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Thursday, August 31, 2006

Little things...

I spent most of today trying to get the words "moist" and "flange" into a workshop.

I failed.

Still, I tried.

Wednesday, August 30, 2006

Riddle in a Rover

"Is it or glust enter ready?"

"Sorry?" I asked the taxi driver. I'd kind of hoped for a receipt, rather than a riddle. It was only just after 7 a.m., after all.

"Is it or glust enter ready?" he said, slower.

"I'm really sorry," I said. I put on my best blank look. It looks like this - watch. There. Very blank.

"Is... it... or... glust... enter... ready?"

"Yes." This seemed to satisfy him.

"Time flies," said he.

Ah. It is indeed the end of August already.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Snaking it up

At the queue in the cinema, after talking about Johnny Depp's recent work, Lee asked for, "Two to see Snakes of the Caribbean please."

Tee hee. He then suggested the similarly brilliant-sounding Pirates on a Plane. I don't like Johnny Depp particularly, but even I would pay to see pirates. On a plane.

Snakes on a Plane was actually not all that bad. I'd heard horrendous reviews of it, and had gone along expecting it to be so bad that it was accidentally good. But in fact, it didn't pretend to be anything it wasn't, and there were a few genuine laughs along the way.

Looking forward to the sequel. We came up with a few - Cakes on a Plane - inducing near-fatal diabetic comas, Worms on a Bus - low-budget rip-off, Rakes in a Lane - a gardeners' special. Insert your own silliness here. Go.

Sunday, August 27, 2006

Ozymandi-brush

Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!

Oh yes, this weekend has seen something not entirely short of miraculous happening. I have launched the all-new DIY Laura. For those of you who know me even a tiny little bit, the thought of putting the letters DIY, next to the name "Laura" without a negative and without the world's most sarcastic voice, seems rather on the reckless side. This is the girl whose high school design teacher actually begged her to drop the subject when choosing GCSE options.

At Nice Kate's flat last weekend, I was introduced to the miracle of vacuum storage. Clever little bags that you can stuff duvets into and then suck all the air out of, making everything teeny tiny. I went and bought more of these bags than is entirely sensible, and spent a lot of Thursday evening sucking the air out of stuff. It was cool.

On Friday, I scrubbed some mould off my bathroom ceiling (no-one can say I don't live a glamorous life), and on Saturday I prepared to paint my bathroom. By myself. The reason I "prepared" to paint the bathroom is simple - preparing stuff is the best bit. Putting on my painting trousers and painting t-shirt and going to the local shop for brushes and more masking tape made me feel like a proper working girl. Well, not in that way, obviously. I'm not sure paint-covered hookers get that much custom. Though you never know. Men are weird.

Yesterday I emulsioned all the wood in my bathroom, and this morning I glossed the door. By myself. I even worked out that it would be better to paint the top of the door first, because if I did the bottom first, the chair I was using to reach the top would get paint on it, when it touched the door. This is a massive step forward in common sense for me.

I think I deserve a biscuit.

Friday, August 25, 2006

Edinburgh 1: Bloggers. Edinburgh Ground Zero: Friday

Nice Kate, knowing my fondness for blogging, and her fondess for upstaging my blog, booked a play called Blogger Diaries. This was quite a neat idea - five cast members playing ten parts, and delivering them as juxtaposed monologues. Interestingly, the blogs themselves were genuine. So cheating a bit, from a playwright point of view, but a nice idea, and pretty well executed. We had a bloke whose girlfriend left him, a nymphomaniac schoolteacher, a girl whose mother was an alcoholic, a chav dopehead, an agorophobic sex-chat line worker who was actually a virgin - and many more (well, five more). It was good. But unfortunately set the bar far too high for Nice Kate's later choices of a) Morrissey dancers and b) clowns.

Friday evening, Nice Kate was out on a work do, and so I met up with my friend James. I'd had a difficult day at work, the weather was rubbish and I was in a foul mood. Still, as James was a performer, we had a drink in the bar at the Assembly Rooms, and I found myself in the company of Paul Merton and two of the Goodies, so that made me feel a bit more chipper. Admittedly, I wouldn't have known who the Goodies were had James not elbowed me and told me, but that's not really the point.

A bit later on we went to see Deirdre O'Kane. She pronounces her name "Deer-druh", when everyone knows it should be pronounced "Deer-dree". Fool. Someone should have told her. The comedy was OK - gentle and aimiable enough but nothing that new or special.

Still, we had good tapas later, and chatted about Karen Carpenter. What more do you need?

Back to the present from tomorrow! Yay!

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Edinburgh 2 - Something fishy this way comes

Before the clown, before the comedy, before love of the Festival had started to wear ever-so-slightly thin, Nice Kate and I went to see a play called Fish Story. Before the play even started, I got a little bit overexcited by the fact that the costume and set designer was Polly Lawrence - a friend from school. I didn't see her, but when I bumped into her at a London gig a few months back, she said she was working in theatre design, so that would make sense.

Small world. Polly, if you're reading this, look away now.

Nice Kate's and my opinion on the play went something along these lines (Nice Kate actually has some phrases written down in a notebook somewhere): "Less good than a big pile of hairy wank".

The premise was basically that three people had been abducted / persuaded to join some sort of cult and had been out of society for a few years. Though not that many years because one of them had an iPod. Still, she appeared to have forgotten everything about society, wondering implausibly, "What is the big grey river filled with chokebeasts? It is the umm two five. What is the umm two five?"

Twats. There was one good bit where it looked like one of them had been run over by said chokebeast, but unfortunately he got up again.

The play reached its climax with all three of the characters lying on the floor with their legs in the air, waving them around to a Morrissey song. There's never any need for that.

Back to the present - I did a storming gig at the Comedy Cafe last night, thank you for asking. I was quite nervous about it, but I loved every minute of it, and it's restored my faith in performing comedy, after a bit of a rubbish run - my last two or three gigs haven't been great. My friend Lee came along to the gig and gave me some useful feedback (he's a Proper Comic, so always happy to take his advice - happier still after a great gig).

Though out at the bar, we did get ambushed by an excessively drunk girl called Karen, who grabbed hold of us both to tell us how much she loved us. I wouldn't have minded, but she grabbed hold of my right breast and didn't actually seem to notice for a good few minutes. It felt a bit impolite to say anything.

Still, other than the fact that she was the wrong gender, that's practically a relationship for me.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Edinburgh 3: Clowns

"I'm just phoning you to tell you I've booked three things for Saturday," said Nice Kate, about this time last week.

"OK," said I. "I shall be in charge of Sunday then."

"I've booked two plays and a metaphysical clown," Nice Kate continued.

"Sorry, I misheard," I said. "I thought you said 'and a metaphysical clown'."

"That's right," said Nice Kate. "A metaphysical clown. It won't be red noses and wigs and rubbish - it'll be really good."

"I hate clowns. I've learned the hard way that just because they have big shoes, it doesn't mean they have big..."

"Anyway, I've booked it," asserted Nice Kate.

Fast forward to Saturday. We entered the venue. A clown with a wig and a red nose hilariously snatched away the programme he was trying to give me and made a squeaky noise. Over the course of the next hour, the following things happened:

  • Clown A mimed he was trapped against a piece of glass
  • Clown B came onstage dressed as a Japanese warrior and did a "moving" dance to a pretentious piece of music. (Admittedly this did give me the biggest laugh of the entire festival - for utterly the wrong reasons. I was laughing so hard, I was a little bit sick into my mouth.)
  • The audience was hilariously soaked with water pistols
  • Clown A pretended he was going to hang himself. I couldn't stop myself from whispering a little bit too loudly, "Just fucking do it."

I hate clowns. And Nice Kate.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Back to the weekend: Edinburgh 4, 5 & 6

I will wrap up the rest of Sunday's Festival Extravaganza in one entry. I'm considerate like that. And I'm saving myself for reporting on Saturday - Nice Kate's day. It was theatre. There is commenting to be done. There were clowns. I can't say any more just yet.

Anyway.

Apparently Festival time runs four hours behind normal time. So midday on Sunday, when we saw our first show, was apparently like seeing a show at 8 in the morning. This partly explains why it was called The Early Edition (morning version of The Late Edition). I was coaxed into booking it by the promise of free coffee and doughnuts. And it was good, as were the refreshments. Marcus Brigstocke and co, commenting on the day's papers. I was glad of their coaxing.

We sat outside and had a drink. We did a survey for a man from a Swiss university who told me I was using a special Bluetooth pen and magic paper. (He might not have used the word magic.) The pen automatically recorded and transmitted the data as I was entering it. How cool is that? Or he could have been a pathalogical liar. He told Nice Kate and me that he wanted to be an investment banker when he grew up. Nice Kate said he should be a motorcycle stuntman, and I urged him to consider trapeze artistry. He left shortly after that.

3 p.m. saw my friend James Sherwood's show, I know what you did last Sunday, which both Nice Kate and I really enjoyed. Although she did laugh like a naughty schoolgirl every time he said the word "cock". Some people would say Nice Kate has a problem. I wouldn't be so cruel.

5 p.m. saw my other friend Kevin Shepherd's Comics die in hot cars - video footage of Kevin driving comics to gigs, edited together to make a rather nice show. I really enjoyed it, as, in addition to it being very funny, I knew the vast majority of people in the footage. There were no "cock" words to make Nice Kate laugh, but I think she enjoyed it too. At least she didn't pinch me. I think I might be in an abusive friendship.

And then, in the evening, we saw Richard Herring's show, as already discussed yesterday. I can't remember now why I thought it would be a good idea to work backwards. But I will talk about Saturday tomorrow. And Friday on Thurdsay. Or maybe on Friday. My head hurts.

Monday, August 21, 2006

Edinburgh: Show 7

So, a weekend in Edinburgh with Nice Kate, exciting Edinburgh Fringe stuff going on... What could go wrong?

Nothing, in fact. It was a lovely weekend. However, we managed to pack in an awful lot of stuff, so I will be breaking up the reviews over the next few days, working - excitingly - in reverse order.

So, the last thing we saw yesterday evening was Richard Herring's show menage à un. I'd seen this in previews a few weeks back, and was a bit nervous about seeing it again. I was pretty sure I'd enjoy it, but I didn't know for certain if it would be Nice Kate's cup of tea. (Nice Kate's cup of tea, in case you're interested, is slightly weaker than if you lobbed a Tesco Value tea bag into the River Thames.) I was also slightly nervous, because last time I wrote a review of his gig here, Mr Herring himself popped along and commented on it. Which was flattering, but a bit odd.

When I'd seen the show previously, the room had been much smaller and, although the material had been very strong, the audience interaction had felt a bit intense and hostile. This time, however, exactly the right tone was struck; it was playful, fun, and very, very clever. At 7.46 a.m. today on the way to work, the phrase "wasp husbandry" made Nice Kate and I giggle again. That was a very early giggle indeed.

Herring is the master of the comic rejoinder. If he mentions potatoes in one part of his act, you can be sure they'll pop up later, when you're least expecting them (like a root vegetable version of the Spanish Inquisition). This is done exceptionally well. The best thing about rejoinders is they're not actually that difficult to write, but they make the comic seem very clever. I shall be working on some of my own. To give him his due, proper intellectual comedy isn't seen nearly often enough, and I'm really pleased that the show seemed to be getting the recognition it deserved - it looked pretty full on the Sunday we saw it.

(Aside: there was a small Olivio routine - funny in itself - which struck a chord with me for entirely the wrong reasons and a lot of very strange coincidences. Nice Kate said I nearly cried. But I didn't and she's lying.)

And for regular readers of this blog, no, I didn't go and speak to Richard after the show. Most of this was tiredness, rather than shyness on my part. It was the end of a long weekend and the lure of pasta back at Nice Kate's house was too strong. Damn you, you carbohydrate temptress.

Nice Kate would like to do her own interpretation of events. I have asked her to add these as comments. However, she is very busy and important, so don't expect anything soon. And if she writes anything I don't agree with, I will delete it. I am BlogGod.

Friday, August 18, 2006

Belter

My taxi driver was on time this morning. He talked, but not too much. He only asked me for directions twice. He didn't play Christian radio at me, or try and make me have a Les Mis singalong.

He was fine.

BUT, how come not a single taxi driver ever wears a seatbelt? The vast majority of people on the road fasten their seatbelt as an automatic reaction on getting into a car. We are constantly told that they are an advanced safety feature. We believe it. So, as a group of people who drive as a profession - what do these guys know that we don't?

All I can figure is that taxi drivers know that you're able to leg it from a burning wreck much quicker if you don't have to push the little red seatbelt button first.

Thursday, August 17, 2006

From fruit flies to fruit cakes...

As I've mentioned before, my job's a bit unusual in that I work mad hours most of the time, but when I'm not away from London, there is the flexibility to work from home. This sounds like a smashing idea and a brilliant way of skiving, but in actual fact I tend to work harder, for longer and get more achieved whilst I'm at home. My employers are cunning.

Anyway, I was working from home yesterday, and realised it was about 2.30 p.m. and I hadn't yet had anything to eat. So I went for a wander down Bethnal Green high street in search of a salad.

Crikey, the nutters were out in full force yesterday. Of course, anyone vaguely conventional was at work, and so it was me and the freaks. (Or maybe just "the freaks" would have covered that one.)

My favourite was a man with a cute spaniel. The guy looked fairly normal - blond, floppy hair. He was walking along the street, then stopped dead in his tracks, raised both hands up to the sky and said in quite a posh voice, "Why? Why? I only asked for one thing and you give me a dog!"

The dog looked disappointed or guilty. I'll be honest, I'm not that good at recognising dog expressions.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

Pretty fly (for a fruit fly)


Fruit flies.

Well, not normally, not unless you throw it. OK, that was a weak joke. Cut me some slack.

I have been invaded by fruit flies. I know they're fruit flies because I looked them up on the Internet. Hundreds of the little bastards. Well, at least ten anyway. Ironic thing? I have no fruit in the house. Not even a 'nana. The situation is made worse by the fact that I refuse to kill anything. So I have made a humane fruit fly trap (as recommended by a fruit fly page on the web), luring the little nazis in with a fruit smoothie.

Cunning gits keep flying out again. I may be forced to become less humane.

I have bleached every drain, removed every plant (OK, my one plant), checked every cupboard for mouldy potatoes (yes, I'm that hungry)... I just can't work out where they're coming from. The thing that upsets me most is that we all know that flies come from maggots. Lovely.

I'm away this weekend, going to the Edinburgh Festival with Nice Kate (yay!), and just have horror film visions of opening my front door when I get home on Monday and having a giant swarm of blood-sucking fruit flies attack me.

(Although, if I come back from Scotland, an insect there could possibly be McFly. I'll get my coat.)

I wouldn't mind, but not one of the little drosophilia has offered me rent. Free-loading, fruity bastards.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Only boring people...

I am a very busy person. Busier than a hamster in a spin-dryer. Generally very busy. When I'm not travelling with work, I'm out doing gigs. When I'm not doing gigs, I catch up with friends. When I'm doing neither, I'm at the theatre or catching up on my SkyPlus.

But this week it's all gone a bit pear-shaped. It was supposed to be a busy week. They're all supposed to be busy weeks. I was supposed to be driving up to Harrogate on Sunday (no doubt having another nosebleed on their carpet), and supposed to be hurtling back to London for dinner on Tuesday with some friends. But I cancelled the Harrogate trip, and someone else cancelled the dinner... and suddenly not only was Sunday night free, but also Monday, Tuesday and - get this - Wednesday night.

I am like a time millionaire, gleeful in my hoarding of hours.

So, Sunday night I watched some dire TV I'd SkyPlussed, last night my friend Lee came over for a chilled out coffee and chat... and tonight, I'm planning nothing.

Of course, I do have to swot up on The Catcher in the Rye for Thursday's book club. Gotta win.

I'm loving having this much time to myself. I honestly am. I'm not bored at all. Well, maybe a tiny bit. Anyone free tonight? Fancy doing something?

Monday, August 14, 2006

UnXpected

Weird weekend.

On Friday night I did a gig in Maidstone. Died on my arse, which is never a huge amount of fun. Even less so because my uncle (whom I haven't seen for several years) and my friend Boothie came along to watch the spectacle. Rubbish audience. Wasn't my fault. Obviously.

Saturday Boothie and I were supposed to be doing a DaVinci Code walk around London. But as it was absolutely chucking it down, we decided to postpone. So instead I ended up going to meet some... (OK, if you think I'm quite a cool person, look away now... ) I went to meet some Press Gang fans who were having lunch at Leicester Square.

Press Gang, of course, was the greatest TV show ever written, and its characters and plots formed and framed my childhood. The writer, Steven Moffat, went on to write lots of other great stuff, including Joking Apart, Coupling and some of the best episodes of the recent two series of Dr Who. I've actually met him a few times (not saying where. Too embarrassing.), and he seems a decent bloke.

Anyway, so I met up with the fans - proper fans - badges and everything. It was lovely, but quite scary to meet people who - if it were possible - were bigger fans than I had been at my most fan-girl stage. And a couple of hours into our chat... along came Mr Moffat himself. He'd been lured along by a couple of the fans who knew him quite well. He patiently answered scary geek questions and tried his best not to pour too much scorn on the adulation which gushed all over the table. The waitress did her best to clear up both the scorn and the adulation after we'd left.

So I spent some of my Saturday afternoon with the man who was very probably responsible for forming my somewhat disturbing sense of humour.

There were a few shocking Press Gang revelations, which I shan't bother you with here - I guess very few of you even remember Press Gang (so buy it on DVD! Now!). But it was a totally unexpected way to spend a lunchtime - and so much nicer for it.

Those of you who "get" the title of this entry... You should have been there on Saturday.

Friday, August 11, 2006

Driving passion

I feel so ashamed. I'm normally such a loyal person. I'll just come out and say it: I've been having an affair. I've been cheating.

With a Vauxhall Corsa.

As my little Astra was being mended, I had to hire a car so I could get to Harrogate for work. It was only a 1.2, and my Astra is a 1.4, so I imagined I'd find the hire car a bit sluggish. Not so. We fell in love with each other. We zipped along the motorway, we did some town driving. I played with its buttons (particularly the air conditioning). We had an amazing time.

Then, when I went to pick up my Astra and had to drive the hire car past it, the guilt just hit me. My Astra and I have been through so much together, and here was I, parading a brand new car (with only 600 miles on the clock) in front of its little bonnet. I am a shallow person.

Realising the error of my ways, I took the Astra out for a spin. Though, I have to admit, it didn't feel as good as it used to. Not now I'd tasted the forbidden fruit.

It is lovely to have my own car back... but I did catch myself making enquiries into buying a new Corsa earlier on. Don't tell the Astra. Though I think it might suspect.

Thursday, August 10, 2006

Fun for all the family

There are some games you should never play with your parents. As I found out last night, one of these games is Shag, Marry or Push off a Cliff.

For those of you unfamiliar with the game, three candidates are selected by Player One - i.e. Hugh Grant, Colin Firth and Brad Pitt. Player Two must then decide which one to shag, which one to marry, and which to push over the cliff. (Easy peasy - marry Colin, shag Hugh, Brad goes over the cliff.)

It wasn't a complete success. It started with:

Mrs Nunn: I thought Jeremy Clarkson and Jeremy Paxman were the same person.

Mr Nunn: No. That's why they have different names.

Mrs Nunn: But they have the same face.

Oh dear. And there are also some lines you should never have to hear your parents say.

Mr Nunn: I suppose Gwyneth would go over the cliff. I don't really want to marry Aniston, because she smokes like a chimney. But I'd definitely give Angelina Jolie one.

Mrs Nunn: OK, Laura - shag, marry or push off a cliff... (She then goes on to name three of my close friends and then says, "So have you actually shagged any of them?")

There are some games you should never play with your parents.

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

Bloody brilliant

I mentioned the hotel was a bit rubbish. This meant I couldn't get my work laptop connected from my bedroom. I am a busy and important person and needed to write my blog (I mean, sort out important work emails).

So, I went to the Business Centre at the Harrogate hotel. "Business Centre" sounds impressive but is actually a computer cupboard with a fan. A fan as in something that blows cool air, not someone who tells me how great I am. Though that would have been appreciated too.

Five minutes in, my nose started to run. I searched for a tissue. There was no tisusue to be found. Then I realised that in actual fact, I had a nose bleed. Quite a significant nose bleed. And no tissue. My hotel room was five floors up, and the lifts were out of order. The carpets were cream. Returning to my room was not an option.

And that, dear readers, is how I found myself in the Majestic Hotel in Harrogate with a tampon shoved up my left nostril.

Unfortunately the bleeding didn't stop for a good 20 minutes - and I was unable to leave the business centre (tampon-up-nostril isn't a great look - hasn't made it to the catwalk this season). Luckily Hugh Grant and the curly guy from Green Wing didn't come in at that moment, both having separately decided to propose to me. Otherwise it could have been an embarrassing situation. Which of course it wasn't at all in any other way.

Then, as I had no pockets, I had to try and smuggle what was effectively a used tampon up five flights of stairs to my hotel room.

Seriously, does this sort of thing ever happen to anyone else?

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

Plugs, plogs and plog plugs

Plugs, plugs everywhere... I'm at the Harrogate Majestic Hotel. It looks a bit majestic. But only from the outside. Inside, nothing at all works. The lifts are knackered, the phone in the room doesn't work, and a delegate at my course earlier today had a wasp baked into her fish pie. That sounds horrible, but consider this:

Wouldn't you rather have a wasp baked into your fish pie than a fish baked into your wasp pie? It's all a question of perspective.

Anyway, I promised my little brother a plug for his plog. (OK, blog.) He's not actually that little (about 6 foot 2) and is travelling in the States at the moment. You can follow his adventures at www.jacknunn.blogspot.com. I take no responsibility for the spelling or grammar. You might want to use this opportunity to remind him that I'm better than him.

If you're reading this Jack - well done. That's "become literate" ticked off your list of things to achieve before you're 30.

Monday, August 07, 2006

Dropping the eaves

Overheard in London at the weekend:

  • Toby, are you a turd?
  • I'm not fucking moving. Why don't you fucking move?
  • Maisy! Maisy! That's not organic!

Off to Harrogate now. The last time I went there, I had possibly the worst two weeks of my life to date. I'm looking forward to the reprise.

Friday, August 04, 2006

On my hire horse

OK... the hire car company cannot deliver my hire car on Sunday (from when I'm renting it and thus legally allowed to drive it), so they're delivering it tonight instead.

Fine. So long as they deliver it after 5, as there are parking restrictions where I live until this time. I mentioned this to the (rude) guy at Enterprise Car Rentals. He said they couldn't deliver it after 5, and the car would be with me by 3. I said that was OK, but they'd have to take the risk that it might possibly be clamped or towed.

He said, no, that was my responsibility. I said it was not, it was Enterprise's responsibility because:

a) it would be them who were physically parking the car somewhere illegal and I wasn't legally allowed to move it until Sunday

and

b) they were delivering it at their convenience - I don't need or want the car for another two days.

Once I'd lied and told him I was a lawyer, he then refused to deliver the car altogether, and I had to spend the next two minutes backtracking.

Anyone want to give a legal opinion on this?

(PS I've never actually seen anyone clamped or towed from where I live, but it's the principle of the thing. Maybe I was just in the mood for a row.)

Thursday, August 03, 2006

Fair's fare

The taxi driver saga continues... I spent 40 minutes in a cab getting from Norwich Airport to Norwich train station in utterly solid traffic. (Cab driver: "It's always like this in Norwich when it rains." Clearly there's not a lot to do other than go for a drive.)

After missing a train, then, finally getting back to Liverpool Street two and a half hours later, I was pleased not to have to wait for a cab. I lugged my three heavy bags into the back.

"Where to, darling?"

"Bethnal Green please."

"Mumble mumble mumble Bethnal Green?" I thought he was asking for directions.

"If you go to Roman Road, I'll guide you in from there."

"I know where it is. I wait half an hour at the taxi rank and I get a fucking fare to fucking Bethnal Green."

OK, I can appreciate that he might hope for a longer journey, but still it was a ten pound fare... it's not exactly as if I asked him to drop me at Bishopsgate. Tosser. Besides which, it was hardly my fault. I was a customer with heavy luggage who couldn't easily use the tube, and had waited at a taxi rank to get - wait for it - a taxi.

So I gave him his tenner, and then did a big poo on the back seat.

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

Clean and sparkly

My car is alive! Costing me about £200 to fix, but a lot cheaper than buying a sparkly new car (without a sparkly new salary). I look forward to reuniting the car with Jessica at the weekend.

I've only been to East Anglia twice in my life. And every time, I've had a weird run-in with a cleaner. My first time was when I went for an interview at Cambridge University and stayed overnight in the college.

"Hello," said the cleaner the next morning.

"Hello," I said.

"Are you here for an interview?"

"Yes I am," I replied, truthfully. I'm usually truthful.

"And are you going to have this room?"

"Sorry?" I asked.

"When you come here, will this be your room?"

It seemed too complicated to explain a) it was fairly unlikely I was going to be there at all and b) unfortunately I wasn't yet in charge of room allocation for Cambridge University. I think I settled for a tactful, "Hmm, maybe!"

Yesterday I was setting up the training room in the evening and a cleaner came in. We made (slightly less weird) small talk. Then she said, "My daughter would like a job here."

"Oh," said I. I don't work in Norwich, I don't know anyone who works in Norwich. I have slightly less authority than the guy who mends the vending machine in Norwich. This is the first time I've ever been to Norwich. I tried to explain that. But the cleaning lady then brought her daughter to me and we made awkward conversation about her A-level choices.

And then I took apart thirty plugs.

Weird job. Gotta love it.