Children, cover your eyes. Adults, be sure you want to proceed. For I am about to tell you the world's scariest Halloween story. This will disturb you for the rest of your life.
Just a month or so ago I was in Georgia, USA with Mrs Nunn. It was a pretty good holiday. The weather was warm, the shopping was great and we even had a BBQ in a typical Georgian roadside cafe called Smokey Joe's.
Except one day, Mrs Nunn discovered something at the outlet mall that would terrify me for the rest of my life. It was a Halloween shop.
"But Laura," I hear you say. "Laura, you are famous for not being scared by anything spooky. You tease your friends regularly for being frightened by horror films. The ghost train is the one ride you're not scared of at Alton Towers. Everyone knows you have absolutely no imagination."
Draw in closer, little ones. The tale I have to tell is chilling.
Mrs Nunn and I were wandering around the Halloween shop, giggling at talking pumpkins, bats that flew round overhead and clever skulls that insulted "guests" that would walk between them. It was cool.
Then we found the costume section. Hundreds and hundreds of different outfits, from Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, right through to (my personal favourite) a costume which made you look like the lady from the lost dog cartoon. (See http://www.costumesinc.com/p10962/Lost-Dog-Costume--Adult-Humorous-Costume.html)
It was a lot of fun. This is where the tale turns chilling. Look away now if you're easily scared.
It was all a lot of fun... until Mrs Nunn found the Naughty Nurse costume. We giggled over it. And then she decided to buy it. I am not joking. Her exact words were, "It'll cheer your dad up." I told her that if she did buy it, whilst I was there, I would write about it on my Plog. And her brother reads the Plog. And then she'd be embarrassed, wouldn't she?
"No," replied a stubborn Mrs Nunn. "Write what you like. For I am a naughty nurse, and I care not for your Internet musings." Or words to that effect. But she made me promise that I wouldn't write about it until Mr Nunn's birthday because I'd spoil the surprise.
Mr Nunn's birthday has come and gone.
Shudder.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Fall back
So the clocks have gone back. This is my least favourite moment of the year. I'm a summer person, and the dark nights really depress me. The government, clearly in tune with this common problem, decides to make things that little bit more unpleasant by putting the clocks back and therefore making it dark an hour earlier. Genius.
Apparently it's to make the mornings lighter, to stop the Scottish schoolchildren getting run over. I reckon if they're not clever enough to spot the headlights of an oncoming vehicle, well, that's just survival of the fittest.
I have some friends who claim to like all the seasons. They love the freshness of spring, the warmth of summer, the crunchy leaves in autumn, and the coziness of being tucked up inside in winter. These people are clearly delusional and must be dealt with. You know who you are. When I am in charge, there will be no autumn and no winter. Britain will be towed to somewhere just south of the Mediterranean. Hope this is OK with everyone.
Apparently it's to make the mornings lighter, to stop the Scottish schoolchildren getting run over. I reckon if they're not clever enough to spot the headlights of an oncoming vehicle, well, that's just survival of the fittest.
I have some friends who claim to like all the seasons. They love the freshness of spring, the warmth of summer, the crunchy leaves in autumn, and the coziness of being tucked up inside in winter. These people are clearly delusional and must be dealt with. You know who you are. When I am in charge, there will be no autumn and no winter. Britain will be towed to somewhere just south of the Mediterranean. Hope this is OK with everyone.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Gassing
"Your mother's in a mard," said Mr Nunn.
"Why?" I asked.
"I turned the oven on, and I checked it had lit, and left the room. But it must have gone out, because she said the room was filled with gas."
"So why is she upset?"
"I don't know."
"Put her on."
"Hello," said Mrs Nunn, her voice clearly indicating she was indeed in a mard.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Your dad left the gas on without checking the oven was lit. So when I went in and could see what happened, and pressed the ignition, there was a big burst of flames. He could have taken my head off!"
"Hang on, hang on," said I. "You could smell gas in the room?"
"Yes," sulked Mrs Nunn.
"And you knew the oven was on?"
"Yes..." Mrs Nunn continued.
"So why did you press the button to light the gas? Wouldn't it have been better to open the windows and turn the oven off for a bit?"
"Humph," replied Mrs Nunn.
Rumour has it that Mr Nunn was just getting ready to put his head in it. Or maybe hers.
"Why?" I asked.
"I turned the oven on, and I checked it had lit, and left the room. But it must have gone out, because she said the room was filled with gas."
"So why is she upset?"
"I don't know."
"Put her on."
"Hello," said Mrs Nunn, her voice clearly indicating she was indeed in a mard.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Your dad left the gas on without checking the oven was lit. So when I went in and could see what happened, and pressed the ignition, there was a big burst of flames. He could have taken my head off!"
"Hang on, hang on," said I. "You could smell gas in the room?"
"Yes," sulked Mrs Nunn.
"And you knew the oven was on?"
"Yes..." Mrs Nunn continued.
"So why did you press the button to light the gas? Wouldn't it have been better to open the windows and turn the oven off for a bit?"
"Humph," replied Mrs Nunn.
Rumour has it that Mr Nunn was just getting ready to put his head in it. Or maybe hers.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Friday feeling
I have struggled to think what to write today. I have started this entry four times. So instead I will just tell you some random things about my life.
- Today Gordon Brown was on my flight to Edinburgh. He was wearing a poppy. Already.
- I saw Nice Kate today in the office, which was a nice surprise. Except the bitch forgot my birthday present. Luckily I am back in the office on Monday to prise it from her greasy little fingers.
- Both Nice Kate and Lee (both expert in the field of Minis) agree that it could take six months after ordering previously-mentioned Mini to arrive. This could mean no delivery of a Mini until this time next year. I am a patient person. I can wait*.
- Hazel texted me a few lines of some Shakespearean sonnets. From New Zealand. Hazel is cool.
That is enough things about my life for now. Shoo.
* This is a big lie. I am not patient at all. Why are you still reading this? Go and do something useful.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Car-azy
"So what model are you interested in, Miss Nunn?" asked the Peugeot salesman.
The answer I wanted to give was, "The Mini One, but the bastards have stopped making that until April next year and I can't afford a Cooper." Instead I said, "The 206."
"Not a problem, not a problem," said the salesman. "What other cars have you test-driven?"
"The Mini One, a Vauxhall Corsa and a Toyota Yaris," said I.
"Not a problem, not a problem," said the salesman. I was beginning to wonder why it would be a problem.
"So, what do you drive at the moment, Miss Nunn?" asked the salesman.
"A Vauxhall Astra."
"Not a problem, not a problem. Oh, hang on a minute. No, we do have a problem. Your car is shit. Sorry. I've just looked at it on the scale - see here? This is where the Mini One falls - 'Not shit'; here's the Corsa - 'not too shit', the Yaris - 'a little bit shit', and your K-reg Astra falls right down here - 'shit as a weekend's camping holiday in Scarborough'. So you see, Miss Nunn, it is a problem, and you may not test-drive the Peugeot 206. You are not good enough for us."
"Not a problem, not a problem," I said.
Not really. I did test-drive the 206 and the 207. They were OK. But I want the Mini. It's a bit like having your heart set on a Radley bag that's quite expensive. You know the one in Next is also made of leather, has all the zips and pockets you need... but it's just not the same.
The Astra and I have decided to stay together until I can get my grubby little mitts on a new Mini. By hook or by crook. Off to buy some hooks.
The answer I wanted to give was, "The Mini One, but the bastards have stopped making that until April next year and I can't afford a Cooper." Instead I said, "The 206."
"Not a problem, not a problem," said the salesman. "What other cars have you test-driven?"
"The Mini One, a Vauxhall Corsa and a Toyota Yaris," said I.
"Not a problem, not a problem," said the salesman. I was beginning to wonder why it would be a problem.
"So, what do you drive at the moment, Miss Nunn?" asked the salesman.
"A Vauxhall Astra."
"Not a problem, not a problem. Oh, hang on a minute. No, we do have a problem. Your car is shit. Sorry. I've just looked at it on the scale - see here? This is where the Mini One falls - 'Not shit'; here's the Corsa - 'not too shit', the Yaris - 'a little bit shit', and your K-reg Astra falls right down here - 'shit as a weekend's camping holiday in Scarborough'. So you see, Miss Nunn, it is a problem, and you may not test-drive the Peugeot 206. You are not good enough for us."
"Not a problem, not a problem," I said.
Not really. I did test-drive the 206 and the 207. They were OK. But I want the Mini. It's a bit like having your heart set on a Radley bag that's quite expensive. You know the one in Next is also made of leather, has all the zips and pockets you need... but it's just not the same.
The Astra and I have decided to stay together until I can get my grubby little mitts on a new Mini. By hook or by crook. Off to buy some hooks.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Meditations
I'm not sure Buddhism and I are made for one another. Things I like:
- Being busy
- Shiny possessions
- Taking the piss
Last night I went to my first meditation class at the London Buddhist Centre. I walk past this place every single day, and despite the fact it's about 30 seconds from my flat, I've never been. So I thought I'd give it a go.
It was a two and a half hour session. On fucking breathing.
"OK. So breathe in and out, and then count one. Do it again and count two. All the way up to ten. Then start again. After that, we'll count one, then breathe in and out, count two, and so on. Don't worry if you're getting confused. I'll recap. Don't worry if your mind wanders. Just bring it back to the breath once you notice."
I got bored after "two". I also worked out quite quickly that I could breathe, count and make to-do lists in my head at the same time. Am effective multi-tasker.
At one point questions were invited. A girl spoke for all of us:
GIRL: I was wondering - what's the purpose of this breathing thing? I mean, what are we trying to achieve?
BUDDHIST: Oh, um, well. (Big pause.) That's a very good question. Um. I'll have to think about that.
OTHER GIRL: So am I supposed to be emptying my mind of thoughts?
BUDDHIST: Oh, um, well. (Bigger pause.) That's difficult to answer. Does anyone have any thoughts on this?
Two and a half hours of fucking breathing. I could have done that at home and watched last night's Spooks at the same time. The best bit was the tea break where we got chocolate Hobnobs. But I reckon £7 for a cup of tea and a Hobnob (even if it was a chocolate one) is expensive, even for London.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Funny Pharmacy
You know when you go to Waterstones and you say to them, "Do you have Cloud Atlas and Great Expectations?" Generally they tap something into their PC, and a minute or two later, you have two fabulous paperbacks in your hand, don't you?
They don't say, "That'll be ten to fifteen minutes whilst we check the words for you."
So, how come at the chemist's when you're picking up a prescription, it takes such a long time? Checking they've got the medication - fine, 30 seconds, maybe. But why the extra ten minutes? They've already seen they've got it, so why don't they grab it off the shelf and give it to you?
This is my theory of what happens:
You: Here is a prescription for my regular herpes cream, and the stuff I take to stave off ringworm.
Pharmacist: Let me just check that we have those.
PHARMACIST GOES TO BACK OF STORE
Pharmacist (to other Pharmacist): How long a break do you reckon we deserve?
Other Pharmacist: I could do with a fag. Those Nicorette patches aren't really doing it for me.
Pharmacist: That's not a Nicorette patch! That's a contraceptive patch.
Other Pharmacist: The boxes do look similar, don't they. Still, least I'm not pregnant.
Pharmacist: I thought you were. Aren't you off on maternity leave in a couple of weeks?
Other Pharmacist: Oh yes. You're right. Probably ought to cut down on the fags too. Fancy a pint?
PHARMACIST COMES BACK
Pharmacist: That'll be ten minutes.
TEN MINUTES LATER
Pharmacist: We don't actually have your herpes cream. Could you come back tomorrow?
They don't say, "That'll be ten to fifteen minutes whilst we check the words for you."
So, how come at the chemist's when you're picking up a prescription, it takes such a long time? Checking they've got the medication - fine, 30 seconds, maybe. But why the extra ten minutes? They've already seen they've got it, so why don't they grab it off the shelf and give it to you?
This is my theory of what happens:
You: Here is a prescription for my regular herpes cream, and the stuff I take to stave off ringworm.
Pharmacist: Let me just check that we have those.
PHARMACIST GOES TO BACK OF STORE
Pharmacist (to other Pharmacist): How long a break do you reckon we deserve?
Other Pharmacist: I could do with a fag. Those Nicorette patches aren't really doing it for me.
Pharmacist: That's not a Nicorette patch! That's a contraceptive patch.
Other Pharmacist: The boxes do look similar, don't they. Still, least I'm not pregnant.
Pharmacist: I thought you were. Aren't you off on maternity leave in a couple of weeks?
Other Pharmacist: Oh yes. You're right. Probably ought to cut down on the fags too. Fancy a pint?
PHARMACIST COMES BACK
Pharmacist
TEN MINUTES LATER
Pharmacist: We don't actually have your herpes cream. Could you come back tomorrow?
Monday, October 23, 2006
Carry-on
It was Friday night. I had flown back from Edinburgh to London, and now I had to drive from London to Loughborough. My car started making a funny burning smell.
I stopped off at my flat and phoned my dad.
"Dad, my car is making a funny burning smell."
"What sort of burning smell?"
I pondered. "A nice burney sort of smell."
"A nice burney sort of smell?" repeated Mr Nunn. Apparently this description wasn't very scientific. This opinion was ratified by the RAC man.
Yes, my car is getting to that age where "Guess the new smell" becomes a favourite party game. This time it was a carrier bag wrapped around the exhaust.
I stopped off at my flat and phoned my dad.
"Dad, my car is making a funny burning smell."
"What sort of burning smell?"
I pondered. "A nice burney sort of smell."
"A nice burney sort of smell?" repeated Mr Nunn. Apparently this description wasn't very scientific. This opinion was ratified by the RAC man.
Yes, my car is getting to that age where "Guess the new smell" becomes a favourite party game. This time it was a carrier bag wrapped around the exhaust.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Fat lollers
There ought to be a word for the lolling of an overweight, sleepy, ugly man across your bus seat first thing in the morning.
Such a plump personage lolled directly onto my shoulder this morning. Even after I pushed him away, and gave him my hardest stare, he re-lolled. He was a repeat-loller. I thought about changing seat, but the only other seat available was next to a man who seemed to be in the last stages of TB. And whilst, from a literary perspective, wasting away from consumption sounds a pale and interesting type of thing to do, I'm not sure how it fits with my current career plans.
The Number 8 bus is like Russian Roulette, except instead of a gun, there's a bus, and instead of bullets, there are passengers. And instead of the possibility of having your brains blown out, there's the possibility of being very slightly inconvenienced.
I am brilliant at similies.
Such a plump personage lolled directly onto my shoulder this morning. Even after I pushed him away, and gave him my hardest stare, he re-lolled. He was a repeat-loller. I thought about changing seat, but the only other seat available was next to a man who seemed to be in the last stages of TB. And whilst, from a literary perspective, wasting away from consumption sounds a pale and interesting type of thing to do, I'm not sure how it fits with my current career plans.
The Number 8 bus is like Russian Roulette, except instead of a gun, there's a bus, and instead of bullets, there are passengers. And instead of the possibility of having your brains blown out, there's the possibility of being very slightly inconvenienced.
I am brilliant at similies.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Don't panic but...
I had a very nice birthday, thank you for asking. And thank you to all friends for cards, texts, emails and smoke signals.
In the evening I went out with Kath, Sarah and Katy for a nice dinner at Patterson's restaurant. Unfortunately Katy spoiled the evening both for us, and for the fellow patrons, by bringing in her peculiar smell of putrid ammonia. Other than that, it was nice to see everyone.
Today, the squirrels are gathering. I fear they might be in league with the pigeons, and possibly the foxes, who are becoming less and less bothered by my presence. Dean's theory is that the squirrels and the foxes are having a turf war. I think it's more sinister than that. Yesterday a bus was burned out on the Roman Road - looked like terrorist work to me (though was apparently just a fire). Who's to blame? Definitely the squirrels. Do not bow to their regime. Continue about your everyday life. But might be worth stocking up some bottled water and toilet paper just in case.
I have a feeling Squirrelgeddon is mere days away. Look at the evidence. What words spring to mind when thinking about squirrels? Furry? Maybe. Cute? If you're deluded. Bushy? Yes. Bush. And what's the name of the US president? Anyone else seeing the link here?
No. Thought not.
In the evening I went out with Kath, Sarah and Katy for a nice dinner at Patterson's restaurant. Unfortunately Katy spoiled the evening both for us, and for the fellow patrons, by bringing in her peculiar smell of putrid ammonia. Other than that, it was nice to see everyone.
Today, the squirrels are gathering. I fear they might be in league with the pigeons, and possibly the foxes, who are becoming less and less bothered by my presence. Dean's theory is that the squirrels and the foxes are having a turf war. I think it's more sinister than that. Yesterday a bus was burned out on the Roman Road - looked like terrorist work to me (though was apparently just a fire). Who's to blame? Definitely the squirrels. Do not bow to their regime. Continue about your everyday life. But might be worth stocking up some bottled water and toilet paper just in case.
I have a feeling Squirrelgeddon is mere days away. Look at the evidence. What words spring to mind when thinking about squirrels? Furry? Maybe. Cute? If you're deluded. Bushy? Yes. Bush. And what's the name of the US president? Anyone else seeing the link here?
No. Thought not.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
History in the making
Well, as today is my 27th birthday, I guess I have to admit defeat on the husband hunt. Technically I still have about ten hours or so, but I'm beginning to think I should probably have started looking a little bit earlier.
It's probably for the best. I don't really want the responsibility of a husband. I recently thought about getting a rabbit and decided it was a bit too much to take on. Husbands need constant care, feeding and walks, by all accounts. And I'd have to get a small one because my flat isn't large.
Hopefully I have a nice evening planned. Dinner with my friends Sarah, Kath and Katy (who still smells of wee).
Oh - by the way - this might interest some of you: http://www.historymatters.org.uk/output/page96.asp
It's a project to record an average day in people's lives for historical purposes. They've chosen the date because apparently nothing important has ever happened on October 17. Thanks guys. Nice idea for a project though. And in four hundred years' time, historians will be saying, "What idiots! They thought that day was unimportant, and all the time it was Laura's 27th birthday. Weren't folk simple, back in 2006?"
It's probably for the best. I don't really want the responsibility of a husband. I recently thought about getting a rabbit and decided it was a bit too much to take on. Husbands need constant care, feeding and walks, by all accounts. And I'd have to get a small one because my flat isn't large.
Hopefully I have a nice evening planned. Dinner with my friends Sarah, Kath and Katy (who still smells of wee).
Oh - by the way - this might interest some of you: http://www.historymatters.org.uk/output/page96.asp
It's a project to record an average day in people's lives for historical purposes. They've chosen the date because apparently nothing important has ever happened on October 17. Thanks guys. Nice idea for a project though. And in four hundred years' time, historians will be saying, "What idiots! They thought that day was unimportant, and all the time it was Laura's 27th birthday. Weren't folk simple, back in 2006?"
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Katy smells of wee
Ladies and gentlemen (and, potentially, squirrels), I have a new job! Yay! This will come as a surprise to those of you who know me as a successful stand-up comic, but believe it or not, at the moment comedy is still very much a hobby to me, and the hard cash comes from a day job.
I don't write much about work on my Plog, deliberately. I don't want to get in one of those nasty legal situations for saying something about the company in public, and also, it's not that interesting for anyone who doesn't work with me. So I haven't been telling you that I've been job-hutning, albeit within the same company. I've been working on a secondment for the last few months; I've been loving the job, but there was nothing permanent to it. As I wanted to progress my career, rather than go back to my old job, as my secondment has been drawing to an end, I've been thinking about what to do next. And the last few weeks have been very hard for me. I've been working away from home a lot, and on top of that, have had stress with interviews, preparation and so on.
And on Friday, I got the job I wanted most of all. Anyone who happened to be near Mansion House on Friday evening may or may not have seen me do a little dance.
And a lovely weekend ensued. Saw some friends for lunch on Saturday - Erica, Dean, Katy and Helen (hello!). Helen likes my Plog and has told all her colleagues about it. They know me as "Laura the Stand-Up" which is marginally better than "Laura the Cock", which is what Katy calls me. Katy never reads the Plog. She is a doctor and illiterate and smells of wee. And I can say that because she never reads the Plog.
Erica and Dean came back to my flat with me and baited the squirrels. Until one of the little furry plotters tried to attack Erica and she ran away, screaming like a little girl.
I don't write much about work on my Plog, deliberately. I don't want to get in one of those nasty legal situations for saying something about the company in public, and also, it's not that interesting for anyone who doesn't work with me. So I haven't been telling you that I've been job-hutning, albeit within the same company. I've been working on a secondment for the last few months; I've been loving the job, but there was nothing permanent to it. As I wanted to progress my career, rather than go back to my old job, as my secondment has been drawing to an end, I've been thinking about what to do next. And the last few weeks have been very hard for me. I've been working away from home a lot, and on top of that, have had stress with interviews, preparation and so on.
And on Friday, I got the job I wanted most of all. Anyone who happened to be near Mansion House on Friday evening may or may not have seen me do a little dance.
And a lovely weekend ensued. Saw some friends for lunch on Saturday - Erica, Dean, Katy and Helen (hello!). Helen likes my Plog and has told all her colleagues about it. They know me as "Laura the Stand-Up" which is marginally better than "Laura the Cock", which is what Katy calls me. Katy never reads the Plog. She is a doctor and illiterate and smells of wee. And I can say that because she never reads the Plog.
Erica and Dean came back to my flat with me and baited the squirrels. Until one of the little furry plotters tried to attack Erica and she ran away, screaming like a little girl.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Squirrels - seriously
Squirrels. We need to talk about squirrels.
They are cute, they are fluffy. Generally, I like squirrels.
But I'm a bit worried. I live in Central London - admittedly there are quite a few parks surrounding me, but the most abundant material is, by far, concrete. And yet the squirrels are gathering. Occasionally I used to see one or two ambling around the trees near where I live. I'd enjoy seeing their little bushy tails and watching them scamper around the ground. Now, every single time I return to my flat, there are at least three or four squirrels, giving me a very hard stare and refusing point blank to get out of my path.
I fear they are gathering, I fear they are plotting something. I fear the thing they are plotting is evil.
Everyone knows squirrels are supposed to go into hibernation at this time of year. Not the squirrels near me. Not only have they conquered their natural instinct but they have also mastered technology. I saw one of them yesterday with a notebook marked Evil Strategy and a bluetooth headset*.
I think the best way to manage this is to infiltrate the squirrel group, to become "one of them" and to find out what they're really up to. As I have had limited luck with the wedding plans, I'm trading the bridal dress in for a squirrel suit. Will report back.
* I didn't really, but I bet they've got them.
They are cute, they are fluffy. Generally, I like squirrels.
But I'm a bit worried. I live in Central London - admittedly there are quite a few parks surrounding me, but the most abundant material is, by far, concrete. And yet the squirrels are gathering. Occasionally I used to see one or two ambling around the trees near where I live. I'd enjoy seeing their little bushy tails and watching them scamper around the ground. Now, every single time I return to my flat, there are at least three or four squirrels, giving me a very hard stare and refusing point blank to get out of my path.
I fear they are gathering, I fear they are plotting something. I fear the thing they are plotting is evil.
Everyone knows squirrels are supposed to go into hibernation at this time of year. Not the squirrels near me. Not only have they conquered their natural instinct but they have also mastered technology. I saw one of them yesterday with a notebook marked Evil Strategy and a bluetooth headset*.
I think the best way to manage this is to infiltrate the squirrel group, to become "one of them" and to find out what they're really up to. As I have had limited luck with the wedding plans, I'm trading the bridal dress in for a squirrel suit. Will report back.
* I didn't really, but I bet they've got them.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Room with a view
Sorry, sorry, sorry. Have been a rubbish blogger. Things have been a bit silly this week and will continue to be until next week.
I spent the first part of the week in Birmingham. For once my hotel room was lovely: 17th floor of the Radisson, with brilliant views of the (slightly concretey) city. And, because there weren't many rooms left, I got an Executive Room, complete with flat-screen TV, underfloor heating in the bathroom, and a complimentary bottle of wine.
Typically I wasn't actually in the room all that much; aside from the 14-hour working days, I managed to catch up with some Birmingham friends who have a new baby, and my parents also came across to see me. We went to Le Petit Blanc - a Raymond Blanc restuant. It was very good, especially considering I thought Raymond Blanc wrote The Snowman. Turns out he can cook a decent dinner too.
It was a slightly upmarket restaurant. This didn't faze Mrs Nunn, who walked boldly in with her three carrier bags from Poundland and insisted on being seated far away from the smoky bar area. And would they mind holding on to her carriers? Thank you.
I spent the first part of the week in Birmingham. For once my hotel room was lovely: 17th floor of the Radisson, with brilliant views of the (slightly concretey) city. And, because there weren't many rooms left, I got an Executive Room, complete with flat-screen TV, underfloor heating in the bathroom, and a complimentary bottle of wine.
Typically I wasn't actually in the room all that much; aside from the 14-hour working days, I managed to catch up with some Birmingham friends who have a new baby, and my parents also came across to see me. We went to Le Petit Blanc - a Raymond Blanc restuant. It was very good, especially considering I thought Raymond Blanc wrote The Snowman. Turns out he can cook a decent dinner too.
It was a slightly upmarket restaurant. This didn't faze Mrs Nunn, who walked boldly in with her three carrier bags from Poundland and insisted on being seated far away from the smoky bar area. And would they mind holding on to her carriers? Thank you.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Great tit
So, Norwich for the past few weeks and Birmingham this week. Living the high life.
I don't mind Birmingham, actually. I've got a few friends living there, and every time I go, it seems to have become a little more upmarket.
My brother likes the fact that a shop in the new Bullring (shopping centre) is covered with large metal breasts. In fact, I believe it greatly influenced his choice of university.
I don't mind Birmingham, actually. I've got a few friends living there, and every time I go, it seems to have become a little more upmarket.
My brother likes the fact that a shop in the new Bullring (shopping centre) is covered with large metal breasts. In fact, I believe it greatly influenced his choice of university.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
GPS: Greatly Pigging Stupid
Jessica and I have had something of a falling out.
"Turn left," said Jessica somewhere near Southwark yesterday afternoon. I turned left.
"Recalculating," said Jessica.
"No, Jessica. That's not fair," said I. "You said to turn left, and I turned left. Why are you recalculating?"
Jessica's recalculating bar edged slowly up from 0% to 95%. As it finally reached 100%, she clearly realised that in the time it had taken her to recalculate, I'd shot past the turning she wanted me to take. "Recalculating," she tutted again. This went on for no fewer than three painfully slow recalculations.
I threatened to upgrade her, but she knows that I've got no money for gadgetry at the moment. I needed to get to Kingston. She totally had the upper hand. I considered drowning her in some Cherry Coke when we got to the pub, but I also needed to get back to London again after my gig. On the way home she tried to make me turn the wrong way up a one-way street. She did this once before and got me stopped by the Police.
Jessica is a maniuplative minx. Sometimes I miss Jeremy.
For those of you who are visiting the Plog for the first time, you won't have a clue what I'm talking about. Never mind. Two questions: Are you male, and will you marry me?
This week's mental for me work-wise - will update when I can.
"Turn left," said Jessica somewhere near Southwark yesterday afternoon. I turned left.
"Recalculating," said Jessica.
"No, Jessica. That's not fair," said I. "You said to turn left, and I turned left. Why are you recalculating?"
Jessica's recalculating bar edged slowly up from 0% to 95%. As it finally reached 100%, she clearly realised that in the time it had taken her to recalculate, I'd shot past the turning she wanted me to take. "Recalculating," she tutted again. This went on for no fewer than three painfully slow recalculations.
I threatened to upgrade her, but she knows that I've got no money for gadgetry at the moment. I needed to get to Kingston. She totally had the upper hand. I considered drowning her in some Cherry Coke when we got to the pub, but I also needed to get back to London again after my gig. On the way home she tried to make me turn the wrong way up a one-way street. She did this once before and got me stopped by the Police.
Jessica is a maniuplative minx. Sometimes I miss Jeremy.
For those of you who are visiting the Plog for the first time, you won't have a clue what I'm talking about. Never mind. Two questions: Are you male, and will you marry me?
This week's mental for me work-wise - will update when I can.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Dressing down
Today I hit a low point. I got angry at Caesar dressing.
Here's the deal. Every so often, I buy Caesar dressing. It makes a lovely salad with a bit of chicken and some lettuce. I always buy the same brand, because I like it. There is nothing wrong with this. This time, when I bought the dressing, it had a little cardboard collar round its neck, advertising the chance to win a shopping spree in New York.
So far, so good. I like shopping. I love New York. I was going to buy the dressing anyway.
When I got home, I popped the little collar on the kitchen counter, as you needed to log on to the Internet to check if you were a winner or not. I'd do it when I got round to it. It sat there for about a month. Finally, today, I got round to checking my special code.
And then and only then did I notice I was supposed to keep the till receipt in order to claim a prize. Who keeps their till receipts from Sainsbury's? I'll tell you - no-one! Ooh, I was angry. And I also knew that there was no point in going to the website now because I'd thrown out the receipt weeks ago. And yet, a little part of me still needed to know... Could I have won a trip to New York, if only I'd been the sort of mad woman who keeps receipts for a salad dressing and a loaf of bread?
No, in fact. I was a loser. Which was sort of a relief.
Potential husbands - fancy a New York honeymoon?
Here's the deal. Every so often, I buy Caesar dressing. It makes a lovely salad with a bit of chicken and some lettuce. I always buy the same brand, because I like it. There is nothing wrong with this. This time, when I bought the dressing, it had a little cardboard collar round its neck, advertising the chance to win a shopping spree in New York.
So far, so good. I like shopping. I love New York. I was going to buy the dressing anyway.
When I got home, I popped the little collar on the kitchen counter, as you needed to log on to the Internet to check if you were a winner or not. I'd do it when I got round to it. It sat there for about a month. Finally, today, I got round to checking my special code.
And then and only then did I notice I was supposed to keep the till receipt in order to claim a prize. Who keeps their till receipts from Sainsbury's? I'll tell you - no-one! Ooh, I was angry. And I also knew that there was no point in going to the website now because I'd thrown out the receipt weeks ago. And yet, a little part of me still needed to know... Could I have won a trip to New York, if only I'd been the sort of mad woman who keeps receipts for a salad dressing and a loaf of bread?
No, in fact. I was a loser. Which was sort of a relief.
Potential husbands - fancy a New York honeymoon?
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Time travel
I love London. Everyone knows that - it's not a surprise. But I've not actually been here that much for the last month. I spent a fortnight abroad on holiday, and since I've been back, I've mostly been in Norwich / Edinburgh / identical hotel rooms around the country.
I took the tube to Chancery Lane for lunch earlier today, and I couldn't stop myself smiling at the miracle of the tube (seven minutes' tube journey for a walk that would take an hour), the brilliant Poems on the Underground (Walt Whitman today), and how London's always the same but different.
On my way back, getting off the tube at Bethnal Green, there was an advert for the Imperial War Museum - a poster I hadn't seen before, advertising an exhibition they had on evacuees. I stopped to look at when it was running. It finished on 27th October, 1996. This confused me, until I realised it must be an old poster - perhaps the poster on top had been taken down, and this poster was still up underneath.
But this poster was ten years old. Surely it couldn't have lasted that long. It hadn't been there a couple of weeks ago, and it looked like it was in good nick. Perhaps it was a spoof or a joke, and I was missing the point. But the phone number was the old-style London one - 0171 - it was definitely genuine. Was it an old poster... or had I travelled back in time?
Reader, this is true. As I came out of the tube station, I started looking for things that would prove I was in 2006. All the cars were pretty old (this was Bethnal Green), all the other adverts were for brands that had been around for ages... I began to wonder quite seriously if I'd time-travelled.
I imagined going back to my flat, and finding the key didn't fit. And then, as it was 1996 and I'd only be 16, I imagined going back to the Midlands to live with my parents. And still have to have violin lessons. The thought was unbearable. Also, my boyfriend when I was that age had practically no lips. I couldn't go through that again.
Luckily, it turned out it was just an old poster.
I need to think of a better punchline for that story.
Husband applications still open. In case I hadn't mentioned it.
I took the tube to Chancery Lane for lunch earlier today, and I couldn't stop myself smiling at the miracle of the tube (seven minutes' tube journey for a walk that would take an hour), the brilliant Poems on the Underground (Walt Whitman today), and how London's always the same but different.
On my way back, getting off the tube at Bethnal Green, there was an advert for the Imperial War Museum - a poster I hadn't seen before, advertising an exhibition they had on evacuees. I stopped to look at when it was running. It finished on 27th October, 1996. This confused me, until I realised it must be an old poster - perhaps the poster on top had been taken down, and this poster was still up underneath.
But this poster was ten years old. Surely it couldn't have lasted that long. It hadn't been there a couple of weeks ago, and it looked like it was in good nick. Perhaps it was a spoof or a joke, and I was missing the point. But the phone number was the old-style London one - 0171 - it was definitely genuine. Was it an old poster... or had I travelled back in time?
Reader, this is true. As I came out of the tube station, I started looking for things that would prove I was in 2006. All the cars were pretty old (this was Bethnal Green), all the other adverts were for brands that had been around for ages... I began to wonder quite seriously if I'd time-travelled.
I imagined going back to my flat, and finding the key didn't fit. And then, as it was 1996 and I'd only be 16, I imagined going back to the Midlands to live with my parents. And still have to have violin lessons. The thought was unbearable. Also, my boyfriend when I was that age had practically no lips. I couldn't go through that again.
Luckily, it turned out it was just an old poster.
I need to think of a better punchline for that story.
Husband applications still open. In case I hadn't mentioned it.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Rubbish Norwich
Any East Anglians, look away now.
Norwich - I've been there again for most of this week. Can anyone honestly give me a good reason for its continued existence?
Sorry, tired, grumpy. I get like this sometimes. Don't tell my future husband.
(Applications still open.)
Norwich - I've been there again for most of this week. Can anyone honestly give me a good reason for its continued existence?
Sorry, tired, grumpy. I get like this sometimes. Don't tell my future husband.
(Applications still open.)
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Appealing
OK, well the husband-advertising isn't going brilliantly. To be honest I'd hoped for at least 50 applications by now.
Instead Cathy has volunteered someone or something called Bigsy, who may smell a bit, someone who may or may not be Hazel has tested the water, depending on whether or not I accept drug addicts and / or cult members, several of you have tried to set me up with Richard Herring, and bafflingly, someone unwilling to share their identity has professed to being an admirer... and yet describes their appendage as small and white.
Been there, done that.
But come on guys, let's work together here! We could a) have a shotgun marriage, ending in almost inevitable divorce, bitterness, and - as per predictions - a couple of kids or b) cause Madam Tamar's decade-old predictions to fail.
I think we need to decide what's important. Applications are still open. Act now!
Instead Cathy has volunteered someone or something called Bigsy, who may smell a bit, someone who may or may not be Hazel has tested the water, depending on whether or not I accept drug addicts and / or cult members, several of you have tried to set me up with Richard Herring, and bafflingly, someone unwilling to share their identity has professed to being an admirer... and yet describes their appendage as small and white.
Been there, done that.
But come on guys, let's work together here! We could a) have a shotgun marriage, ending in almost inevitable divorce, bitterness, and - as per predictions - a couple of kids or b) cause Madam Tamar's decade-old predictions to fail.
I think we need to decide what's important. Applications are still open. Act now!
Monday, October 02, 2006
Fortunately...
I was re-reading an old diary over the weekend, from when I was 17. It was the Easter holidays, and my dad had taken me to Weston-Super-Mare to see the much-fabled fortune teller, Madam Tamar.
Madam Tamar was clever. She asked me where I wanted to go to uni. I said (and to this day, I'm not sure why) Leeds. Then, when Dad went in next, to have his fortune told, she told him I would go to uni in Leeds. Astonishing.
However, I had forgotten all about her other predictions, which I re-read yesterday. Firstly I would have two children (erm, do I get a say in this?) and also, Madam Tamar said, "You will marry, but not until you're 26."
OK. I'm 26. In fact, in fifteen days I shall be 27. Now, obviously Madam Tamar is always right (though she's not much good at UCAS stuff), so that means I have just over two weeks to find a husband. Please apply below. Obviously time is a factor here, so it would be helpful if you were in the country. Also please see checklist:
Madam Tamar was clever. She asked me where I wanted to go to uni. I said (and to this day, I'm not sure why) Leeds. Then, when Dad went in next, to have his fortune told, she told him I would go to uni in Leeds. Astonishing.
However, I had forgotten all about her other predictions, which I re-read yesterday. Firstly I would have two children (erm, do I get a say in this?) and also, Madam Tamar said, "You will marry, but not until you're 26."
OK. I'm 26. In fact, in fifteen days I shall be 27. Now, obviously Madam Tamar is always right (though she's not much good at UCAS stuff), so that means I have just over two weeks to find a husband. Please apply below. Obviously time is a factor here, so it would be helpful if you were in the country. Also please see checklist:
- Mustn't smoke.
- Must be male.
- Must be at least 5'9".
- Must be able to drive.
- Must be bright. Very bright. I have an IQ of 95, so if we're to stand a chance of producing two above-average kids, you'll need an IQ of at least 110.
- Must be willing to go to the theatre occasionally.
- Must not be football / any other sport obsessed. Occasional matches OK, but must not be prioritised above much more important things like new plays at the Donmar.
- Good sense of humour essential. You'll need it.
- Must not live with your parents. Or want to subconsciously.
- Must not be married to someone else.
- Must not go out to get drunk. Occasional social drinks are fine. When I say so.
- Must not have a tiny willy.
Good. I'm expecting loads of applications for the post (please use the comments below to register your application), because obviously I'm pretty much perfect. I'm hoping to announce a winner by this time next week. Don't all rush at once.
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