Bum deal

So I was at the wedding with my friend Adam (Ads) and another friend - let's call him Ned. Ned introduced us to his new girlfriend. Let's call her Stupid Kiwi. Ned had recently started going out with Stupid Kiwi, who was separated from her husband. We were all sat at the table and were very polite to each other.

Except Ads and I had been at the wedding for quite a long time already, whereas Ned and Stupid Kiwi had only just shown up. In a moment of conversation making, I had asked Ads, hypothetically, in a gay-sex situation, would he rather be bummer or bumee. He opted for bummer. We were giggling about this (somewhat inappropriately) over dinner. Ned asked what we were laughing about.

Ads said, "I was just saying that, if I had to, I'd be the bummer rather than the bumee."

"Steady on mate, you're saying you want to bum my girlfriend? You've only just met her," joked Ned. How we laughed. Stupid Kiwi pretended to look shocked. All was jolly.

"Well, she does look the type," I joked, perhaps taking things a bit too far, but shooting her a smile to show it was all in good humour.

Stupid Kiwi whispered something to Ned. "Don't say it to me, say it to her," said Ned.

Stupid Kiwi said, "I'm married, and respectable, so maybe you should watch your f***ing mouth."

This took me aback a bit. Not the swearing, not even the over-reaction... but the fact that her logic was this flawed. Yes, she was married, but not to the bloke she was shagging. Her logic was crap enough to present the fact that she was an adulteress as supposed evidence of her respectability.

But when I was nice enough to point out her logical error to her, I was told quite sternly to leave it. Some people just won't take the help you offer.

It's taken me 26 years, but I've finally found a New Zealander I don't like. And I bet she does take it up the arse.

Car-less again

I had a nice dress, I had matching shoes, I had even bought a fascinator (little hat thing that perches on your head). I was off to the wedding at the Barbican.

My car had other ideas. "Turn right," said my sat nav, Jessica. I turned right. The car didn't seem to want to accelerate again. "Drive 650 metres," Jessica instructed. The car refused. Across three lanes of traffic on Great Eastern Street, right in the middle of the Congestion Zone, I broke down. What with the little feathery hat and all, I wasn't exactly inconspicuous when I popped the bonnet up to take a look at the engine.

Because I'm obsessively early for everything, I still actually managed to make it to the wedding on time, but I think this may be where me and my little car part ways. Its cam belt has gone (again), which usually means the engine gets knackered. And as it's a K-reg Vauxhall Astra, it's probably not worth saving it.

They say your first car is like your first love. Unreliable, slow, a bit bashed-looking and far too old for me.

Jessica is bereft.

Christ in a taxi

Can anyone explain to me the purpose of Christian radio stations? My taxi driver this morning was listening to Christian radio ("Packed with even more of your favourite hymns"). I just don't get it. I can just about get my head around being Christian but can't really see where any aspect of debate or variety comes in.

"So, what you're saying, Reverend Green is that you think Christ is good? Isn't that something of a controversial view?"

"Well, no Jeremy. I think acceptance of Christ's essential goodness is fundamental to being a Christian."

"You've got a point there, Reverend. Riveting stuff. We're going to play a hymn now, but stay with us, as we've got a very special guest after the break. Reverend Black will be telling us his opinions on how Christ means love. Groundbreaking."

Curiouser and Curiouser

Last night was perfectly nice and normal. Nothing odd happened. I had a meal at a very trendy restaurant in Columbia Road in the evening and felt slightly under-dressed: I didn't have a beret or a pretentious 1960s Penguin paperback, all covered in orange and cream. I wasn't smoking roll-ups or talking about my career in the media. Slightly strange place, but it was normal enough for London.

In fact nothing odd happened to me all day.

Odd.

Slapstick

I had a gig in Stratford last night. Now, I'd never really been to Stratford (in East London) before, other than to change tube lines, so had no preconceptions. Thoughts of the River Avon, swans, Shakespeare, drifted hazily through my mind. I imagined getting to the gig a bit early, finding a spot by the picturesque canal and reading The Mill on the Floss until the gig started.

In actual fact, I got happy slapped near Burger King. Twice.

A group of about seven or eight 10 year-olds were running up behind women in the shopping centre, slapping their arses, laughing and then running off to their mates, who'd filmed the whole thing. I did consider beating the shit out of one of them, but wasn't sure I could make that stand up in a court of law. Also, they probably had a gun.

At the gig I got to meet people who were very probably the parents of these delightful youngsters. The less said about the gig the better.

The other comics, of course, found the whole happy slapping thing hysterical, and I spent most of the rest of the evening having my arse slapped by them, whilst they filmed it on their mobiles.

I have to get a better hobby.

Tall, dark and loony

"Hello," said the tall, dark guy, sitting with the acts at Downstairs at the King's Head.

"Hello," said I.

"I like comedy," said he.

"That's lucky," said I.

"I was supposed to go to laughter therapy earlier today, but my session was cancelled," said he.

"Oh," said I, and edged away very slightly.

"Do you go to therapy?" he asked.

"Not yet," I replied.

"I find it helps. When I miss a session, I always feel out of sorts. It makes me think bad things."

"Didn't you miss your session today?" I asked.

"Yes," he said.

Two nutters, one weekend. Result.

Flyering low

You've never really experienced London life until you've handed out flyers in the centre of Leicester Square. I've got an important gig tonight and was feeling a bit rusty, so I lined up a spot at the Bath House, a nice gig on Dean Street, to try out some new material. To get an audience, the acts have to do a bit of flyering beforehand for an hour or so. Usually I meet at least one nutter per shift. It's a bit of an occupational hazard. You're stood stock still in the centre of a very touristy place, holding a giant sign saying "Comedy Tonight" - you're a pretty easy target for conversation.

Last night I'd not been in position for more than ten seconds - I hadn't even managed to get my flyers from my bag. Up comes Nutter No. 1:

NN1: Can I ask your advice about something?

Me: That depends.

NN1: Do you think this shirt's a bit gay? I was just in Burger King, and a guy pinched my arse, and I think it's this shirt. What do you think?

(This guy was so ugly that if I were him, I'd have been grateful for the human contact - regardless of gender.)

Me: I think it's probably just that sort of area. The shirt's fine.

NN1: You think the shirt's OK?

Me: It's fine.

(I get the flyers out of my bag, firstly so I can avoid eye-contact, and secondly so I can be sure he doesn't have an accomplice pickpocketing me.)

NN1: Can I ask your advice about something else? I've just started seeing a new girlfriend, and she's insisting I burn all my letters and photos from previous relationships. Do you think that's a bit obsessive?

Me: Yes.

(As if he had a previous relationship with anyone other than an old sock.)

NN1: But I really love her.

Me: Is she imaginary? Because I can't imagine any real person actually wanting to spend more than seven seconds in your company without serious persuasion of the rohypnol kind. Now, why don't you pop home for a wank, as that's the only physical contact you're likely to get whilst you remain a) this ugly and b) this weird?

One day I'm actually going to say something like that, and then maybe hit them with my giant sign. Running off might be a problem though. Those signs are pretty heavy.

Wish me luck for my gig tonight!

Back to the Beginning

Back to the Future, You've Got Mail, Groundhog Day. Three films which are all pretty good, they all have their merits... Also three films which plague me on a regular basis.

I don't reckon it's just me. I turn on the TV and one of these films is showing. I like it enough to watch the rest of it. But I can't remember how any of them start.

Every time I turn on the TV, Doc Brown is hanging from the clockface, Meg Ryan is saying, "I wanted it to be you" and Bill Murray is rolling round in the snow with Andi MacDowell. But I never see the start.

I'm beginning to think that the movie executives have cottoned on to this, and realised that they only have to pay for half a film, so long as they show it at a time that allows people to think, "Oh dear, I've just missed the start." Or else, perhaps we're making massive assumptions about the intial hour of the film. Perhaps Back to the Future starts in a Nazi concentration camp and in fact the first half of You've Got Mail is based on the true life story of Ghandi.

You never know. Well, unless you buy it on DVD. Or SkyPlus it like I can. See, remember, I'm better than you.

Overheard

I grabbed twenty minutes at lunch yesterday to sit in the sun at the Southend office.

"Anyway, you should never say that to a guy about his penis," said the man with greasy hair, who was sat a few feet away from me.

"Why not?" asked the girl with Argos jewellery.

"It can fuck-up a bloke's self-esteem bigtime. If a girl said that to me, I'd say to her that it's not my fault her crack's so big I'd get my head stuck up it. I would as well."

Lovely. Southend, I salute you.

Step up the ladder

I'm in sunny Southend at the moment. And for once, it really is sunny. Not that I'd know, as I've spent most of the last twelve hours in a windowless training room, artificially chilled to minus six degrees.

My hotel room, on the other hand, is 35 degrees and smells slightly of sewage. It reminds me of family holidays. Not that my family smell of sewage. Well, they do a bit.

Anyway, last night I went to the local Tesco (I know it sounds like I'm just rubbing in how much better my life is than yours. I'm sorry. I can't help it; it genuinely is glamour, glamour, glamour.). I noticed that Tesco is currently advertising vacancies. Not that I'm looking for a new job, but in case any of you guys are. That's the kind of nice person I am.

Anyway, one of the jobs did catch my eye. It's in the clothing department, and the job title is "Children's Hanging". Fantastic! Not often you get the opportunity to enforce capital punishment on minors... and get paid for it! For those of you a bit squeamish about putting kids in nooses (neece?), letting them drop and snapping their puny necks, you'll be pleased to know that there's also a vacancy for "Adult Hanging".

Tesco. Every little helps.

Fighting with the locals

Mrs Nunn and I had been stuck in non-moving traffic for 30 minutes. Mrs Nunn isn't known for her patience.

Finally the lights turned green. This was our chance! A fat girl waddled out into the street, taking her time, pushing a pram across three lanes of angry traffic. I pipped her on my horn. She stopped in the middle of the street and said, "What? Why don't you fuck off?"

Mrs Nunn shouted out the window, "It's a green light, you stupid cow."

Fat girl said, "I'm taking my fucking time, innit?"

As we turned the corner, Mrs Nunn shouted, "It's not very safe for your baby, is it?"

I turned a slightly whiter shade of pasty, aware we were still in slow-moving traffic.

Fat girl set her ugly brother onto the case. He spat at my little car and shouted, "You tramps!"

Mrs Nunn shouted, "Trash!"

I finally pulled away, and zipped off into the distance. I have never seen Mrs Nunn so excited. "Did you hear me? I called them trash! I was going to call them white trash, but I didn't want to be racist. It was really fun! Wasn't it fun?"

Although, half a mile down the road, stuck at a set of traffic lights, Mrs Nunn did cast a few furtive glances over her shoulder, though she denies it now... Turning her anger away from real people, she started on my poor sat nav system, Jessica. Poor Jessica was called a "stupid cow" more times than her little computer brain could cope with. Mrs Nunn isn't known for her patience.

Phone-etics

"I've got a text," says Mrs Nunn. "It's from your dad."

"What does it say?" I ask.

Mrs Nunn holds the phone as far away as her little arms will stretch, and peers and squints at the display. She reads like a small child who's learning phonetics. "Found... huge..." There is an ominous pause.

"Huge what?" I ask.

"Found... huge..." she continues. "No. No, hang on. Found phone. Was in... cat. No. Car. Found phone. Was in car. Oh. Your dad's found his mobile. I'll call him."

She does. His mobile was switched off. As is hers for 90% of the time. You have to wonder why they bother. A couple of those yoghurt pots with a piece of string would probably suit their needs better. And make my day marginally less amusing.

Tea-sing

Batten down the hatches, order in 12 pints of milk and a catering-sized box of PG Tips. Mrs Nunn is coming to visit.

Oh yes, any minute now my mum is due to arrive. She does have certain special needs, requiring constant hydration and has been known to boil the kettle for the next cup of tea whilst she still has the previous one in her hands. Also she redefines "tea". Whilst my dad and I like tea strong enough to trot a mouse on, my mum likes the tea-bag waved vaguely over a cup of hot water... and then adds an entire cow of milk.

Had I not been treated to photographs of the birth (mercifully in black and white. My younger brother got the technicolour version), I'd doubt we were related.

Regression

July 13, 1993. I got to meet Julia Sawalha, whom, at the time, I idolised beyond belief. My room at my parents' house is still decorated by Press Gang posters, which I won't quite let them take down yet. I thought Julia was brilliant. Meeting her was the most exciting thing that had ever happened in my 13 year-old life. I met her at a very rainy open-air production of A Midsummer Night's Dream, and - because my dad had written to Julia on my behalf ahead of the play - I was allowed "backstage" to the dressing tent to meet the lady herself.

I think the only words I said were, "Hello." If memory serves, Julia was very sweet and tried hard to make conversation with me. I pretty much ignored her and left the area as soon as I could. I was utterly, utterly tongue-tied.

Now, of course, pretty much exactly 13 years later to the day, I am a mature, talkative individual.

Except last night I went to a comedy gig with a friend over in West London. The gig was mostly very good - a preview of the Edinburgh show of Richard Herring (who does an excellent blog at http://www.richardherring.com/warmingup - very much the kick up the arse I needed to start this Plog.)

As an aspiring comic myself, I do make the effort to try and tell people when I've enjoyed their stuff. I find it rewarding when people tell me they've enjoyed my set. Richard was hanging round in the bar afterwards chatting to punters... but suddenly I became that 13 year-old again. Well, not literally. Firstly, that would have been more of an event to talk about than a comedy gig. ("Last night some weirdy magic happened and I woke up this morning without breasts!") And secondly the bar staff would have probably thrown me out. But I was completely tongue-tied. Couldn't think of anything to say other than I'd enjoyed the show. So I said that. And then left, kicking myself for being slightly socially inept.

Put me in a room full of people I've never met before, and I'm more than happy to chat away, start conversations going, mess around. It's not at all a star-struck thing - I'm not at all impressed by anything like that - never have been. But put me in a room with one person whom I quite respect, and suddenly I have fewer social skills than a 14 year-old computer geek from Coalville.

Weird freaky connection of the day? Many moons ago, apparently Julia Sawalha used to go out with Richard Herring. (Cue spooky music.)

Anyway - unbiased view of the gig... I do really go for cerebral comedy, and Richard Herring certainly leans towards the cerebral. The schadenfreude gag was excellent, though and went down well with what seemed to be a fairly bright audience. If he has a failing as a stand-up, it's his audience interaction. He does make (piercing) eye contact with the front row, and talks to them... But it's more "at" them, picking up on imagined reactions. "Oh, you tutted at that, didn't you?" when no tut was forthcoming, or picking on people unnecessarily. The audience was very well-behaved - not a heckle all night, and yet he seemed to decide the audience were hostile, and it was a bit uncomfortable watching audience members being picked on for no good reason. Different styles of comedy, of course, but unless someone's heckling me / being a pain in the arse, I try and make friends with the audience - make it a bit more inclusive. I felt that was lacking a bit here, and isolated the audience a bit. As his persona on stage is likeable (with a comedic streak of paedophilia / racism / homophobia), the belittling of audience members didn't sit neatly with this.

Still - I laughed out loud a few times, and I'm a hardened comedy cynic. There was an excellent routine on potatoes and some very clever comedy around the (ironically-delivered) idea of disenfranchising stupid people. Of course, I'd turned into a 13-year-old by then, and so didn't understand most of the big words.

The friend I was with said it had been the best gig they'd ever seen, so can't say fairer than that. I'll certainly try and see it in Edinburgh this year - I love watching how shows evolve.

By the way, how come West London is so much nicer than East London? I've been conned!

Off his trolley

"Feck," said the old man with the sholley, sounding uncannily like Uncle Jack from Father Ted.

I looked over. He was wearing a silly hat and an anorak. It's pretty hot today. Both the hat and the anorak were definitely superfluous.

"Feck," he said again. Loudly.

Perhaps he was swearing because he realised he'd dressed inappropriately. Perhaps he realised that with his sholley (http://www.sholley.com/), and the anorak and the hat, he looked a bit of a tit.

But very probably he was just a bit mad. Still, I got his number, so we'll see how things go.

Competitive? Moi?

Wish me luck. Because tonight is Book Club.

We have read a few decent things that I'd never have come across as a result of Book Club - "The Time Traveller's Wife", which I expected to be trashy, but really wasn't, "Vernon God Little" (fun with symbolism), "Empire of the Sun" (not bad), to name but a few. Of course, we've also read some real rubbish - "A Passage to India", "Brideshead Revisited" (hated it with an intense passion) and "The DaVinci Code".

Book Club is ostensibly an informal gathering of a bunch of work people to chat about a different book every couple of months.

For me, it's an opportunity to win.

Sure, sure, it's nice to get together and chat. The people are lovely and often the book's a pretty good one. But you see, English Literature is my "thing". So I have to win. I have to say the cleverest thing, or draw the smartest allusion (preferably to something no-one else has read). If the rest of the group doesn't hate me completely by the end of the evening, I've failed.

Tonight is "Wuthering Heights", which I loathe. Still, I have to think of something clever to say about it. Maybe I'll go for, "Of course, what's important is not just its received perception, but its perceived, received perception."

Oh, dear God, I am a wanker.

Utterly shellfish

Have you ever had something so odd happen to you that, although you know it's true, you almost doubt yourself in the retelling of it?

Set the scene: 1998, about Easter time, if memory serves. I was taking a year out between school and uni, and was working in Coalville. Erica lived locally and one hot spring weekend, Erica decided we needed to go rampaging for ice-cream. This is common for Erica. Drugs keep the rampaging gene under control, but she can never be fully cured.

Me, I don't like ice-cream. I know that's weird. Also I don't like chips or birthday cake. You may throw your best insult at me now.

So, off we went to the drive-thru McDonalds. Erica was driving. As we pulled up to the window, Erica ordered an ice-cream sundae. I think this may have been the days before McFlurries.

"We ain't got any spoons," said the McDonalds Coalvillian.

"Oh," said Erica. "Have you got a fork?"

"Hang on. Drive up to the next window."

Erica was handed an ice-cream sundae... and a plastic knife. This in itself is a mildly-amusing anecdote. But not unbelievable, not really, not unless you have a really bad imagination.

What was strange was this...

As we pulled up at the second window, McDonalds were advertising their latest Happy Meal toy - in this instance, little cuddly Wombles. Waiting for the order to be despatched (with its knife), we idly read the advert. I swear on my life, that the following lettering appeared at the bottom of the Womble poster:

"Warning: Wombles' coats may contain prawns."

Prawn-coated Wombles? I am pretty sure that you don't usually make children's toys out of seafood. The only thing I could possibly think of is that the design agency was having a laugh and accidentally forgot to remove it before it went to print.

However, I ran a Google search this morning... Nothing came up for Wombles and prawns, but there was this: http://www.scottishresearch.com/WhatsNew/News/Older/tcm-26-39140.asp. You can make textiles out of shellfish after all!

So perhaps Wombles really are made out of prawns. But very probably, only in Coalville.

The Return of the Social Life

Hooray! My friend Lee came round last night, so I can say I did something with my weekend. Otherwise the highlight might have consisted entirely of going to the library in Bethnal Green and getting another missed call from my stalker Natalie. I don't want to talk about it.

Funny things do tend to happen to me. That's one of the reasons I started this Plog - to capture them. But then I worry that in fact the Plog encourages the fates in their madness. Since starting this, only a few months back, the following has happened:

• A lift home with the Bomb Squad
• A singalong to Les Mis with a Geordie taxi driver
• Strange encounters with sneezy / burpy Chinese people
• Moisturised ferrets. Nuff said.
• A lesbian experience with a wrong number
• Accidental dogging on at least two occasions
• A dead dentist

Luckily, last night was pretty normal. For me. There was no Bomb Squad, Geordies, sneezing, burping, lesbians, dogging, dentists, Chinese people or ferrets.

Thinking about it, Lee's no fun at all.

Bored, bored, bored.

Things like this don't normally happen to me. I'm normally so careful. I read about this sort of thing happening to other people, and I always think they're a bit stupid, and deep down - whilst I sympathise - it's their own fault.

But it's happened to me. I'm ashamed and embarrassed.

I'll just come out and say it: I have nothing planned this weekend.

Sure, sure, I was out last night - Boothie and I went to see The DaVinci Code (a much better film than book). But Saturday? And Sunday? Gaping voids in my schedule. I'm usually such a planner. If you want to see me, generally there's a four-week waiting list. (That makes me sound a bit like a dentist / hooker. Take your pick.) But this weekend is so empty, it's actually echoing.

"Never mind," I thought. "Here's my chance to be impulsive! I'll phone everyone who lives within a 100-mile radius and go and visit a friend last-minute! Jessica can help me! Great!" I started with my geographically closest friends. Busy. Phoned right up the M1 - right up to Northampton (hello Erica - no need to feel guilty. Don't worry about me). Tried the South coast - all busy. Thought about calling Hazel in New Zealand but remembered I've got an early-morning meeting on Monday and might be a bit jetlagged (and poor) if I went down that route. Besides, she's probably busy.

So, if you have my number and you're free over the next couple of days, I'm bored.

(But be warned, as my mum always says, "Only boring people get bored." Not guaranteeing we'll have fun, but at least my diary won't look quite so rubbish.)

Flaky Ferrets

So, as is common on a Thursday, yesterday I talked to my dad about ferrets and E45 cream. We thought those two things had probably never been juxtaposed on the Internet before, and indeed, "ferret moisturiser" might indeed be a Googlewhack. (See http://www.davegorman.com/googlewhack.htm)

This in fact is not the case, and putting "ferret moisturiser" (without inverted commas) through Google, results in a staggering 1,200 hits. Using the American spelling ("moisturizer") results in a worrying ten thousand hits. Which kind of begs the question, under what circumstance would you want to moisturise a ferret?

Perhaps my favourite paragraph on the subject of ferret moisturisation comes from the Ferret FAQ pages at FerretCentral.org: "For dry skin, some people then dip the ferret in a dilute solution of moisturizer in water, being careful to keep her head out. Older, sick, or weak ferrets can be gently cleaned using baby oil, which can also help get gooey things out of fur. .. Drying a wiggly, dripping ferret can be a lot of fun."

Dipping ferrets in moisturiser? Using baby oil on them? As it's part of the FAQs, can we actually assume that people frequently ask about dipping their ferret in moisturiser?

As if this wasn't enough, apparently there's a product on the market, nay - several products on the market specifically designed to moisturise your ferret. See pictures.

Isn't the world marvellous? Though we are warned that "It is all too easy to buy a ferret on impulse and then regret the purchase." How true. The number of times I've found myself in Ikea, looking at a big bag of tea-lights, and by the time I get home, I've realised the only thing I've bought is a super-value sack of ferrets. Think on.

Anon

For those of you who doubted me, the ferret photo is now live. Scroll down to see Erica's ferret and E45 cream. I doubt that sentence has ever existed until now.

Am really enjoying reading people's comments on the plog... and having a lot of fun trying to guess who some of the anonymous people are. Some of you I probably genuinely don't know - you've surfed on in. But some of you are clearly making comments that insinuate you know me quite well... For a control freak like me, it's doing my head in trying to work out who you are. So when I say "having a lot of fun", really I mean, "sign your name or I'll hunt you down via your IP address and kill you".

I've just invited an entirely anonymous guestbook, just to get on my nerves, haven't I?

Sorry - am definitely being a mardy fish today. Will go.

Sort it out

I'm not sure there's anywhere in the world I hate more than the Bethnal Green sorting office. The Bethnal Green sorting office not only covers Bethnal Green inhabitants, but also a large swathe of Hackney. Hackney is big.

This is how it works:

Day One: Your postman tries to deliver a package. You're not in. A little red slip is pushed through your letterbox, saying you can phone to arrange another delivery. But not now, obviously. The office is closed from 1 p.m. and your post isn't delivered until 2.

Day Two: You phone the sorting office. Ten times. It is engaged every time. Finally it rings! And rings, and rings and rings. No-one answers and eventually the line goes dead.

Day Three - 7 a.m.: You drive to the sorting office, just after it opens at 7 a.m. You have to park illegally. The queue of people with little red slips is already stretching halfway down the street.

7.02: You join the back of the queue.

7.10: The queue hasn't moved yet.

7.30: The queue has moved sufficiently so you're now inside the building. There is only one window serving everyone. When the person at the front of the queue hands their slip of paper over, the post office employee leaves the room, goes upstairs, bangs round a bit and comes back down about five minutes later. Always with an excuse and never with a package. It is the policy of Bethnal Green sorting office to never give out packages. They've got a little banner above the window saying, "Never knowingly distributing post since 1992".

8.00: You've made it! The front of the queue! Expectantly, you hand your slip of paper to the person behind the counter. They disappear. There is banging. And more banging.

8.02: A sense of nervousness, not experienced since A-levels engulfs you.

8.03: The door opens... the post person appears... empty-handed. "Sorry love, we've not had that back here yet. Sometimes things get delayed a bit. Try again tomorrow."

8.04: You return to your car and peel the parking ticket from your windscreen, and look forward to repeating the experience tomorrow.

Such is my dread of the place, I will endeavour to have packages sent absolutely anywhere other than my home address. Unfortunately, I don't really have an office address as such at the moment, and some work stuff was sent to my home. So yesterday I had to go to the sorting office and pick it up.

It went something like this:

11.00: Drive to sorting office.

11.02: Park in one of the ample parking spaces.

11.03: Walk straight up to the counter and hand in slip.

11.04: Receive package and drive home.

It was brilliant! So if anyone wants to send me a package, that'll be fine. No pressure.

Earliest memory

What's your earliest childhood memory? Not a quick flashback, like a freeze frame or a photo, but a defined memory with a start, middle and end.

My first clear memory is from when I was no older than four, and we lived in Yorkshire. My dad had a day off work, and so I was allowed to stay home from playgroup. The weather was really windy and we walked to our local newsagents where my dad bought me a kite. We then went to the park round the corner.

My dad got the kite up and flying in no time at all, but the wind was really strong. He handed the kite string over to me, saying, "Hold on tight! When I give this to you, you mustn't let go! Be careful." I held on tight. The kite bobbed and soared. It was really good fun - for about a minute. Then I was bored. Short attention span. So... I let go. I knew I wasn't supposed to, but I wanted to see what would happen.

Off the kite went! The wind took it and it flew away. This was really fun. For about a minute. Then I got bored. Luckily, what remained amusing, was the fact that my dad was now chasing said kite right along the whole length of the park, leapfrogging a barbed-wire fence and tearing the kite in the process.

I have a feeling that we then returned the rather broken kite to the corner shop, saying it was faulty. I say "we". I was four, and pretty much incapable of fraud. OK, I might have let go of the kite, but who's the real villain here? Hmm? Hmm?

To this day, I'm not sure I've ever told my dad that I deliberately let go of the kite. Well, until now. Still, at least my hobbies don't include swindling small shops out of kites. Yet.

Small kids and monkeys and frozen 'sparagus

A small child ambushed me in a shop on Saturday, making monkey noises and dancing a small furry monkey up and down me. As the weather was nice, I refrained from another ugly murder.

I did lots of my favourite things - eating, reading and writing.

I learned that you can't freeze asparagus. Well, you can, obviously. You can put it in the freezer, and it gets cold. Indeed, it freezes. But it tastes rubbish when you defrost it. It goes all soggy and limp, and looks a little bit obscene.

So I made a very poor risotto yesterday evening, with ingredients mostly including rice and cream. So in fact, I made - more or less - a salty rice pudding. Which also sounds a bit obscene.

It was a nice weekend and my friend is back from his dangerous thing, and is full of hair-raising tales. Hope the weather lasts and I don't break it this time.

Air rage

Now, looking over the last few blogs, you might think I'm an angry person. I'm really not. In fact I'm quite lovely and likeable, and I don't think I've ever had an argument in the whole of my adult life.

Apart from with Billy from the Carphone Warehouse in 1998. He was a fuckwit, and needed to be aware of that.

But, reader, let me tell you a tale.

I got up at 5.45 a.m. on Friday, after about four hours' sleep, as I'd had a gig the previous night. I flew my little self up to Edinburgh (with the help of a tiny propeller plane) and had a gruelling day of meetings about reporting.

I got back to Edinburgh Airport for my 5 p.m. flight... and found out it was delayed for an hour. This pissed me off, as it meant my weekend would start late. Then I found out I'd bought a cheaper plane ticket that meant British Airways (incapable of sticking to a schedule) wouldn't let me into their Executive Lounge. So I had to sit on uncomfy seats with commoners who were watching silly football. It is hard being me.

Anyway, an hour and a half late, we finally board the plane. All I want at this stage is to get into my seat so I can sleep, not have to think, and start my weekend. Getting onto the plane, I watch a guy unsuccessfully try and chat up a girl... and then - oh lucky me - his seat is next to mine on the plane.

"Hello," he says.

"Hello." I say.

"I'm Tariq."

"Laura." We shake hands. His is slightly sticky.

"So what do you do, Laura?"

"I work for RBS."

"Me too." This is hardly a surprise. Almost everyone on the Edinburgh to London City flight works for RBS. We have a brief and uninspiring conversation about which area of the bank we work for.

"So, Laura, where do you live?"

"The East End." I am terse-ish. I don't want to talk. I've been polite. Now I want him to shut up. Or die. At this stage of my mood, I'm tending towards the latter.

"Stratford?" he asks.

"Bethnal Green."

"So where's that then?"

"The East End." Twat.

"Whereabouts?"

"One stop east of Liverpool Street on the Central Line."

"Liverpool Street? Are you sure?"

"I've lived there for three years, you utter wanker. Why don't you fuck off?" I say loudly. In my head.

After the shouting in my head subsides, I smile and open my book.

"Oh, don't let me stop you from reading," says Tariq the Tosser.

"Well, I'll probably try and sleep when the Captain stops talking."

"I didn't say you could sleep! I said you could read!"

It's a good job my car was at City Airport waiting for me, or I'd have drunken myself into a stupor and then beaten Tariq into a slightly bloody mess with the miniature wine bottles they give you.

But really, I'm a very sweet person usually. Anyone want to be my friend? Not you Tariq.