Sick-bed

When I was little, and felt ill, my dad would sometimes make me what he called "a posset". This was supposed to make me feel better. Always excited by the culinary delights of the man who'd created Spaghetti Bolognaise a la banana (sadly, this is true), I was delighted by the idea. Apart from the banana incident, Mr Nunn's kitchen creations are generally pretty good. This is lucky, because if I'd had to survive on Mrs Nunn's cuisine (spaghetti with a tin of mushroom soup, spaghetti with a lump of goat's cheese... basically anything that involved spaghetti. And tuna. Lots of tuna. I digress.), I'd have probably starved to death aged eight. Out of choice.

So Mr Nunn would make me a posset. I'm uncertain of the exact recipe (being ill I was usually in bed when it was brought to me), but I believe it involved hot milk, raw eggs, some sort of alcohol - perhaps brandy - and nutmeg. Mr Nunn would bring it up to my room and I would drink it down. This drink was a miracle. It had a 100% success rate. Because literally minutes after drinking said posset, I would be vomiting my guts up. And then I would feel much better. Mrs Nunn eventually banned the use of possets.

And years later I found out a) nutmeg is a natural emetic (makes you sick) b) nutmeg is also a poison if taken in large enough quantities and c) I am actually quite allergic to both eggs and nutmeg.

So, if the child protection agencies are reading this, Mr Nunn used to feed his unwell only daughter with poison and alcohol. And never bought me a pony. Do you think I've got enough material here for one of those tear-jerker "terrible childhood" novels?

Parrot fashion

The parrot down the hall - Chloe - is working herself into a hitherto unknown state of hysteria. I do not know the reason for the hysterics, but hysterical she is. I can upset her slightly by returning up the stairs back to my flat. If I want to upset her a bit more than this, I set my food processor to "high". The level of excitement she's currently displaying can only be the work of another parrot. Or possibly a sparkler up her parrot bottom. I don't really want to speculate.

Actually, Chloe isn't a parrot at all - she's a cockatiel. I assumed she was a parrot because she squawks a lot and occasionally says, "I love you". One memorable summer, she sang non-stop Celine Dion. That's not cockatiel behaviour. But, after having chatted to her owner (who remains nameless to me, merely signing each year's Christmas card "From number 42"), I ascertained that her name was Chloe and she was a cockatiel. I didn't think to establish her owner's name or species, sadly.

Anyway, Chloe is hysterical, and for once I don't think it's my fault. That is all.

Bird brained

The man sitting opposite me on the tube caught my eye, smiled and slowly, as if he were in a porn film, started unwrapping something from Paperchase. He took it out of its bag, met my eyes again, smiled, glanced downwards, and slowly started opening the folded tissue paper.

He looked up again to check I was watching, and made the final preparations to reveal his purchase of... two small penguin-shaped Christmas ornaments. He turned to his mother (or his very old girlfriend) and said, "I wouldn't have paid six pounds each for those."

Then he carefully put his penguins away again, smiling at me once more.

The freaks were out in force on Oxford Street today, although I imagine this is only to be expected during the sales. Also I have noticed that when I am hungry or mardy, there are a lot more freaks about. To those of you who are scientifically minded, this might suggest that perhaps my state of mind is to blame for the presence or absence of annoying freaks. But you would be wrong. I am perfect, and it is only when I am hungry or mardy (or sometimes both) that the freaks come out. So there.

Mass murder

Well, well, well, I hope you had a splendid festive period. Mine has been the usual whirlwind tour of trying (and failing) to see all of my friends, and eating far too much chocolate. Much like every other day of the year.

High points included:

• The Midnight Mass service that I'm not allowed to talk about on pain of death from my mother, in case her friends read this. Let's just say that during the sermon the word "killing" was used instead of the word "kissing", to great (totally accidental) comic effect. One of the funniest moments ever because of its total inappropriateness.
• Revisiting old family photo albums and scanning them into Facebook to irritate my friends.
• A surfeit of bacon sandwiches - just the way it should be.
• Lots of baths. My flat doesn't have a bath - just a shower cubicle. So one of my favourite things to do at my parents' is to stay in the bath for a ridiculous length of time. I may be part mermaid.
• Sadly this year, I have failed to play (and beat) either Jack or Erica at Monopoly. I think they are scared. I did however win several hands of the card game "Cheat". I'm not sure what this says about me.

Friends reunited

Yesterday evening I went out with some old schoolfriends for a drink. Erica I see regularly, but the others I hadn't seen for about six years, so there was a lot of catching up to do. We managed this fairly effortlessly, mostly by bitching about other people whom we hadn't liked at school. Ten years (near enough) may have passed, but the venom felt on our contemporaries' over-achievement / bad haircuts / sports car boasting was still as active as ever. And so we passed an amusing evening. We discussed going to our ten-year reunion this summer. However, we wondered if it might be possible to sit in a corner away from the main event and make sarcastic remarks, thus emulating school itself.

Either that, or we could make up ridiculous stories about what we're doing with our lives. I bagsied teaching yoga to dogs in Ashby de la Zouch, hoping to branch out to Quorn and Rothley in the near future. Sara is going to pretend she's just been released from Guantanamo Bay (complete with orange jumpsuit), Jo is going to pretend she's been in France so long that she can no longer remember how to speak English... and Erica is still deciding. I suggested that she sold cotton reels to charity shops, but she didn't seem keen.

Anyway, the schoolfriends meet-up inspired a certain amount of nostalgia (crikey, I nearly typed "nausea" then... some would say that's symbolic) and I spent much of this evening locating my old photo albums and uploading some (frankly horrific) old images up onto Facebook. So anyone who is a friend in "real life" on Facebook can now see me a) dressed as a White Rabbit b) in school uniform (don't get too excited. It had grey tights) and c) dressed up as a maid... Hmmm, actually I'm sensing a fetish theme here. Oh well, play to your strengths, I guess.

Candid camera

I have had a few requests from you foolhardy people out there, asking when my next gig is... Well, I'm going through my annual "I'm not sure I want to do comedy anymore" blip at the moment, so don't really have any gigs in diary. However, in the Christmas spirit, please find here a couple of links to some videoed material I did a few months back. I'm never sure that video footage of stand-up works that well; without sounding too pretentious (hopefully), I'm not sure the medium is right. A lot of my stuff works by bouncing jokes off of punters - not easy to do when it's you and a webcam.

Anyway, as I can't be arsed to write a proper blog today, have a gander at this and let me know what you think. The Sky one usually goes down really well with an audience, but comes across (I think) as a bit confrontational on camera. Also, it's horrid watching yourself, so I'll stop!

http://constantcomedy.com/Video.aspx?id=141

http://constantcomedy.com/Video.aspx?id=116

Gifted

Do you know how many Christmas presents I've bought this year? Do you? Let me tell you: one. Which I gave to someone at work today. That was the only reason I even bought that gift. Because I knew time was short.

Actually, two. I bought my parents Sky+ for Christmas, but the greedy so-and-sos got it installed in November, thus usurping the gift of Christmas giving. Still, one less thing for me to wrap.

There isn't an awful lot I like about Christmas. But my absolute least favourite thing is wrapping presents. I am terrible at wrapping presents. I think my phobia started when I was at secondary school, and we were made to cover our text books in wallpaper to keep them neat. (Yes, before you ask, I did go to a school that based its entire learning methods on those fashionable in the 1950s.) My dad tried to show me how to wrap text books (which were genuinely in many cases, the exact same text books he'd used when at school in the 1950s). He failed. He drew me pictures. He wrote a formula for me (length of book plus 1 inch by width of book multiplied by two plus two inches). Sometimes I cried more over wrapping my text books than I did over the maths homework contained within. More often than not, I invited my friend Jennie over from next door for the dual purposes of wrapping my text books and doing my textiles homework (yes, I told you I grew up in the 1950s) whilst I wrote her English essays. She went to a different school, so this was totally ethical.

However, now I am a grown-up, I have mastered the art of present wrapping. Sort of. I can make most presents look quite attractive with a suitably expensive wrapping paper and a few bits of ribbon. I do however have one rule about presents: they have to be square. Or rectangular. Last year I bought someone an octagon-shaped box. Two fucking hours it took me. I nearly cried.

So this weekend will see a last-minute shopping spree for me. Folks of Loughborough, please be generous and leave me some square presents I can buy.


***

For Plogger friends - as usual, I won't be sending out Christmas cards this year, and instead will be making a donation to CRY - Cardiac Risk in the Young. This means a) it doesn't matter that I've missed the last post and b) I get to feel slightly smug. I'm so great. So, happy Christmas!

The weather outside is frightful... am I bothered?

It's nice to be home. Yes, the weather's freezing, and there's Christmas music on the radio and the traffic in London is bloody awful, and Lakeside is populated with morons... but it's nice to be home. I can drink the water without fear of death. There are no Indian Mr Beans (yet). I am reunited with Sky+. All is good.

Yes, the jetlag is making me alternatively giggly-hysterical and clumsy-absentminded, but I'm feeling sleepy enough now that I'm hoping for a good night's rest tonight ahead of work tomorrow. I have not yet foraged for food at Sainsbury's, meaning I'm currently subsisting entirely on spaghetti bolognaise ready meals. I have no idea how long the human body can sustain itself on spaghetti bolognaise (and the occasional chocolate Black Forest Gateau), so perhaps I might grab a smoothie on the way in to work tomorrow. I know that man cannot live on bread alone, but can woman live on a Sainsbury's ready meal alone? If there are no future Plogs from me, you'll know the answer to that question. I'm just glad I can help you with these burning issues.

Right, I'm off to catch up on Cranford, Lead Balloon, Spooks (might save that one until the jetlag's dissipated), Ugly Betty and Christ, I need to get better taste in television.

A close shave

Woohoo! I have had my first bit of dodgy Plog-related communication.

On a high from finishing my final training course (the last few weeks have been like Groundhog Day but without the added excitement of suicide and ice sculptures), I came back to my room and checked my emails, and - unusually - had a Plog-related one. I've always worried a little bit about putting my personal email address on the site, but I figure, it's only email, not my real address, and I can handle the odd bit of spam. Mostly it's never used, and occasionally when it is, it tends to be a friend anyway. Some days I'm not sure anyone actually reads this. Today proved me wrong.

I got an email saying, "32d - nice size... u shaven bald too?" (sic)

Obviously I replied. How could I not?

"Yes. My whole head is completely smooth."

Well, it made me laugh anyway.

So I'm finished! I'm done! Ta-ra for now, Asia. You loooooose. Back to Britain, where the weather sucks, but the water doesn't kill you. Unless you drown in it. Then I suppose it might kill you a bit.

My least favourite thing about India? The abject poverty? The street-traders forcing you to look at their rubbish scarves? Indian Mr Bean? Nope.

It's how when someone doesn't understand you (not a crime - after all, I am the visitor here), they still nod and smile as if they have. So, for example, when I asked a staff member if they could arrange for whoever was hammering in the room next door to the training area to - well - stop, I was greeted with nodding and smiling... and absolutely fuck all happening. I sent some of my delegates to reason with them in their own langauge eventually.

Now I have no problem with the not understanding - they fared far better than I would have done trying to speak in my Foreign (French). But why not say, "I'm sorry, I don't understand."? I could have mimed. I'm very good at mime. Once in Hong Kong (not this visit) I did an Oscar-worthy mime for toilet roll. I wish you could have been there. But no. Politeness and affability and bugger all gets done.

And also, what's that funny nodding / shaking of the head all about? Are you agreeing with me or not? Stop waggling. Sit still.

My flight isn't until 3.30 in the morning, so I'm planning on staying in my hotel room, ignoring the tickle that's threatening to become a sore throat, and then sulk in Delhi Airport for a good few hours. I originally typed "suck in Delhi Airport". Well, I suppose it might make the time go faster, and I could earn a few rupees whilst I was doing it.

I'm off to the bathroom to start shaving myself bald.

Spicy Bean burger

I thought I'd risk it. In the last two weeks, other than popping out to the occasional cafe or restaurant, I've chosen to have room service rather than eat in the hotel restaurants.

But in India, I'm trying to be really careful about what I eat, so as nothing really appealed from the room service menu, I made a trip down to the cafe and ordered what I hoped was a fairly anodyne hamburger.

Service was slow, but the waiters were attentive, particularly one who looked like an Indian Mr Bean, complete with food stains down his suit. However, he was the only one wearing a suit, so I assumed he was the restaurant manager.

He asked me how I was. I said I was fine. He asked me how I was enjoying India. I said I'd just arrived. He asked me where I was from. I said London. He wandered off.

Ten minutes or so later, the Indian Mr Bean came back. "Can I ask you questions about London?" he asked.

"OK," I said.

"What is it like?"

"Well, that's a big question. How do you mean?"

"What is the lifestyle like?" asked Indian Mr Bean.

"Well, it's a very busy city. Lots going on. Expensive to live there, but good shops, great history."

"Would you mind moving to the other bar?" asked Indian Mr Bean, with his Restaurant Manager's hat on (not literally). I checked my food would follow. It would. I moved.

The bar was quiet. That's an understatement. I was the only person in it. Me and Indian Mr Bean. Trapped in a corner. Far away from other guests or even staff. Bollocks.

"Can I ask you more questions about London?" he asked, taking a seat opposite me.

"Erm, OK."

"How do you meet women in London?"

Oh, here we go.

"How do you meet women?" I clarified.

"No," said Indian Mr Bean. "How do you deal with women in London?"

"I don't understand," I said.

"I am in the right. But my wife doesn't trust me. How do you deal with that in London?"

"How would you deal with that in India?" I asked, my facilitation skills of answering every question with a question working to their maximum power.

"That is why I ask you. It is good to get opinions."

"Try a conversation?" I suggested. Indian Mr Bean clearly would rather I had suggested he slapped her round a bit.

"Are you married?" he asked. This was one of many questions I fudged. Including, "Can I have a business card? I collect them." and, "Do you need someone to show you round Delhi today?"

He then sat opposite me as my food arrived and watched me eat. Now, I hate eating in company at all. Anyone who knows me even slightly knows that unless I'm 100% at ease, even with close friends, I can struggle in restaurants - worst case is it can actually make me physically sick.

Now imagine the following situation:

- My flight was delayed by ten hours, meaning I didn't arrive here until 5 a.m.
- The plane itself had wires hanging out from under the seat and looked as if it was manufactured in 1945.
- It is 4 degrees in Delhi... and the hotel heating is broken. When I finally complained at 6 a.m., they brought a heater to my room. And acted as if I was a trouble maker.
- I finally got to sleep at about 7 a.m., to be woken (and I kid you not) straight away by the hotel alarm clock (which I hadn't set) playing "Happy birthday to you" - as if it was in a cheap greetings card. It confused me sufficiently to briefly wonder if it was my birthday.

Now let's juxtapose that with the Indian Mr Bean with food stains down his front hitting on me and watching me eat, and you can see why my appetite waned rather rapidly.

Still, it's nice to know I've still got it. Hardly anyone hit on me in Singapore or Hong Kong - just a slightly creepy French guy and a Canadian who was scared away by the furry gay caterpillar.

35 hours and I should be on my way home. With my new married passport name: Laura Indian Bean.

Air-ated

I thought I'd take it easy today. I had a flight to Delhi late afternoon, and as I packed a lot in yesterday in Hong Kong, I thought I'd veg out in my hotel room: treat myself to a manicure, read the end of my novel and run the battery down on my new Nintendo DS. This would then allow me to board my flight, watch an in-flight movie and arrive in Delhi in time for bed.

I arrived at the airport more or less exactly at the required two hours prior to departure... to find out that my 5.30 p.m. flight had been rescheduled - to midnight. So I will be spending a total of eight and a half hours at Hong Kong airport, in the world's crappiest business lounge, with no novel to read and a Nintendo DS with flat batteries. This means I will arrive in Delhi at 3 a.m. local time, nearer 6 a.m. on the time I'm on at the moment... So far, I am not a fan of Air India. Let's just hope the plane has two wings.

I have been aware that my posts over the last week or so have been rather lacking in joy. I'm not entirely sure why this is. I do love travel, and of course it's an exciting opportunity to get to do this with work. But I think that's what the problem is. The work I'm doing out here is physically demanding, and mentally draining - particularly when trying to deliver training to people when there is a language or cultural barrier. So in the evenings, or at weekends, I'm in an exciting place, and the part of me that loves travel is pressuring me to make the most of it... and the other part of me knows that on a day I've run a training course in London, it's usually pretty unlikely I'd make evening plans, because I know how tiring it is.

As a result, I either drag myself round the sights and sounds of the city, and feel even more tired and umpty as a result, or I give in to the tiredness, stay in the hotel room, and feel like I'm missing a fantastic opportunity. It really is a lose-lose situation. It's a bit like one of those computer games where the scenery changes every level, but the content, the basic gameplay, is identical.

Level 1: Singapore. Backdrop: futuristic skyscrapers. Goal: deliver training.

Level 2: Hong Kong. Backdrop: stunning mountains and smog. Goal: deliver training. Avoid falling prostitutes.

Level 3: Delhi. Backdrop: Delhi airport. Goal: deliver training. Avoid food poisoning by eating nothing other than the pizza-flavoured crisps purchased in Hong Kong for this very purpose. Try not to faint.

The business lounge has just started playing The First Noel. I fear there may be bloodshed.

Kable Karma

I took a long-ish journey on the tube in Hong Kong today, intending to get a cable car up to see a famous statue of Buddha. However, on arriving at the cable car place, I found out that the cars were closed "for the foreseeable future" - mostly owing to the fact they keep plunging off the wire and down the mountain. Still, I bet the view would have been pretty.

I got a taxi eventually up to the mountain top where Buddha sits. The taxi driver was particularly fond of overtaking at blind corners, usually when a lorry was coming the other way and there was a sheer drop. I suppose it's quite a dull job, so he has to keep it interesting. Or perhaps he was Buddhist, believes in reincarnation, and quite fancies coming back as a sheep.

The weather was beautiful - a warm 23 degrees or so, and sunny - like those first tentative few days at the end of April or start of May. Not enough to sunburn you, but enough to make you sit with the warmth on your back and smile. Apologies for gloating to all those of you in the UK (and possibly the US) as I hear you're going through something of a cold snap at the moment. Anyway, as an atheist (with a particular dislike for Buddhism, which is perhaps a separate story), Buddha himself installed no feelings of inner peace for me, and neither did his tacky gift shop. But the mountain scenery and the beauty of the day (admittedly marred by pollution smog from China) lifted spirits immensely.

I took the bus back to the tube station - again some near-death experiences, mostly caused by a large furry caterpillar that had found its way onto the bus and was terrorising the Spanish girl next to me to the extent she fell off her seat twice. I swear this caterpillar actually had teeth. It might have been auditioning for a horror film. I'm not sure. Though it looked a lot less scary about ten minutes later when it got a bit of pink fluff stuck in its menacing black fur. Big gay caterpillar.

Finally, to make you laugh or smile, a couple of photos of amusing things I've seen over the last few days.

Just once I'd like to go abroad without "whore fun", or however you spell it. Porridge is optional.

Admit it, you laughed.

Going through customs

I have started this Plog three times and have abandoned it just as many times, aware that it has turned into a strop. So instead of stropping individually about things, I will label the fact that I am clearly In A Mard, and instead bullet point some amusing things so far in Hong Kong.

• The taxi driver who told us to get out because his car had broken down... and then drove off
• The four taxi drivers who refused to pick me up this afternoon, possible because I was holding a big box, and maybe looking like a terrorist. Still, they pissed me off sufficiently to complain to reception, who didn't understand what I was talking about, and pointed me in the direction of the taxi rank. Thanks.
• The stroppy bitch on yesterday's course who had a go at me because I flicked a business card down the table to her... Apparently you're supposed to pass it with two hands. Really? And that matters in your world? Grow up.
• How quiet Chinese people are at work... and how noisy they are in large groups when socialising in bars.
• Seeing the longest escalator in the world, which is a bit of a con as a) it isn't an escalator, it's a moving walkway and b) is broken into about six sections so is not technically one escalator. Or walkway.
• Eating dinner with colleagues last night: the first meal I haven't eaten alone for about ten days.

That is all. If I think of anything else, I will let you know.

Corporate whore

I am in Hong Kong, staying at the sort of hotel that, when I came to Hong Kong last as a backpacker, I looked at and thought, "I wonder what sort of person stays at a hotel like that?" Well, now I know. Me!

I have a lovely view of Victoria Peak (which I ascended on my last trip here for its amazing panorama of... fog), and I'm right in the middle of everything. I don't have to pay for my own food or worry about finding a laundrette. I'm totally spoiled.

Yet it really does seem less of an adventure. Last time I was in Hong Kong, I did an awful lot of walking, and at some point, my knee decided it had had enough. Crunch. That was literally the noise my knee made, though it was also slightly drowned out by the sound of my screaming. It didn't get any better.

However, I was off to Sydney in just a couple of days' time, so decided to try and wait it out, rather than seeing a doctor in Hong Kong where I was likely to face language difficulties. But the pain really was excruciating. I hobbled to Tsim Tsa Tsui and thought perhaps I should embrace Eastern medicine... get a massage.

So I did. Except, oddly, the masseuse seemed to be based on the second floor of what looked like a block of flats. But a lot of businesses are like that over here, so I didn't think too much about it.

In I went for my massage, carefully putting my geeky money belt on the floor in front of the massage chair where I could see it. The masseuse gave me a towel and told me to change into some slightly strange boxer shorts. I obeyed, and covered my top half with the towel. She started to do her massage thingy. I hoped it would help my knee. After a while on my legs, she pointed at the towel covering my top half and asked me, "Is this OK?" She didn't speak much English, but I assumed she was seeing if I was comfortable.

"It's fine," I said.

So she whipped off the towel and started kneading my breasts. This was unexpected. But technically I'd just agreed to it, so it felt a bit churlish and impolite to stop her. I tried to think about other things as she tweaked my nipples.

(Apologies to my parents if they're reading this.)

It's very hard to think about other things whilst someone is tweaking your nipples.

After the massage, she called me "beautiful girl", kept stroking my hair and gave me her card which informed me she did "home and hotel visits". Had it not been clear before now, there was no escaping the fact that I had just spent an hour with a prostitute.

So I haven't done that this time, yet. But walking through Tsim Tsa Tsui earlier today, I did stop, smile and fondly remember when Hong Kong was an adventure, not just work and a retracing of already-trodden footsteps.

Body beautiful

The Christmas carol jazz pianist has been joined by a string quartet. For fuck's sake.

Also, I am sorry to report that I do actually have monkey arms. I went to pick my suit up yesterday, and saw it on the hanger, next to normal people's suits. Normal people's suits had the arms roughly at the waist level. Mine went on for a good three inches further. I have monkey arms.

And apparently my breasts are too big. I was browsing in a lingerie shop earlier today, just looking. A shop assistant came up to me. "What size you?" she asked.

"Oh, I'm just looking," I said, conscious that in Asia, a B cup was probably as large as you were going to get.

"What size?" she said, clearly not understanding me.

Easier the route of no resistance. "32D," said I.

"D?" she - let's be honest - shrieked. "D?! Oh that is very big. Too big. You too big. C biggest. D very big."

Thanks for that. I am the monkey-armed, over-chested girl. Suitors may apply to the usual address.

Also I was given a pearl necklace in the middle of the office this morning, but perhaps that's an anecdote for another time.

Humbugis Market

One of the main reasons I readily agreed to coming out to Asia for work was that it meant I would miss out on all that horrific build-up to Christmas. You know what I mean. Queueing for forty minutes in Boots to buy a sandwich because some fuckwit old granny has decided that every single one of her great-grandchildren has to have matching hot water bottle covers with reindeer on. Getting rained on as you push children out of the way to get to the tube station. Fucking office fucking Christmas fucking parties.

(I believe that's happening some point this week, so have a great time everyone - sorry I couldn't be there. I do love Secret fucking Santa.)

There was one thing I didn't take into account. Despite the fact that my hotel room has a copy of the Wisdom of Buddha rather than a Gideon Bible, they do indeed appear to "do" Christmas in Asia after all. Just worse. Imagine the nastiest Christmas song you know. Let's take Jingle Bells for example. Now imagine it in Singlish (English but with half the words wrong). What was annoying to start with now becomes (in your best accent please with a nice jangly musak accompaniment):

Dashing through some snow
One horse on the sleigh
Through some fields we go
We laughing hey hey hey!

Oh for fuck's sake. Every sodding shop. My least favourite (and this is a tough competition) was The First Noel being played on continuous loop at Bugis Market. And when I say continuous loop, please let me remind you that The First Noel is the only arsing song in the entire bastarding universe where the irritating chorus sounds exactly the same as the bollocking verse. IT DOESN'T NEED REPLAYING. Not that I'm angry. I'm Zen-like, me. I could have written that little Buddha book. But I couldn't be arsed. Too zen.

My hotel has a giant Christmas tree and a jazz pianist hired to play cheery Christmas songs at me, as I shuffle past scowling. Christmas lights are all over the place. They are holding Christmas parties at the hotel every day this week. Badly.

Still, I got to push a small child out of the way on the MRT (tube) this evening. And it was raining. So I'm still thinking of home.

A little lift

It was about eight in the morning on Friday. I got into the lift in the hotel, on my way to the office. A man already in the lift greeted me.

"Bonjour," he said. This confused me a bit. Firstly I am in Singapore. And secondly, how did he know that I have two languages: English and foreign, and that my "foreign" happens to be French?

"Bonjour," I said, or to be authentic, je dis.

"Comment ça va?" he asked me.

"Erm, ça va bien, merci," I said, dragging my early-morning, little-serviced French to the front of my mind. I followed this up with, "Et toi?" Oh no! Mistake! Using the "tu" (informal) with a stranger! Even this early in the morning, in the wrong language I was aware of my faux pas. "Desolée," I said. "Vous. Vous. Desolée."

And so I spent a slightly awkward lift ride having behaved slightly inappropriately towards a total stranger. Just like being back in London.

Go gadget go

Today I bought things. Lots of things. Shiny, shiny things. Things I wasn't going to buy. I don't really need a new iPod. What would I do with a Nintendo DS Lite? I don't even normally wear skirts to the office.

Oops.

I only just stopped myself from buying a Nintendo Wii, and that was only because they're actually more expensive over here than in the UK. Just call me Inspector Gadget. Well, don't, because that would get annoying after a while. And would also be a bit inappropriate in a work-based situation.

"Hello, can I ask who's just joined the audio conference please?"

"It's me - Laura."

"Laura? I don't know anyone called Laura. Oh, sorry, do you mean Inspector Gadget from the London office?"

No good meeting starts that way.

On a similar note, I had an email from a delegate from the course I ran recently, saying she'd enjoyed the day, and asking how I got into my chosen career. It was very tempting to reply, "Fuck knows, got drunk, got on a plane and thought I'd just blag the rest..."

Here. Have some photos of me and Singapore. Don't say I never give you anything.

Bollocks, can't get it to work. Check out http://www.laurainsingapore.shutterfly.com. Not that interesting, but a few snaps of what I've been up to today... as for once it hasn't been raining!

Un-ape-ropriate

"You have long arms," the Singapore tailor said to me. "Very long arms. You like a monkey. Ooo ooo ooo." He made monkey noises. "Normal people your height, normal people arms stop here." He indicates my wrists. "But you monkey girl with monkey arms."

Believe it or not, I'm paying this man to make some clothes for me. Do we want to take bets on whether or not I'm going to end up in a furry brown suit holding a banana?

Oodles of noodles

So I went out to Orchard Road last night. This is the main shopping area in Singapore. People were queuing outside Gucci. It's not really my thing. The prices are cheaper than the UK, but hey, it's still designer goods, so not exactly bargain basement. The shops are similar to the USA - Banana Republic, Calvin Klein... but without the excellent sales.

Anyway, I'd come armed with Bleak House (the sheer size of this book means it handily doubles up as an actual weapon) and went to find a restaurant to have some food, as it's expensive to eat in the hotel and the food choice is limited. I found somewhere that did dim sum, but the queues were huge. So I settled for a noodle place. I was put on the same table as a chatty Singapore woman called Sarah, who was also on her own. I had no need for Bleak House. We talked about Singapore house prices, living costs, the cost of having a car - did you know, over here an average family car will set you back more than £40,000? They deliberately hike the prices to keep the number of cars down. I now know everything there is to be known about the Singapore school system (complusory school fees of £5 per month, and paid-for "enrichment classes" on top of that for competitive students).

I feel culturally appraised about Singapore. Interestingly everyone I ask about what to do in Singapore, they firstly mention shopping, then the night zoo (not really a fan of caged animals)... then they look slightly disturbed and say, "Well, that's about it really."

It's not raining (yet) here today: wish me decent weather for the weekend!

Time and a half

I am not enjoying the time difference. On top of the (inevitable) jetlag, which means I go to sleep readily at 10pm, but wake up bright and breezy without fail at 2 a.m., and can't sleep again until 5 a.m.... my alarm clock waking me barely an hour later... on top of this, it's a very lonely time zone.

I'm eight hours ahead of the UK in Singapore, so just as I'm getting up in the morning, all of my friends and family are off to bed. As I finish my working day at about 5 p.m., everyone else is hard at work. By the time they've finished work, I'm in bed. It's rubbish.

Singapore is apparently the same size as the Isle of Wight... with far fewer tourist amenities. Yes, there's shopping if you're into your designer goods, but beyond that, not a lot. I did pop out yesterday afternoon (mostly to stop myself falling asleep in the bath... again) but besides getting rained on and irritated by trying to divide everything by three* (harder than you think with jetlag... and my maths), I didn't achieve much.

This evening I'm torn between visiting the major shopping district and just holing up in the hotel room. I know I should be making the most of being somewhere new and exciting, but after a full day of training people through a total mind-fog of jetlag-ness (yes, that is a word), I can barely be bothered to breathe out once I've gone to all the trouble of breathing in in the first place. And it's still raining. Apparently it never rains for this long. So far I've heard this in: Hong Kong, Sydney, Cairns, New Zealand, New York and now Singapore. I should be sent to areas of drought. I should be marketed. I'm talking bollocks again, aren't I?

The most exciting part of my trip so far is finding out that over in Singapore, the vending machines at the office are free. Free! Free Oreos and Coke and rice milk (no, I don't know what that is either, and not really sure I want to find out. How do you milk rice? The mind boggles, picturing tiny rice udders.). When I asked why this is, a lady told me that perhaps it was because we were too big in London, and they were much smaller in Asia. I'm assuming she meant office size rather than calling me fat.

Well, petite they may be in Singapore, but at least in the UK we don't drink the product that comes from squeezing the teats of grains of rice. Freaks.

* For the exchange rate, not my own personal amusement.

Adventure-less

A couple of years ago I arrived in Hong Kong. Following instructions from the hostel I'd booked, I lugged my suitcase to a shop at the airport to break a note to get some change. I then used a payphone to dial the hostel for further instructions. They told me which bus to get on. I pulled my giant suitcase to the wrong end of the airport... and back again.

Two men pushed in front of me on the bus.

Arriving at Mong Kok (no, really), I called the hostel again, and after ten minutes waiting in the dark, someone came to meet me. After getting in a lift with the worrying notice, "When there is a fire, please do not use the lift" (when there is a fire? Not if?) I was shown to a room roughly the size of a postage stamp and a Chinese man slept on a campbed outside my door. I had to do an unfortunate mime in order to obtain toilet roll. I went out straight away and tried pig's cheek from a street-corner food market.

Yesterday, travelling for work, arriving in Singapore, things were rather different. My baggage was first off the carousel, having been marked as "priority". A driver with my name on a placard met me at the airport, took all my luggage and went to fetch the Mercedes to pick me up in. I was greeted at the hotel by about four hundred different staff members and shown to a lovely hotel room. I ordered nachos from room service. There is no-one asleep outside of my door.

Yet somehow it feels less of an adventure. More than twelve hours later, I've not yet been bothered to leave the hotel. Ah well, it's not a holiday I suppose.

Lounging about

Well, I'm currently sitting in another BA Lounge, but believe it or not, I've booked a complimentary spa for later. Facial, massage... something or other anyway. (And it doesn't even involve prostitutes this time. Probably.)

But for some reason, the Internet in the Heathrow lounge isn't free. Well, that's not quite true. I'm sitting in their business section, on one of the crappy BA PCs and Internet is perfectly free. Slow, but free. Yet, the laptop in my bag and the whizzy wireless that's zipping around my ears are redundant unless I pay money.

So to recap: BA Lounge: alcohol - free, meals - free, Elemis spa - free, yummy little muffins - free, Internet - costs money unless you use a crappy BA machine. Upsettingly I can't get Facebook Scrabble to work, and I can see the next few hours dragging on somewhat.

"So where are you going, Laura?" I can hear you cry. "You mentioned Delhi, and you mentioned packing, but surely you're not taking three suitcases for two days? Even you could pack lighter than that."

You'd be right. Today I am off to Singapore for just over a week, then onto Hong Kong, and finishing up in Delhi just before Christmas. Before you get too excited, it is for work, and there's not much free time built into my schedule. (But yes, I am still quietly excited.)

So, I remembered to leave cheques for the cleaner and turn the heating off. I threw the perishables away out of the fridge. I have arranged for a flat-sitter and Corsa-sitter. (Though I don't expect the Corsa-sitter to sit in the Corsa full-time. It gets chilly in December.) I have even remembered my pyjamas and my toothbrush. I have my passport. I bought aspirin for the flight, so I don't get economy class syndrome (is that possible in business class? Oh poor me...). Yet I know I've forgotten something... Bets please.

Time capsule

Oh dear. I found out from British Airways that I can take up to three items of check-in luggage. This means any type of discretion I may have previously used when selecting what to pack has now gone out of the window. I have so far packed all of my casual summer clothes, most of my work summer clothes, a lot of my work winter clothes, and some of my casual winter clothes. I have yet to pack my work laptop, my electrical bits and pieces and some reading material. I have already filled two items of check-in luggage and have run out of further receptacles.

I am the girl who went "backpacking" for five weeks around the world with a large wheely suitcase. Travelling light isn't really my style. It's not that I'm vain; it's not thousands of pairs of shoes and bags of make-up... it's more that I'm indecisive. And too lazy to do one of those "capsule wardrobes" they're always banging on about in those crappy women's magazines.

I've never been very good at reading those women's magazines. Once I was in the hairdresser, and they gave me a copy of Heat magazine to read. I didn't recognise a single person in the magazine. It took me fifteen minutes to work out what a WAG was, or why I would want to be one. As a colleague recently asked me: "Laura, are you some kind of cultural retard?" Yes.

So, from shitty women's magazines to decent literature, I have a book recommendation for you - A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini (of Kite Runner fame). Not a cheery read, but somehow uplifting despite its harrowing subject matter. Go and buy it now. Off you pop.

Pack up your troubles

I am supposed to be packing. I'm not. I'm procrastinating. This also begins with "p", but achieves a lot less in a relatively similar period of time.

I hate packing. I mean, no-one likes it, but my last job involved living out of a suitcase (not literally. That would make me a mime artist), so I'm naturally wary when I have to pack. And so I put it off. And put it off. And finally end up throwing into a suitcase a whole load of clothes that don't go together and which I haven't tried on for a year. This is why I am wearing all of Erica's clothes in the Kenya photos - mine just didn't fit. Not that I'm wearing all of Erica's clothes. This would have left me rather on the warm side, and her rather naked. It wasn't that sort of holiday. Well, not really. Though I do have one compromising photo of her. I will trot it out on her wedding day. Or other appropriate family gathering.

I digress.

I hate packing. But packing I must do. I always forget something. It's usually pyjamas. I always forget pyjamas. Or my toothbrush. Never anything vital (yet) like my passport... usually just irritating enough to cause one of those, "Oh bugger" moments.

I have tried making lists. In my youth I had extensive, colour-coded lists that itemised objects and clothes in a three-layered suitcase system. Then I got a life. Well, not really, but I did pay a visit or two to Ann Summers. Basically I don't do the list system anymore. I do the "chuck it all in and hope for the best". This is how I ended up going round the world with seven pairs of trousers and only three tops. And a woolly jumper. Quick note for anyone planning on Fiji in February... the woolly jumper wasn't that useful.

So I am packing. Well, I'm not. I am writing my Plog. And then I shall probably watch Ugly Betty and tomorrow I shall probably re-tidy my already tidy flat and maybe go for a walk. And on Monday morning, three hours before my flight leaves, you'll hear a squawk from Heathrow Terminal 4.... "Oh bugger, I've forgotten my pyjamas."

Pipe dream

I am waiting in for a plumber. Although he is not late yet, already I can feel every muscle in my body bristling as the undeniable certainty of late-plumberness edges closer. Plumbers and I do not have a good history.

But my toilet is leaking, and apparently, Blu-tak (whilst useful in so many other situations) will not suffice long-term from a health and safety perspective. Who knew?

So I am waiting in for a plumber. Ho hum.

*Twiddles thumbs. Checks work email. Twiddles thumbs again. Thumbs begin to ache from over-twiddling.*

I could go and make myself a bacon sandwich, but it's inevitable that the moment I do, the plumber will arrive. So I will put off the bacon sandwich, getting hungrier and more resentful with every few minutes that pass. My thoughts will go, "I could have had that bacon sandwich by now. I could have had two bacon sandwiches by now. I could have got pregnant, given birth AND had a bacon sandwich by now..."

Not that I'm expecting the plumber to get me pregnant. As I said, plumbers and I do not have a good history. Not that I regularly date plumbers. I can confidently say I've never been out with a plumber. Am I rambling?

I think I better go and have a bacon sandwich.

Lingo bingo

Bullshit bingo is nothing new. The basic idea is that you go into a meeting with a chart with key business cliches on it, and when you've heard them all in the meeting, you shout out "bullshit!". These phrases would typically include:

Heads up
Key drivers
Optimisation
Goal oriented
Top down
Bottom up
Fast-track
Deliverables
Learnings
Quick win
Low-hanging fruit

... and let's be honest, the place I work uses at least as many of these phrases as the next company. In fact I was in a meeting today that used the phrase "value add" (this basically means "useful") seven times. As in, "We need to create a value-add process." I mean, really, fuck off.

But the thing that annoyed me the most is how several people have started using the phrase, "So I'm hearing something about..." (i.e. cross-selling optimisiation, goal-oriented value-add). Why not just say, "We need to cross-sell." Why "I'm hearing something about..."? It makes me imagine that these people have got small pixies on their shoulders telling them what to do in a very faint voice. "I'm hearing something about cross-selling from my little pixie, but he's talking in a very quiet voice today because I remembered to take my blue pill this morning."

Fuck fairies.

Given the boot

Today I have spent six hours in Edinburgh Airport. Not even delays (so far), just badly-timed meetings. Along with Bristol Temple Meads station, I think it is probably the place I have waited the most. I thought you would want to know.

So, greetings from Edinburgh Airport. It is rainy. It is cold. It is aiporty. I have nothing new to impart to you on that front.

So... I gather you would like to hear about my argument in Jones the Bootmaker? It is a very big argument.

About three weeks ago, I was given a voucher for a 15% discount at Jones. I needed some new boots, so along I toddled in my lunch hour. Now, I am very fussy about my boots. My job involves a lot of faciliating and training delivery, so I sometimes stand up for a full eight hours or so. I need comfortable boots. Jones had a lovely pair in very soft leather with quite a small heel... Reader, I bought the boots.

I wore them the next day at an event at which I was facilitating. It was like standing on little expensive clouds. They were very comfortable boots. Success! There was a tiny bump in the leather on one of them, but I know that leather is a natural material, so wasn't going to return them for such a minor flaw.

Two weeks later, dear readers, and a fingernail-sized bit of leather had started to peel off where the bump had been. Not good. But I wasn't going to worry. I still had the receipt, I'd only had the boots for two weeks, and the shop was close to my office. It wasn't going to be a major hassle to swap them.

So, the next day, along with my colleague Clair, who had been interested in buying some shoes, we went back to the shop, and I explained to the shop assistant what had happened. They sent the Rude Manager (RM) to deal with the issue.

RM: You see, I'm going to have to send these to head office for a second opinion as you may well have damaged these yourself.

Me: Erm... how? The tear in the leather is right on top of the shoe, and as I told you, there was a flaw in the shoe from the start.

RM: You probably tore it on an escalator*...

* what the fuck?

RM: Anyway, it's your word against mine, so I'll have to send it to head office for a second opinion.

Me: I'm not going to be in the country for more than a few days - I need to get this sorted out now. I thought this was going to be a straightforward exchange; I've only had the boots for two weeks - they're clearly faulty and...

RM: (interrupting) That's immaterial.

Me: But...

RM: (interrupting) That's immaterial.

Me: Can I just finish my sentence?

RM: No, but... (realising he's being a tosser) Sorry, go on.

Me: I don't see what head office will be able to do that we can't achieve today.

RM: Sorry.

Me: (to Clair) What's your opinion on this?

Clair opens her mouth, but before she can speak, Rude Manager interrupts.

RM: I'm not talking to her. She's not a customer.

Clair: I was going to be a customer. I was going to buy those shoes over there. But you've been really rude to me.

RM: That's immaterial. Anyway, you've been....

Me: Calm and reasonable? I was just asking my friend for her opinion.

RM: Fine then. You talk to your friend. I won't. Call me when you need me.

Eventually I called head office myself and spoke to RM's area manager. Again I was getting nowhere until I said in quite a loud voice, "I can't believe I'm standing in the middle of your shop at its busiest period talking in such a loud voice at the head of your queue about how terrible your customer service is!"

"Oh, are you still in the shop?" asked the area manager. Suddenly, everything changed. Before we knew it, they'd agreed to a "goodwill" exchange, though I rather suspect there wasn't an awful lot of goodwill. And the manager still shot Clair a dirty look when she left the shop.

Still, I reckon I've told at least ten people about this story now, and probably an awful lot more via the Plog.

But the boots are lovely.

Bullets over Broadway

I am very, very tired right now, so will not be any use as a Plogger.

However, my week has been full of exciting things, and I will regale you with a selection of potentially hilarious anecdotes once full consciousness has been regained. This may not be until next week.

Some things you may want to look forward to:

• Winning at Book Club (Fasting, Feasting by Anita Desai. Don't bother. Nominated for the Booker Prize as far as I can tell because it was a) ethnic and b) female. If you want to read something in this category, go for The God of Small Things which is astonishingly good. Although I have to say that my experiences earlier in the week have put me off anything vaguely Indian.)
• A very big argument with the manager of Jones the Bootmakers.
• Two theatre trips in two days. I'm so Sex and the City. Oh, hang on, they didn't go to the theatre, did they? They mostly got pissed and shagged around a lot. Back to the drawing board.

That is all for now. May your weekends be shiny and splendiferous.

Indian Embassy: The Empire Strikes Back

And thanks to Mr Nunn for today's Plog title.

I shan't go into detail other than to say I arrived at the Embassy at 6.15 this morning in the dark to approximately 300 people in the queue in front of me. This is not hyperbole. By 7 a.m. there were approximately 400 people in the queue behind me. Confusingly, a lot of them seemed to be Indian.

Highlights included:

• The Swiss woman who stood too close, kept bumping into me in the (non-moving) queue then followed me around the building. She also forged her partner's signature on the form. (Indian officials: he's Swiss and his surname is Bruno. Couldn't be arsed to dob her in at the time, but she pissed me off sufficiently to name and shame on the Plog.)
• Getting to queue in three different places for different numbers to hand in at different queues.
• Handing over thirty quid for a sellotaped bit of paper into my passport.

I went prepared for the weather: pyjama bottoms under my jeans, two pairs of socks, two undershirts, a thin jumper, a thick jumper and a coat. A hat. A scarf. I was still cold.

I only just remembered that I wasn't really dressed for the office and probably ought to go home and get changed first. Still, I am now fully visa-ed up and ready to experience the delights of Delhi. For two fucking days.

India-Nunn

Tomorrow I have to go and queue at 6 a.m. in the street outside the Indian Embassy to get a visa. The Indian Embassy doesn't open until 8.30, but only issues 2000 visas a day, and I have been warned that if I arrive later than 7 in the morning, then the 2000 people in front of me will mean I will depart visa-less. And India-less. Work is certainly getting their money's worth out of me at the minute.

So, late November, 6 a.m., I am realistically imagining the following scenarios:

• It will be too dark to read. I will be forced to make conversation with a) a batty old man who stands too close and calls me 'darling' and b) a hippy with smelly dreadlocks. Dreadlocks always smell. Don't pretend they don't.
• It will rain. A lot.
• It will start to sleet a bit.
• I will find out that the hippy in front of me was actually just keeping a place in the queue for 30 other people.
• It will rain some more.
• The batty old man will start an inappropriate topic of conversation. Probably corsets or oral sex. If I'm really lucky, maybe both.
• At midday when I finally reach the head of the queue, the Indian Embassy will decide a) I don't look anything like my passport photo (this, bizarrely is true, even though it was only five years or so ago) b) my application letter from India was published on a public holiday and therefore not valid or c) they have reached their daily quota of women in their twenties wanting a business visa.
• I will have to come back the next day. When it's snowing.

Wish me luck.

Dark and windy night

I wasn't very well last night. I reckon a combination of stress factors was to blame. The most amusing part of being ill (please be aware that with the vomiting and stomach cramps, there wasn't an awful lot to choose from) was the forty-five second fart that I did.

It actually went on so long that at one point I thought it might actually never end. That I would forever be known as the girl with the motorbike bottom. That it could ruin several important life occasions... board meetings, annual reviews, walking up the aisle... though that would entail finding a guy who wanted to marry a girl whose bottom spewed an unending air biscuit.

It did stop eventually, you'll be pleased to hear.

Anyway, I wasn't going to Plog about this, but on telling someone about the humungous guff (I really have to keep my mouth shut more), I was challenged to Plog on the subject. Hence the last remaining scrap of my dignity disappears into the ether. Much like the arse blast itself.

Time after time

I have often wondered about having been born in another era. If it would be better or worse than now. If my personality would suit an era better than the modern day. Let me go on record and say that fair enough, medicine, technology and quality of life are undoubtedly vastly superior in the twenty-first century to any time previous. But personality-wise...

I don't think I'd be a very good medieval peasant. There seems to be a lot of farming involved, and I can't even keep a houseplant alive for more than a year. Plus giving a tenth of my stuff to the church would really piss me off.

I don't think I'd have been much good in the Renaissance. Changing from Protestantism to Catholicism and back again would be taxing for an athiest. I would probably have been burned at the stake.

What about in the times of Jane Austen? Napoleonic wars and gossiping about the neighbours? Well, mostly I think I'd be all right here. I would play the harpsichord to entertain our gentleman callers; I would be good at moralising and putting a serious face on when the vicar came round. I rather suspect the neighbours might call me a "horrid freckled thing", but that would be OK. However, my shit sewing skills would definitely let me down. Having to sew sampler after sodding sampler would do my head in. Each "Cleanliness is next to Godliness" cross-stitch would undoubtedly be covered in a mixture of blood, and tiny stitched swear words all around the border. This would make me rather less marriageable and, in the times of Jane Austen, I rather suspect I'd become a scary spinster. Or a fallen woman. Both sound fun.

Skipping ahead to Victorian times, you know, I actually think I'd have made quite a good Victorian. Again, I could entertain our visitors on the pianoforte, though my sketching and sampling would yet again let me down. I would be very good at entertaining and ensure the cook made exquisite feasts for our guests. Crinoline would suit me. I think I would make an excellent Victorian lady. Except for my predisposition to use the word "cunt" rather a lot.

Couldn't exist in the 1920s. Those flapper dresses are rubbish if you've got big boobs, and photographic evidence exists to prove short hair doesn't suit me.

No thank you on the 1940s. Brown tweed skirts are not for me.

The 1960s would be disappointing. All of my friends would be practising free love and doing drugs. I would be staying inside with a good novel, and wondering how to get the stench of henna out of my flat.

All in all, many thanks to the Doctor for his offer of a time machine, but I think I'll stay put where I can give my sewing to my dry-cleaner, say "cunt" as much as I want (though perhaps less often in business meetings might be advisable) and play on Facebook Scrabble.

Video killed the audio star

I had a video conference today. This is where some colleagues up in Scotland have a TV screen that they can see us lot down in London on - and vice versa. A regular patron of audio conferences (via telephone), this was my first video conference.

The Laura-curse of being early meant that I was in the room well before anyone else had arrived. A large TV wall greeted me, though it was blank, like a switched off telly.

I shuffled some papers. I tucked my hair behind my ears. Ploggers, I may have picked my nose.

Suddenly God spoke. "Laura Nunn?"

The TV was still blank, but someone had spoken to me. I am ashamed to admit that I checked all four corners of the 3 metres square room for God. Who was female. And apparently didn't approve of nose-pickers.

"Laura Nunn?" repeated the voice.

"Yes?" I said to God.

"Laura, it's Kate. Can you see me? I can see you!"

I pressed a button, and suddenly, Nice Kate (friend and colleague) sprang into view before me, beamed directly from Edinburgh. I got a bit over-excited and waved.

I don't know whether or not I was picking my nose. I hope not, though it's probably the sort of thing I would do.

I was telling Mrs Nunn about it later. She laughed a lot, paused, then added sagely, "It's a good job you weren't scratching your twat."

Thank you, Mrs Nunn.

Tech-no-logic

I have changed my broadband supplier. Along with defrosting the freezer, this makes me feel very adult.

There was nothing wrong with my old broadband supplier - Zen. They were recommended by a friend, and their tech support and customer service was excellent. But, sadly, Sky have tempted me by offering me the same speed product with a greater download limit for only £5 per month, when I'd previously been paying £18. It was a no brainer.

Much like Sky's tech support person I spoke to earlier.

Ho hum. Still, I'm all set up and whizzy now. Can't send emails yet, but I can receive them. Besides which, Facebook's kind of replaced all that, hasn't it?


It's really odd how the Internet has - within the last ten to twelve years - totally revolutionised the way we live. I'm not just talking about leisure time, downloading files and watching video clips on YouTube. My family was an early adopter, and I was on the Internet back in 1995. But actually, that's not all that long ago.


Whilst personally I've never worked in a company without email, the first proper job I ever had, only my PC had the internet - because I was in charge of the website. I used to print everyone else's emails off for them each morning. Bigger companies had memo systems where multi-coloured carbon paper was filled out in triplicate and sent through an internal mail system. Sounds amazing, like something from the 1930s. And yet this was only twelve years ago.


Child of the new millennium I may be, but I genuinely can't imagine how an office could function without the ability to send files to each other at the click of a button and to know they were received instantly and securely.


Being in the office today for the first time in four days, I had 140 emails, all of which needed actioning.


Occasionally I wonder if the memo system defined a more metred pace, and perhaps less frantic stress.


Ah well, the joys of Facebook Scrabble are recompense enough.

Hair today... more tomorrow

OK Ploggers, this is a girls' only post. Any men entering the Plog may leave now.

(Waits. Waits some more. Peers round the corner, and sees a few men still lurking. Hang on, this should work...)

Oooh, isn't Brad Pitt dreamy? This Plog is going to be about how dreamy Brad Pitt is, and then after that I might talk about periods or other things that make men feel a bit icky.

(Checks. Men all gone.)

OK girls. Let's talk about hair. What the fuck is going on? The older I get, the more body hair I seem to sprout in new and interesting places. I'm sure I'm not alone, but I definitely remember when I was about eighteen, I used to shave my legs once a week or so and that was pretty much it. Possibly I plucked my eyebrows.

These days I have to employ a twenty-four hour care team, just to deal with - as I like to term them - "strays". Hairs that exist in places which no-one, man or woman should have hairs. What the fuck is going on? I'm not even a particularly hairy or dark-skinned person. In fact, I'm pale as a particularly pasty pancake.

My bikini line now starts somewhere mid-calf and finishes approximately at my belly-button. I say "approximately" because to be honest, it's hard to keep up. There's more every day.

I did a quick cost/income analysis and realised that with the amount I'm spending on waxing, razors and so on, I should just cut my losses and invest in a sex change operation. Stop the shaving, get a cock. Result.

From now on, you may call me Barry.

Star-struck

"That girl in the film looked familiar," said I. "She looked a bit like Gwyneth Paltrow, but it wasn't. The other girl looked like Gwyneth Paltrow too, but she wasn't either."

"Which one?" asked my friend.

"Both of them," I replied, perfectly coherently.

We'd been to see Stardust, which comes highly recommended. Man-flu had abated sufficiently to risk a brief cinematic outing - especially where there's a chance to catch Dexter Fletcher dressed as a pirate.

"Do you mean the girl who played the star?" asked my friend, patiently.

"Well, yes, she was one of them. And that Victoria one."

"Well Victoria was Sienna Miller."

"Oh, OK," I said.

"And the one who played the star was Claire Danes."

"Noooo!" I said. "Nooooo!"

Back in the day, I was a big My So-Called Life fan. Surely I couldn't have watched an entire film with Claire Danes in without even realising? Ploggers, I had. Well, to be fair to myself, she'd changed her hair colour. How am I supposed to see through a disguise like that? Cunning vixen.

"Anyway," I continued, "was the chief pirate Ian Holm?"

My friend laughed. "Really?"

"Well," I said, "was it?"

"That was Robert De Niro."

"Oh," said I. "Who's he? He looks an awful lot like Ian Holm."

The friend laughed a lot.

Jennie, if you're reading this, this is why I'm not a spy. I don't recognise people if they change their hair colour, and apparently also if they're "one of the most famous actors in the world". Not that famous, clearly.

Bird flu

Ah, man-flu... the joys.

Yes, it's only a cold, yes, I'm not technically a man, so I'm not supposed to be allowed man-flu, but essentially I would like someone to feed me soup and tempt me with tasty tidbits when I feel strong enough to raise my poorly head.

So I apologise for brief blogging, but I am off to snooze. Soup may be mailed to the usual address.

Going bust

As we all know, Mrs Nunn is a bit... eccentric. However, Mrs Nunn's own mother takes eccentric to entirely new levels. Genetically, I have to admit, it's not looking good for me.

Mrs Nunn told me today that she'd spoken to Grandma on the phone, and had told her I was likely to be abroad with work in Asia in a few weeks. Clearly forgetting I'd already been round the world by myself, and done loads of solo travelling, Grandma dispensed her wisdom:

"Tell her to wear long sleeves. Tell her not to wear a skirt that's too long. Or too short."

Mrs Nunn, stood up for me, "What if she wants to wear trousers?"

Grandma pondered this for a few seconds. "Tell her not to. People might be confused and think she's a man."

Thanks Grandma. So the long blonde highlights and the 32D bust* clearly aren't working for me. Better wear a calf-length skirt. And maybe get my nails done.

* Did I really just reveal my bra size to the internet? Ah well, only Cliff Richard fans read this anyway. I should be safe.

Thank you for the music

Two years ago I got a song stuck in my head. OK, it's happened to us all at some point, but this was like nothing I'd ever experienced before. I blame it on Terry Wogan. One morning, whilst I was having a shower, he played a version of "Don't Know", originally done, I think by Kirsty MacColl. This one was recorded by Katrina - of Katrina and the Waves fame. It was a nice song. A bit hypnotic, but nice.

He played it again the next morning. This sealed the deal. For literally two weeks, I had barely anything but this song traipsing through my head, morning, noon and night. At one point it was so bad, I fairly seriously considered seeing a doctor. Particularly one phrase repeated itself in my head: "No I won't listen to their wasted lines, got my eyes wide open and I see the signs..." Over and over and over. If you're brave, you can check it out at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dywp6Ktx3fI

I tried everything to get rid of it. I tried listening to the song again, to see if that would help. It didn't. I tried singing other songs - everything from Tiffany to children's songs. Nothing worked. Eventually it faded and I was able to get on with my day job again.

The madness was over. Until yesterday.

Since following a link on the cursed YouTube at the weekend, I've had a song from Avenue Q on constant repeat in my noggin. It's got so bad, I've even been back to YouTube to listen to Katrina's song again to see if that one can replace it. Now I have them both stuck in my head. I think I might be going quite mad.

So if anyone knows a sure-fire cure to get rid of annoying head-based songs, then please let me know. I'll try anything. I'm desperate*.

* Not desperate enough to try Cliff Richard.

Blind man's guff

Time for some honesty. I don't like Christmas. At all. Before you wave me off with shouts of "Bah humbug", here are some things I do like about Christmas:

• Choosing gifts for people
• Taking the piss out of the Midnight Mass sermon
• Getting to sing "It came upon the Midnight Clear" (beneath the angel strain hath tolled two thousand years of wrong... and man at war with man hears not the love song which they bring. Oh hush the noise ye men of strife, and hear the angels sing... Lovely.)
• Getting to see friends and family that I don't always manage to catch up with at other times of the year.

There are many things I do not like about Christmas. A lot of this is the shopping frenzy. For a few years now, I've done all my Christmas shopping online, but I still hate having to pop into Boots for a sandwich or whatever near Christmas as I end up queueing with all the stupid people. Luckily this year, it looks like I might be abroad for the worst part of it.

Also, I hate how they change the words of carols to be more politically correct. "And warring humankind hears not the love song which they bring. Oh hush the noise of human strife..." Oh fuck off. It's usually men fighting anyway. Unless you're in Coalville on a Friday night.

Anyway, yesterday, yesterday, barely scraping into November, I was at Liverpool Street tube station. There was a busker, who I've often heard at Chancery Lane... he's blind... and whistles. Badly. This is annoying enough when he does "Greensleeves" or a selection from The Sound of Music. Last night I was treated to an out-of-tune version of "The Holly and The Ivy".

It's early November! The fucker. Still, he didn't see me make off with his little hat full of money, so there's a silver lining to every cloud.

Freeze frame

I am a proper grown up.

I am defrosting the freezer*.

That is all.

* This may be because I accidentally left it half open because maybe I'm not quite as responsible as other proper grown ups.

Interview with the law

My friend Jeanette is job-hunting. Today she had an interview with a well-known legal firm. She called me this evening.

"How did it go, Jeanette?" asked I.

"Well..." she said. "It was a bit weird. The office was nice - over in the Docklands." She paused. "Laura, have you ever been in an interview where the interviewer has used the word 'cunt'?"

"Are you sure this was an legal firm?" I asked. "Because actually, that has happened to me, but it was a different sort of job, and it was kind of less Docklands, and more King's Cross. Mostly shift work. Nights, specifically."

"Seriously," she said. "He used the word 'cunt'. And said 'fucking' twice. He asked me if I had a boyfriend. And then he told me that Finsbury Park spelled backwards was Krapy Rubsnif."

"Did you get the job?" I asked.

"No. Apparently they were looking for someone with a bit more professional experience."

Still, Krapy Rubsnif? Brilliant!

Gamey

Beware people. Back when the weather was sunnier and generally less dark, I introduced you to a genius game. Please see http://laurasplog.blogspot.com/2007/08/cine-tastic.html.

Take any film title, and add the phrase "between my legs" to the end of it. Instant hilarity guaranteed.

But now I feel it is my duty to warn you of the game. I have discovered a dark secret, much like when they suddenly realised that smoking cigarettes actually wasn't that good for you after all. Here you go - the dark secret: once you start playing this game with someone, there is absolutely no escape. One of you will come up with a film title... the other will have to better it. With competitive people, this game literally goes on for hours.

Basically yesterday evening two of us got stuck in loop. Between my legs.

Only joking

Is there anything quite so sweet as remember a long-forgotten joke, and laughing at it anew? I have two absolute favourite jokes. The biscuit joke, and the orange-head joke. The biscuit joke I can't tell to anyone a) because I can't get to the end of it without laughing and b) because the joke recipient rarely (if ever) laughs, and then I find that I judge them for not finding one of my favourite jokes funny.

All I have to do to make Erica laugh is say, "the biscuit joke". I don't even have to tell the biscuit joke. I just have to say "the biscuit joke". It is very funny. But you probably wouldn't like it.

The orange-head joke ... again, hardly anyone finds it as funny as I do. I think I like it because it plays on the genre and because it's ultimately very, very silly. Tellingly, neither of my favourite jokes is rude... Which is odd for me!

But today I was reminded of a very short, but nonetheless hilarious joke about Noddy. And I thought I would share it with you, in the hope of brightening your last few hours of Sunday.

Q: Why does Noddy wear a little blue hat with a little yellow bell on the end of it?

A: Because he's a cunt.

When in Rome...

Easter Day 1996. I was 16 years old and on holiday with my parents in Italy. Mrs Nunn didn't like flying, so we'd taken a 30-hour coach ride. Picture a geriatrics ward at your local hospital. Add to that a few hacking coughs, wall-to-wall Richard Clayderman and Stan Getz over the PA system, and a brash fat blonde guide, waddling up and down the aisle, shouting, "Brandy Bombers? Anyone want a Brandy Bomber?" The journey there was a special type of hell.

We had been to Florence, where I had sulked around the Uffizi. (How many paintings of Jesus does one building need?) We had visited some old town that involved walking up lots of hills. Finally, it was time for the day-trip to Rome.

The weather was beautiful. Rome was a delight. We saw the Pope, who was so far away, he looked like a little milk bottle on his balcony. We wandered through the streets... and came across a portrait artist. I had always wanted my portrait sketched, and my parents haggled with the artist and agreed a price. He said something about money - perhaps that he didn't want paying until the end. Dad gave the money to me to give to the artist. I sat down and he started to sketch me.

A crowd gathered, watching him draw. He looked up at me, looked at his paper, sketched, looked up again. Behind me, the sun shone down onto the Colosseum. He sketched some more. More people gathered. Mum said, "It looks really good." Finally he finished. He held out the portrait to me. I took it.

"Thank you," I said. "That's great."

I handed over the money to him.

"NO!" shouted the artist. "NO! You must not let me see the money! No!"

He snatched my portrait back and ripped it into tiny pieces. "Go away!" he shouted at me. "Go away!"

Mad. As. A. Tree.

Face to Facebook

I've tried to steer away from this, I really have. But I'm sorry, I'm going to have to talk about Facebook again. Specifically this time, an application called Compare People.

This application will bring up two of your friends at a time and ask things like "Who would you rather kiss?" You then click on the friend you'd rather kiss. Ratings can be anonymous, but you get the chance to see how you stack up against your other friends.

Well, over the last few weeks or so, results have been dribbling in. I would like to share some thoughts with you.

Apparently:

100% of people think I'm nicer than whoever they compared me to. I rock.

100% of people would rather live with me. Though the sample size is only two. And I can't stand to share, so to be honest, this one's a bit of a non-starter.

100% of people would rather sleep with me. Sounds fab. Sample size is one person. I'm hoping it's not my brother.

100% of people think I'm more famous. This is quite a coup, seeing as my friends include a large number of stand-up comics. Who are obviously a lot less famous than me, according to my friends.

100% of people think I'm more organised. I am.

But hang on a minute...

100% of people (three of the fuckers) think I'm more likely to skip class. ME? I was a total goody-goody. This is the girl who got a week's extension for her English coursework because she was in a school play. She then got flu for an entire week. Despite the flu, despite the play, she still handed in the work EARLY. Most likely to skip class indeed! (Unless they were university friends who voted, in which case, fuck yeah - wouldn't see me for dust if I had an optional lecture.)

0% of people (of a sample size of two) would rather get stuck in handcuffs with me. Good, because that's just going to be uncomfortable and embarrassing ultimately.

(This one really rankles) 0% of people think I'm more punctual! OK, the sample size was just one person, but really. I think I've only been late twice in my life. I'm guessing this "friend" is taking the piss. If I find out who it is, I'll arrange to meet up with them for a chat. And be early.

0% of people (of a whacking four people) think I'm more fashionable. This I can live with. Blame the personal shopper and move on.

One person thinks I'm better at science. We probably oughtn't let that person near the chemicals. Someone thinks I'm cuddly. I'm not sure in what way. One poor deluded soul thinks I have better taste in music. The Carpenters, The Beach Boys, Roxette and The Eagles would beg to differ. One person would rather take me shopping. I'd rather they didn't.

Is it time to get a real life yet?

Spooky

I have a shameful confession to make. Those of you who (mistakenly) consider me to be a reasonably intelligent human being, you may wish to look away now if you want to preserve that opinion.

It's a secret that I've tried to keep to myself, but I can no longer manage it. It's a momentous one. Here goes.

Every week I watch - and enjoy - Spooks. This is not (despite what my friend Jennie thinks) because I'm a spy. (She does actually hold this belief. It really cheers me up.) Just to qualify the first statement. I do watch, and do enjoy Spooks... it's beautifully edited, fast-paced, the characters are interesting, the gadgets are hugely fun. Here's the confession: I've never yet understood an entire episode all the way through.

Last week I thought we were in Iran, and it turned out to be some woods in the UK. (I had wondered why there was a UK licence plate, and put it down to poor attention to detail.) This week I had no idea how the Russians got involved in the vaccine thingy that the Americans had sold... nor why that woman had to download info from the computer to her memory stick. Made absolutely no sense to me.

Now you see, a couple of things worry me. Firstly, I do consider myself to be of average intelligence. I read Booker Prize-winning books - and enjoy them. I have a job that requires a certain amount of understanding what the fuck is going on. I have a mortgage and watch documentaries. I go to the theatre. I have frequented art galleries. Usually under duress, but that's beside the point. I'm fairly bright.

So - to address my first point - why the fuck can't I follow Spooks - presumably made for a mass-market audience?

Secondly, given that I've just admitted it to everyone, why the buggery bollocks do I keep watching it? Surely it has to be more than "it looks pretty on the television".

I never understood Inspector Morse either. Each episode would end with me saying to Mr Nunn, "Oh, so there were two men with beards?"

I have one small consolation. I have a friend (who will remain nameless as this is my confession, not hers), who is one of the brightest people I've ever met. She also watches Spooks every week, and like me, ends up totally confused at the end of every episode. We agree it looks good on TV.

Unless it's all an Emperor's New Clothes situation, and no-one understands it, but everyone else is unwilling to admit it. So - I propose a Spooks amnesty... Speak now if you're as confused as I am. (You don't have to admit to the Inspector Morse thing too.)

Phraseworthy

I am too tired to Plog properly. I've been over in Windsor* for the last few days, running a workshop. It went very well, but they're very long days, fraught with adrenaline, frustrations and standing up for about 10 hours straight, followed by socialising in the evening. Whilst everyone was lovely, I get my energy from time by myself, so the socialising aspect of the events are always something of an effort for me, and I'm delighted to be back home alone.

So, too tired for proper Plogging, I will instead share a phrase with you that Mr Nunn shared with me a day or so ago, and has made life more bearable. Anyone that annoys you (hotel receptionists who promise a lot and deliver nothing, people who cut you up on the motorway, opinionated know-nothings who take five minutes to say precisely sod all, usually when you're in a rush), basically anyone at all who gets on your tits... Mr Nunn defines these as "fuck-fairies".

What a great phrase. The world is peopled with fuck-fairies. Just saying the phrase in your head whilst a fuck-fairy is in the act of fuck-fairying is usually enough to make me smile. Thus making the day brighter.

Fuck-fairies. Brilliant.

* I still don't really know where Windsor is, but I think there's an airport nearby.

Jessica-n't

I am off tomorrow to Windsor. Windsor is one of those places that I know does exist, I imagine is sort of near London but I would really struggle to point at it on a map. Many people, quite rightly, might suggest that I struggle to point at a lot of things on a map. Including entire continents.

But it's not my fault if someone made South America and Africa the same shape, is it?

That's not the point. The point is, tomorrow Jessica, the Corsa and I are driving off to Windsor, with only a postcode for Jessica, and a vague awareness on my part that if I end up in Durham, I'm probably on the wrong track. Jessica might try to take me through Central London. I'm having none of it. So we very well might end up in Durham.

Watch this space. Not literally. It might be a day or so before I update again, and to be honest, that's a real waste of about twenty-four hours. Go and do something else. Maybe the washing up. Or reply to that email you've been meaning to. Go and stalk someone on Facebook. You know you want to.

And when (if) I find civilisation in Windsor, I'll be sure to let you know where it is. Deal.

Red Faced-book

Dear Lord, help us all. Mr and Mrs Nunn are on Facebook.

At first I wasn't too worried. Mrs Nunn can barely operate a lightswitch, and Mr Nunn can usually find better things to do with his time. The damage potential was limited. Or so I thought.

Yesterday evening, I get a phone call. It is Mrs Nunn.

"Laura - what are you plotting and scheming about?"

"Sorry, what do you mean?" I ask.

"Your Facebook status. It says, 'Laura Nunn is plotting and scheming'. What are you plotting?"

"Nothing," I tell Mrs Nunn, quite truthfully. "Sometimes I can't think of anything to put in the status box. Last week it said 'Laura Nunn is a lumberjack and she's OK'. It doesn't mean anything."

"You're lying," says Mrs Nunn. "I can always tell when you're lying."

"I'm not!"

"Yes you are. You're plotting something. Or scheming. Probably both. Anyway," continues Mrs Nunn, "I've got some lovely baby photos that your Dad's going to scan in and tag for you on Facebook. There's a great one of you naked on a potty with your fat little face all beaming..."

I have nightmares that start like this.

Teenage kicks

At school I was a bit of a goody-goody. Never got a detention. Was never disciplined for anything. Once I got asked to stop talking about my English homework in a Textiles lesson, but that was about it. Oh, once I got told off for "skiving PE"... by sitting in the school library and doing a French translation. Wild, I wasn't.

Even outside of school, my hobbies stretched to reading, playing the piano, running my own mini-business, theatre - nothing that would give any parent a cause for alarm.

It's sad to admit, but the highlight of my weekend in my UVI year (when I was 18) was not the Friday night out to the pub with my friends, which I often forwent in favour of (sadly) the TV show Friends. In fact, many weekends I would come home from school on a Friday night, and not leave again until Sunday afternoon, when the highlight would occur.

Are you ready for this?

My highlight: on Sundays I occasionally used to take Mum's car (with Dad's supervision)... and drive to Tesco for my parents' weekly shop.

Did I listen to loud music? No. I had a Roxette album and some Rod Stewart which I played quite quietly. Did I stay out late? No - I was always home at least half an hour before I said I would be. Did I come home roaring drunk? Well, once or twice, but not until I'd left school. Did I throw up on the carpet? Actually, I'll take the fifth on that one.

My point is, I never quite got round to a teenage rebellion. I did well in exams, was involved in wholesome extra-curricular activities, took a year out with a sensible job, went to a good university and studied an academic subject.

Basically I forgot to have a teenage rebellion. My dad, ever mindful of this, has often warned me that it's probably lurking. He originally thought I'd have it when I was 22. He revised this a few years back to 26.

I mentioned this whilst I was out with my friends the other night, celebrating my 28th. "I think it's about time for my teenage rebellion," said I.

Sarah pondered this thoughtfully. "You need to be careful," she said. "At your age, it could get mistaken for a mid-life crisis."

Fuck.

What what?

What a lovely birthday. Not only was there absolutely no skidding across the wooden floor and exposing myself to the neighbours (there's a sentence you shouldn't ever have to write), but I had some lovely presents from family and friends (special mention to my parents for the Les Mis CD, Erica for the brilliant and much-coveted monkey t-shirt, and to Hazel's mum for her inspirational Plog present. Which may or may not have included Marmite. I don't want to give too much away.).

The evening saw dinner at my favourite London restaurant, Patterson's, with Erica, Katy (who smells of wee), Kath, Sarah and Helen. The meal was excellent, the company was fantastic, and the chef wrote "Happy Birthday" on my plate in chocolate.

On seeing this, the blonde girl on the next table squealed at me: "Is it your birthday?"

"Yes," said I. For it was.

She looked shocked. "It's my birthday too." She said this as if it was the strangest coincidence in the world that two people in London should both have their birthday on the same day.

"Is it?" I feigned interest and delight.

"Only the waiter doesn't know," lamented the blonde girl. Who was frankly beginning to get a bit irritating.

Five minutes later her dessert arrived, with "Happy Birthday" duly iced on her plate in chocolate. The waiters at Patterson's are magic.

The blonde birthday girl actually clapped and squealed some more. I saw no reason to celebrate the fact that she'd lived this long.

At dinner this evening at Incognito with my friend Boothie (yes, I live a hedonistic lifestyle where I eat out a lot. I apologise. But I'm not really sorry.), the waiter was so French, we couldn't understand a bloody word he was saying. Let me just clarify. My French is actually pretty good. He was speaking English with such a thick French accent that we really, really struggled.

"Zee reeesottto, eet comes weeth leeeeat," said our waiter, to my enquiry as to what sort of risotto was on the menu.

"Sorry, could you say that again?" I asked politely.

"With leeeeat."

Boothie helped me out, "With what?" she asked.

"Yes," replied the waiter.

"With what?" Boothie and I enquired again.

"Yes," the waiter said confidently.

We didn't order the risotto. But did have a side order of what. After all, it is in season at the moment.

Birthday suit

The challenge is on. Tomorrow is my birthday. Every birthday for the last three years (excepting the last one) has gone like this:

I get up for work and have a lovely shower. As I turn the shower off, I'm gradually aware that a phone is ringing. I listen harder. It is my landline, in my living room. No time for towelling before voicemail cuts off my early-morning caller, I rush into my living room, my wet feet skid on my wooden floor, and in an attempt to regain balance, I smack my knee against my desk. In considerable pain I grab the phone and answer proudly, just in time.

Then I realise that I am standing totally naked in front of my living room window. And I didn't draw the curtains last night. My knee is bleeding a bit.

"Happy birthday!" shout a ridiculously cheerful Mr and Mrs Nunn down the phone to me.

Mindful that this had happened three years in a row, last year I (cunningly) briefed them, telling them that this time I would call them. Yet, as I turned the shower off, on 17 October last year, sure enough I heard the phone ringing.

I dashed across the hall, skidded into the living room, smacked my leg across the desk, got to the phone just in time... realised I was naked in front of open windows... "Happy birthday!" said Hazel.

Ah well, tis good to have good friends and good family, and it entertains the neighbours once a year. This year, I'm taking precautions. I'm off to draw the curtains.

Not-so-super market

I'm going to be honest with you. I don't cook very often. I'm going to be more honest with you. I rarely ever cook. I probably defrost either a pizza or a microwave meal a couple of times a week, and if I happen to be around on a weekend, I might attempt an omelette or an easy-peasy spaghetti bolognaise. If I'm bored and have butter, I might make some chocolate chip cookies to take into work for my colleagues. The rest of the time I tend to eat out. There. I've admitted it.

OK, it means my monthly expenditure on restaurants is pretty high, but the plus side is that I only have to go to the supermarket about once every three weeks... and often spend less than a tenner.

My local supermarket is Sainsbury's, and currently they're refurbishing. They've already done the car-park, and I had a leaflet from them a few weeks ago saying they were going to be closed between 10-18 October to put their finishing touches to their "improved" store (i.e. more expensive and fewer car-park spaces). Still, this was only nine days. I can easily go for a month between supermarket visits. Besides which, I work opposite a Sainsbury's and live two minutes' walk from a Costcutter. It wouldn't be a problem.

Fuck me if I haven't wanted to go to Sainsbury's every single day since the 10th of October. Of course, it's for totally urgent things like sour cream and chive dip, Hula Hoops and Innocent Smoothie. The sort of things a girl simply can't get through the week without. And it's another FIVE days until they open again. And I'm OUT that night. Will the ridiculous cruelty of my life never end?

Air rage

Yes, yes, yes. I have been a rubbish blogger. This is a familiar refrain. However, I have been Very Busy Indeed.

On Wednesday I was up at 4.30 a.m. to go up to Edinburgh for work, and didn't get back until Thursday afternoon. I was up again at 6 a.m. on Thursday to get an early morning flight back to London City. I say "early monrning" - actually my 9 a.m. flight from Edinburgh Airport departed somewhere around midday. You've got to love BA. This time it was fog. As I've said before, if you can land in the dark, why the buggery bollocks can't you land when there's a bit of cloud? Also, presumably sometimes it's foggy up in the air - you can't see a bleeding thing, yet, miraculously, the planes don't drop out of the sky. I think it's an excuse for the staff to have a piss up. "At 9 a.m.?" I hear you ask. "This is Scotland," I would reply. "It is actually illegal not to be drunk by midday."

Then, most likely, I would get taken off the plane for talking to myself.

Anger management

Angry Cockney in the flat below is being angry again. This is what he does best, and how he earned his (fabulously witty) nickname.

I think he is a taxi driver by trade, which explains a) the fact that he watches TV at top volume at four in the morning and b) the black cab I often see him driving.

He seems to be angry all the time. Once I heard him having a full-blown row about batteries for the remote. Most of the time it's a hectoring tone though... "And anyway, I said to him that he couldn't go on doing that and he ONLY did. I was going all up and down looking for it and IT'S RIDICULOUS." I'm putting in my own words, because all I can hear is the muffled rise and fall of his very angry voice, unless I have my windows open.

I wonder if he genuinely does get high blood pressure at things like running out of toothpaste or finding out he's got odd socks on. It must be a very stressful lifestyle. It really sounds like my own personal (slightly muffled) episode of Eastenders.

On which note, I will regale you with my favourite Islington anecdote. Now, Islington is a real mixture of very posh and very rough. Wandering through the market one winter's day, I heard one woman (who would probably fall into the latter category), talking to her friend, who demographically I think would also be in this section. I believe the exact phrase was:

"And I told her, I did. I said if she facking did that a-facking-gain, I'd kick her in the facking cunt."

It made me giggle for at least ten minutes.

The whole tooth

Well, Ploggers, I have to say your voting skills were generally poor. Mr and Mrs Nunn were confused and wanted to vote for previous Plogs. The rest of you didn't care. How do you think that makes me feel? Hmm? Hmm? I'll tell you: totally ambivalent.

Anyway, by a margin of 2:1, the Hackney dentist story came top. So here we go.

In March 2003 I became aware I hadn't been to the dentist for a little while, so registered with a Dr Kibble (yes, that was his real name - apparently) near where I lived in Dalston. My appointment was before work. And into the surgery I trotted.

Because my appointment was first thing in the morning, I didn't have to wait, and went straight through with Dr Kibble, who confirmed my fears that I'd need a couple of fillings. We consulted our diaries for when I could come back. Perhaps alarm bells should have started to ring when he informed me he'd be free that evening at 5.30. Usually for NHS treatment, there's a waiting list of a good few weeks. However, delighted that I could get an appointment so soon, I thought no more about it.

Back I trotted again to Dr Kibble in the evening. Now, I'm a bit of a nervous patient, and also local anesthetic works very slowly on me. It does work, but it takes longer than with most people - so usually I'm in pain when I have the procedure... and then half an hour later my mouth is totally numb.

I advised Dr Kibble of this. He took me through into the surgery. I was surprised that there was no dental assistant - just me and the dentist. Making small talk, I commented on the fact that he had a TV positioned in front of the dentist's chair.

"Yes, well, I live here," he said.

I thought he was joking. I laughed.

"I sleep in this chair actually."

I laughed again. Until it became very, very obvious that he was telling the truth. This was decidedly odd, and didn't sound particularly hygienic, but by this point I was strapped in with bits of cotton wool shoved into my mouth. Not literally strapped in. Although it wouldn't have surprised me by the end of the appointment.

Dr Kibble injected me with anesthetic. Suddenly I felt my heart absolutely racing, although I wasn't more nervous than your average patient who's alone in a room with a strange man who sleeps in his dentist's chair. OK, fair point. But my heart was really, really racing. I wondered if I'd had some sort of reaction to the injection. So I told Dr Kibble:

"I don't want to alarm you, but my heart's beating really fast."

"Yes," Dr Kibble said. "It will. I've injected you with adrenaline. It will make the anesthetic work faster."

Over the next hour (I was in there a long time), I learned the following things about Dr Kibble:

• He is legally allowed to buy nitrous oxide (laughing gas) because he is a dentist. He does indeed buy it and puts it in his car to make it go faster.
• Because he is half-Chinese, he refers to himself as "the Chinky dentist". This made me feel somewhat uncomfortable. As if having your mouth shoved with cotton wool, your teeth drilled to fuck, being injected with borderline-legal substances and being alone with a possible psychopath wasn't enough, he had to top it all by being vaguely politcally incorrect.
• He wanted to garner my opinions on whether or not it was OK to ask patients out on a date.

Still, he was cheap.

But after moving to Bethnal Green, I didn't go back. Though to be honest, I've never yet met a normal London dentist. Perhaps it's all the mercury fillings they deal with, sending them all bonkers.