Something old, something new

So, last night saw a much-anticipated event - Kath and Jon's wedding. Kath's been a close friend since school, and though we're all firmly in our late twenties now, it's still a bit of a shock whenever one of my close friends decides to get married. You feel a bit like their parents should be saying, "Don't be ridiculous. Now get upstairs and tidy your room." But they didn't. And off to Birmingham for the wedding we went.

Prior to the wedding, I took my little old car for one last drive. I will try and add some photos, but I'm not having much luck. Ooh. There we go.

There was a sad moment when I came downstairs later that morning and heard Mrs Nunn on the phone, asking the scrap dealer how much they'd pay for it. £60. Poor little car. If anyone fancies a most excellent Vauxhall Astra, £100 with tax until March and can pick it up from Loughborough, let me know. I would like it to go to a good home with little girls who'll love it and bring it carrots.

Anyway, onto the wedding. It was a lovely day - Kath looked beautiful, and it was so nice to see my schoolfriends again. I'm getting into this photo thing now:

From left to right, me, Sarah, Katy (who smells of wee), Kath (she's the one in the wedding dress), Karen, Helen, Erica and Hazel.

We all looked gorgeous apart from Kath, who absolutely minged. I told her that several times during the evening, and she shot me several of her "die Laura" looks, which were patented during A-level History.

Here is another photo for you.

Again, left to right, Sarah, Hazel, Karen, Katy (who smells of wee and whose big ugly face is thankfully partially obscured), me, Helen and Erica.

And below you can see us doing the Macarena. Has to be done at a wedding. It is a law. You can see by Helen's face how seriously she is taking the proceedings. Well, maybe you can't. I can zoom in on my thingy. Trust me. She looks very serious.

Anyway, a lovely evening was had by all.

Do not ask me for any more photos. I have quite, quite spoiled you. Go out to your New Year's parties and have a fantastic time.

Happy New Year!

Getting personal

My car and I have made our final voyage together. Please see yesterday's entry for thoughts around this.

What I will tell you is this - in full support of my stand-up career, my car has striven to represent me comedically: the driver's door flies open at inappropriate moments, the passenger side gets wet when it rains... and today, in an impressive display of comic timing, the rear windscreen wiper flung itself off at 85 mph. It's nice to have such an empathic vehicle.

We have said our goodbyes, and tomorrow it will pose with me for a final photo shoot.

When I got back to London a few days ago, I had a Christmas card in my letter box. Unusually, the envelope said who the card was from, rather than its addressee. It said, "From your neighbour no. 31". The inside of the card said pretty much the same.

Now, I know number 31 to say hello to. But do not know his name. Therefore, wouldn't this be the perfect opportunity to get acquainted? Could he not have written, "From John (no. 31)"? No way. This is London and we must be anonyous at all times. Obviously I sent one back to him, "Have a great new year. From no. 32".

London is a strange place.

Car-ing too much

Today saw a sad chore that I've been putting off for a while. It was time to clear out my old car, before driving it back to my parents for one last time before we're parted.

I say "clear out my old car". For most people this would involve moving a couple of CDs from one car to the other, and perhaps moving across a map or some de-icer. Not me. I will freely admit that tidiness isn't one of my key strengths. Add to this the fact that I've had the car since I was 18, and it often served as an extended bedroom when I was at university, and you might be able to imagine the extent of detritus.

There was a lot of detritus. Old petrol receipts (never sure why they give those to you - they're separate from VAT receipts, and I've never yet returned a tank of petrol. "Sorry - it was an unwanted gift..."), flyers that had been put on my windscreen, bottles of ancient water at varying levels of emptiness... A lot of detritus.

But there was also a lot of other stuff. I'm trying to be all grown-up and unsentimental, and have indeed thrown most of it away, but amongst other things there were wedding invitations, maps to the houses of people I don't see anymore - ex-colleagues, ex-boyfriends, friends who have faded away. Some directions to a place near Naseby that I don't even remember visiting. There were mix-tapes from exes - despite the fact that I've not had a cassette player in the car for about four years. There were catalogues and samples from when I used to work in sales. I even found the 1998 catalogue down the back of the rear seats, along with some of my old business cards.

The car and I, we've travelled a long way together. According to old directions found this afternoon, we've been as far north as Bridlington, as far south as Chichester, as far east as Norwich, and as far west as Cardiff. We've been to weddings together (thankfully no funerals). The car took me to university for the first time... and more importantly, it took me away again three years later.

In those first few weeks at uni, it saw me a few times come just to sit in it, and breathe in its smell of newly-lost independence.

It drove me to my first flat in London. And my second. And my third.

It has seen me laugh so hard that I've nearly steered it into a lamp-post. It has seen me cry so much that, unthinking, I turned on the windscreen wipers - to clear my view. It has seen me turn from a shy 18 year-old to an aspiring stand-up comic in her late twenties.

I will miss my car. I like to think it will miss me too.

He's behind you...

Yesterday I witnessed a man in his fifties, dressed as a woman. "Nothing shocking about this," you might say. "We are open-minded individuals, accepting of each others' foibles."

What if I told you that this transvestite had his arm around a seven year-old boy at that time? "Still," you might continue, "no harm in that."

What if I then told you that the middle-aged man in drag then said to the small boy, "Do you have a girlfriend? Would you like me to be your girlfriend?"

NOW you're shocked, aren't you? Even worse, literally hundreds of people not only failed to rush to the child's aid, but instead laughed and clapped.

Later on in the evening, two twenty-something girls lezzed it up with hundreds of people cheering them on. The one calling herself "Jack" was wearing hotpants. There were children present.

Panto at Loughborough Town Hall. Doesn't get weirder than that.

(Oh yes it does, etc. etc.)

Bored games

Something unheard of happened today. I will try and break it to you gently. I lost at Monopoly. Worse still, I lost not only to Erica (who I always beat at Monopoly, always - I can't believe she'd break a tradition like this at Christmas time, of all things), but I lost also to my little brother.

Obviously this has ruined Christmas. If anyone wants me, I shall be sulking in the scullery. We don't actually have a scullery, but if we did, I think it would be a fab place to sulk.

I hope this terrible news hasn't ruined your Christmas, like it has mine. Have a good one!

J'ai bavardé

Today has been the loveliest of lovely days. I spent this morning in my home town. In fact, part of this morning, I spent in the precinct in Loughborough chatting to a bone fide music celebrity. I had absolutely no idea who he was (even when my little brother sang bits of his songs to me), but if anyone who doesn't only listen to Radio 2 is reading this - does Basement Jaxx ring any bells? I'm dead celeb me.

More excitingly than that (considering I know nothing about music), I saw lovely Hazel! We had lovely lunch and caught up on more gossip than you could throw at a medium-sized hedge. I also saw Hazel's lovely mum, whom I'd not seen for ages, because Hazel has rudely decided to live in New Zealand.

After saying adieu to Hazel, I zipped over to Coalville, famed for "Coalville family incest"; I saw my friend and ex-colleague, Liz, who I've not seen for a good two years. She gave me even more gossip about people I used to work with. In fact, I have so much gossip buzzing around my head now, I could fall over at any point. It's a very dangerous situation to be in, especially with Christmas so close. Just last year there were three fatalities in East Yorkshire, when three old ladies dropped dead from an apparent gossip overdose.

I shall have to be careful.

The geese are getting fat...

I woke up this morning feeling rough, with a capital rrrr. I've bravely been battling my female equivalent of man-flu (bird flu?) all week, but finally gave into the headache and sinusy-ness (that is a true medical term) and took the day off work.

I am feeling a bit better now, thank you for asking.

So, now it's officially getting Very Close to Christmas. I'm not a massive fan of Christmas Day, but I have an action-packed few days lined up. There will be shopping, there will be lunch with Hazel, there will be catching up with other old friends, there will even be a wedding.

There will also be a Midnight Mass service where Dad and I will go and sing carols and take the piss out of the sermon.

And there will be mince pies. I love mince pies. And teasing my brother. They are two of my very favourite things.

Garage music

"I'm sorry," said the nice-but-not-bright woman responsible for Tower Hamlets parking. "It's been a mistake." I was losing my new parking place. Worry not, I got different one.

"The thing is," she continued, "I don't usually do parking bays. I'm normally garages and sheds."

One wonders exactly how much admin a shed causes.

A separate note: Joni Mitchell. Now, I've always resisted Joni's charms, despite many people's recommendations. I think Both Sides Now is a really great song, and I'm partial to a bit of Big Yellow Taxi too. On the strength of this, I bought an album of hers. It was only a fiver.

For God's sake, woman, what's wrong with staying in the same octave for let's say a bar maybe? We all know you can do special up-and-downy voice thingies, and ooh, aren't you clever? But it's a bit fucking annoying after a while. And that song Circle Game (it goes round and round) is basically ripping off The Wheels on the Bus.

And whilst we're on the topic, why has no-one else noticed that Bob Dylan sounds like Roland Rat? "Eeeh, Rat Fans..."

It's all a big con. The Carpenters, on the other hand, now that's class. Apart from that whole incest-plus-anorexia-and-untimely-death thing. Don't be so picky.

The bells, the bells

I'd just got in from work and my doorbell rang. Not my external doorbell on the block of flats which makes a noise like an enraged metal detector, but the doorbell that's actually on the door to my flat. It plays the first two bars of "Oranges and Lemons". This was weird. Not the chime. I'm used to that. The fact that my doorbell rang means that it was someone from within my building who was calling on me. I live in London. I have lived in this flat for about two years. Of course, I have never spoken to any of my neighbours. I am not a freak.

I answered the door. It was a lady in her slippers. It would appear the oh-so-efficient council have allocated me a parking space... which she is also supposed to be parking in. She told me she'd been clamped previously outside the flat and was worried about the same thing happening again. I said that the council had told me that they didn't have any clamps, and they just towed people. She said, "Yes, that's right, they towed me." Technically not clamping then, really. But I can't talk. I managed to lose my Astra once in a very silly way (see http://laurasplog.blogspot.com/2006_03_01_laurasplog_archive.html).

The slipper lady story is admittedly not a particularly interesting anecdote, but to be honest, I'm struggling a bit today. I don't want to write about work stuff, as I think it's a good rule of thumb to separate my work and personal life. (i.e. I don't want to lose my job or get sued.) I don't want to write perjoratively about anyone who might be reading this blog, which rules out most of my friends and family. I don't like writing about love life stuff... because aside from the fact that my dad reads this, the bloke you're accusing of having a small willy / planning to marry / slept with his brother might stumble across the writings... again.

Which leaves me talking about my slipper-wearing neighbour and the not-terribly-interesting parking anecdote.

Sorry.

Hazel

Christmas is definitely approaching. I can tell this because the weather has gone cold, I have eaten far more office Quality Street than is entirely healthy, and best of all, my good chum Hazel is back in the UK! Yay!

Hazel's a schoolfriend, 13 days older than me. I've known her since we were eleven. She's seen me laugh so hard that orange juice comes out of my nose. She's seen me cry over dead pets and rubbish boyfriends. We worked on trigonometry and figurative language together. We learned our avoir and etre verbs together. We bought alcopops and bonded over Truth or Dare. Then the cow sodded off to the Southern hemisphere. You can't trust anyone.

So Hazel selfishly lives in New Zealand most of the year. This is a blatant attempt to make me spend most of my salary on going to visit her. I think she has shares in Virgin. Luckily one of our friends out-manouevered her this year by cunningly getting married in the UK (the sacrifices we make...) and forcing Hazel to come back and be a bridesmaid.

I cannot wait to see her, but wait I must as I'm at work until Friday. Then, as fast as my little Corsa's wheels will carry me, I will bomb up the M1 and irritate her to the best of my ability. She is quite difficult to irritate though. Or at least she hides it well. I suppose there was that whole "moving to the other side of the world" thing...

I will of course be stealing her passport. She can come and live with me. In the loft. She'll love it.

Don't tell her yet though. I don't want to ruin the surprise.

Let there be shiny things

Have you ever had one of those days when things have gone a bit suspiciously right?

Look:

• My new shiny car arrived exactly when it was supposed to, and all seems to be correct (i.e. it's a brand new Corsa as opposed to a lime green 1983 Skoda, as per my dream last night.)
• The people at the Tower Hamlets parking place were both friendly and (fairly) efficient.
• My iPod played a random selection of jaunty tunes on the way to work.
• As I left the building, the postman was coming in, and he gave me a parcel which wouldn't have fitted through my letter box. Had I left five minutes earlier, I'd have been forced to go to the hell that is Bethnal Green sorting office to collect it.
• My cold hasn't yet monopolised my day.

Of course I realise what's happened. I haven't yet woken up. When I do, I'll be fluey, my green Skoda will be waiting for me outside - clamped owing to parking restrictions, and I'll have six hundred packages to collect from Emma Street sorting office.

I haven't yet told my old car about the new car. It doesn't know its death sentence is approaching. I know that sounds dramatic, but I love my old car so much. I really do feel like I'm putting down the family pet. But that deserves another entry. And maybe a sonnet.

Just to lighten the mood - a horribly politically incorrect joke for you (a public domain joke - not my own): "Ipswich has a dyslexic Santa. Keeps leaving prozzies under the tree..."

Oh come on, admit it. You laughed. Now go away and think about what you've done.

The family that plays together...

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! I knew it! This will really make you chuckle.

A week or so ago, I decided to do some fancy tracking stuff on this blog, so I could get a rough idea of how many people were reading it each day, how long they were staying for, and how they'd stumbled across it. It's useful to see how many of you are returning visitors, and how many of you run away screaming after just one visit. (And why so many of you are based in Oxford, when I don't know anyone who lives in Oxford, and don't even like the place, I'm not quite sure.)

Tee hee, here comes the funny bit. I know now that three people have found the site after Googling (and I swear this is true): "Coalville family incest". Do you think they were looking for hints and tips? Or perhaps a support group?

Was this you? If so, do get in touch and let me know. Or maybe a family member / sexual partner would like to drop me a line.

Unsurprisingly, no-one has found the site by Googling "glass orb scruffy twat". Yet.

It's been a good weekend. I'm getting a cold, so yesterday I just hibernated with some chocolate and Love Actually on DVD. Today I caught up with a friend and went for a walk. Proper weekendy stuff. But not the stuff great blogs are made of.

What the duck...?

I've just seen something really distressing. Really, really distressing. If you're a child of the 80s, look away now.

It's been a good Saturday. Lots of relaxing, tying up a few bits and pieces I needed to do - just what you want at the end of a busy week. I put the TV on, and as I'd nothing particular SkyPlussed, I had a bit of a surf.

I stumbled across "Channel M" - apparently a Manchester-only TV channel. Today's feature was a primary school choir competition. Don't vote for them. They were all shit. I looked for the number to text that particular message in, but there didn't seem to be one available.

Anyway, the presenter doing the links seemed vaguely familiar. I sat through "Away in a Manger", sung by children who should have been imprisoned in said manger for crimes against music.

The presenter came back on. He was definitely familiar. Middle-aged, and definitely familiar.

I listened to nasty Mancunian children sing "Walking in the Air", which would have been more appropriately titled, "Screeching, plus recorders and a fat nine year-old who can't play the glockenspiel properly." Less catchy though, maybe.

The presenter said a little bit - and I suddenly recognised him. This was Andy Crane! Andy Crane of CBBC fame. You know, the one who had Edd the Duck. And that butler! And he was also on that thing on ITV about computer games, with Violet Berlin, who had a very big lisp.

Andy Crane. On regional TV. Presenting a - let's face it - utterly shit choir competition, in which probably only the parents will vote. And probably only then to stop their loud-mouthed progeny from opening their vile-sounding gobs.

The worst thing was, at the end of the programme (yes, OK, I watched it to its tedious conclusion), he didn't even get a credit.

Poor Andy.

I'd still do him though. Obviously.

I wonder I am still talking - nobody marks me

Last night I saw the RSC's Much Ado About Nothing at the Novello in London. Wow, wow, wow. With spicy salsa music and set in 1950s Cuba, I liked it a lot. I saw a fab production about two years ago at the Globe, which was an all-female production. I had had reservations about that at the time, but Josie Lawrence's Brummie Benedick was an utter delight. I want Josie Lawrence to be my friend. She looks like a nice person. If anyone knows her, perhaps you could let her know, and she could come round for dinner. Thanks.

Anyway, I digress. Last night's production featured Tamsin Greig as Beatrice, and she absolutely sparkled. The sharp dialogue was spot-on, and Beatrice was played exactly as she should be - a tough, witty, intelligent woman... with a bit of a well-hidden soft side. If I have a criticism (and this does seem churlish), it's that Greig was too good. Whenever she was on stage, my eyes were drawn to whatever she was doing, no matter how insignificant, meaning that other characters' roles faded against her bright light a little.

(Side moan about ticket prices - balcony seats at nearly £30 - what is the world coming to?)

The evening was marred slightly by the fact we were sharing the balcony with a large party of school kids, many of whom whispered and had their mobile phones go off throughout the performance. However, I did get my amusement value during the interval when I was in the Ladies:

Chav Girl: This is shit, innit?

Friend: Shit man, innit, yeah?

Chav Girl: We're goin' 'ome, innit? Choo wanna come wiv us?

Friend: You goin' 'ome, isit? Yeah, man, shit.

Chav Girl: I don't even see the point. This is set in the fifties, and the one we're studying's set in Elizabethan times, innit?

Methinks a "U" grade at A-level this way comes...

Non-PC

On Wednesday, I did my first gig for over a month. I fully expected not to be match fit, and to be pretty rusty, plus I was trying out a bit of new material, so really wasn't expecting too much from the gig - which is normally a pretty quiet one anyway.

However, being close to Christmas, the gig had taken a booking from 40 computer programmers on their work night out. Imagine a room full of pasty male virgins. If you're not too turned on by this thought that you immediately have to rush away from the computer to sort yourself out, do keep reading. One of the PMVs (pasty male virgins) was so horrifically drunk and obnoxious, that he kept grabbing the microphone from the performers, usually to say something hysterical like, "You look like David." It was comedy gold.

So, never shying from the dark humour, when I got on stage I said absolutely nothing. I fixed the troublemaker with a long, silent look. And then said quietly to the rest of the audience, "Looks like the ladies of Ipswich are safe tonight."

It was a strong opening to a really nice gig. I think being away from my material for a while actually meant I was fresher, and more happy to play around with the stuff that I did have. The new stuff went down OK too. I lost a few of the more tipsy PMVs towards the end, as their drunken concentration didn't stick with me for the longer anecdotes, and I certainly wouldn't list it as one of my best ever gigs, but on the whole, I was pretty pleased.

Even if the troublemaker did actually fall asleep during my set. Believe it or not, that's not even the first time that's happened to me. Perhaps I should take a hint.

Four questions and a funeral

Questions:

• Is it ethical to pretend to a chugger that you don't speak English, only French? Before you scream, "Of course not, you buffoon," let me remind you that these "charity muggers" are paid a wage to hassle people and often earn on commission. Given that your answer to question one is, "Yes, then, of course it is ethical. And a jolly good idea," please let me know what you should do when said chugger switches to fluent French. I tried saying, "Ou est la boulangerie?" and enquiring after Francoise, but it didn't seem entirely relevant in its context.
• Why do old ladies take so long to unwrap boiled sweets? And do they deliberately purchase brands with extra-rustley papers?
• Do architect undergraduates do more work than engineering undergraduates? This was debated noisily by three engineering undergrads on my train back from Redhill today. One claimed his architect friend had had a "mental breakdown" in his first year. That explains the Dome.
• Is it OK to open the door to the gas man dressed in your pyjamas? Cause he's due round this evening and I can't be arsed to change.

So many questions. Also, sorry for the misleading title. There is no funeral in this post. Sorry for any inconvenience caused.

Now answer my questions.

Homing Phone

I have a mobile phone for work that I really can't use. I'm rubbish with it. I think it might also be a rubbish phone, but I have no evidence to back that up, other than the fact that I have to lift it with both arms, and even then I occasionally slip a disc.

Still, cunningly I managed to lose said phone a few nights ago at a work night out. It didn't seem like the end of the world - I'm due an upgrade anyway soon, but I thought out of courtesy, I might as well give the venue a ring to find out if anyone had picked it up and handed it in.

They had. Bastards.

Denied a shiny new phone. PLUS I had to walk half an hour today in the pouring rain to go and pick up the brick. Ho hum, it is hard being me.

When my bag was stolen last year, did anyone hand in my iPod? No they did not. But you can bet that had my work phone been in my bag, it would have been posted back to me summarily, with a polite note.

Doctor who?

I have a confession to make. I am slightly addicted to ITV3's repeats of Bramwell. For those of you who were doing something else during the late nineties, Bramwell was a drama series, based around a ficticious Victorian female doctor. She did lots of shocking things like having pre-marital sex and riding a bicycle.

I am definitely addicted to it. It is on every Wednesday at 9 p.m. SkyPlus records it for me weekly.

My favourite thing about Dr Eleanor Bramwell is that she is the Doctor of Death. Every week she makes yet another shocking mistake, leading to the untimely death of either one of her colleagues or an innocent child. Sometimes they escape lightly and just lose a limb or become vegetative as a result of her utter incompetence.

I'd say she put women's rights back a good few hundred years. Still, it's good fun to watch. I like playing, "Guess who comes a-cropper". You can usually tell within the first five minutes.

Katrina the Cleaner

I'll admit I was worried. Very worried. In an uncharactaristic fit of feeling completely intimidated, I handed over my keys to a Polish stranger, who demanded I bought "Cif Yellow", told me my flat was "very dirty" and that she would start on Friday. I had very little input into this decision. Other than the recommendation from a friend of a friend, I knew absolutely nothing about the woman to whom I'd just given total access to my property.

And yet, coming home yesterday evening, I was greeted by the smell of chemical lemons (is there a finer smell in the universe?) and bits of dirt which I'd come to think of as fixtures and fittings were completely gone. London's a hard-water area, meaning that limescale is pretty much impossible to remove. But my cleaner has achieved the impossible. My flat is so clean, I could eat dinner off the floor. In fact, I think I might. I can't be arsed to wash up.

Me and the cleaner - it could be love.

Mr Ned the stalking force

Apologies, apologies, apologies. It has been the busiest of busy weeks, though absolutely no excuse for not updating.

Exciting things this week have been Book Club (J. G. Ballard's Kingdom Come - don't bother, though our Book Club discussion was heated and engaging), plus a work do. Enforced fun has never been high on my priority list, but as I'm still fairly new to the job it was a really nice way of getting to know people better.

So... the sharper-eyed (or obsessive-checkers) amongst you may have noticed that there was a not-terribly-complimentary comment on the Plog yesterday afternoon which was gone by this morning. I did delete it - which is not something I've ever done before with someone else's comments. I may yet reproduce it in full here, depending on public demand. Shout now or forever hold your peace!

The main reason I deleted it (other than the fact that it called my poor Plog vomit-inducing - has anyone been sick as a direct result of reading this? Hmm? Hmm?) is that I think the comment is not from whom it purported to be.

It claimed to be from the guy with the glass orb at Bethnal Green last weekend. In fact, the commenter signed himself "Scruffy Twat". I don't know about you, but I think this is somewhat unlikely. Firstly, I didn't say the guy was a scruffy twat. I said he was dressed scruffily, and that he looked like a twat. I then - if you remember - self-deprecatingly (I hope) undercut my own judgement by showing how he was actually pretty normal, and how our first impressions of fellow Londoners can be wrong.

Anyway... If this were indeed from the "Scruffy Twat", do you think he spends his days Googling himself with the keywords "glass orb bethnal green twat"? I don't see how else he would stumble upon the Plog.

More likely, this is the work of Ned. (See http://laurasplog.blogspot.com/2006/07/bum-deal.html and more recently the entry on 13 November). Because I can't prove it, I won't retaliate with my favourite Ned story. But I genuinely can't think of another person who bears a grudge towards me and has put forward veiled threats of violence. Twice.

Still, where more public (and stupid) to do it than a blog with a readership of over 600? (Thanks guys!)

600 people reading this. That's a hell of a lot of vomit. Apologies.

Falling Down

This morning the bus braked sharply and I fell right on my face. Right. On. My. Face.

This is not something a dignified 27 year-old, working for a respectable blue-chip company should do.

Generally.

It was a proper prat fall. I was a prat, and over I fell. You know what the most upsetting thing was? Was it that no-one expressed concern or asked me if I was OK? Nope. That is London, and that is what I expect. Was it that the bus driver was probably playing a game with himself to see how many people he could topple? Nope. It was that not a single person laughed at my - let's face it - brilliant clowning.

Grumpy bastards.

Having a domestic

"So are your cleaners fully insured then?" asked I to the man at the cleaning agency. Yes, so pathetic am I that I would like someone to clean my one-bedroomed flat. Because I just can't be arsed.

"Yes," said the nice man at the cleaning agency. "Say for example, one of our cleaners had your keys and decided to come in one day with all her friends for a party, and completely trashed the place, we'd be insured for that."

"Oh. Does that happen often?" I queried.

"Hardly ever. Or say, for example, one of our girls decided to let themselves into your flat and burn it completely to the ground. You'd be covered for that too."

"Oh good," said I. "Though I have to admit, you're not really selling it to me."

"How do you mean?" asked the man. "I am the managing director."

Luckily I also have the recommendation from a friend who lives in the area. I think I might be going down that route instead.

Utter balls

"Dear me," said the exasperated man at the cashpoint, where we had been waiting for a good five minutes. A lot of people wanted to get their cash at 3 p.m. on a Saturday in Bethnal Green.

I felt the same mild irritation, but it was the last thing I had expected him to say. "Why was this?" I hear you ask.

Well, I first spotted my fellow-queue member as we were both waiting at the pedestrian lights to cross Roman Road. He was unremarkable - a bit scruffily dressed, iPod, standard Londoner. Except in his left hand he held a glass orb. Like a big paperweight, except completely round. Like a crystal ball. Whilst he was waiting to cross the road, he did tricks with it, rolling it round his hand, moving it from his left to his right hand, up and down his wrist. He was very good at it.

The more I looked at him, the more I realised he was a little bit odd (most people would have accepted that at the crystal ball stage, but I can be a bit slow on the uptake). Closer examination proved him to be very scruffily dressed - no socks, shoes with massive holes in, last season's French Connection - you get the picture. I labelled him as one of London's eccentrics, and studiously ignored him playing with his balls.

We ended up in the same NatWest cashpoint queue. He continued with his tricks, and added to his repetoire a little moonwalk-type dance on the spot.

He looked like a twat.

So to hear him say, "Dear me," sounding utterly like a normal person, was a bit of a shock. I wish people would be a bit more consistent. It would make my job as stereotyper much easier.