To the point

The sun streamed brightly into the courtyard in Bethnal Green where I had lunch with my friend Elinor. The cafe is on a row of four shops right near where I live - a Thai restaurant, a pub, an Italian restaurant and an organic vegetarian cafe (oh yes, it's definitely up and coming. Even more so because I think the cafe is run by lesbians. Once the gay community moves in, house prices will go through the roof. Honest. Want to buy a flat?) Until a month ago, I'd never been to any of these places. And now I've been to all of them, apart from the Italian restaurant. Sorry, that was really dull.

I'll carry on.

After lunch at the organic lesbian cafe (not its actual name, and no I haven't turned; one text message does not a lesbian make), Elinor went to get us some coffees, and I idly tuned into the conversation of the people on the table next to me. He was clearly some sort of academic, and she was a mature student. I was reminded of exactly why I hated studying English at university quite so much as he opined, "Of course, what is essential to observe is not just the nature of the text, but its perceived perception. Indeed, its received perceived perception."

Oh shut up, you big hairy wanker.

See, saying things simply sometimes just gets your point across that little bit better.

Something Fishy

When I was eleven years old, two kids from my top primary school class (Stefan and me) were sent on a special day away at another school. We were told this was a CEVAP day. Until five minutes ago, I thought this meant something to do with gifted kids (because truly, I am gifted). But Googling it, apparently it means "Church of England Voluntary Aided Primary". Which is a bit strange in its context.

Anyway.

Stefan and I went to the school across town, and met up with the specially-selected top two kids from all the other primary schools in Loughborough. I don't know if they ever really told us why we were there, but my impression was that they were studying bright kids across various disciplines - maths, English and technology. And the best way to do this - obviously - was to structure the whole day around the theme of fish.

They split us into three groups. I was convinced I was in the thicky group, because I was Group 3. Stefan was very clever and was in Group 1, which just confirmed my own thicky status, and put me in a bad mood before the day even started.

First up for my group was technology. We had to design and build a fishing rod that would pick up fish made of card, paper and metal. Not only was I the only kid not to "catch" any fish, but my rod fell apart within three seconds of rod-wielding.

Next was maths. Again, not my strong point. I don't remember the fish-theme for this exercise, but I do remember the teacher trying to get us to do mathematical patterns. He told us to say the first number that came into our heads. He started off with, "Two."

"Four," said the kid with a giant birthmark.

"Six," said the girl wearing strange dungarees.

"Eight," said Hazel, who I didn't even know was Hazel at the time, but who became one of my best friends at high school.

"Ten," said the very, very tall boy.

My turn. "Three hundred and sixty-two," I said.

"Hmm," said the teacher. "Do you see how everyone else has followed a pattern?"

"You said to say the first number that came into my head."

I disrupted the session like this three or four more times. My rod had fallen apart, I was in the thicky group (sorry, Hazel), and now they were making me do maths.

Finally English - my favourite. Except all we had to do was go round the room looking at rubbish post-its on the wall with various fish-related expressions, such as, "a fine kettle of fish", "red herring", "fishing for sympathy" and so on. There were loads. The idea was we were supposed to work out where the sayings had come from. Interesting. Except the teacher didn't have the bloody answers.

I can't believe I'm still angry about this.

Essex Text Sex

Ah, Southend, you didn't let me down. With your sordid Essex-sex-laden ways, you have delighted me yet again.

I think I'm the only person in the world who's accidentally entered into a lesbian relationship with a wrong number.

I was just drifting off to sleep on Monday night, when my mobile rang. The caller display said "ID Withheld". This is sometimes what it says when someone is calling you from abroad, and as I've got a few friends overseas at the moment (and I've always said, "call me anytime") I thought I ought to answer.

The caller hung up or got cut off. Fine.

Couple of minutes later I get a text message (all formatting belongs to the original):

"Hiya, is this craigs phone?? Please txt bk, its natalie, and im horny! x x"

Feeling this could go on for a while and I needed to get to sleep, I texted back, "Sorry, wrong no. Laura here."

A reply, "Oh, sorry hun. Thought I had the wrong num when a girl answerd! Im still horny though lol. Who r u?? x x"

I ignored the text. A few minutes later my phone rang. I really needed to get to sleep so I dropped the call.

The next morning I felt bad (yes, only I could feel guilty about a wrong number). Natalie had been friendly, so I sent her a quick text, "Sorry for dropping your call last night - needed to get to sleep. Hope you got hold of Craig!"

Natalie: "No I didn't hun. Oh well, he is prob a pig anyway. Lol! Who are you?"

Me: "Who am I? Big question. I'm 26 and live in London. I do stand-up comedy in my spare time."

Natalie: "Lol! Oh ok! Well I'm Natalie 21! Do you have a fella? Do you have a pic phone? x"

At this point I cut it short and ran my training course. As I got home at 7 last night, my mobile rang... Natalie again. I didn't reach it in time, so she sent me another text.

"Do you have a pic phone? Here's a pic of me." And she'd sent me a fairly normal picture of her.

Well by this point I felt we were friends and it would be rude not to reply. So I sent her a nice smiley photo of me. She replied straight away.

"Did you get my pic? You're pretty." Uh oh.

I thought, "Let's bring this back to the blokes." I replied, "Thanks for the pic. Craig will be sorry he's missing out."

The reply? "Craig missed out but maybe you don't have to..."

This sort of thing doesn't happen to normal people, does it? Like that time I was in Cairns and the pigeon flew into my head. It's not supposed to happen. And yet always does to me.

I want to implement Erica's patented Scowl And Walk Off (SAWO), but I'm not sure how to scowl via text.

Putting the sex into Essex

I have survived my first day of the training course. I have talked through facilitation skills, I have supervised the putting together of many plugs (not bathroom plugs. Thanks Karen for clearing up any ambiguity), I have facilitated people so they know how to facilitate. Indeed, I am a useful member of society. Quite clearly I am also skill at my job, as everyone gave me top marks on my feedback form.

And I didn't even have to bribe them with sexual favours this time. Well a few of them. John. Brian. Helen. The usual.

Staying in my luxury Premier Travel Inn last night in Southend, I was disappointed not to hear noisy shagging from the hotel room next door. It's a sound for me that's now inseparable from Southend. Just thinking of the place makes me think of noisy, unbridled lust.

I love working here.

Plugs on the Plog

Never let it be said that I'm not conscientious. I'm running a course in Southend tomorrow, so I've come this afternoon to set up the room and double-check that I've got everything I need.

As there's silly football on, I thought I'd be quite safe to go by my business pretty much uninterrupted. Except the room I need to set up is being used by people at work to watch the silly football, meaning there's not a lot I can do until gone 6 p.m. when the silly football finishes.

Well, I can take apart 40 plugs. Believe it or not, that's necessary for the course tomorrow. Yes, I am completely unable to assemble flatpack furniture, put together cardboard boxes or do anything involving hand-eye co-ordination. Yet I am now an expert in dismantling and putting together plugs.

Transferable skills. That's what my job's all about.

Working girl

I'm at work on a Saturday. And at work again tomorrow on Sunday.

I demand that you feel sorry for me*.

Off you go. Enjoy your weekend. Don't worry about me.

* Actually I enjoy my job. Just hoping to get some sympathy / offers of exciting social events.

Nothing Ever Goes Right

When I was about nine or ten years old, I used to get Judy comic. This was a girls' comic, full of stories like "Wee Slavey", "The Girl with the Million Dollar Smile" and other regular tales. Some stories were stand-alone, others were serialised and would run for eight or so weeks.

There was one particularly memorable serial called, "Nothing Ever Goes Right". No-one ever believes me when I tell them about this, and Internet searches have proved fruitless. But if anyone worked for Judy comic in about 1990, please let me know that I'm not imagining it. It's a scary thing to imagine.

Week 1: We are introduced to the girl - whose name I forget. Let's call her Louise, like all of my fictional friends. Louise lives in a nice house with her mum and dad and sister. She has a pony. At the end of Week 1, Louise's dad loses his job.

Week 2: The pressures of not having a job weigh heavily on Louise's dad and his stay-at-home wife. The pony has to go.

Week 3: Louise's mum and dad lose the house and have to move to a smaller place. Unable to cope with the rubbish situation, the mum and dad divorce.

Week 4: Louise's mum and dad meet up to talk about their problems... and just as it looks like they might get back together, they die in an horrific car crash.

Week 5: Louise is about 16, and doesn't want her little sister to be taken into care, so she quits school and gets a job, doing sewing, to look after her.

Week 6: Because of the close work sewing, Louise's eyesight starts to fail. Though now completely blind, she carries on sewing to support her little sister. If it had been me, the sister would have starved. I hate sewing.

Week 7: I can't remember exactly what happens to Louise's little sister, but she gets written out in some sort of horrific way.

Week 8: Louise gets pneumonia and dies alone in a little attic flat. She is buried in an unmarked grave with a wooden cross.*

This was sold to ten year-olds in the late 80s / early 90s. "Nothing Ever Goes Right": join my campaign to see this made into a film, and see if we can scar a whole new generation.

* Maybe nothing went right for Louise, but at least this one didn't end up with a bloke with a small willy.

Stoatally weird

"Sorry, I got distracted," said Erica, who'd called me from the pub near Coalville and had briefly drifted away from the conversation. "It's just that I wasn't expecting to see a ferret."

"Sorry?" I said, thinking I may well have misheard.

"I was just talking to you and then a ferret popped up behind me."

"How do you know it was a ferret? It could be a weasel or a stoat." Admittedly, asking for genus classification at this point in the conversation probably wouldn't have been most people's usual course of action, but I panicked.

"It's in a cage. It just popped up beside me. And it's playing with a tube of E45 cream."

Obviously I misheard that. I said, "Sorry, I obviously misheard that."

Erica said, "The ferret. It has a tube of E45 in its cage."

"Erica, I know you've just finished your exams, and are probably celebrating, but I'm a bit worried about the surreality of your hallucinations."

"I'm not even drinking. I'm driving later. The pub-based ferret has a tube of E45. Maybe it has eczema. I don't know. I'm not a ferret expert."

She texted me a photo of the ferret, and its E45. If I was cleverer, I'd post it for you here on the Plog. But as I don't know how to do that, picture a ferret in a cage. And then picture a tube of E45. That's pretty much it.

Yet another reason why I don't go near Coalville anymore.

Mardy

Out of the last 48 hours, 11 of them were spent waiting for planes. I shan't even begin to tell you the ins and outs of how my 8.30 a.m. plane failed to get me to Edinburgh until nearly 2 p.m., nor how I was delayed yet again last night coming back to City.

Let's just leave it at I was in a Very Bad Mood. Mardy, mardy, mardy (nice northern word - go and look it up. Or read on.).

But, with a cup of tea, cake on hand and a friend over later in the evening to make me laugh, the world began to look a bit rosier. Or at the very least, my own mardiness kind of paled into insignificance. My friend, well, he's just about to go and do something dangerous, stupid and very, very admirable - far braver than tutting loudly at a woman with a pushchair at City Airport. Braver even than not saying "thank you" to the air hostess as you get off the plane. Possibly even braver than saying to the British Airways' ticket desk, "It hasn't been great today, from a service point of view, has it?" as you walk past, mardily.

(Mardy: adjective. To be sulky and bad-tempered for no real reason. "Emma won't come out and play, she's being mardy".

Mard: noun. The manifestation of a mardy mood. "Emma won't come out and play, she's in a mard with me. She's been having a mard since last Tuesday"

Mardily: adverb. Doing something in a mardy manner. "Emma looked across the table mardily, like the stuck-up cow she was".

Mardiness: noun. The feeling of being mardy. "The mardiness had permeated the day like a pervasive melancholy. Everyone thought Emma was a mardy cow and the mard she was having had lasted a week and a half. Everyone thought it would be for the best if Emma jumped off a cliff. Mardy baby. See also 'mardy arse' and 'mardy bum'")

Anyway, that aside, I was definitely cheered up, and all remnants of mardiness fell away. Emma is fictional. Honest.

I try and keep the tone light in my Plog, so won't talk about my friend, for several reasons that I won't go into. But of course I'm thinking of him.

Hormones

I think I'm secreting an important hormone, which is undoubtedly a miraculous breakthrough that everyone will want to own. I have discovered something that always makes people want to have sex. Unfortunately not with me. Usually in the room next door. Admittedly this might pose a problem for the people in the marketing department.

In London on Saturday, the weather was stunning. I was waiting for my dad to arrive for his weekend of chores (to which personally I think they should rename Fathers' Day), and so I was sat outside on the grass by my flat. It's not a garden. Just grass. I was reading 1984 which Nice Kate bought for me. It is very good.

So, I was engrossed in my novel, and suddenly I became aware of a car pulling up beside me. This was fair enough: I was sat next to the car park. I kept reading and enjoying the June sunshine. Slowly I became aware that the people in the car had started having very noisy sex. With the windows down. I could hear (and see) pretty much everything. I didn't really want to move and draw attention to myself, and also, I had been there first. They'd chosen to park next to me before the commencement of the copulation.

They did it twice. Noisily. His name was "Sachin" or possibly "SachinSachinSachin", but that's quite a silly name. Her name was "You like it, don't you?", which seemed unusual. Possibly Russian.

I did my first Edinburgh gig last night and it was super. Really nice crowd (about 120, which in London is practically unheard of for an open-mic night). Made a bit of a tit of myself, as I know practically nothing about the Scottish comedy scene, so I spent a little while patronising a fellow act with solid advice... who turned out to be a Scottish TV comedy star up here, just trying out new material for his 9th Edinburgh show. Ho hum.

Still, the gig was really good, my lovely Edinburgh colleagues got to see me do a decent set, and Nice Kate and I had a pyjama party, ate nachos and talked about threesomes.

This is the way life should be.

Underground, overground (Wombling Free)

Things actually seen and heard in London this weekend:

• Two male Brazilian football supporters asleep on the tube with their arms round each other, occasionally waking up to sing bits of songs, kiss their shirts and then fall asleep in each others' arms again. I nearly took a photo but thought I might get hit.
• A sneezy Chinese guy. I thought he had a cold. Dad reckoned it was bird flu. I'll let you know.
• Someone say, "I am attractive to badgers"

But more importantly, I now have a shiny new loft ladder, living room windows that actually open, and a nice picture hanging above my sofa.

Fathers' Day. It's just so useful for getting all those little jobs done. ;o)

Travel sick

Last night I had dinner with my friend Sarah. We laughed so much, I was almost sick.

Then, on the tube on the way home, I sat next to someone who actually was sick. Copiously. The offender looked like a football supporter (i.e. moron) who'd had a bit too much to drink. He stumbled off at the next station. Anyway, for the fifteen minute ride home, the whole carriage chatted and laughed away, warning new people at each station not to step in the sick.

For one girl, wearing flip-flops, the evening took a turn slightly for the worse.

The puddle of sick was rolling round the carriage, lapping at people's feet, like a tropical ocean might. If it was yellow and smelled of bile.

Another girl dropped a pound coin right in the middle of the vomit pool. She giggled a lot but didn't retrieve it, and it was still there when I got off at Bethnal Green.

But it was such a nice, fun journey, and only a little bit smelly. Everyone was chatting to each other, joking and having a laugh. With this community spirit in mind, I'm going to make it my business to throw up in as many Central Line trains as possible from now on.

For morale building, at the very least, it's got to be better than the Dome. London, don't say I never do anything for you.

Anyone who says that living in London is expensive is talking tosh. Tosh!

Just today I was at Liverpool Street Station, and within 30 seconds I was handed two free KitKat Chunky Peanut Butter chocolate bars (mmm), a mini can of Pepsi Max (maximum taste - no sugar) and an Evening Standard Lite newspaper (owned by the Daily Mail Group). Now, admittedly, it's not exactly healthy stuff - nutritionally or intellectually - but that must be at least £1.20 worth of free stuff.

OK, my mortgage on a one-bedroom flat might be the best part of £1000 per month. OK, my council tax goes up at a ridiculous rate every year to pay for rubbish sporting events I won't bother watching. OK, it now costs £3.00 to travel for two minutes on the tube. But free chocolate bars? You don't get that in Coalville.

London is bargain.

Name calling

I have actually met people with the following names:

• Brook Waters (a boy at my primary school. His mum was an artist, and every year I'd get upset when he and his sister won the Easter egg decorating competition, because it was so obvious that they'd had help from their mum. My mum had helped too, but she's shit at art. One year, memorably, she tried to recreate a fox-hunting scene, complete with chocolate "earth" and bushes made from oregano from the garden. On the top of a hen's egg. Brook won. Again.)

• Lee King (as above. His sister was called Michelle, but that wasn't funny. He was a couple of years older than me at primary school. His special skill was being able to burp the alphabet through to G. To this day, no-one's sure if his burping ability wasn't that great, or he just didn't know the rest of the letters.)

• Joe King (no relation to either of the above. Possibly the least funny person I've ever met.)

• Charlotte Webb (secondary school friend. Perfectly nice, normal person. Spidery name.)

• Rita Tart (a licensee at the Bingo hall in Coalville. Admittedly I haven't actually met her, but I want to because she's got a great name.)

• Vicky Pollard (friend of a colleague who presumably went through life for 30 years with
  a perfectly normal name - along comes Little Britain and turns her into a freak.)

• Ewan Kerr (how much did his parents hate him, do you think? "Mr and Mrs Kerr, it's a boy!" "Fantastic - what shall we call him? Wayne?" "Don't be stupid, Mrs Kerr - Wayne Kerr? People will laugh. How about Ewan?" "Lovely.")

Please use the comments to tell me of people you've met with stupid names, and how you know them. I'm thinking of writing a book. But I'm a few pages short at the moment. Has to be someone you actually know though.

Apologies

I'm sorry. I broke the weather. Sorry.

It was really, really hot yesterday. I got back from my gig last night just after 11, and went straight to bed, tired because I'd had a late night the previous night too.

But I couldn't sleep. Even with the windows open, it was far, far too hot. I tried all the usual strategies - tutting, looking at the clock, throwing the duvet off, pulling it back on again, changing position approximately every 2.6 minutes and looking at the clock again but none of it worked. I kind of drifted off to sleep at one point, but dreamed I was doing the ironing and dropped the iron on my foot. This made me jump and I woke up again.

I committed a terrible sin. I thought, "This is too hot." The weather gods listened to me, and at about 3 a.m., allowed me to drift off to sleep. But not without a terrible sacrifice.

When my alarm went off at 7.30 the weather was broken and it was raining. That was summer, and I broke it. Sorry.

Summery Summary

Firstly, apologies for yesterday's multiple postings. I think the laptop got a bit carried away with the sunshine.

Wasn't it a lovely weekend? OK, conceivably some of you reading this might have had a rubbish weekend. Perhaps you had an argument with your girfriend or boyfriend. Perhaps your goldfish died. But none of those things happened to me. It was lovely. I caught up with some old friends, some new friends and some who have been friends for an average length of time.

I sat in the sun and got strap marks (NOT sunburned, Dad).

I had a barbecue.

I did a gig.

All is well with the world. Don't spoil it by adding comments saying that you broke a nail, or something equally tragic.

Sun

It's that sort of perfect summer's day that really doesn't happen often enough in Britain.

So peel your pasty face away from your LCD monitor, go outside and enjoy the UV.

Cab-tivating

"Me son arragght ferragh ooner. Doncha?" The man driving my cab said. This was clearly a question.

"Yes," I laughed. Thinking that this might cover most situations.

"Errarh holiday errarh goan Lanzarote," he added. And waved his arms around. Now, I will freely admit that my ear isn't really tuned in to heavy Scots accents, but in my defence, all the windows of the cab were open and the driver was (understandably) facing forward. And what I heard, I didn't really understand. Or care about.

Owing to heavy traffic, I was also in danger of missing my plane. I would like to say "due to heavy traffic", but my English teacher stamped that out when I was about 13. You should only use "due" if you're talking money or time. But to be fair, most things in life do come down to money or time. Like I had to pay for the taxi, and I was worried we would be late. Money and time.

I defy anyone to come up with a more frustrating situation in the world than being talked at incessantly by someone you can't understand, but who clearly wants answers, who is waving their arms around whilst you're stuck in traffic twenty minutes before your plane will leave.

So he's dead now. If anyone wants to buy a shiny black cab, drop me a line.

Burp

Yesterday I sat next to a burping Chinese woman.

Isn't that the greatest start to a piece of writing you've ever read? Forget "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..." Forget "Last night I dreamed I went to Manderley again". Forget "It is a truth universally acknowledged..." For I, Laura Nunn of Tower Hamlets, have written the greatest opening line that the English language has ever known.

They say to write about what you know, and burping Chinese women are now my field. Not that I have a field, as such, but if I did, it would be full of oriental ladies with indigestion. I have a pot plant, but that's not really the same thing as a field is it? It would be difficult (and possibly inhumane) to attempt to fill it with Chinese women.

I was sat next to a burping Chinese woman in the hospital yesterday. And whilst logically it makes sense that Chinese women would burp (why wouldn't they?), I'd just never linked the two together in my head before. The woman burped. She burped a lot. And then it made me laugh. Inappropriately. I didn't really need to say that, did I? Because it's never really appropriate to laugh at a burping woman, regardless of her ethnicity. Burping men? Well, that's fair game, that's funny. But burping women? Big no-no.

So I had to pretend to find my book amusing... and having been written by Nick Hornby, it very obviously wasn't. The Chinese woman looked unconvinced. And then burped.

Time Lord

You may worship me. For I have mastered the fourth dimension. Time no longer means anything to me. I am Time's master. You may bow.

I am now the proud owner (and I really couldn't be any prouder) of a Sky+ Box. For those of you less geeky (and less time-mastering) than me, this is a whizzy-whizzy device that lets me:

• Pause live TV
• Rewind live TV
• Record whole series at the touch of a button
• Record two channels at the same time
• And watch another in my bedroom

This means that just because it's 4 p.m. on a Sunday and the only thing on is Ghostbusters III (did they ever make a third one?), I am still able to watch Malcolm in the Middle or Dr Who because now I'm in charge of Time. Dr Who himself was a bit miffed about this, but I pointed out that I was managing to control time without the help of a slightly chavvy 19 year-old with too much lip gloss.

I love Sky+. And no, I'm not on commission. Yet.

Roberts

In honour of yesterday's trip to Edinburgh, a Scottish question from my dad.

I'm still pondering what a "floss" might be (still reading Wuthering Heights before I get onto the books from Nice Kate. I've nearly finished it though. All the important people are dead... though not soon enough).

Anyway, as I'm pondering the floss, my dad is more concerned with the question, "What is a 'bruce'?". As in Robert the Bruce. You see, my dad's name is Robert, and I think it's playing on his mind a bit as to whether or not he could introduce himself in polite society as, "Hi, I'm Robert. Robert the Bruce." Although, he shortens it to Bob, so, "Hi, I'm Bob. Bob the Bruce," might not go down as well. It sounds a bit like a new BBC kids' programme.

I think a "bruce" sounds like a collective noun for something. Like a flock of birds. Maybe a bruce of chavs. But then I think I prefer the term "chavalanche" for that particular occurance.

Anyone dull enough to be interested in the real answer, "the Bruce" comes from de Brus, the name of Robert's Norman family. Not my dad Robert. Different Robert. Dad's promised me he only has one family. And those photos of that woman with the other kids on the beach in France don't mean anything. http://www.clanmcalister.org/robbruce.html

Everybody needs good neighbours

Oh, life likes its ironies, doesn't it? I was staying in a hotel in Southend a couple of nights ago, watching the massively underrated Ghostbusters II. When I say "massively underrated", obviously what I actually mean is "big pile of poo".

Anyway, I'd stuck with it until the end, and I suppose the volume on the TV was up fairly high. Just at the last fifteen minutes of the film, my hotel next-door neighbours started playing me at my own game (please see previous Plog entry). At first I thought, "Surely that can't be..." and turned the sound off on my TV. It quite clearly was. But, not being a middle-aged man, I just put the sound on my TV back on and finished watching the film. (The Ghostbusters saved the day and Bill Murray copped off with Sigourney Weaver.)

The next day - perhaps predictably - my next-door neighbours had one of those "Do not disturb" signs on their door. Except this was one of those twee ones that says something like, "Shh! Sound asleep!". Anyone else see that as a challenge? I set to test the hypothesis. Indeed, after only 17 minutes of hammering on their door and shouting in my best outdoor voice, I managed to prove quite successfully that they weren't "sound asleep" at all. Indeed rather wide awake and pretty angry.

Laura: 1 - Shagging Neighbours: 0