The customer is always... moaning

I think I am a reasonable human being. I have lots of friends (which I am led to believe is a good sign) and there are very few people in the world whom I actively dislike. But for some reason, I seem to suffer the world's worst customer service pretty much anywhere I go.

I currently have outstanding disputes (as in they're not resolved, as opposed to being fantastic) with the following companies:

- British Gas (Electricity)
- British Gas (Gas)
- Homebase (New kitchen)
- Sky (Lying bastards)
- BT (Also lying bastards)
- Thames Water (So bad that OFWAT is now dealing with it)
- Nationwide (Beyond a joke)
- 3 Mobile ("I am sorry that your mobile doesn't work. If you return it to the shop, we'll send it back to you within three days with its memory wiped. Yes, I know you've only had it for three weeks. You can't have a new one. Go away now.")

I suppose there are two possibilities. Either I am genuinely unlucky when it comes to matters of service, and things run very smoothly for everyone else in the world, or perhaps I just moan more than the average person.

I like to think it's the former. Anyone who disagrees with me will be added to the above list.

Have I got snooze for you

I have just woken up from a mid-afternoon nap. It was one of the most perfect naps I have ever had, and all the more so because it was unplanned. Unplanned napping is my favourite sort of napping.

This afternoon was going to be about reading the novel for the next book club - Lark Rise to Candleford. Apparently I was named after the heroine in the novel, but I've haven't actually previously read it. When I mentioned this to my dad recently, he said, "I didn't know you were named after that novel. I wouldn't have let your mum name you if I knew she was going to name you after some chick lit shit."

Anyway, I digress. I have two white, fluffy floor cushions, as my living room floor is wood, so I put them together in the afternoon sunshine that comes through my west-facing windows, and I laid across them to read my book. I lasted less than one paragraph before the napping urge came upon me.

Bathed in dilute April sunlight, encased by puffy white cushions, I napped like the happiest cat in the world.

Then I woke up and realised that I still have to do the washing up.

Plugging on the Plog

I don't normally do this. And I won't do it again. Well, I probably will, but at the very least I'll try and disguise it a bit better.

Today's Plog is in aid of a gig I'm doing next week. The Backyard Comedy Club in Bethnal Green very much inspired my love of comedy, and indeed it was through going to this fantastic venue practically every weekend a few years back that finally encouraged me to try out stand-up for the first time. It truly is undoubtedly the best comedy club in London. In my opinion, obviously. And the people that run it are lovely too.

So it is not without a small amount of excitement that I can tell you that I'm helping to organise a new night at the Backyard, for up-and-coming acts, along with more famous names who'll be trying out their new material. And I, Ms Laura Nunn of Tower Hamlets, will be taking to the stage on Wednesday 2 May.

This is also the date my new kitchen is supposedly being delivered, should you be interested.

I do not wish you to come to see the kitchen being delivered, but part of promoting a new night is making sure we've built an audience. So, if you find yourself anywhere near London next Wednesday, come and support live comedy. You will see me trotting out the same old shit, plus maybe one new joke about Muslims. It's not offensive though. Promise. Plus all the other comics will be good*.

Hope to see you on Wednesday. Unless you're stalking me, in which case observing the kitchen delivery probably suits your shady and covert lifestyle a bit better.

*Not in a moral sense. In fact several of them are very definitely bad.

Counciling

I have wasps living inside my window frame. Surely this cannot be normal. I do not know of anyone else who has wasps living inside their window frame.

Tower Hamlets council handled things with their usual efficiency. "Are the wasps in your loft?" she asked me.

"No. Well, they might be. I never go in my loft. There might even be a body in there," said I.

"So you'd like to report a body in your loft," the council woman said - not quite as incredulously as one might have hoped.

"No, no. Just wasps."

"In the loft?" she asked.

"No. In the window frame," said I.

"Wasps in the window frame," she confirmed. "Not above the window frame?"

"No. Actually inside the window frame. I've watched them go in and out."

"So, we've got an appointment for you on May 14th for removal of the wasps' nest. I'm just going to put you through to environmental health about the body in the loft. Please hold."

Letjag

I am still jetlagged. I am sluggish. Like a slug. Or maybe a snail, because I do have my own shelter.

I managed to pour toothpaste down my front earlier and have no idea how I achieved this.

I forgot to eat today until four p.m. Even then, the most sensible thing I could think of to eat was a hot cross bun. Well, two hot cross buns.

Don't try and get any sense from this Plog.

Worse - tomorrow I have to go back to work and be a high-performing and productive team member. Or, I might by some of those goggle-eye glasses and have a snooze at my desk.

I saw my friend Elinor earlier today, which was really nice. Or maybe I dreamed it. No, I did. There was coffee involved. This kept me awake for a good few minutes longer. (As did Elinor's scintillating company, obviously. I don't need to suck up, she almost always falls asleep when she's with me. Admittedly that's often when she's staying overnight, but that's not really the point.) I genuinely can't remember what happened for the rest of the day.

Why oh why oh why oh why oh why has no-one found a cure for jetlag yet? I've been back in the UK since Sunday and I still feel like - to quote a great film - a pig shat in my head.

Still, I have a minty fresh shirt, should anyone be in the market for one.

Nunnster's Millions

I am still on annual leave. And I am liking it very much. In fact, I'd go as far to say that I like it more than work. The most strenuous thing I have done all day is to return a library book, approximately six minutes' walk from where I live.

So my new plan is to become independently wealthy, although I am not sure how to achieve this. I'm thinking that a one-bedroom flat in Bethnal Green does not a multi-millionaire make. Although when I went to Turkey I was a millionaire because the Turkish currency was so rubbish, that a million Turkish Lira was about twenty pence. Anyway, I digress.

So, plans to become independently wealthy:

1. Marry (and divorce) a multi-millionaire, taking half his millions with me. This seems a tad unethical.

2. Marry a very old multi-millionaire and wait for him to die. Also not terribly ethical, and people can live a long time these days.

3. Invent a time machine, and invest in Apple, IBM or something, thus on my return to the future, I will be a multi-millionaire. To be honest, the invention of the time machine itself might result in a few extra quid. Could involve a modicum of work though in the interim, not to mention a basic understanding of Physics for which I'm not sure my "B" at GCSE is adequate.

4. Mug lots of old ladies. See drawbacks on ethics for points one and two. Besides which, I live in Bethnal Green; most old ladies here only have enough cash on them to buy their next crack fix.

5. Convince Madonna to adopt me. Will probably still have to wait for her to die though until I inherit, plus I might have to share with all the other kids. I'm not very good at sharing.

Any other suggestions gratefully received (donations also to the usual address).

In the meantime, I have one more day of annual leave. I fully intend to spend at least some of tomorrow pottering.

In a mard

Today I was going to accomplish two things:

1. Have my new kitchen delivered (admittedly this wasn't much on the accomplishment front, mostly just signing for things)

2. Make sure Sky give me a refund for the amount they've mistakenly charged me.

So... Number 1. Didn't happen. Rude, ugly Liverpudlian girl told me they'd made an error and in fact it couldn't be delivered for another ten days. OK, so she was only on a phone so I'm not sure she was ugly, but I bet she was pram-faced.

And Number 2. I love Sky Plus. Sky Plus is one of the greatest innovations of all time, but Sky (the company) are utter, utter bastards. Their customer service is shit and they tell you barefaced lies to get you to sign up for things. I can back this all up with evidence, should anyone from Sky try to sue me. I have paperwork. They were also rude to me, using the brilliant customer service line, "Ms Nunn if you'd let me finish so I can do my job,". Wankpots.

So, to make sure this gets picked up by the Google search engines... Sky are bastards. Sky customer service is shit. Sky tell lies. Sky's customer service staff are rude and unhelpful. And very probably ugly. Though I can't prove that. They are also a bit Scottish, which isn't necessarily a bad thing, but if you're already rude and ugly, then it's not going to go in your favour, is it?

Still, at least I didn't kick anyone today. Yet.

Hmm, maybe I am jetlagged after all.

International relations

Early this afternoon I kicked a Spanish woman in the face. I bet it happens to her a lot. She certainly took it with good grace.

The weather in New York for my last day has been utterly glorious. Pretty hot - probably about 27 degrees, maybe more in the sun. After ascending the Empire State (will upload some more photos if I have time - usual address), I wandered to Macy's and then decided to get a manicure.

It was during the manicure that Kickinggate happened.

"But how, Laura?" I would hear you ask. "What can possibly happen during a manicure with a Chinese lady that could cause you to kick a Spanish woman in the face?"

"That is a very good question," I would reply.

So the Chinese woman was doing my nails, and, being a good saleswoman, convinced me to go for the pedicure too. The dollar being so weak against the pound at the moment means that, compared with London, money isn't really an issue out here.

Now, I have never had a pedicure before. And probably never will again.

So after the manicure, they run a little bubble bath for my feet, and pop me in a nice comfy chair. The Chinese lady then hands me over to a Spanish lady. See where this is going?

The Spanish lady does something with my toenails, but then pops on some bright green minty liquid and starts rubbing my feet. I am a bit ticklish, but grin and bear it. But then she gets out her Blue Tickling Block (this may not be its actual name) and starts rubbing away at the soles of my feet. "You have nice soft feet," she says, pleasantly. The tickling becomes unbearable. I squirm in my chair.

"You are lucky to have such soft feet," says the Spanish lady, rubbing a bit more vigorously.

I nod politely, trying not to laugh at the horrendous tickling.

"You've never had a pedicure before?" asks the Spanish lady, still making foot-conversation and suddenly switching foot on me.

Reader, I kicked her in the face.

It was an accident, and I did apologise. And leave quite a big tip.

But still, why does every holiday have to end with an unfortunate incident involving someone from another ethnicity in a disturbing physical way? (See Chinese prostitute story.)

Summer in the city

The weather is warm! The Chrysler Building is sparkling! The Empire State Building is... tall. It's much easier to love a place when the weather's good. I will try not to get annoyed that the climate change happened a day before I leave.

So, amongst other stuff, today I went to sit in Central Park for a bit - up to the West side which I hadn't previously been to. The subway still annoys / confuses me, but I tend to get to where I need to be... eventually. So I went and sat near Strawberry Fields (the John Lennon memorial, near to where he was shot), found myself a magnolia tree and basked in the sunshine, like a big basking thing.

People carry their poodles. A dog that can't walk for itself does not deserve the gift of life. This does not apply to disabled people. Well, probably some of them, but I don't think we can be generic about it. I'll change the subject.

Those of you interested in stalking me can check out new photos uploaded to http://www.imagestation.com/album/pictures.html?id=2093145757. One thing I would like to say. ONE thing.

About two weeks ago, I shed my blonde tresses and went back to being brunette. And not a single arsing person has sodding well noticed. Not anyone at work, none of my friends have commented (with the exception of lovely Cat, who I'd not even seen for two years)... do you guys just not look at me or what? Right, I'm going into work topless when I get back. See if at the very least I can raise an eyebrow...

Well, raise something anyway.

So tomorrow is my last day in the city. I have to check out of my hotel room at midday and am planning on doing as many typically NYC things as possible prior to this. If you have any suggestions, please do make them before midday UK time tomorrow. Here's what I'm thinking so far:

- Up the Empire State Building (just a few blocks from here)
- Coffee and doughnuts for breakfast
- Manicure at a nail bar
- Hot dog from a street vendor

Anything else you can think of (for preferably not a huge amount of money)? I will try and meet all challenges.

Bullets (not the sort you buy in supermarkets over here)

Today Americans have been winding me up. And French people. French people are genuinely rude. I love it when racial stereotypes come true.

Annoying American Habits (part one):

• Cutting right in front of you to wander down the street, then stopping dead a few metres ahead, with an expression of utter bewilderment on their faces, as if they've temporarily completely forgotten why they're there. I still haven't worked out what's distracting them. It could be the shiny lights, or a paper bag blowing past in the street.

• No-one in the whole of New York a) sells stamps or b) knows where to buy them. This is not a massive problem, as postcards will only be going out to my grandparents, and it'll be as quick to post them when I get back to the UK. But seriously not to know where you can buy stamps? For fuck's sake.

• The particularly stupid American I sat next to this evening at Legally Blonde - The Musical. He proceeded to tell me a) I sound like I'm from Manchester. I would have let this one pass, had he not (proudly) proceeded to tell me that he's pretty good with accents. Can even tell an Australian from a British accent. Unfortunately not his arse from his elbow though. He then went on to tell me how not all Muslims are terrorists, but all terrorists are Muslims. I mentioned the IRA. He said, "Is that still going awwwn?" Blagh. I farted towards him during the intermission.

• The advert I saw, saying, "Some medications you're on can cause problems and symptoms of their own." 'Oh good,' thought I, 'finally maybe an advert for people to cut down their drugs or perhaps some sort of homeopathic remedy'. Not so. This was a new pill you could take to reduce the symptoms caused by your other medication. Great. Ditto the advert on the underground train: "Is your current antidepressant not working?" What the fuck? The assumption that we're all on antidepressants? Now, I have no problem with people who need to be taking antidepressants, but to assume that it's worth advertising about on a public transport system is a bit sick.

• Unquestioning patriotism. An American flag comes out and people literally start cheering and whooping. Americans like noise and themselves. This is why America is Very Far Away from the other continents.

• The ridiculous wastefulness. Every time you buy a sandwich for example, it's triple wrapped with far too much filling (most of which I bin) and a whole stack of paper napkins... This evening I asked for a fork with my fruit salad, and two plastic forks were put in my bag. I genuinely cannot imagine a circumstance where I would need two forks to eat one fruit salad. If I was intending on sharing the fruit salad, I would have asked for two forks. I honestly believe America could halve its plastic (and oil) consumption by just being a little bit more conscious.

• And a little bit less fat.

OK, that all sounds a bit negative. I am having a good time over here, and a lot of Americans are bright and do understand satire; it's the country that brought us South Park after all. There just isn't much self-reflection in a lot of the people / TV I've seen - just a scary assumption that everything they're doing is right, and all of the other countries are wrong.

When in actual fact, everything I do is right, and anyone who disagrees with my own personal world views (which often change from one day to the next) is wrong. Glad we cleared that up. Listen up, America!

Drowsy Plogger

It stopped raining!

Today my friend Sara from primary school came to visit me. When I say "Sara from primary school", I don't mean I'm hanging round with a five year-old. That would be weird and a bit wrong. Sara and I went to primary school together in Loughborough some time last century. Sara now lives in Philadelphia, which is a train ride from NYC.

So... we did lots of Exciting Things.

Exciting Thing #1: walked from Brooklyn to Manhattan across the Brooklyn Bridge. This is harder than it looks because it's very hard to find the start of the bridge. It's mostly dual carriageway. It took us longer to find the bridge than it did to walk across it. Still, we got some photos. See? Pretty. Actually I've a feeling it's not going to work. Oh well. It's the first time this week I've been able to take my camera out - most of the time it's been raining too much.

Exciting Thing #2: went to the Chrysler Building - my favourite NYC skyscraper. Sadly, we couldn't go up into the building as it's office blocks, but the art deco architecture is fab.

Exciting Thing #3: saw The Drowsy Chaperone on Broadway. Lots of fun - recommended. Slightly sad undercurrent running through it of loneliness and missed opportunities, but comfortably the audience largely chose to ignore this, preferring to whoop.

Very tired. Good day, good company (I have to say that, Sara reads the Plog) ;o) and now it's time for bed.

I'm a bit rubbish with internet photoy things, but I think I've uploaded some pics to http://www.imagestation.com/album/pictures.html?id=2093145757. If you're very lucky, you might also be able to access my round the world trip piccies, and those of Kath's wedding. Luckily the porn shots are somewhere else.

God only knows where.

Utterly nuttery

(Not very) interesting New York fact: drivers are allowed to turn right on a red light. This means that they can very easily run over pedestrians who are trying to cross, even though the drivers are supposed to give way. I have given several Paddington Bear Hard Stares to several cars... though in every single circumstance, I've mistakenly aimed it at the empty passenger seat. Curse Americans for driving from the wrong side of the car.

Today it rained. But it mattered not to me (well, not much anyway), as I went out of town to an outlet mall, filled to bursting with goodies. Well, it was filled to bursting with goodies. Now it's mostly empty and most of the goodies are sitting in my hotel room. Not yet thinking about the credit card bill, though reckoning surely it must be my turn to win the lottery soon. Even if I don't buy a ticket. Ever.

To get to the outlet mall this morning I had to take a bus from the Port Authority Bus Terminal, which is apparently now "much safer" than it used to be. I can only assume they used to throw knives at you as you walked in. It had a fantastic collection of utter nutters, including the old lady with a trolley stacked with boxes who muttered to herself. She was an utter muttering nutter. Now, London is not without its fair share of "interesting" social misfits, but there's something a lot more exciting about foreign weirdos. They're more exotic somehow.

So I've a brilliant plan. It is truly brilliant. Round up all of the nutters in both London and New York, and swap them. I am certain an American nutter would do better in terms of begging and sheer entertainment value in London. And as for the London beggars in NYC... no matter how rough your English accent is, they still think you're probably related to the queen, so will definitely shove some cash your way. The public transport system is rejuvenated with a new type of nutter, the nutters get more cash; everyone's a winner!

This evening I met up with an ex-colleague and friend, Cat, who's now living in NYC. She took me to play bingo at a Mexican restaurant in the West Village (ooh, that sounded so New York). We didn't win the bingo, but she did coerce me into a Margarita - my first alcoholic drink in a long time. OK, maybe there wasn't that much coercing. But I'm on holiday! Really good to catch up and I told her all the gossip about our ex-colleagues.

The week is flying by so fast. (And it hasn't stopped raining yet!)

Learnings

I have learned several things in the two short days I have been in NYC.

1. Leather is not, in fact, waterproof. This came as a bit of a shock to me.
2. Everyone else wears cool wellies. Or "rainboots" as they call them, as it makes them sound less like a six year-old.
3. Macy's has a "fur vault" full of dead animal fur. As opposed to live animal fur. I suppose then it would be a pet shop.
4. The subway still makes absolutely no sense.
5. You can get a bagel and cream cheese and a cup of java mocha for $1.75 on Lexington.
6. If your ambition in life is to be a crack whore, you could do worse than starting at Port Authority Bus Terminal.

Today was Personal Shopper day at Macy's. Now, I am no stranger to the world of personal shopping (far too lazy to pick out my own outfits), but I'd never previously tried it Stateside. My shopper was called Talulah and had called me in the UK about a week ago to confirm our appointment.

Just after our scheduled time, someone shuffled into the "Macy's By Appointment" area. Talulah was about 307 years old. She said hello. I said hello. She didn't hear me. She was almost completely deaf.

"So what sort of thing are you looking for, Laura?" she shouted at me.

"Mostly work things - a few spring and summer bits and pieces."

"Work things in cerises?" she repeated to me, incredulously.

Unlike in London, where your shopper provides you with a cup of coffee and goes and does the hard work for you, here you have to troll round the shop with your assistant, who points at things and you have to tell her if you like them or not.

It was like shopping with my grandma.

Having said that, we got a few things I liked... and she came in bang on budget (after the slightly snide comment, "Doesn't the bank pay you any money?" I replied, "Do I like drinking honey? Why yes!" Two can play at that game, grandma.)

Weather report: not quite as dreadful as yesterday - moderate rain. New umbrella is "windproof". Yesterday was apparently the rainiest day since 1882, and the second rainiest since records began. Brilliant.

Washed out

New York City - 1: Laura - 0

I landed at JFK yesterday to a glorious evening. It was a tad colder than the UK but the sun was shining and the view of Manhattan's skyline was as amazing as I'd remembered it. Admittedly this time I was sharing a "SuperShuttle Bus" with a driver who sang (badly) along to the merengue on the radio, and a rude French couple (is there any other sort?) who refused to let the man sat next to them put his bag by their feet. And a British girl who kept threatening to be sick.

I dithered about going out to get my bearings once I found my hotel, but decided a good night's sleep would sort me out for the morning.

My hotel room is tiny - but clean and very central. It's hard to tell what the weather's like from inside as the window is very small and looks out onto a brick wall. Oh yes, nothing but luxury for me.

Because of the time difference, I woke up bright and early this morning, stuck the TV on, vaguely noted something about some sort of storm, jotted down a few addresses of things I wanted to see, and decided to go to a cafe for breakfast. On getting to the lobby, it became painfully apparent it was raining. Lots. Suddenly the idea of "leaving the umbrella in London" seemed like one of my worst decisions to date. No worries. I'm sure they sell umbrellas in NYC. And indeed they do. $7 later I was the proud owner of a Nice Purple Umbrella.

As the day progressed, it appeared I was in fact the proud owner of the world's first Incredible Leaking Umbrella (patent pending).

I decided to try my luck on the subway. I remembered it confused me last time, but I am a savvy Londoner, utterly au fais with the tube. I could conquer this!

I couldn't.

And I have to apologise. Because New York's subway system has been designed by a moron. Several of the tube stations have the same name. Meaning I thought I was on 23rd Street on the 1 line or the red line or whatever the fuck it is. In actual fact I was on the Broadway Local line. No matter, actually, this was good too, and I could walk from Cortlandt Street. Until, without warning the train didn't stop until we were well into Brooklyn. Construction work, apparently. Still, at least I've been to Brooklyn.

So why am I apologising? Well, the subway has clearly been designed by someone with no sense of direction, no logic, no attention to detail... In short, it was probably me. I probably invent / use a time machine at some point in the future, pop over to NYC and design a really fucking awful / half-hearted attempt at public transport. So, sorry about that.

Anyway, sod transport. I love walking. I'll walk!

Some point around midday, the Incredible Leaking Umbrella (patent pending) gave up its (somewhat tenuous) grip on life. Still, the weather was incredibly awful, so I can't really blame the brolly. I'm no wuss when it comes to rain; I lived in Bristol for three years. But this was a proper storm - I could barely edge a few inches forward before getting blown back again, flaps of broken umbrella and spokes of metal barely missing my eyes.

It was at this point, a mere 50 metres from Abercrombie and Fitch that I decided that this was actually quite dangerous. I ditched the idea of Abercrombie, ditched the brolly (which was no longer a brolly so much as a sheet of semi-waterproof material with a few useless pieces of metal dangling dangerously), hailed a cab (tried to explain to a not-exactly-fluent cab driver where West 31st and 5th Avenue was) and came back to my hotel.

Everything I was wearing was absolutely soaked, so as I write this, I'm stripped and wrapped in a fluffy towel, and wondering exactly how much of a waste of the holiday it would be if I didn't re-emerge from the hotel room.

Total expenditure today:

$10 breakfast
$7 brolly
$24 weekly subway card
$20 taxi fare...

... and nothing to show for any of it! And it's only 2 p.m...

Stereo bloody typical

My mum's grandfather was Greek. This means that Mrs Nunn is exactly one quarter Greek. She is very, very proud of this. In fact, whenever the opportunity arises, she ticks "Other" or "European" boxes on ethnicity forms. She is proud of her (some would say rather distant) heritage.

She also quite likes the idea that she might possibly be Jewish. "There are lots of Jews in Greece," she says. So whenever she's feeling particularly academic / musical / vegetarian, she'll say loudly, "It's probably because I'm Jewish." She isn't. She was born in Essex to two white Church of England parents, and the most Greek thing she's ever done is accidentally break a plate.

"I'm a bit autistic," Mrs Nunn will say. "I have a touch of Asperger's syndrome." She is also proud of this. She doesn't have Asperger's syndrome. She is slightly over-punctual and doesn't like things to be too untidy. This does not an autistic make. "You're autistic too, Laura. You have Asperger's."

"No, Mum. If I had Asperger's, I wouldn't understand humour. I'd take things literally. I'd have trouble understanding emotion. You are confusing Asperger's with being a bit organised and efficient and a bit arsey when people don't do things to the standards I expect."

"That's because you have Asperger's," Mrs Nunn will say. "And it's the Jewish Greek in you coming out."

How do you argue with that? I just threw a plate at her.

Eggactly

I walked to work this morning. I walked home from work this evening. That's probably a total of about three miles. So I think it's completely reasonable to eat at least six Creme Eggs to replenish my total calorie loss, don't you reckon? I wouldn't want to faint.

And I had some spinach for lunch. That's got to be worth at least another two eggs.

Today was my last day in before my holiday. No work for two weeks! I feel like a small child with too many Easter eggs.

Oh.

Cheesy

Erica and I were sitting in the Bradgate pub. It is in Newton Linford. That is a real place. I think it might be near Newton Birgoland, which is apparently also a real place, but I have a suspicion a schoolfriend made it up, just to make the question, "Ou habites-tu?" that bit more interesting in French Oral lessons. Imagine a grave accent on the "u" of "Ou". I can't be arsed.

So, we decided to order some nachos. We're like that, me and Erica. Sometimes we fancy nachos. These things happen. I went to order.

I waited. And waited. Three staff had a chat about the dishwashing rota. I waited. Eventually, "Can I help you?"

"Can I order some nachos, please?" asked I.

"Sorry, the kitchen's closed," said the chap. Then he looked unsure of himself. He was dithering. This could be our chance. His colleague loudly (and correctly) said, "It's Friday." As if this changed things somehow. Then he took our order. Well, he took my money.

"Do you want a table number?" I asked, helpfully.

"No," he asserted.

Well, you can guess what happened next... or can you? Well, guess again, Mr (or Ms) Smarty Pants. The nachos arrived in good time, to our table and very nice they were too.

Yes, that's not one of my better anecdotes, but it seemed more Ploggy than telling you how a schoolfriend was killed in Iraq last week, which to be frank has kind of dominated my more bubbly anecdotes for the last few days. I'm not going to discuss the merits or anti-merits of war, or the ethics of having women on the front line, but I do know that Jo Dyer was on the front pages of the weekend papers for all the wrong reasons. She took the lead role in the first play I ever directed, and had a fantastic stage presence. People have expressed war sentiments more eloquently than I ever will, and having lost touch with Jo after I left school, I can't claim her as a close friend. But I do know that this feels wrong.

I'm better at writing about pub food, aren't I?

Face-off

My little brother warned me this would happen. I scoffed. I am good at scoffing. It's a special gift for older sisters, just like new mothers get the automatic gift of "I told you so".

Jack warned me this would happen, and I scoffed. And now I must eat my words. For I, Laura Nunn, have a worrying addiction to Facebook.

I joined a few months ago, not really understanding its purpose (surely Friends Reunited is far better for subtle spying on people who weren't really your friends in the first place?), but with too much spare time on my hands with the Bank Holiday, I have Facebooked myself silly. I have updated my favourite novels, popped in a favourite quotation or two, and have now even linked my Plog to my Facebook page. Genius.

Only thing is, everyone else on Facebook is about five years younger than me. So I only have eleven friends. And two of them are really my little brother's friends rather than mine.

So if you know me, no matter how tenuously, please go to www.facebook.com and try and make me more popular than my brother. Thanks.

Oh also, Jack has tagged (see, I know all the lingo) some hugely embarrassing photos of me, and I've no idea how to get rid of them, so if anyone knows (or just wants an incentive to laugh at my ungainly posturing) then pop along and help me out.

Cunning linguist

Easter at the Nunn house. This can be anything from everyone gathered round the piano singing excerpts from Vivaldi's Gloria to a swear-word inventing match (we all quite like "cuntybollocks"), to today's challenge: write a pantoum.

A pantoum is a poem composed of quatrains, that has various lines repeated throughout. It's quite complicated (and dull) to talk about, so here is a lovely website, where you can fill your little boots with pantoumisms. http://www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/pantoum.htm

The Nunn house wavers between sublime and ridiculous, generally favouring the latter. I was the only one actually to write a pantoum; in fact I wrote two. Therefore, I win and should get all of the chocolate tomorrow. They should be the rules. And if they aren't, I'll be sulking.

Tomorrow's challenge involves trying to get the word "buttflick" into Sunday dinner with some straight-laced family friends.

Heavily accented

Long week, long hours and totally knackered.

Last night I went to see Richard Herring's ménage à un (do you have any idea how hard it was to get the correct accents there? My A-level in French wouldn't allow me to skip either of them. It's like I've been conditioned). Anyway, Mr Herring's show was the same Edinburgh show I'd seen in previews last year, and again at Edinburgh itself (with Nice Kate). Perhaps because I do comedy myself (or perhaps because I have a low IQ and therefore delight in repetition) I never seem to mind seeing shows several times, and enjoy either what's new, or the anticipation of a favourite joke.

I had a good evening anyway, which is something of an achievement as I was so tired. Richard was on form and seemed to be having fun with the show - which I admire as I know how easy it is to get bored of your own material. Unless you have a low IQ and therefore delight in repetition.

And as I saw Stewart Lee last week in Clapham (performing, I'm not stalking him or anything. Honest. Just because I've got form...), I feel I'm doing my bit in supporting comics who helped to form my love of comedy as a teenager. Now, does anyone have Harry Enfield's address?

MANipulation

Today at work, my PC had been upgraded to a new operating system. We'd been given careful step-by-step instructions that were apparently totally moron-proof.

They didn't factor in Laura's Aura (as my dad calls it). My ability to beta test to destruction was once again proved today, as, before I could even complete step one of the user guide... my PC wouldn't even switch on.

Luckily we had two "floorwalkers" who were on hand to answer queries. Despite what my lying colleagues say, I categorically did NOT strategically remove my jacket to reveal a quite low-cut top every time I needed technical support. It was a warm day! Are they accusing me of strategic flirtation?

OK, well, maybe I did. But it worked. As one of the only women in the department, my PC was problem-free by midday today. I left my male colleagues at 5 p.m., still struggling on.

For clarification, yes, I am a feminist. But I have also noticed how in debates in work situations, men make the most of their genetic predisposition: they use their louder voices to talk over women, they use their height to intimidate... so, why shouldn't I make the most of my physical characteristics for a bit of persuasion when needed?

Winning the gender war. All you need is breasts. Dead simple.

Souper

I am a buy-one-get-one-free slag.

I went to Sainsbury's today, and spent approximately £10 on a weekly shop. This is average for me. I don't eat a huge amount, and I do eat out a few times a week at restaurants, so don't often cook that much during the week.

After writing a couple of letters this afternoon, I realised I was out of first class stamps, and as the weather is delightful, I popped down to the local Costcutter to purchase a book of 12 stamps. And two Covent Garden Soup cartons. And twelve cans of Coke. I ended up spending £10 at Costcutter, thus, in one fell swoop (what is a fell swoop? Answers on a postcard.) I ended up doubling my weekly shopping bill.

OK, OK, £20 is less than I'd normally spend on a restaurant bill, but I didn't really need 12 cans of Coke, and my freezer is already full of homemade soup which I make every so often when some sort of strange (and otherwise unknown) nesting instinct kicks in.

So, I am a BOGOF slag. And for that, I can only apologise.