Santa Secrecy

Secret. Fucking. Santa.

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

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

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

Yesterday's news

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

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

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

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

London is a weird place sometimes.

Room 101

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

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

Here's the story.

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

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

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

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

"Oh. Me too."

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

And she was another fucking Kate.

Wetwang weekend

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

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

Three questions about the embarrassing video.

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

Question Two: my 1999 haircut. WHY?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quantity surveyor

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

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

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

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

All of you.

Or both of you.

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

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

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

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

Estating the obvious

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

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

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

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

"Yes," she replied.

"How long is it?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

"Sorry?" I asked.

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

"How do you mean?"

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

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

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

"How long will it take?" I asked.

"Ages. About eight days."

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

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

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

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

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

Tales of a swooner

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

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

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

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

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

I am then sick over his feet.

Best Faint Ever. Tell me about yours.

Plans for winter

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

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

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

Go away now. I want to sleep.

Half baked - again

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love stalking, I do

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A hymn to stalking. What more could I want?

National Affront

Things I've done this week:

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

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

Return of the Bum Deal

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

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

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

Hi Laura

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

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

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

Pathetic.

Ned

My reply:

Hi Ned

Just a couple of questions for you:

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

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

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

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

Laura

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

Half baked

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

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

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

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

Yoga. Period.

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

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

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

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

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

"Is that good or bad?" I asked.

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

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

aPLOGogies

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

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

Highlights you've missed this week:

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

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

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

Carbing on

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

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

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

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

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

Trouble with the Plog

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let the shininess continue

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

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

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

Magpie Girl

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

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

Wankers.

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

I digress. Shiny laptop is mine.

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

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

Getting personal

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

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

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

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

Well-wishing

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

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

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

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

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

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