it finally reached 100%, she clearly realised that in the time it had taken her to recalculate, I'd shot past the turning she wanted me to take. "Recalculating," she tutted again. This went on for no fewer than three painfully slow recalculations.

I threatened to upgrade her, but she knows that I've got no money for gadgetry at the moment. I needed to get to Kingston. She totally had the upper hand. I considered drowning her in some Cherry Coke when we got to the pub, but I also needed to get back to London again after my gig. On the way home she tried to make me turn the wrong way up a one-way street. She did this once before and got me stopped by the Police.

Jessica is a maniuplative minx. Sometimes I miss Jeremy.

For those of you who are visiting the Plog for the first time, you won't have a clue what I'm talking about. Never mind. Two questions: Are you male, and will you marry me?

This week's mental for me work-wise - will update when I can.

Dressing down

Today I hit a low point. I got angry at Caesar dressing.

Here's the deal. Every so often, I buy Caesar dressing. It makes a lovely salad with a bit of chicken and some lettuce. I always buy the same brand, because I like it. There is nothing wrong with this. This time, when I bought the dressing, it had a little cardboard collar round its neck, advertising the chance to win a shopping spree in New York.

So far, so good. I like shopping. I love New York. I was going to buy the dressing anyway.

When I got home, I popped the little collar on the kitchen counter, as you needed to log on to the Internet to check if you were a winner or not. I'd do it when I got round to it. It sat there for about a month. Finally, today, I got round to checking my special code.

And then and only then did I notice I was supposed to keep the till receipt in order to claim a prize. Who keeps their till receipts from Sainsbury's? I'll tell you - no-one! Ooh, I was angry. And I also knew that there was no point in going to the website now because I'd thrown out the receipt weeks ago. And yet, a little part of me still needed to know... Could I have won a trip to New York, if only I'd been the sort of mad woman who keeps receipts for a salad dressing and a loaf of bread?

No, in fact. I was a loser. Which was sort of a relief.

Potential husbands - fancy a New York honeymoon?

Time travel

I love London. Everyone knows that - it's not a surprise. But I've not actually been here that much for the last month. I spent a fortnight abroad on holiday, and since I've been back, I've mostly been in Norwich / Edinburgh / identical hotel rooms around the country.

I took the tube to Chancery Lane for lunch earlier today, and I couldn't stop myself smiling at the miracle of the tube (seven minutes' tube journey for a walk that would take an hour), the brilliant Poems on the Underground (Walt Whitman today), and how London's always the same but different.

On my way back, getting off the tube at Bethnal Green, there was an advert for the Imperial War Museum - a poster I hadn't seen before, advertising an exhibition they had on evacuees. I stopped to look at when it was running. It finished on 27th October, 1996. This confused me, until I realised it must be an old poster - perhaps the poster on top had been taken down, and this poster was still up underneath.

But this poster was ten years old. Surely it couldn't have lasted that long. It hadn't been there a couple of weeks ago, and it looked like it was in good nick. Perhaps it was a spoof or a joke, and I was missing the point. But the phone number was the old-style London one - 0171 - it was definitely genuine. Was it an old poster... or had I travelled back in time?

Reader, this is true. As I came out of the tube station, I started looking for things that would prove I was in 2006. All the cars were pretty old (this was Bethnal Green), all the other adverts were for brands that had been around for ages... I began to wonder quite seriously if I'd time-travelled.

I imagined going back to my flat, and finding the key didn't fit. And then, as it was 1996 and I'd only be 16, I imagined going back to the Midlands to live with my parents. And still have to have violin lessons. The thought was unbearable. Also, my boyfriend when I was that age had practically no lips. I couldn't go through that again.

Luckily, it turned out it was just an old poster.

I need to think of a better punchline for that story.

Husband applications still open. In case I hadn't mentioned it.

Rubbish Norwich

Any East Anglians, look away now.

Norwich - I've been there again for most of this week. Can anyone honestly give me a good reason for its continued existence?

Sorry, tired, grumpy. I get like this sometimes. Don't tell my future husband.

(Applications still open.)

Appealing

OK, well the husband-advertising isn't going brilliantly. To be honest I'd hoped for at least 50 applications by now.

Instead Cathy has volunteered someone or something called Bigsy, who may smell a bit, someone who may or may not be Hazel has tested the water, depending on whether or not I accept drug addicts and / or cult members, several of you have tried to set me up with Richard Herring, and bafflingly, someone unwilling to share their identity has professed to being an admirer... and yet describes their appendage as small and white.

Been there, done that.

But come on guys, let's work together here! We could a) have a shotgun marriage, ending in almost inevitable divorce, bitterness, and - as per predictions - a couple of kids or b) cause Madam Tamar's decade-old predictions to fail.

I think we need to decide what's important. Applications are still open. Act now!

Fortunately...

I was re-reading an old diary over the weekend, from when I was 17. It was the Easter holidays, and my dad had taken me to Weston-Super-Mare to see the much-fabled fortune teller, Madam Tamar.

Madam Tamar was clever. She asked me where I wanted to go to uni. I said (and to this day, I'm not sure why) Leeds. Then, when Dad went in next, to have his fortune told, she told him I would go to uni in Leeds. Astonishing.

However, I had forgotten all about her other predictions, which I re-read yesterday. Firstly I would have two children (erm, do I get a say in this?) and also, Madam Tamar said, "You will marry, but not until you're 26."

OK. I'm 26. In fact, in fifteen days I shall be 27. Now, obviously Madam Tamar is always right (though she's not much good at UCAS stuff), so that means I have just over two weeks to find a husband. Please apply below. Obviously time is a factor here, so it would be helpful if you were in the country. Also please see checklist:

• Mustn't smoke.
• Must be male.
• Must be at least 5'9".
• Must be able to drive.
• Must be bright. Very bright. I have an IQ of 95, so if we're to stand a chance of producing two above-average kids, you'll need an IQ of at least 110.
• Must be willing to go to the theatre occasionally.
• Must not be football / any other sport obsessed. Occasional matches OK, but must not be prioritised above much more important things like new plays at the Donmar.
• Good sense of humour essential. You'll need it.
• Must not live with your parents. Or want to subconsciously.
• Must not be married to someone else.
• Must not go out to get drunk. Occasional social drinks are fine. When I say so.
• Must not have a tiny willy.

Good. I'm expecting loads of applications for the post (please use the comments below to register your application), because obviously I'm pretty much perfect. I'm hoping to announce a winner by this time next week. Don't all rush at once.

Thwarted

I am in a weird internet cafe on Roman Road. There is a sign above the PCs saying,

"This Internet cafe is save and Convenient Place for All customers and we respectfully request that it is prohibited any antisocial behaviour such as following.

1- Using naked and sexual pages

2- Drinking Alcohol

3- Smoking

4- Eating

We also request to respect each other.

We apologise for any inconvenience.

Thank you

Management"

And well they should apologise for inconvenience. I came here for the express purpose of having a vodka, smoking and looking at naked pages, whilst scoffing a kebab and disrespecting the person sat next to me.

The nanny state. That's what this is. One English pound I have spent for two wasted hours of no nakedness. I'm going home.

Comedying

My gig last night had three people in the audience. Living the dream.

It was a nice, gentle easing back into the comedy though. I've not really been focusing on it too much over the last few weeks, what with the holiday and a few things at work keeping my mind away from it. I've got a gig next weekend, and probably ought to book a few more. It ebbs and flows a bit - sometimes I realise I'm a comedy genius. Other times I know I'm rubbish and not getting any better, and decide to give it up.

I'm enjoying it at the moment... the real test is as winter edges on and I wonder if I really want to go and brave the icy air to share my pearls of laughter with three non-appreciative punters.

London's burning

Well, it's been an exciting day in Bethnal Green today. I was working from home, as I've got loads to do after being up in Norwich for most of the week. At about midday I decided to open a window to let some air in. I'm clever like that when it comes to problem solving. Despite what any IQ scores of 95, or the inability to spell "horoscope" or "Sagittarius" would suggest.

As I opened the window, I noticed thick black smoke coming from the flats opposite (about 20 metres from my flat). I watched for a few seconds, wondering if it was a chip-pan fire, but it appeared to be coming from the stairwell and was getting worse.

I called the fire brigade and went downstairs where a group of neighbours had gathered. The fire engines turned up literally two minutes later (I do live pretty close to the fire station) and they started tackling the blaze. There were people upstairs in the flats who couldn't get out, so it was all a bit hairy. Turns out some joyriders had stolen a motorbike, and set fire to it by the flats. They'd left it by a wooden door and the fire had started from there. The damage to the flats is pretty bad - the stairwell looks gutted and all the windows are smashed. There was probably no intent to damage the building, but it's mostly old people who live here (I fit in really well), so it was a horrible thing to happen for them.

Speaking to the neighbours, one of them said, "I saw the lads what did it. They was young lads."

I said, "Well, make sure you tell the police."

"Ooh, no. I'm not saying nothing."

I've never understood this attitude. A group of tossers sets fire to their flats, and could easily have killed someone... and yet "mustn't be a grass". I saw a policeman later that day and asked him if he'd spoken to the ladies who'd seen the boys. I grassed them up. I dropped them in it. I am not a proper Eastender. Still, they'd already spoken to them, so my meddling was unnecessary.

But still, I got to dial 999 and everything. Lucky that with my rubbish IQ of 95 I could remember what the number was.

Guarded

"Morning," I said to the security guard.

"I'm just reading my stars," said he. "It says I will meet a beautiful woman. But that's not right because I met you two days ago. I'm a Saggitarius. What are you?"

"Totally uninterested in anything you might have to say, and a little bit creeped out by your entire demeanour," I said. Not really. But I thought it loudly. Instead I replied, "Libra."

He followed me to my training room and read my horroscope to me. Then he said, "Can you sign in when you get the chance?"

"Sure."

Five minutes later I went out to sign in. As I was doing so, he came round to the front of the desk and put his hand on my shoulder. And left it there.

This was 8.12 a.m. Did he really think I was going to say, "You are everything I've ever wanted in a man. Take me now. Here, against the ornamental fish tank. Sod the training course, let's get it on." I've been propositioned in various ways over the years - some successfully, some less so (one memorable instance where a male friend said totally out of the blue, "So, do you fancy a shag then?" I shan't tell you if he was successful or not). Still, no-one's ever tried seducing me by a hand on the shoulder in an office reception before. Novel.

I won't be going back to that office. But - lucky old me - he's on a training course in London on Friday. Thankfully not one of mine.