Three years ago I lived in a place called Sunlight Square with my friend Erica. It was a lovely flat, but its most distinguishing feature was that it got practically no sunlight at all, and was in fact rather dark after about ten every morning. That's not really important.
Anyway, one evening I came home from work, expecting Erica to be in the flat. She wasn't, but bizarrely the PC was still on, the lights were on and - perplexingly - the window was open. I didn't think much of it, and settled down to check my emails.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Julie. Julie was the biggest house spider I have ever seen. Now I'm not that scared of spiders (though am terrified of moths), but I'll admit I don't really like the big ones. Anything up to an inch or so in diameter I'm OK with. Beyond that it's a struggle.
Julie was the reason for Erica's quick flat exit, I quickly surmised.
Erica and I soon settled into a pattern: Julie had the the living room - Erica and I stayed in our bedrooms. This seemed a tad unfair as Julie wasn't actually paying any rent, and the Sky TV was in the living room. Still, she had squatters' rights and we didn't want to argue with her.
Sometimes she'd go missing, and we'd think we were free of her reign. And then, always when Erica was out, I'd do some hoovering or wash the floor, and suddenly Julie would be there, literally chasing me around the living room.
Until one day I saw her run under a lamp whilst I was vacuuming. Erica was out at a self-defence class, but I watched the lamp carefully, trying to pluck up courage to lift it and capture and release Julie. I won't kill things. Not even mosquitoes. I am a wuss.
Soon Erica returned, pumped full of adrenalin from her class. We were brave, we were warriors. Besides which, Erica now knew how to defend herself... She tipped the lamp up... and promptly accidentally squashed Julie. I swear she made a crunching noise.
This morning, just before I left the flat to go to work, Julie's slightly smaller sister was sitting on my bedroom curtains. Had she been on a wooden floor or hard surface I might have been brave enough to go for the old "glass and a piece of card" routine, but this was impractical on a curtain surface. I left the door open, the window open and didn't draw the curtains.
When I got home this evening, Julie's sister was gone from her curtain spot. It will be a lovely surprise to find out where she is hiding. Perhaps under my duvet or on top of my milk in the fridge.
I have a nasty suspicion that when I get back from a weekend away, she may have filled the flat with squatting arachnids, and I'll have to get an eviciton order from the Council.
It is hard being me.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Try-pod
Yesterday was a day of three things I don't normally do.
Thing One
Instead of office work, I went and did some training with The Prince's Trust. Really valuable stuff, and hope to put it into practice in the near future. Did you know that Prince Charles doesn't give any money at all to the Trust? He gave £8k to it many moons ago to set it up, but beyond that all the work he does is PR. Good job I'm here to tell you these things. The charity's excellent though, and I'm looking forward to working with them.
Thing Two
I'm not allowed to talk about in detail, but it was an audition for a TV show that's not yet launched - nothing hugely exciting, more audience member/comedy foil than Proper Comedy Work. Having said that, I got to poke around the offices at Hattrick and confirm my suspicions that a) TV life is grotty and the offices are much nastier than corporate offices b) TV people are full of themselves and c) generally dress well to cover up their intellectual inadequacies. Not really my thing; the more comedy I do, the more I feel that writing rather than performing is my forte. And even that's a mezzo-forte.
Thing Three
I went to a concert. I told this to my friend Nice Kate and she said that I sound really uncool by calling it a concert. She said I should call it a gig. But when I say gig, I always mean comedy gig, so that could get confusing. I told her it was Travis and she said that was more of a concert anyway. She then accused me of being square and middle aged. Until I reminded her that she'd just had a birthday and is very nearly a full decade older than I am. After that the sobbing kind of drowned out the rest of the conversation.
I went to the concert with my friend dave with a little "d". The evening started badly when he told me that he already had a Laura in his phone. This is fine - it's not an uncommon name. But she was in his phone as "Funny Laura". I was in there as "Grammar Laura". Grammar Laura is a good name, but it's not as good as Funny Laura. I sulked. He defended himself by saying he knew her before he met me, but I think that's unacceptable, and phone books are easily edited. I made more and more weaker and weaker jokes as the evening progressed, desperately trying to nudge myself up into "Funny Laura's" place. Instead, I think I probably just earned the moniker "Tries too hard Laura". Snappy.
A busy day, a good day, and a day of three unusual things.
Thing One
Instead of office work, I went and did some training with The Prince's Trust. Really valuable stuff, and hope to put it into practice in the near future. Did you know that Prince Charles doesn't give any money at all to the Trust? He gave £8k to it many moons ago to set it up, but beyond that all the work he does is PR. Good job I'm here to tell you these things. The charity's excellent though, and I'm looking forward to working with them.
Thing Two
I'm not allowed to talk about in detail, but it was an audition for a TV show that's not yet launched - nothing hugely exciting, more audience member/comedy foil than Proper Comedy Work. Having said that, I got to poke around the offices at Hattrick and confirm my suspicions that a) TV life is grotty and the offices are much nastier than corporate offices b) TV people are full of themselves and c) generally dress well to cover up their intellectual inadequacies. Not really my thing; the more comedy I do, the more I feel that writing rather than performing is my forte. And even that's a mezzo-forte.
Thing Three
I went to a concert. I told this to my friend Nice Kate and she said that I sound really uncool by calling it a concert. She said I should call it a gig. But when I say gig, I always mean comedy gig, so that could get confusing. I told her it was Travis and she said that was more of a concert anyway. She then accused me of being square and middle aged. Until I reminded her that she'd just had a birthday and is very nearly a full decade older than I am. After that the sobbing kind of drowned out the rest of the conversation.
I went to the concert with my friend dave with a little "d". The evening started badly when he told me that he already had a Laura in his phone. This is fine - it's not an uncommon name. But she was in his phone as "Funny Laura". I was in there as "Grammar Laura". Grammar Laura is a good name, but it's not as good as Funny Laura. I sulked. He defended himself by saying he knew her before he met me, but I think that's unacceptable, and phone books are easily edited. I made more and more weaker and weaker jokes as the evening progressed, desperately trying to nudge myself up into "Funny Laura's" place. Instead, I think I probably just earned the moniker "Tries too hard Laura". Snappy.
A busy day, a good day, and a day of three unusual things.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Tea-total
Age has descended on me, like a flock of crows perching at the corners of my eyes.
How do I know this for sure? Well, I went to Sainsbury's earlier and when I returned, these were my thoughts:
- "Oooh, I am parched."
- "Eeh, I could murder a cup of tea."
And I did. I have often desired a cup of tea before. Very often I have enjoyed a cup of tea. But never before, with so much gusto, have I actually murdered a cup of tea. I think the accidental usage of regional accents might also relate to age.
I think I might be turning into Mrs Nunn, who (and this is true) now makes herself two cups of tea in one go, and drinks one straight after the other. And has even been known to start the kettle boiling again before she's at the end of her second cup.
Having said that, Mrs Nunn's tea is weaker than some water that's been diluted with more water, whereas mine is strong enough to trot a mouse on.
How do I know this for sure? Well, I went to Sainsbury's earlier and when I returned, these were my thoughts:
- "Oooh, I am parched."
- "Eeh, I could murder a cup of tea."
And I did. I have often desired a cup of tea before. Very often I have enjoyed a cup of tea. But never before, with so much gusto, have I actually murdered a cup of tea. I think the accidental usage of regional accents might also relate to age.
I think I might be turning into Mrs Nunn, who (and this is true) now makes herself two cups of tea in one go, and drinks one straight after the other. And has even been known to start the kettle boiling again before she's at the end of her second cup.
Having said that, Mrs Nunn's tea is weaker than some water that's been diluted with more water, whereas mine is strong enough to trot a mouse on.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Organic chocolate on The Green
I am worried. Very, very worried.
When I first moved to Bethnal Green, I thought it was a bit rough. I'd lived in Dalston previously, mind, so I was no stranger to London's East End. However, Bethnal Green seemed excitingly full of police, rough-around-the-edge Cockneys and a lot of tatooed teenagers.
I liked it.
However, there is a worrying development. I have a nasty feeling that the area in which I live is "up and coming".
Let's look at the evidence: a Thai restauant. "Hmm," you might say. "A Thai restaurant is all well and good, but in this day and age, it's hardly unusual." Well, what if I told you it was a vegetarian Thai restaurant? Can't get much more middle class than that, can you?
Or can you? What if I told you that it was next door not only to an organic cafe... but to an organic lesbian cafe filled with dull academics talking about pretentious things?
Or even worse, that the lesbian cafe was next door to a Buddhist Centre and opposite a Southeast Asian art gallery?
The final nail in the coffin was when I went to a (non-lesbian) cafe earlier today to do some writing, and a family walked in. I could identify them from the moment they came through the door by the smell of wet dog... They were all dressed in organic fibres, the father had a beard and the mother had knitted everyone's clothes from ethically-sourced wool. They were hippies. I hoped this was a one-off, but on the short trot back to my flat, I saw no fewer than four other people of the hippy persuasion, carrying root veg and smelling of wet animal, smiling benignly at the world.
A health food shop in Bethnal Green has just started selling the Mooncup*. I rest my case. It is only a matter of time before estate agents start referring to this area as "The Green".
* This is so horrible I don't want to talk about it, but have a look here if you're not easily grossed out. http://www.mooncup.co.uk/
The whole thing makes me want to go and eat bacon and prance up and down in leather shoes. I have to go now. There is bacon to be eaten and prancing to be done.
When I first moved to Bethnal Green, I thought it was a bit rough. I'd lived in Dalston previously, mind, so I was no stranger to London's East End. However, Bethnal Green seemed excitingly full of police, rough-around-the-edge Cockneys and a lot of tatooed teenagers.
I liked it.
However, there is a worrying development. I have a nasty feeling that the area in which I live is "up and coming".
Let's look at the evidence: a Thai restauant. "Hmm," you might say. "A Thai restaurant is all well and good, but in this day and age, it's hardly unusual." Well, what if I told you it was a vegetarian Thai restaurant? Can't get much more middle class than that, can you?
Or can you? What if I told you that it was next door not only to an organic cafe... but to an organic lesbian cafe filled with dull academics talking about pretentious things?
Or even worse, that the lesbian cafe was next door to a Buddhist Centre and opposite a Southeast Asian art gallery?
The final nail in the coffin was when I went to a (non-lesbian) cafe earlier today to do some writing, and a family walked in. I could identify them from the moment they came through the door by the smell of wet dog... They were all dressed in organic fibres, the father had a beard and the mother had knitted everyone's clothes from ethically-sourced wool. They were hippies. I hoped this was a one-off, but on the short trot back to my flat, I saw no fewer than four other people of the hippy persuasion, carrying root veg and smelling of wet animal, smiling benignly at the world.
A health food shop in Bethnal Green has just started selling the Mooncup*. I rest my case. It is only a matter of time before estate agents start referring to this area as "The Green".
* This is so horrible I don't want to talk about it, but have a look here if you're not easily grossed out. http://www.mooncup.co.uk/
The whole thing makes me want to go and eat bacon and prance up and down in leather shoes. I have to go now. There is bacon to be eaten and prancing to be done.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Not a leg to stand on
So I work in a basement all day long. This is a relatively new development and whilst not happy about it, there's not a lot I can do.
The basement has no natural light, and this week has been glorious. May's my favourite month, so it sucks not to see the sunlight through the window.
"Never mind," thought I. "For it is a Bank Holiday weekend. I shall dawdle upon the grass, reading my boring book for Book Club and soak up my vitamin D requirements." Not so. It's freezing outside, and looks like it will tip it down any moment.
I shall have to read my boring book indoors.
On hearing about the fire incident earlier this week, Mrs Nunn said, "Was your neighbour abusive to you?"
"Well, a bit," I said. "I think he was just shocked."
"Are you worried about him coming up and harassing you?" she asked.
Once I reminded her that he only had one leg and was confined to a wheelchair, Mrs Nunn finally realised that all I had to do to be safe was to go up the stairs. He is like a Dalek in his ineffectiveness. The old Daleks that is, not the new flying ones. I hope.
However, if you do see an 80 year-old man with one leg levitating in a wheelchair, could you please check to see if he has singed eyebrows? If he does, let me know. Ta.
The basement has no natural light, and this week has been glorious. May's my favourite month, so it sucks not to see the sunlight through the window.
"Never mind," thought I. "For it is a Bank Holiday weekend. I shall dawdle upon the grass, reading my boring book for Book Club and soak up my vitamin D requirements." Not so. It's freezing outside, and looks like it will tip it down any moment.
I shall have to read my boring book indoors.
On hearing about the fire incident earlier this week, Mrs Nunn said, "Was your neighbour abusive to you?"
"Well, a bit," I said. "I think he was just shocked."
"Are you worried about him coming up and harassing you?" she asked.
Once I reminded her that he only had one leg and was confined to a wheelchair, Mrs Nunn finally realised that all I had to do to be safe was to go up the stairs. He is like a Dalek in his ineffectiveness. The old Daleks that is, not the new flying ones. I hope.
However, if you do see an 80 year-old man with one leg levitating in a wheelchair, could you please check to see if he has singed eyebrows? If he does, let me know. Ta.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Sweet talker
The second kitchen story.
Terry ran out of kitchen tiles. Now, I don't want to point fingers as a lot of people were involved in the calculation. Terry originally told me how many 12x12 inch tiles I would need. The man in Homebase then calculated these into square meterage, and then I had to work out how many rectangular tiles I'd need. Somewhere along the line things went a bit pear-shaped.
So Terry had almost finished the kitchen but there were a few tiles missing, and duly, like the grown-up I was, I drove back to Loughborough (don't ask) to pick up some more tiles and bring them back home. Terry said I should call him once I'd got the tiles and he'd come round the next day and fit them. But if I didn't get them this week it would be a month, as he was off on holiday. How nice.
So, bombing (by which I mean driving at the appropriate speed limit) back down the M1, I called Terry as soon as I got home. It rang a few times, and then answered. But I was saying, "Hello, hello?" and there was no reply.
Then Terry came on the line, "I really do not want to talk to this woman at all," he joked to me. I laughed and said, "Hello Terry."
Then the line went dead. a) He hadn't realised he'd answered it and b) had then dropped my call. He didn't answer when I called back.
And I had already paid him for the work.
Who knew that one box of half-empty chocolates could cause so much trouble? Luckily, he did call back later (I didn't mention the earlier incident), did come over on Monday and did (finally!) finish the job. Although I've still no receipt for the hefty amount (of cash) I handed over to him.
Why didn't he want to speak to me? Was he ashamed of his chocolate antics? Were the chocolates not of sufficient quality? Was he aware that my flat was now a chocolate-free zone?
On Monday he did ask, "Is this cake on the counter for me?" "Of course, Terry," I replied. "I wouldn't want you to go hungry."
He didn't eat it. Which is a shame as it was injected with laxative.
Terry ran out of kitchen tiles. Now, I don't want to point fingers as a lot of people were involved in the calculation. Terry originally told me how many 12x12 inch tiles I would need. The man in Homebase then calculated these into square meterage, and then I had to work out how many rectangular tiles I'd need. Somewhere along the line things went a bit pear-shaped.
So Terry had almost finished the kitchen but there were a few tiles missing, and duly, like the grown-up I was, I drove back to Loughborough (don't ask) to pick up some more tiles and bring them back home. Terry said I should call him once I'd got the tiles and he'd come round the next day and fit them. But if I didn't get them this week it would be a month, as he was off on holiday. How nice.
So, bombing (by which I mean driving at the appropriate speed limit) back down the M1, I called Terry as soon as I got home. It rang a few times, and then answered. But I was saying, "Hello, hello?" and there was no reply.
Then Terry came on the line, "I really do not want to talk to this woman at all," he joked to me. I laughed and said, "Hello Terry."
Then the line went dead. a) He hadn't realised he'd answered it and b) had then dropped my call. He didn't answer when I called back.
And I had already paid him for the work.
Who knew that one box of half-empty chocolates could cause so much trouble? Luckily, he did call back later (I didn't mention the earlier incident), did come over on Monday and did (finally!) finish the job. Although I've still no receipt for the hefty amount (of cash) I handed over to him.
Why didn't he want to speak to me? Was he ashamed of his chocolate antics? Were the chocolates not of sufficient quality? Was he aware that my flat was now a chocolate-free zone?
On Monday he did ask, "Is this cake on the counter for me?" "Of course, Terry," I replied. "I wouldn't want you to go hungry."
He didn't eat it. Which is a shame as it was injected with laxative.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Chocs away
It is time to reveal Kitchen Story: Part One.
As you will know, from the tedious and drawn-out process over the last few weeks, I have had a new kitchen fitted. And very shiny it is too.
As with almost everything in my life, it comes with some in-built ridiculousness. The process that is, not the kitchen itself. "Hello, I'd like one of those fitted kitchens with an inbuilt dishwasher. Oh, and it must have some built-in ridiculousness too. Thanks." Sorry, I digress.
So, whilst emptying my kitchen cupboards so that the kitchen fitter - let's call him Terry - could take them out, I managed to knock over a packet of Galaxy Mini Eggs that my brother had bought me for Easter. I picked them up again, popped them back in their box and relocated them to the living room.
A few days later, when the cupboards were fitted, I started putting food back in my cupboards. But this time I noticed that there was only one Mini Egg rattling around in its box. I'll be honest - I didn't really think about it. It crossed my mind that maybe they'd been eaten, but I think I probably assumed I'd eaten them myself and forgotten.
A day later I decided to have that last lonely Mini Egg. It was rattling round in its box all alone, so it was a kindness really. I went to the shelf... and an empty packet greeted me.
There was no way I could pass this off as forgetful eating on my part. It was clear that my kitchen fitter was - look away now if you're easily shocked - a Chocolate Thief.
I'll admit it, I was a bit annoyed, but I though to myself, "The packet was already open. You didn't leave any biscuits or anything out for him. He was probably hungry. It's not a big deal." I almost convinced myself. As a consolation I allowed myself to reach for the box of Thorntons I'd been saving for an Extra Special Chocolate occasion.
I carefully eased the ribbon from the box. I lifted the snug-fitting lid. I removed the packing on the top... and FOUR chocolates were missing from the box. They had been snaffled. I have never felt such anger. I am Laura Nunn. You do not mess with my chocolate.
The worst part was the deception - the fact he'd put the ribbon back over the lid, probably hoping I wouldn't notice. I was really, really angry. How did he know that the chocolates weren't intended for a friend's birthday?
And so a plan hatched itself, as plans are wont to do.
On his last day, I wrote Terry a note, thanking him for all his hard work... and left for him a box of Thorntons chocolates - the packing put back onto the top, the lid replaced and the ribbon carefully eased back onto the box.
Revenge, quite literally, is sweet.
As you will know, from the tedious and drawn-out process over the last few weeks, I have had a new kitchen fitted. And very shiny it is too.
As with almost everything in my life, it comes with some in-built ridiculousness. The process that is, not the kitchen itself. "Hello, I'd like one of those fitted kitchens with an inbuilt dishwasher. Oh, and it must have some built-in ridiculousness too. Thanks." Sorry, I digress.
So, whilst emptying my kitchen cupboards so that the kitchen fitter - let's call him Terry - could take them out, I managed to knock over a packet of Galaxy Mini Eggs that my brother had bought me for Easter. I picked them up again, popped them back in their box and relocated them to the living room.
A few days later, when the cupboards were fitted, I started putting food back in my cupboards. But this time I noticed that there was only one Mini Egg rattling around in its box. I'll be honest - I didn't really think about it. It crossed my mind that maybe they'd been eaten, but I think I probably assumed I'd eaten them myself and forgotten.
A day later I decided to have that last lonely Mini Egg. It was rattling round in its box all alone, so it was a kindness really. I went to the shelf... and an empty packet greeted me.
There was no way I could pass this off as forgetful eating on my part. It was clear that my kitchen fitter was - look away now if you're easily shocked - a Chocolate Thief.
I'll admit it, I was a bit annoyed, but I though to myself, "The packet was already open. You didn't leave any biscuits or anything out for him. He was probably hungry. It's not a big deal." I almost convinced myself. As a consolation I allowed myself to reach for the box of Thorntons I'd been saving for an Extra Special Chocolate occasion.
I carefully eased the ribbon from the box. I lifted the snug-fitting lid. I removed the packing on the top... and FOUR chocolates were missing from the box. They had been snaffled. I have never felt such anger. I am Laura Nunn. You do not mess with my chocolate.
The worst part was the deception - the fact he'd put the ribbon back over the lid, probably hoping I wouldn't notice. I was really, really angry. How did he know that the chocolates weren't intended for a friend's birthday?
And so a plan hatched itself, as plans are wont to do.
On his last day, I wrote Terry a note, thanking him for all his hard work... and left for him a box of Thorntons chocolates - the packing put back onto the top, the lid replaced and the ribbon carefully eased back onto the box.
Revenge, quite literally, is sweet.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
I wanna learn how to fly (or dance would be a start)
Today I saw the funniest thing in the world.
I went to see Fame in the West End with my friend Boothie. "But Laura," I hear you say. "We like and respect your opinions on theatre. Indeed, you've opened our eyes to some hidden gems in the past. But even we, us uneducated theatre know-nothings, even we know that Fame is not a comedy."
And you'd kind of be right. It's not intentionally a comedy. And that makes it officially Funny As Fuck.
Let me start off by saying I can't dance. I don't mean that in a "I'm not a trained dancer" kind of way, or even in a "once I've had a few drinks I can shake my booty" kind of way (yes, I did just say "booty" - deal with it). I literally cannot dance. I have no rhythm. I'm self-conscious and I just don't enjoy it. So please take my critique in this context.
A lot of the dancers in Fame (perhaps unsurprisingly) were very good dancers. They banged out energetic dance routines and sang their little hearts out. However, two of the main characters, played by "H" from Steps and Natalie Casey from Two Pints of Lager were supposed to be "acting majors" rather than "dance majors".
Clearly in real life, these people are not trained dancers. This is fine. Except every so often, the entire cast would be on stage dancing, doing fantastic dance moves, brilliantly timed... with the exception of these two leads and the "teachers". Whilst the synchronised leg-flinging brilliance was happening at the front of the stage, about six lead actors skulked right at the very back of the stage, doing a poor impression of your uncle Keith at a school disco.
By the way, you should tell your uncle Keith that he should really stop going to school discos.
The whole situation was hysterical. As soon as I pointed out to Boothie what was happening we were in unstoppable giggles. It looked like the naughty kids taking the piss at the back of the class.
Still, we only paid a tenner for the tickets, and I got more giggles than a lot of comedy I've seen recently.
I went to see Fame in the West End with my friend Boothie. "But Laura," I hear you say. "We like and respect your opinions on theatre. Indeed, you've opened our eyes to some hidden gems in the past. But even we, us uneducated theatre know-nothings, even we know that Fame is not a comedy."
And you'd kind of be right. It's not intentionally a comedy. And that makes it officially Funny As Fuck.
Let me start off by saying I can't dance. I don't mean that in a "I'm not a trained dancer" kind of way, or even in a "once I've had a few drinks I can shake my booty" kind of way (yes, I did just say "booty" - deal with it). I literally cannot dance. I have no rhythm. I'm self-conscious and I just don't enjoy it. So please take my critique in this context.
A lot of the dancers in Fame (perhaps unsurprisingly) were very good dancers. They banged out energetic dance routines and sang their little hearts out. However, two of the main characters, played by "H" from Steps and Natalie Casey from Two Pints of Lager were supposed to be "acting majors" rather than "dance majors".
Clearly in real life, these people are not trained dancers. This is fine. Except every so often, the entire cast would be on stage dancing, doing fantastic dance moves, brilliantly timed... with the exception of these two leads and the "teachers". Whilst the synchronised leg-flinging brilliance was happening at the front of the stage, about six lead actors skulked right at the very back of the stage, doing a poor impression of your uncle Keith at a school disco.
By the way, you should tell your uncle Keith that he should really stop going to school discos.
The whole situation was hysterical. As soon as I pointed out to Boothie what was happening we were in unstoppable giggles. It looked like the naughty kids taking the piss at the back of the class.
Still, we only paid a tenner for the tickets, and I got more giggles than a lot of comedy I've seen recently.
Monday, May 21, 2007
London's burning (again)
I stepped out of the shower. My washing machine had just finished drying some towels. I am brilliant at multi-tasking.
Wandering through to my lovely new kitchen, I could suddenly smell smoke. "Oh bollocks," thought I, for I am a foul-mouthed wench, even in my thoughts. "Bollocks," I thought, "my washing machine must have shorted out." I sniffed it. It smelled like smoke.
Then I wandered into the hallway and realised that the hallway smelled even more like smoke. Freshly-tumbled towel wrapped around me, I opened the door to my hallway, and realised there was a lot of fucking smoke. That's not me swearing; that's a technical term that the Fire Brigade use. "A lot of fucking smoke" is two stages before, "fuck me, everything's fucked". I pulled on clothes more quickly than after a PE lesson when the girl standing next to you is saying, "I really like your bra..."
I left my flat, taking with me my keys and my mobile. The smoke up the stairwell was almost overpowering. I had to put my jumper over my face so I didn't cough.
Once outside, I called the Fire Brigade. The smoke was coming from a downstairs flat. I shouted to the disabled guy who lived there, "Are you OK?"
"Yes, I set my kitchen on fire," he replied, accurately.
"Well, come out - it's really smoky." He didn't want to.
The Fire Brigade arrived. They knocked on his door. He didn't want to come out. Eventually he did. The Fire Bridgade spent a few minutes in his flat and then, once all was OK, they came out to see me.
"Did you call us?"
"Yes," said I.
"Well, apparently you're irresponsible."
"Oh. I'm sorry for calling you out for no reason, but there really was a lot of smoke, and I thought, 'Crikey - I'd better call someone.'."
"No," said the fireman. "We think you did the right thing. Your neighbour thinks you're irresponsible." He continued, "I don't think anyone who uses the word 'crikey' can be irresponsible. Besides which, he's just told us that we're stupid."
"Oh," said I. "Would you rather be stupid or irresponsible? I think I've got the better deal, because you can choose to be responsible, but you're stuck being stupid."
The fireman said, "Ah, but if you're stupid, you can learn."
I (quite rightly) retorted, "Not if you're stupid."
At which point I thought I may actually genuinely be wasting their time, so I left them to it. Though I did hear the chief fireman say to his colleague, "That disabled bloke's an unpleasant twat." I would definitely rather be either irresponsible or stupid than an unpleasant twat.
This is the second time in about ten months that I've had to call the Fire Brigade. Anyone who suggests it's because I like men with big hoses is... well, that's a separate issue.
Wandering through to my lovely new kitchen, I could suddenly smell smoke. "Oh bollocks," thought I, for I am a foul-mouthed wench, even in my thoughts. "Bollocks," I thought, "my washing machine must have shorted out." I sniffed it. It smelled like smoke.
Then I wandered into the hallway and realised that the hallway smelled even more like smoke. Freshly-tumbled towel wrapped around me, I opened the door to my hallway, and realised there was a lot of fucking smoke. That's not me swearing; that's a technical term that the Fire Brigade use. "A lot of fucking smoke" is two stages before, "fuck me, everything's fucked". I pulled on clothes more quickly than after a PE lesson when the girl standing next to you is saying, "I really like your bra..."
I left my flat, taking with me my keys and my mobile. The smoke up the stairwell was almost overpowering. I had to put my jumper over my face so I didn't cough.
Once outside, I called the Fire Brigade. The smoke was coming from a downstairs flat. I shouted to the disabled guy who lived there, "Are you OK?"
"Yes, I set my kitchen on fire," he replied, accurately.
"Well, come out - it's really smoky." He didn't want to.
The Fire Brigade arrived. They knocked on his door. He didn't want to come out. Eventually he did. The Fire Bridgade spent a few minutes in his flat and then, once all was OK, they came out to see me.
"Did you call us?"
"Yes," said I.
"Well, apparently you're irresponsible."
"Oh. I'm sorry for calling you out for no reason, but there really was a lot of smoke, and I thought, 'Crikey - I'd better call someone.'."
"No," said the fireman. "We think you did the right thing. Your neighbour thinks you're irresponsible." He continued, "I don't think anyone who uses the word 'crikey' can be irresponsible. Besides which, he's just told us that we're stupid."
"Oh," said I. "Would you rather be stupid or irresponsible? I think I've got the better deal, because you can choose to be responsible, but you're stuck being stupid."
The fireman said, "Ah, but if you're stupid, you can learn."
I (quite rightly) retorted, "Not if you're stupid."
At which point I thought I may actually genuinely be wasting their time, so I left them to it. Though I did hear the chief fireman say to his colleague, "That disabled bloke's an unpleasant twat." I would definitely rather be either irresponsible or stupid than an unpleasant twat.
This is the second time in about ten months that I've had to call the Fire Brigade. Anyone who suggests it's because I like men with big hoses is... well, that's a separate issue.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Signs
OK, OK, I have been a poor blogger. I apologise. Part of this reason is I have at least TWO cracking stories, but owing to circumstance they cannot be revealed yet. I'm hopeful that this will either be sometime this week, or else it might not be for a month. You will have to tune in regularly. I can, however tell you that the stories involve a) chocolate and b) a phone call.
Now you're gripped aren't you?
I knew I was an adult this weekend as I drove a round trip of about 250 miles to pick up some more floor tiles from Loughborough.
This also meant I got to see Erica, and we went together to pick up a Chinese takeaway. Loughborough is a strange kind of town. The town centre's quite up-and-coming (it even has a Marks and Spencer's Food Hall these days - fancy!), but drive just a little way out, and things start getting a bit Coalvillian.
Sign on a charity shop window:
"Sorry - we do not accept ex-carboots."
What on earth does this mean? The charity shop won't accept stuff you bought at a car boot sale? If you'd gone to the trouble of buying something, why would you then give it away? Or maybe it's stuff that didn't sell... in which case why is the shop being so fussy? Surely one crappy Barbie doll is as good as the next?
Unless, of course, they meant they didn't want anything that used to be car boot but isn't now. So that the item itself is an "ex-carboot". This would make sense, but Erica pointed out that they could be missing a niche market here; if she was in the market for an ex-car boot, the first place she'd go to would be a charity shop.
Not twenty metres away was a hand car-wash, with the helpful sign, "No HGVs". You have to wonder how many lorry drivers have chanced their luck with this.
Loughborough is an odd place. But it's still not as bad as Coalville.
Now you're gripped aren't you?
I knew I was an adult this weekend as I drove a round trip of about 250 miles to pick up some more floor tiles from Loughborough.
This also meant I got to see Erica, and we went together to pick up a Chinese takeaway. Loughborough is a strange kind of town. The town centre's quite up-and-coming (it even has a Marks and Spencer's Food Hall these days - fancy!), but drive just a little way out, and things start getting a bit Coalvillian.
Sign on a charity shop window:
"Sorry - we do not accept ex-carboots."
What on earth does this mean? The charity shop won't accept stuff you bought at a car boot sale? If you'd gone to the trouble of buying something, why would you then give it away? Or maybe it's stuff that didn't sell... in which case why is the shop being so fussy? Surely one crappy Barbie doll is as good as the next?
Unless, of course, they meant they didn't want anything that used to be car boot but isn't now. So that the item itself is an "ex-carboot". This would make sense, but Erica pointed out that they could be missing a niche market here; if she was in the market for an ex-car boot, the first place she'd go to would be a charity shop.
Not twenty metres away was a hand car-wash, with the helpful sign, "No HGVs". You have to wonder how many lorry drivers have chanced their luck with this.
Loughborough is an odd place. But it's still not as bad as Coalville.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Time warped
Five things that yesterday would have been "things I will do tomorrow":
1. Try (and fail) to run a training session through a persistent 15-minute fire alarm.
2. Eat a fairly ridiculous amount of sushi at Gili Gilu's all-you-can eat buffet. A bargain-esque Leicester Square feast for just £13.95. They even have a conveyor belt, which makes eating fun. This does mean however that I'm not brilliant at concentrating on conversation because I'm usually throwing evil eyes to the people upwind on the conveyor belt from me in case they take the dish I'm earmarking.
3. See Little Shop of Horrors and enjoy it muchly. Sheridan Smith has a fantastic singing voice. Shame to see the theatre wasn't full. Go now! You will laugh and hum along. There may even be some tapping of feet.
4. Have a ridiculous conversation with a black cab driver who spoke perfect English but not only didn't know where my office building was (very big building, quite famous, not that hard to find) but also seemed never to have heard of Chancery Lane.
5. Admire the floor tiling in the kitchen, for finally it is done! We may be nearing completion on the kitchen front. Looking good so far!
Of course, tomorrow these will be "things that yesterday were things I did today". Hope that clears things up.
1. Try (and fail) to run a training session through a persistent 15-minute fire alarm.
2. Eat a fairly ridiculous amount of sushi at Gili Gilu's all-you-can eat buffet. A bargain-esque Leicester Square feast for just £13.95. They even have a conveyor belt, which makes eating fun. This does mean however that I'm not brilliant at concentrating on conversation because I'm usually throwing evil eyes to the people upwind on the conveyor belt from me in case they take the dish I'm earmarking.
3. See Little Shop of Horrors and enjoy it muchly. Sheridan Smith has a fantastic singing voice. Shame to see the theatre wasn't full. Go now! You will laugh and hum along. There may even be some tapping of feet.
4. Have a ridiculous conversation with a black cab driver who spoke perfect English but not only didn't know where my office building was (very big building, quite famous, not that hard to find) but also seemed never to have heard of Chancery Lane.
5. Admire the floor tiling in the kitchen, for finally it is done! We may be nearing completion on the kitchen front. Looking good so far!
Of course, tomorrow these will be "things that yesterday were things I did today". Hope that clears things up.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Da bomb
I have a new kitchen story for you, but it will have to wait. Reasons will be divulged nearer the time. I hope to post some shiny photos when it's all finished (yes, I can tell you're excited), but at the moment we have a small tile situation and - once again - it's not yet finished. You're on tenterhooks, I know.
I realised just how wild I've failed to become at a hen party at the weekend where mid-afternoon we all opted for a nice cup of tea and some biscuits and a thorough discussion about recycling. I fear I may have grown old without really doing anything youthy. Perhaps I shall spit in the street on the way to work tomorrow.
Owing to circumstances I'd really rather not talk about, I now have to take the tube to work again. This makes me want to murder people. Just in case anyone does get murdered on the tube though, I'd like to point out that it wasn't me. Probably.
And that great big 500lb bomb that was found in Bethnal Green this morning was absolutely nothing to do with me either. Fucking commuters.
Kitchen's not finished yet. Flat is so covered in dust that it feels like it's been snowing indoors. Have to take the tube to work... I'm hearing the bad voices again...
I realised just how wild I've failed to become at a hen party at the weekend where mid-afternoon we all opted for a nice cup of tea and some biscuits and a thorough discussion about recycling. I fear I may have grown old without really doing anything youthy. Perhaps I shall spit in the street on the way to work tomorrow.
Owing to circumstances I'd really rather not talk about, I now have to take the tube to work again. This makes me want to murder people. Just in case anyone does get murdered on the tube though, I'd like to point out that it wasn't me. Probably.
And that great big 500lb bomb that was found in Bethnal Green this morning was absolutely nothing to do with me either. Fucking commuters.
Kitchen's not finished yet. Flat is so covered in dust that it feels like it's been snowing indoors. Have to take the tube to work... I'm hearing the bad voices again...
Monday, May 14, 2007
The wasp man cometh
Tower Hamlets Council told me that the wasp man would be arriving between 12-5 p.m.
"Is there any way you could be more specific?" I asked nicely.
"No."
Luckily I was able to work from home this afternoon. I set a diary reminder to remind me to leave the office at 11.30. At 11.15 my mobile rang. It was my kitchen fitter.
First unusual opening line of the day:
"Laura - it's the kitchen fitter. I'm just going to put you on to the wasp man."
The wasp man was early. I belted back to Bethnal Green to show the wasp man where the wasps were. His opinion was a) it's too early for wasps' nests b) the window frame was too small for a wasps' nest and c) a bit of blu-tack should sort it out.
Excellent. Next up was the shower man. He looked at my shower and left. An hour or so later he called me. Cue second unusual opening line of the day:
"Laura, did I leave my electronic tape measure on your toilet?"
I quipped, "People are always asking me that." He didn't laugh. Anyway, he had indeed left his electronic tape measure on my toilet. So it's mine now.
Small trauma over kitchen tiles at the moment. Will keep you posted.
"Is there any way you could be more specific?" I asked nicely.
"No."
Luckily I was able to work from home this afternoon. I set a diary reminder to remind me to leave the office at 11.30. At 11.15 my mobile rang. It was my kitchen fitter.
First unusual opening line of the day:
"Laura - it's the kitchen fitter. I'm just going to put you on to the wasp man."
The wasp man was early. I belted back to Bethnal Green to show the wasp man where the wasps were. His opinion was a) it's too early for wasps' nests b) the window frame was too small for a wasps' nest and c) a bit of blu-tack should sort it out.
Excellent. Next up was the shower man. He looked at my shower and left. An hour or so later he called me. Cue second unusual opening line of the day:
"Laura, did I leave my electronic tape measure on your toilet?"
I quipped, "People are always asking me that." He didn't laugh. Anyway, he had indeed left his electronic tape measure on my toilet. So it's mine now.
Small trauma over kitchen tiles at the moment. Will keep you posted.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Two plogs, one plug
I take it all back... the kitchen fitter is here and is fitting the kitchen. It does look lovely, but I still wish I had a magic wand and it was all done with no fuss.
I was sent a review for a gig I did last week for the Funny Women competition, should you be interested in reading it:
http://tinyurl.com/3dpwor
I was sent a review for a gig I did last week for the Funny Women competition, should you be interested in reading it:
http://tinyurl.com/3dpwor
Over the moon
It started off so promisingly. My kitchen fitter's quotation was reasonable, he carried all of my floor tiles up from my car, he even waited in for the delivery for me. Once, when he'd accidentally left my gas switched off, he even drove for an hour to come and turn it back on for me. He was clearly a sweetie.
But the relationship is inevitably beginning to sour. The honeymoon period is over. The first flecks of dissatisfaction occurred on Friday. I had been out every single night last week, and Friday was my one night in. I was also out all day and evening on Saturday, so Friday I was intending to (in no particular order)
But the relationship is inevitably beginning to sour. The honeymoon period is over. The first flecks of dissatisfaction occurred on Friday. I had been out every single night last week, and Friday was my one night in. I was also out all day and evening on Saturday, so Friday I was intending to (in no particular order)
- Catch up on Sky+
- Order a takeaway pizza
- Chill out, possibly involving slippers
Sadly this was not to be. Despite not working any other evening this week, after disappearing for "a few minutes" at 6 p.m., said kitchen fitter returned at 8 p.m. and did another two hours' work. It is impossible to chill out and watch TV with a kitchen fitter drilling your flat to fuck. Particularly when he turns the arsing electricity off, meaning all your carefully-set-up Sky+ programmes don't record.
Never mind, thought I, as I would be out all day Saturday and we wouldn't be in each other's way. I returned from a rather good hen night (thank you for asking), joying at the anticipation of my newly-tiled kitchen. My hen night bunny ears twitched with excitement. Oh no. He didn't work Saturday. Instead he told me he'd come on Sunday (my relaxation day). So, duly, I'm up and waiting for him to turn up. His phone is switched off.
Workmen (and possibly women) do this far too much - don't turn up when they say they will, take far longer than they estimate to complete the job, and then fuck off leaving you with no oven / water / electricity. There needs to be some sort of legal deterrent. I'm thinking the death penalty. Anyone with me?
Friday, May 11, 2007
Dreaming of a May Christmas
Last night I did a gig where the MC dressed up as Hitler and sang Bing Crosby songs. He also heckled the acts from stage right. Oh, and the gig was on a boat.
And no, it wasn't all "a wonderful dream". Such is the life of an open-mic comic.
On the bus today a woman was carrying a large cardboard tray. Being of the slightly nosy persuasion, I had a gander. It wasn't just any large cardboard tray, it was a chocolate-filled advent calendar. With about ten of its doors opened. What on earth could cause the carrying of a chocolate advent calendar in May? Here are my suggestions:
1. The lady is very protective of her calendar. She only allows herself to open the doors on very special occasions and carries it with her everywhere she goes to ensure no-one else eats her yummy advent chocolates.
2. The lady will do anything for stale Christmas chocolate. So much so she's carrying round the calendar, tasting windows at intervals until they get to the required level of stale-ocity. This is a real word and much used amongst the cordon-bleu chefs in London.
3. (And this, of course, is the most likely). The woman fell through the time-warp hole that exists between Liverpool Street Station and Bethnal Green. One minute she was thinking, "Oh goody, the tenth of December, not many more shopping days until Christmas..." and the next she was in the middle of Liverpool Street in May. It's happened to us all. (See http://laurasplog.blogspot.com/2006_10_01_archive.html on 5 October.)
And no, it wasn't all "a wonderful dream". Such is the life of an open-mic comic.
On the bus today a woman was carrying a large cardboard tray. Being of the slightly nosy persuasion, I had a gander. It wasn't just any large cardboard tray, it was a chocolate-filled advent calendar. With about ten of its doors opened. What on earth could cause the carrying of a chocolate advent calendar in May? Here are my suggestions:
1. The lady is very protective of her calendar. She only allows herself to open the doors on very special occasions and carries it with her everywhere she goes to ensure no-one else eats her yummy advent chocolates.
2. The lady will do anything for stale Christmas chocolate. So much so she's carrying round the calendar, tasting windows at intervals until they get to the required level of stale-ocity. This is a real word and much used amongst the cordon-bleu chefs in London.
3. (And this, of course, is the most likely). The woman fell through the time-warp hole that exists between Liverpool Street Station and Bethnal Green. One minute she was thinking, "Oh goody, the tenth of December, not many more shopping days until Christmas..." and the next she was in the middle of Liverpool Street in May. It's happened to us all. (See http://laurasplog.blogspot.com/2006_10_01_archive.html on 5 October.)
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Reality bites
I am having a new kitchen fitted. In my head this meant:
1) Buy a shiny kitchen.
2) Have shiny kitchen delivered.
3) Have takeaways for a couple of days whilst kitchen was slightly inaccessible.
In reality this means I got to:
1) Buy a shiny kitchen
2) Have ridiculous arguments with the delivery company as to why they didn't deliver it when they said they would. And then be patronised by someone called Trisha. People called Trisha shouldn't be allowed to patronise anyone.
3) Spend 400 hours putting everything from my kitchen into my living room.
4) Enjoy the fact that my entire flat is covered with kitchen dust and I've had to cancel my cleaner because the place looks like a warzone.
5) Relish the fact that my boiler is alternately fucked and/or the gas is switched off, meaning I get to start my day with a bracing cold shower.
6) Begin to worry that I might have chosen tiles / worksurfaces that don't actually match. We did quite a lot of Pythagoras at school, but I don't remember the module where they taught us what sort of taps go with a marble-effect worktop.
And I didn't even get a takeaway out of it. Damn microwave meals. Damn you to hell.
1) Buy a shiny kitchen.
2) Have shiny kitchen delivered.
3) Have takeaways for a couple of days whilst kitchen was slightly inaccessible.
In reality this means I got to:
1) Buy a shiny kitchen
2) Have ridiculous arguments with the delivery company as to why they didn't deliver it when they said they would. And then be patronised by someone called Trisha. People called Trisha shouldn't be allowed to patronise anyone.
3) Spend 400 hours putting everything from my kitchen into my living room.
4) Enjoy the fact that my entire flat is covered with kitchen dust and I've had to cancel my cleaner because the place looks like a warzone.
5) Relish the fact that my boiler is alternately fucked and/or the gas is switched off, meaning I get to start my day with a bracing cold shower.
6) Begin to worry that I might have chosen tiles / worksurfaces that don't actually match. We did quite a lot of Pythagoras at school, but I don't remember the module where they taught us what sort of taps go with a marble-effect worktop.
And I didn't even get a takeaway out of it. Damn microwave meals. Damn you to hell.
Monday, May 07, 2007
F***ing it up
In charge of Sunday's entertainment, I decided upon the Comedy Store. Controversial, I know, but if you've never seen the Comedy Store Players (including Josie Lawrence and Paul Merton) then you really ought to go. My friend had never seen the Comedy Store Players. I decided we really ought to go.
Only thing is, if you do decide to see the Comedy Store Players, it's probably better to book tickets in advance. Yes, unless you physically go to the box office, you do end up paying a stupid booking fee, but, as we discovered, this is marginally better than queueing outside for forty-five minutes, and still not getting in.
Still, I made amends this evening and we went to see Whipping it Up at the theatre. (OK, this may have happened as a cock-up as I thought I'd booked the tickets for the Sunday evening. Shut up.) I wanted to see the play for many reasons, all of them cast-related. Richard Wilson is always worth his salt, Robert Bathurst I may have had a small crush on from his Joking Apart days, Lee Ross was in the sublime Press Gang, Kellie Bright (who appears to have lost half her body weight) I remember from The Upper Hand, but most excitingly (for me) was Helen Schlesinger. Not many other people will know who she is. I expect her own family might forget from time to time.
But for me, in the summer of 1998, Helen Schlesinger was the most perfect Viola in the most perfect production of Twelfth Night (what an awful lot of italics) that I've ever seen. I remember waiting for her at the stage door to get her autograph, and being flattered when she discussed with me the changes in the production from when I'd first seen it earlier in the year, through to its closing night that day. I might have been slightly more geeky than the average 18 year-old. This isn't the place to discuss that.
I've been lucky enough to catch Helen Schlesinger in a couple of things in London over the last few years, and she's always excellent. Whipping it Up is worth seeing if you like political satire, Press Gang or are a fan of archived RSC productions.
Hope that helps.
Only thing is, if you do decide to see the Comedy Store Players, it's probably better to book tickets in advance. Yes, unless you physically go to the box office, you do end up paying a stupid booking fee, but, as we discovered, this is marginally better than queueing outside for forty-five minutes, and still not getting in.
Still, I made amends this evening and we went to see Whipping it Up at the theatre. (OK, this may have happened as a cock-up as I thought I'd booked the tickets for the Sunday evening. Shut up.) I wanted to see the play for many reasons, all of them cast-related. Richard Wilson is always worth his salt, Robert Bathurst I may have had a small crush on from his Joking Apart days, Lee Ross was in the sublime Press Gang, Kellie Bright (who appears to have lost half her body weight) I remember from The Upper Hand, but most excitingly (for me) was Helen Schlesinger. Not many other people will know who she is. I expect her own family might forget from time to time.
But for me, in the summer of 1998, Helen Schlesinger was the most perfect Viola in the most perfect production of Twelfth Night (what an awful lot of italics) that I've ever seen. I remember waiting for her at the stage door to get her autograph, and being flattered when she discussed with me the changes in the production from when I'd first seen it earlier in the year, through to its closing night that day. I might have been slightly more geeky than the average 18 year-old. This isn't the place to discuss that.
I've been lucky enough to catch Helen Schlesinger in a couple of things in London over the last few years, and she's always excellent. Whipping it Up is worth seeing if you like political satire, Press Gang or are a fan of archived RSC productions.
Hope that helps.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Delegation
Another early start. "Never mind," I said. "A nice hot shower will sort me out and I'll embrace my Friday with both vim and vigour. Never, never have vim without vigour. That would be wrong. Thinking about it, I'm not entirely sure what vim is." With this thought I realised the shower had been running for about a minute and I probably ought to jump in.
So I did.
And promptly froze my tits off. Plop, plop. That is the sound of my tits quite literally freezing off. I had no hot water. My boiler was (and this is a technical term) fucked.
Helpfully no plumbing engineer ("emergency home insurance" my freezing cold arse) could come until Saturday afternoon, so I am camping out chez Mr and Mrs Nunn whilst my kitchen fitter lets in my heating engineer.
Mr Nunn had the audacity to ask that with my personal shopper, kitchen fitter, plumber and cleaner, whether or not I actually wiped my own arse.
I paid someone to tell him to shut up.
So I did.
And promptly froze my tits off. Plop, plop. That is the sound of my tits quite literally freezing off. I had no hot water. My boiler was (and this is a technical term) fucked.
Helpfully no plumbing engineer ("emergency home insurance" my freezing cold arse) could come until Saturday afternoon, so I am camping out chez Mr and Mrs Nunn whilst my kitchen fitter lets in my heating engineer.
Mr Nunn had the audacity to ask that with my personal shopper, kitchen fitter, plumber and cleaner, whether or not I actually wiped my own arse.
I paid someone to tell him to shut up.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Cooking on gas
Hello hello
I promise I will blog properly at the weekend, but I'm really quite ridiculously busy at the moment, both at work and at home.
So, in summary:
Gig = not too bad thank you, and a new joke worked quite well, which is quite rare for a first outing. Thanks to all those of you who came along. I am thinking of starting a fan club, but worry it might be a bit narcissistic to start my own fan club. Having said that, anyone who can spell narcissistic without a spellchecker surely deserves a fan club. I might think some more about this.
Workshop = hard work, but over and done with.
Kitchen = delivered.
If you'll excuse me now, as I have to move all the contents from my kitchen into my living room, which also (confusingly) has a kitchen in it. I have a two-kitchened flat. I am officially posh.
Wishing you the jolliest of Bank Holiday weekends.
I promise I will blog properly at the weekend, but I'm really quite ridiculously busy at the moment, both at work and at home.
So, in summary:
Gig = not too bad thank you, and a new joke worked quite well, which is quite rare for a first outing. Thanks to all those of you who came along. I am thinking of starting a fan club, but worry it might be a bit narcissistic to start my own fan club. Having said that, anyone who can spell narcissistic without a spellchecker surely deserves a fan club. I might think some more about this.
Workshop = hard work, but over and done with.
Kitchen = delivered.
If you'll excuse me now, as I have to move all the contents from my kitchen into my living room, which also (confusingly) has a kitchen in it. I have a two-kitchened flat. I am officially posh.
Wishing you the jolliest of Bank Holiday weekends.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
TMSDMTY
It is with great pleasure that I announce to you:
The Most Stressful Day in May This Year (TMSDMTY for short)
Tomorrow I am expecting to be... interesting. It has the potential to be very, very good, or more pants than a pile of stained old women's drawers.
6.30 a.m. Getting up. This is a tad earlier but no more stressful than normal. Hopefully.
7.30 a.m. Leaving the house. See above.
7.40 a.m. Getting on the tube. I hate the tube at rush hour, but with a bit of luck it might still be a bit too early to be really busy. I decided a few months ago that I shouldn't take the tube to work anymore as I had the following (genuine) thought process: "I could get on this train much more easily if I remember to bring a knife with me tomorrow..."
8.00 a.m. (Hopefully) Kitchen man will let himself into my flat and wait for my kitchen to be delivered whilst meanwhile...
8.00 a.m. I run a lovely all-day workshop, meaning I am unable to get to my phone to answer kitchen enquiries.
5.30 p.m. I flee workshop, hurtling back to Bethnal Green to...
6.00 p.m. Let myself in, notice how my entire flat is taken up with kitchen boxes (hopefully), change very, very quickly, and bomb down to help set up a gig at...
6.20 p.m. The Backyard Comedy Club. I am expecting around twenty friends to show up. This is scary because friends tend not to laugh at your jokes - they're generally either too worried you're going to make an arse of yourself, or else they're just marvelling that you're standing on stage. I am disregarding the (slim) possibility I might not be funny.
8.15 p.m. Gig kicks off.
11.00 p.m. Return home, pick my way through boxes of kitchen and grab a few hours' sleep before returning to the workshop for day two.
Wish me luck. I will let you know if I survive.
The Most Stressful Day in May This Year (TMSDMTY for short)
Tomorrow I am expecting to be... interesting. It has the potential to be very, very good, or more pants than a pile of stained old women's drawers.
6.30 a.m. Getting up. This is a tad earlier but no more stressful than normal. Hopefully.
7.30 a.m. Leaving the house. See above.
7.40 a.m. Getting on the tube. I hate the tube at rush hour, but with a bit of luck it might still be a bit too early to be really busy. I decided a few months ago that I shouldn't take the tube to work anymore as I had the following (genuine) thought process: "I could get on this train much more easily if I remember to bring a knife with me tomorrow..."
8.00 a.m. (Hopefully) Kitchen man will let himself into my flat and wait for my kitchen to be delivered whilst meanwhile...
8.00 a.m. I run a lovely all-day workshop, meaning I am unable to get to my phone to answer kitchen enquiries.
5.30 p.m. I flee workshop, hurtling back to Bethnal Green to...
6.00 p.m. Let myself in, notice how my entire flat is taken up with kitchen boxes (hopefully), change very, very quickly, and bomb down to help set up a gig at...
6.20 p.m. The Backyard Comedy Club. I am expecting around twenty friends to show up. This is scary because friends tend not to laugh at your jokes - they're generally either too worried you're going to make an arse of yourself, or else they're just marvelling that you're standing on stage. I am disregarding the (slim) possibility I might not be funny.
8.15 p.m. Gig kicks off.
11.00 p.m. Return home, pick my way through boxes of kitchen and grab a few hours' sleep before returning to the workshop for day two.
Wish me luck. I will let you know if I survive.
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