Neighbourhood Watch

Set the scene. You have a really noisy neighbour. Not just a bit chatty, but loud, cockney and really opinionated. Also, by the sounds of things, drunk. I have one. He lives in the flat underneath mine, and clearly likes the sound of his own voice. His favourite hobby is ranting over the phone; here are a few of my favourites:

• Why I don't like students
• Why this country's gone to the dogs
• Why haven't we been to the dogs for a while?

Thing is, whilst amusing for the first seven or eight minutes of the rant, my attention span wanders after a while (as he's on the phone I only ever hear one side), and I'm keen to block him out. Except he's just too loud. So, here's a top tip for all those of you with noisy neighbours. It's never failed yet.

Step 1: Await a slight pause in the rant. It doesn't have to be a big pause... just long enough for him to draw his breath.

Step 2: Begin making slightly sexual noises, quite loudly. Open the window if this will help convey the sound.

Step 3: The noise of his rant should have died down a little by now as noisy neighbour gains interest. He may even have hung up the phone. Don't stop now! Increase the volume of your sexual noises until it sounds like you're having a grand old time. Optional bouncing up and down on the bed if you have squeaky floorboards can add a nice touch. If you know his name, why not shout it a couple of times?

Step 4: After ten minutes or so, stop. There should be silence from downstairs. With a bit of luck, he'll have got himself off by now and fallen asleep.

Step 5: Try and find a way to stop the noise of his snoring from carrying. Shut the windows.

Sadly this doesn't seem to work on the parrot down the hallway. If anyone knows of a reliable supplier of bird flu, please do let me know.

Bath House gig

Last night's gig was... an experience. Being a lovely person and unwilling to sully the names of any of my comedy comrades, I shan't drop anyone in it. Suffice to say the evening involved two large placards, a last minute dash for a) other acts b) an MC and c) a headliner, a punter who claimed he'd been to lesbian speed dating, soy sauce and a punch-up. Just your average Saturday night at the Bath House.

Why not see if you can come along next time? Believe me, you'll never forget it. Trust me, I've tried.

Willy or Won't He?

The following entry contains adult material. Proceed with caution.

So, I was out with an unidentified friend, an unspecified number of nights ago. Obviously, I know who the friend was, and when I went out with her. I'm not quite so desperate for friends that I go on blind friendship dates. Yet.

Unidentified friend (let's call her Louise, because I don't have any friends called Louise) was telling me about a new guy she'd started seeing. This guy sounds perfect for her - shares lots of her interests, is really tall (this is important for her, as she's pretty tall herself) and is a genuinely nice guy - he definitely had potential. She'd been seeing him for a little while, and things had... progressed. This was the conversation we had in the coffee shop:

Louise: The thing is, he's a really nice guy.

Me: I know. You said.

Louise: But... he's got a really, really small willy.

Me: Oh. How small?

Louise illustrates with a coffee-shop sized packet of sugar. This is not a good sign.

Louise: I was scared to put it in my mouth in case I swallowed it.

Me: Ah.

Louise: I'm on such a downward spiral you know. Every guy I've slept with has had a smaller one than the guy before. The way this is going, the next guy I shag will have a clitoris.

Me: Oh dear. But he's a nice guy though.

Louise: I know, and it shouldn't matter. But it really, really does. You know what the worst thing was?

Me: Go on.

Louise: He didn't even apologise.

That is bad. The bad grace of having a disappointingly-proportioned appendage and not even having the decency to apologise. And I know this is the noughties, and we should all be caring about personality and all that rubbish, but I did feel sorry for Louise and her little packet of sugar. At least blokes have a rough idea of what they're getting before the clothes are removed.

Any comments speculating on the real life identity of Louise will be removed... Let's not be mean!

Gifted

Things I have genuinely never possessed:

• A brand new car
• A pony
• A penthouse appartment in Covent Garden
• A timeshare property in South Africa
• A million pounds
• A pet cat that doesn't make my friends sneeze and can look after itself whilst I'm away with work. And clean the flat.
• A pet dog that walks itself, picks up its own mess and enjoys its own company. It would also need to feed itself like the cat.
• A pocket-sized genie offering me three wishes, but failing to stipluate that I couldn't use the third wish for more wishes.

Just thought I'd let you know. Because a miracle has recently occurred. No sooner did I post my shameful list of "things I really haven't read" on the Internet, and salvation came. Nice Kate came to stay with me last night, and she brought me exciting gifts - 1984, The Mill on the Floss (now I might find out what a "floss" is) and Great Expectations.

It was lovely x 20 to see Nice Kate, who selfishly lives in Glasgow, so I don't get to see her as often as I'd like. As you can see, the next house guest now has a lot to live up to. With this in mind, I hope the above list is helpful. Erica, I believe you're here next weekend?

Wuthering Sh*te

I am currently re-reading Wuthering Heights for a book group I belong to. I read it when I was 18, as the other English set were doing it, and I worried what I was missing out on. Not a lot, it turned out. Crikey, it's rubbish, and hasn't improved in the last eight years.

Bronte sisters, take note:

• Whilst it's true that in everyday life, a lot of my female friends are called some version of Catherine /Katherine, the beauty of a work of fiction is that your characters can have more than one name. For Christ's sake, if I come across another Cathy, I think I'm going to scream.
• Saying, "In God's name" is NOT swearing. Stop being so sensitive. Come to Bethnal Green and I'll show you some A-class swearing.
• 300 pages to say what Kate Bush pretty much summed up in four minutes of song. Summarise, Ms Bronte.
• Heathcliffe? Heathcliffe? What sort of name is that anyway?
• Why would you give your child the Christian name of your mother's maiden name? That's just confusing. Wuther off.

Still, I will read it, because I want to win at book group. It is not enough just to go along and enjoy the company. I have to know more than everyone else and say better things. Not that I'm competitive.

Scale and Icelandic (Polish)

Round two with the Icelandic dentist. Every six months I have an appointment with the dental hygienist. This is an interesting phenomena, in which I pay £40 for the benefit of being shown how to brush my teeth. I am 26. I have been doing this largely unaided for the past 23 years, with remarkably few setbacks.

Still, £40 it was, and I was subjected to a lecture on flossing in an accent I couldn't quite place. It was a cross between the Home Counties and a branch of Ikea. A bit of scraping and quite a lot of blood later (much like Ikea), and I was free to go.

"You didn't really enjoy that, did you?" asked the woman who for the last half an hour had been alternately damaging my mouth and patronising me.

"Erm, does anyone?"

"We do get some masochists in, yes," she answered, seriously. "Some of them come every week. That is the benefit of private dentistry. You can come as often as you want."

Laura-1 : Icelandic Dentists-1

The guy from Green Wing hasn't yet been in touch with a proposal. I shall keep you posted.

Let the stalking commence...

I think I'm in love with the dark, curly one from Green Wing. I know, I know, I'm supposed to be in love with the ginger one, and I'll admit he's not without his charms.

But it is the posh, donkey-faced one who really does it for me. I was telling Erica that he makes my insides melt. And therefore it is probably a good job he is a doctor.

Then I remembered he's actually an anesthesiologist, and so possibly might not be able to help with any melty-inside issues. Still, he could give me drugs so that I didn't feel the worst of it, and then get his ginger mate to finish me off. Come on, we've all had a night like that.

I am utterly, completely and totally infatuated with this lovely curly guy*. If I get any more in love, I might have to find out where he lives and camp on his lawn (if it stops raining). And when I say "camp", obviously I mean "check into a local hotel with at least a 3-star rating.

If this love gets any deeper I might even take the most drastic step of all... Finding out the actor's name and putting it through Google. Yes, I am that much in love.

* This is not an excuse for anyone to comment on my predilection or otherwise for dark, curly guys. Shut up.

The whole tooth

"I'm very sorry but your dentist, Mr Stefansson, passed away on Monday."

"Oh," I said. "The thing is, I've never been to this dentist before. So he wasn't really my dentist. But I am sorry."

"It is OK. We have new dentist," the Icelandic receptionist informed me. I live in Bethnal Green. A cockney dentist - possible. An Asian dentist - likely. This appeared to be an entirely Scandanavian dentist surgery. On the Roman Road. With a slightly worrying mortality rate.

After establishing what I do for a living, my new dentist (still, at the time of writing, alive), tried to convince me that he had no NHS funds left this year, and I'd have to go private.

"Well, what are the differences between private and NHS?"

"Shorter waiting times."

"Not a problem for me - I'm happy to wait a few weeks."

"Well, um, we use better materials for private patients. The sky's the limit. Dentistry's always changing."

"So, you use substandard materials on NHS patients?"

"Erm, no. But we have new technology for private patients."

"But I only want a check up. And that won't be for another six months."

"You'll have to join the waiting list."

"How long is the waiting list?"

"About two weeks."

His sales pitch didn't convince me.

I made an appointment with the hygienist on the way out. This will cost me forty pounds. The Icelandic receptionist said, "Is there any way you can leave a deposit - maybe twenty pounds?"

I looked at her incredulously. I have been practising that look.

"Well, maybe ten pounds then?"

Aha - she had folded, and clearly shown me she just wanted some cash to go out on the town with tonight. Probably to some Icelandic bar where everyone is tall and blonde. (If anyone knows where this bar is, please do email me.)

"No, I don't think so," I said. "I've never been asked for a deposit by a dentist before."

"OK," said the receptionist.

Laura - 1 : Icelandic dentists - 0

I don't mean to imply there are no Icelandic dentists. I'm sure there are lots. Just one fewer than this time last week, apparently.

Broken ice

I learned a new icebreaker at work. We use icebreakers on training courses or meetings to get people chatting to each other, to help them feel less nervous and to encourage some energy in the room.

Today we had to write down three words to describe our favourite colour. I decided to go for yellow, and wrote down "sunny, bright, cheerful". Then we had to use three words to describe our favourite animal. Taking a horse, I wrote "clever, strong, big". Finally, we had to think of our favourite sort of water (i.e. swimming pool, cold drink, ocean) and say why in three words. Going for tropical oceans, I wrote "snorkelling, hot, exotic".

Why not try this yourself, before reading the next paragraph?






*Spoiler space*









Apparently the colour relates to how we see ourselves (hmm, OK), the animal relates to how other people see us (big? Big? I'll have you know I'm a size 8!) and the water relates to how we like it in the bedroom.

Snorkelling. Enough said.

Still, a colleague described her favourite animal (a dog) as "bouncy, loyal and stupid" and her water was "puddle, drip and slurp", so I guess it could have been worse.

Confessions of an English graduate

I've been meaning to go public with this for ages. It's time to confess - I can't take the shame any longer. The guilt's doing my head in.

Two GCSEs in the subject, an A-level, an S-level, a STEP paper and a degree in English, and still...

Stuff I genuinely haven't read:

• 1984 - George Orwell
• Anything by Charles Dickens (with the exception of the first and last chapters of Bleak House for a tutorial and David Copperfield's Boyhood when I was at school)
• To the Lighthouse - Virginia Woolf
• Paradise Lost - Milton (again with the exception of the first and last bits for essays at uni)
• Rebecca - Daphne du Maurier
• The Mill on the Floss - George Elliot. In fact anything by George Elliot. And what's a "floss" anyway?
• Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
• War and Peace or Anna Karenina - Tolstoy
• Any of Shakespeare's history plays (with the exception of Richard III, which doesn't really count)
• Sense and Sensibility, Northanger Abbey, and most of the other drivel from Ms Austen

And I don't like Hamlet. At all. In fact (look away now English teachers), I prefer Shakespeare's comedies to his tragedies. I think this makes me a bad person.

Help me out here - surely it's not just me who's been faking it all these years. I'll probably add to this list as I remember more. What haven't you read? My dirty secret's out... time for yours.

M25

I have lived in London for almost four years now. And yesterday was the first time I'd ever driven on the M25.

Jessica decided to take me on a different route back to Bethnal Green. I usually go on the M1 until Junction 2 and work my way through Holloway, Highbury and Islington. But not today. I trusted Jessica.

So, onto the M25 it was. And I got a bit overexcited at spotting South Mimms service station, which was a favourite from French exchange school trips, where I would usually buy the latest Jane Austen paperback and pretend to be intellectually superior to my classmates, whilst actually wishing I'd invested in Judy Blume. To this day, I haven't finished "Sense and Sensibility".

Anyway, partly for old time's sake, and partly because I had a stonking headache and needed to stop anyway, I pulled into South Mimms, expecting the memories and excitement of bygone foreign exchanges to overwhelm me and move me slightly.

But it was just a service station. Memories of dawdling on the grassy banks, teasing the French assistantes and looking forward to a fortnight en France had been replaced by a Burger King, a rip-off coffee shop and some substandard toilets. I bought an overpriced bottle of water, took some ibuprofen and left to the dulcit tones of, "Oi, you shouldn't be in the coach park."

Happy memories.

Lauraborough

"Those Cancer Research shops are a con," said Dean.

"I know," I said. Because I did know.

"I went in one once. They didn't even have a lab. Just old people selling jumpers. They'll never cure cancer like that."

He's right.

Erica, however, used to work in a British Heart Foundation shop, and assured us that they keep all the hearts out at the back. The front is for jumpers and the back's for hearts.

Said Cancer Research shop was in Peterborough, where I had a gig last night. Slightly odd event, where they had a raffle in the interval... the prize for which was to read a poem out loud on stage. This didn't seem to faze the folk of Peterborough, who seemed most interested by the fact that the first line of the first limerick didn't scan properly.

However, who is Peter? And why does he get his own borough? Lauraborough. Has a ring to it.

Making a meal of it

"'Ere! What can we get for a tenner?" asked Cookie of the smart waiter in the posh restaurant. Smart waiter didn't smile.

We'd booked in for a five-course meal. "I hope I'm not going to go home hungry," she continued, to the sligthly bemused waiter.

"Oh, Cookie, you'll probably have to get a McDonalds on the way home," Boothie said. Boothie is clever and knows these things.

"I had a McDonalds for lunch," said Naina, who doesn't yet have a nickname. We're working on it.

We were at a GTG - our monthly congregation of the girls, to catch up on all the news, talk about shoes, work and men (in that order) and give Cookie a chance to get us banned from as many London restuarants as possible. Previous GTGs have included:

• Dover Street - where Cookie tried to set up our slightly camp waiter with a rent boy
• Quaglinos - where Cookie decided that she didn't want cream with her dessert - so convinced the kitchen to make her custard. Epecially. And then to give us dessert for free.
• Pattersons - where the words "Chinese prostitute" were said so often and so loudly by us that I'm not sure we're welcome back.
• 1 Lombard Street - last night, where over a sumptuous chocolate torte, we discussed enemas and various poo-related topics, and Naina sent us all away to research merkins.

I love our GTGs - I usually leave them with my stomach hurting. And almost always in a good way.

Nightmares

Ooh, did you see The Apprentice last night? Did you, did you? I'm not a big fan of reality TV - no time for Big Brother, Wife Swap, Celebrity Swap, Celebrities who have Brothers and also live on a Love Island - just not my thing.

But The Apprentice I did rather like. At the end of last week's episode, I was cursing the TV execs: "Clearly the two girls are the best candidates, but they're never going to let two girls go to the final. They'll insist it's more balanced. One of each. A gender war."

I think I did a little dance when both the girls got into the final. Thing was, I couldn't decide who I wanted to win. Michelle I really liked because she was unassuming and just got on with stuff, none of that "Look at me" rubbish. And Ruth I liked because she was truthful and direct, and a bit of an underdog.

I won't spoil it for people, but I think I'd have been happy to see either of them win. Which kind of ruins the point of a contest really. I'm such a Libran.

Not sure if it's connected but last night I dreamed I was running a young enterprise company, making rubbish frienship bracelets. I was trying to sell them to a big department store, when suddenly protesters threw bombs through the window and the glass exploded all around me. I had to go to A&E to get shards of glass taken out of my back.

Then later on in the dream, I was in an horrific lift accident with my friend Erica. All I could think was how ironic it was that I'd survived the glass attack (in which several little-known comedians had a sticky end. Not sure what they were doing in John Lewis in the perfume department, but there you go), to meet my untimely demise in a lift. Turns out though, that I survived the lift accident, and had to go and waitress at a garden fete, dressed as a Swiss milkmaid. These things happen.

Bus-king

"Arriving at destination," Jessica informed me authoritatively. We were in an underground car park. In Southend. In a bus lane. Now, I may not be the best navigator in the world, but even I could tell that this wasn't the high-spec office location I was actually heading for.

I tried a nearby postcode. Jessica was having none of it. "Location does not exist. You have arrived at destination."

"But, Jessica," I remonstrated. "Jessica, this is an underground car park. In Southend. And I'm in a bus lane." Jessica had the last word: "Lost satellite reception."

The buses flashed their bus-lights at me. A driver tutted disdainfully. I tried to be disdainful back, but probably just looked a bit gormless.

Eventually a man called John had to drive down from the office and collect me, like a naughty child who's wandered off at the supermarket.

It was embarrassing.

Walthamstow

As I write this, Tower Hamlets is still awaiting its election results. According to the local news, "Tower Hamlets is having six recounts". If they know how many need recounting, why do they have to recount them? I am feeling quite confused. Still, am suspecting Man With a Van might not emerge victorious.

I did a gig over in Walthamstow last night. The MC had already established that guy sat on the front row had a complicated life history. His wife had just left him, she'd taken the kids, and also he couldn't afford the mortgage. Still, I maintain that it was his own fault that when I asked the audience if there were any teachers in, and he put his hand up (even though he blatantly wasn't a teacher), that I said, "You're not a teacher. You're just pretending. Is that a desperate attempt to see your kids and go somewhere warm?"

Oops. Most people laughed quite a lot though. Even if there was a certain amount of weeping coming from the front row.

Jessica got me home safely, after a bit of a disagreement on the A12. Weather is stunning - hope it lasts for the weekend.

Man and Van

When I got up at about 7 this morning, a leaflet had already been pushed through my door. Post in Bethnal Green rarely seems to arrive before midday, and, aware it was election day, I assumed it would be a bit of last-minute campaigning. I went over to find out who the early birds were.

The leaflet read (and all formatting / grammar belong to the original):

"Small moves. Domestic Moves. Available for house moves and office Moves. Deliveries & Collection. Single item or full House moves Deliveries..."

So far, so grammatically shaky (to quote from one of my university essays. Me? Grammatically shaky? Don't think I've forgotten, Dr Stephen James). Anyway, the leaflet kind of made its point. But then it continued:

"Driver job is to drive From one place to another distance."

That's really useful. Because lately I've had to book removal firms where they'll only help if you're moving into the exact same address that you're leaving. Just twice in the last year I've hired firms who will drive from one place, but just won't go to another distance. It's good finally to see the sort of service the customer is crying out for.

It's also helped me out. This election, I'm voting for Man & Van - addressing my needs in the local community.

Details

"So, what did you get up to today?" I asked Mum.

"I had my hair cut," she said. She didn't say , "I had my haircut" because "haircut" is a noun, and that would not have made sense in this context. She could have said, "I had a haircut", but she chose to go with "I had my hair cut." My mum is good with grammar.

"Oh," I said. "Where was that?"

"That usual place near Sainsbury. That Italian woman does it. You know. That one whose cousin's a double murderer."

At least she said "whose" rather than "who's". And her apostrophes were all correct. Though it is hard to double-check over the phone.

Bank Holidays - a guide

There have been hotter May Bank Holidays - that's definitely true. There have probably been more exciting Bank Holidays.

But how does this sound for a pretty perfect weekend?

Friday night: London resplendent in Friday evening sunlight, circling in a small plane over Tower Bridge, the Gherkin, St Paul's and the London Eye. A few years back I paid a fortune to do this in a helicopter over New York. This was a commute back from work. Yay! Well worth the plane being delayed.

Saturday: Lie-in and lunch with friends, two of my favourite "L" words.

Sunday: A whole stack of rubbish DVDs and a lot of chocolate.

Monday: Lunch with another friend, laughing at the amusing 16-year-old May Day protesters, a giggling session at a rubbish horror DVD and yet another friend's company in the evening.

I am clearly more popular than you, and I think I have accurately shown that my life is much better. If I were you, I'd give up. I am the in-crowd.

Did you notice how I skated over the part where I sat in on Sunday all by myself? Shh. Don't tell anyone. Would-be friends may apply through the usual channels.