Underground unconsciousness

Hurrah! The annual Laura-faints-on-Tube event is over. For those of you who missed the spectacle, I'm sure the kindly staff at St Paul's tube station might be persuaded to share their CCTV footage with you, though they normally save this for their Christmas party.

I don't faint often. Well, in fact, I faint annually. Not to the day or anything, but it's always in the summer, usually on the tube, and always in the morning. Last year was a bit disappointing: I missed my 2006 faint because I had a job that mostly involved working from home, so rarely took the tube at rush hour. I say "missed it", but if I'm honest, I didn't miss it that much.

So, for non-fainters, this is what happens...

8.27 Get on tube. It is hot. It is crowded. It is like this every day. This is not nice, but I'm used to it. It's fine.

8.31 Liverpool Street. I am enjoying my book, even though I am standing up and my face is pressed into some bloke's armpit. Sometimes I like this, sometimes I don't. If the tube is particularly empty, sometimes the bloke asks me to move away. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don't.

8.33 Bank. Suddenly it feels like a very bad idea to be reading on the tube. I curse myself for the stupid idea... then remember I do that every morning, as do hundreds of thousands of people with their Metros, and it never normally makes anyone feel weird.

The next three minutes pass Very Very Slowly.

8.33.02 Crikey, it's hot isn't it? I'll just put my bag and my book down.

8.33.04 Oh dear, I feel really, really hot, and a little bit on the sick side. Oh well, I'm only two stops from Chancery Lane.

8.33.08 Right, think about something else. Penguins maybe. Oh no, that's a type of chocolate. Not penguins. Fish. No, not fried fish. Urgh.

8.34.00 OK, probably ought to get off at the next station.

8.34.01 Christ, does it normally take this long to get to St Paul's from Bank?

The next 92 seconds are spent convincing myself that I can carry on standing. This usually works pretty much until the doors open at St Paul's, where I fling myself out of the carriage, pushing past as many old / disabled / children as possible (but not old, disabled children. That would be wrong), and fling myself onto the seats on the platform, just as my hearing and sight disappear and everything goes black.

Sometimes people ask if I'm OK. Usually they don't. This time wasn't too bad, because I got to sit down just as I was blacking out, so I could pretend I was looking for something in my bag. One memorable time, when I didn't make it to the chairs, people stepped over me. One person tutted.

After a few minutes, the world seems less fuzzy, and I select a not-too-packed tube and continue one more stop to work.

And then I come and tell you about it in mind-blowing detail. Still, not as bad as that time when I was waitressing and showed an entire restaurant of people (and the barman I fancied) my knickers.

Sorry, in case that wasn't clear, I did actually faint whilst waitressing. I didn't just show them all my knickers. Despite what the CCTV footage appears to show.

By the way - loving your suggestions for the "Between my legs" game (see last post). Please keep adding them!

Cine-tastic

I have a new game. It is lots of fun and kept me occupied for at least two hours last night. I am not proud of this.

Think of a film title. Any film title. And then add the words "between my legs" after it. Sounds puerile? You bet. Some of our favourites:

A River Runs Through It
Sliding Doors
The Blob
Three Men and a Little Lady
The Lost Boys
Outbreak
Goldfinger
Bambi
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

Challenge open: add your own. Between my legs.

National treasure

I don't understand. Some things, I guess, are beyond human comprehension.

I went to the local shop. I bought a "Lucky Dip" lottery ticket. I waited for the results. Hold tight, because this might dumbfound you... I didn't win the lottery. In fact, not a single number came up.

I really don't understand this. I never normally buy a lottery ticket. I've always been of the opinion that you can have three chocolate bars for a pound, and I tend to get more enjoyment from that. So given that I don't normally buy a lottery ticket, when I actually make the effort to do so, shouldn't it only be right and fair that they let me win the jackpot just once? It's not like I want to win every week or anything.

No wonder their ticket sales are declining. Well done, Camelot, you've just lost another potential customer.

Playing craps

Today a bird pooed on me. Twice. Well, it might have been two birds pooing on me once each, but either way, two times today I was covered in bird poo. Covered is perhaps a bit of an exaggeration, but there was certainly poo involved. It was purple. Perhaps the birds had been eating blackberries.

So, I hear that being pooed on by a bird is supposed to be good luck. But I'm not sure if the first pooing is negated by the second pooing - i.e. is the bird poo luck factor binary. So the first poo adds good luck, and the second pooing takes it away again. Or is the luck doubled? Perhaps I'm thinking too much about this.

Either way, for the first time in about ten years I've bought myself a Lottery ticket. If you don't hear from me again, I'm probably living on a tropical island somewhere. Being shat on by birds.

Farcical

The stress dreams have started. I'm directing a play at the moment - a farce - and - whilst the cast is superb from an acting perspective - generally lines are somewhat lacking. I suppose I shouldn't be too worried - if the worst comes to the very worst, it's technically not going to be me standing on the stage, looking like a tit. But still, the stress dreams have started.

Last night:

I am standing on the stage, standing in for three characters, all of whom missed the bus to the performance. I don't have a costume so am in a yellow leotard. Yellow doesn't suit me. I don't know any lines.

Halfway through, I decide I'm not really enjoying this, excuse myself from the performance and go and have lunch with an ex-colleague who has since emigrated. Given the weather, I think he probably had the right idea.

It may come together yet. Drop me an email if you fancy coming to the production and I'll give you some more details about it. Probably whilst hyperventilating slightly.

Psycho-analysis

I think it's time for a Google Analytics update, don't you? So, what are the choice phrases people have been searching for to find my Plog? Well, here are my favourites:

• Laura Nunn timelord (every day)
• Vibrate my hamster
• Adjectival hyphenation
• "Bite her toenails"
• "Burping women"
• Hermione ticklish feet (really?)
• Dogging parks North London
• Huge dog fucked her voraciously (most of my Plogs are about this, so at least that's fair)
• My girlfriend won't take it up the arse
• Why won't she take it up the arse?
• She took it up the arse

My favourites are these last three. Especially in this order. Also, special mention must go to Erica and her Wanking Club, which as usual yield high results for me.

I think this says a lot about my readers. It's also good market research for me. Should I wish to attract a larger readership, I should probably write about the time I was in a dogging park in North London when I saw a huge dog (taking the dogging part quite literally) voraciously fucking Hermione, who had very ticklish feet. She was far too ticklish to get a pedicure, so was biting her own toenails and burping loudly.

So Laura Nunn, Timelord Extraordinaire, not enjoying this scene, harnessed the powers of compound adjectival hyphenation and went back in time to purchase her the new vibrating hamster from Ann Summers. It worked. Hermione gave one last burp and went home.

Did she take it up the arse? The rest of the story is in your hands...

I need more sleep.

Festivities

Wow, what a long time without my Plog. And I have missed it.

I have seen eleven shows since I last wrote. If I were to review them all, my little head might pop. That has been known to happen occasionally.

So here are some edited highlights from the last week:

The gig at the Backyard was a high-quality bill, but suffered from an audience of only six. Three of whom were my friends. Still, it was a nice enough evening.

Macbeth at the Regent's Park open air theatre was very good indeed. Though this summer's weather has been pants and I was rather chilly (even with my two coats and a jacket) by the end of the evening. My friends had brought along high-quality nibbles, which certainly helped.

I very carefully booked my taxi to Euston for the next morning. It arrived nice and early, and I was at the station a good half an hour before my train was due to depart. And then I looked at my tickets and realised that the train was indeed due to depart in half an hour... from King's Cross. Which was about five minutes from where I'd been staying the night before. Ho hum. Luckily, the fact I'm always early meant that I still made it to the station with time to spare.

I managed not to kill little Paddy and Roisin who were under the age of five, in the seat in front of me and arguing over Thomas the Tank Engine for approximately four and a half hours. This took most of my willpower for the rest of the weekend.

It was lovely to see Nice Kate in Edinburgh. We had an exciting packed Festival, full of hugely fun things. We saw: Why You're Fat and Ugly and Everybody Hates You (I did question with Kate if I should be taking some sort of hint from this production. She said I wasn't fat, but wouldn't elaborate further.). Then we saw Richard Herring in the evening - on good form as usual.

Saturday we saw, Barnaby Brown - Orphan Extraordinaire which was strange, but funny and clever. In the afternoon we saw 40 Feathered Winks - a kind of dance piece that I'd have never chosen myself, but which we both really enjoyed and found powerful and moving, and I've been thinking about it a lot ever since.

We saw A Porthole into the Minds of the Vanquished. We didn't understand this at all. It was recommended by a friend, but I just didn't get it. There was one funny song about a man trapped in a mobile. "I am Henry Giffin, I'm inside your phone." But even that was... well, it was an odd experience, but every Fringe should have one.

We saw Ben Miller read The Phone Book for 20 minutes. We saw Rhod Gilbert be funny and Welsh. We saw Micky Flanagan be criminally under-rated and hugely funny. And on Sunday we went to see The Early Edition, but sadly there wasn't any free coffee this year because they ran out of cups.

Nice Kate didn't even pinch me this year, though she did threaten to kick me up the arse. This is apparently my own fault. I am beginning to think that "Nice Kate" might be a misnomer.

Edinburgh itself was cold and rainy, but I genuinely think it is always this way. People who live there are made by the government to tell you that, "It's not normally like this," but that is a lie. It is either rainy or rainier. Sometimes it snows. The Edinburgh Festival is brilliant and I love it lots. But I would very much like to moot the idea of a Bournemouth or possibly South of France Festival though. Have a think. Let me know.

It was late when I got back to London and the train journey home seemed interminable. An old lady started a dull conversation with me about having lived in Stevenage all of her life. I was so bored that I was actually grateful for the conversation. About Stevenage. And never leaving it. I think my life hit a low at that point.

I hadn't seen my flat in days and we were joyfully reunited. In fact, we went to bed together.

Breast is best

I am triumphant. Last night I finally made my (rather horrific) breast cancer joke work. I have tried this out unsuccessfully several times and was eventually resigned to dropping it altogether. However, I tried it one more time, and although it did get a sharp intake of breath - it did actually work rather well. Smug face. Of course tomorrow, when I reprise it at the Backyard Club in Bethnal Green (PLUG), it'll die on its sad little arse. Or perky little tits. Whichever you prefer.

Anyway, Ploggers, I'm going to be a busy bee for the next few days - a gig tomorrow night (REPLUG), off to the theatre on Thursday and then oop t'Festival in t'Edinburgh for the weekend. There may not be much Plog action. For this I apologise, but I promise to Plog in full about the Festival, when I return, just as I did last year.

Hopefully Nice Kate will steer away from the existential clowns this year. She has been warned.

Regression aggression

Scene set:

I am four years old and at a playgroup held at the college where my mum works. Mrs Nunn enters the playgroup area, perhaps to pick me up for lunch, or maybe just to say hello to a colleague.

She notices, on entering, that my friend Abi (who remains a friend to this day) is hitting me - quite hard on the leg - with a plastic hammer.

"What are you doing, Abi?" asks Mrs Nunn.

"I'm testing her reflexes," says the well-researched Abi.

"Laura, doesn't that hurt?" asks Mrs Nunn.

"Yeth," lisps my four-year old self.

"Well, why don't you ask her to stop?" Mrs Nunn enquires.

"Because she'th my fwiend," say I.

This story is told to me every time Mrs Nunn wants to illustrate what a wally I am. With Mrs Nunn's impeccable timing, this is usually in front of a boyfriend or a potential - or existing - employer. The thing I hate most about this story is the fact that Mrs Nunn always puts the lisp into the tale to imitates me every time she tells it. Which is often.

I think this is unfair. A) I don't ever remember having a lisp. A Yorkshire accent at that time, perhaps, but not a lisp. B) I was four years old. C) If she's going to mention the fact that I had a lisp, I'm going to mention the fact that she had a terrible 80s' haircut.

For years I'd spot a poodle in the street and think it was my mother.

Just had to get that off my chest.

Over and over

This weekend has been different for me. My usual weekend often involves a smattering of comedy, perhaps a meal or two out, a spot of reading and catching up on TV.

This weekend I went to watch TheBloke (TM) play cricket. It was not without a certain amount of trepidation that I went along. When I first ascertained that TheBloke (TM) played cricket, I was quite pleased, as it's probably the only sport I know anything at all about. With my best knowing expression, I asked him his batting order.

"I usually bat eighth," he said, with his funny accent, customary of TheBloke (TM).

"Ah!" exclaimed I. "So you're a bowler?"

"Not really," he replied.

"So you're not a batsman, and you're not a bowler?" I thought perhaps he kept wicket. Not so.

I was worried he might be the team mascot.

So I went along, taking a book, some suncream and some sushi for lunch (for which I was teased. What on earth is wrong with bringing sushi along, I ask you?). TheBloke (TM) was sadly out for a duck. For non-cricketers, let's just say he proved his point about not being a batsman.

But later they let him have a few overs (for non-cricketers, that means he got to throw the ball round a bit), but sadly he didn't get a wicket. His team won though.

At the end of the match, over he jogged, pleased as punch. After accidentally standing on my sandalled toe with his cricket spikes, he asked if I'd seen his catch. Oops. Much like when Dad used to take me to Trent Bridge as a kid, all of the action happened when I was in the toilet.

George Michael has the same issue, I believe.

Plog off

I have started three Plogs today. None of them was any good.

The first Plog was about the play I'm directing. In the middle of paragraph two it turned into a stressy rant and wasn't much fun to write or read.

The second Plog was about the return of my Man Flu. Then I realised that dithering over whether it was a cold or hayfever wasn't that interesting for the reader.

This is the third Plog. It still isn't any good, but at least I've done a bit of padding now.

Can I stop writing yet? Thanks.

Addictive personality

I am quite hopelessly addicted to Facebook. I have a problem. I admit it. Thankfully I can't get onto the site from work, or I would be in danger of losing my job within a week through sheer Facebookyness. Yes, that is a word.

Why? What is it about Facebook that's quite so addictive? Well, spying on people you've not seen for over 10 years always has its charms... with the added bonus of the fact that they never know you're interested in their lives.

I particularly enjoy reading the exploits of one girl from school - always an attention seeker - who even aged 27 manages to annoy me (in a gleeful way) through showing off in a really blatant way through her Facebook status. ("Annabelle is... tired after spending all night talking to Brad Pitt." "Annabelle is... worried about how she's going to spend her vast new salary." "Annabelle is... considerably happier and prettier than you.") For the record, I bet Annabelle has herpes. At least I hope so.

But it's more than that. I am addicted to Facebook Scrabble. I have completed Facebook IQ tests (the very fact I am taking one of these points to the fact that perhaps my IQ isn't all that great. Still, I scored higher than the - frankly disappointing - 97 I got a year or so ago). I have a Facebook pet rabbit. Which I neglect. I even have a Facebook Vibrating Hamster. Don't ask (but if you Facebook me, you can vibrate my hamster).

I get home from work, and even if I only have ten minutes before heading out again, I log on. It's like a drug. I update my little status box, just like Annabelle and toddle off to wherever I'm going. I come home and check my Facebook again. Has anyone poked me? Do I have a message? Has someone bought me a flower for my Facebook Fucking Garden for fuck's sake? (For info, it's not actually called a Facebook Fucking Garden. I think that might be a different sort of application.)

I have ranked and compared my friends. I have tagged photos from the sixth form. I have realised that it's literally been weeks since I've spoken to most of them in person.

I have 137 friends... and have spoken to four of them in the last fortnight. I think I have a problem. According to my Facebook Personality Disorder application (sadly this is a real application), I have obsessive compulsive disorder.

That might explain why I have to check Facebook 35 times a day or my pet Facebook rabbit will die.

***

Just a quick note too... for those of you who read my Plog regularly and giggle occasionally, would you please consider making a small donation through my site to CRY. Back in January my brother lost his girlfriend owing to an undiagnosed heart condition, and we're all trying to do our bit to raise awareness and funds.

Many, many thanks to all those of you who've donated - some anonymously so I can't thank you in person. But if you haven't yet made a donation, the page is only open for another few weeks. If you think it's worth the price of a cup of coffee or a magazine, would you make a small donation?

Thank you in advance: http://www.justgiving.com/laurasplogforhannah

Help

So I had lunch with my friend dave with a little "d" yesterday. We chatted about things and stuff. Mostly things, but also some stuff.

I told him the sad tale of the kitchen fitting, the amusing story of the shower replacement, and the curious tale of my missing cleaner.

dave with a little "d" paused. Then said to me, "Laura, it's clear your fate is to get screwed over by service people."

Suddenly everything snapped into focus. I've really been wasting my time. Whilst I'd been aspiring to write a critically-acclaimed novel, wow the world with comedy writing, direct a fantastic play, start my own company and achieve my own personal moon landing, I had actually already achieved my life's purpose...

... to get screwed over by the staff. Great. Thanks dave.

Bin and gone

I was in Pizza Express. I wasn't all that hungry, so thought that perhaps a pasta dish might hit the spot rather more than a giant pizza, but it was a tough decision.

The waitress came over. "Lasagne, please," said I.

"OK," she said. Then she looked worried. "We don't have any lasagne."

"Oh," I said. Reader, I panicked. "I'll have the pizza pomodoro e pancetta," I bluffed, thinking that bacon and tomatoes sounded pretty good on a pizza, and feeling quite smug with my (admittedly fairly basic) mastery of Italian. When I say "mastery", this is limited entirely to pizza ingredients and - I'm not quite sure how - knowing the word for "bin".

The waitress was very prompt. Within three minutes, both TheBloke (TM) and I had our pizzas.

There was something wrong. Whilst TheBloke (TM) had a pizza simply oozing with mozzerella... my pizza was entirely cheese-fucking-free.

I had a pizza base, tomato sauce and bacon. Reader, I had ordered what was basically a sodding bacon sandwich.

If it doesn't have cheese, it's not a pizza. One for the cassonetto.

What do you call a fish with no eyes? A "fsh".

The London Aquarium has signs up in braille.

"What's wrong with that, Laura?" you might ask. "Don't you believe that blind people have as much right to enjoy our fishy friends as the rest of us?"

Think about it though. The Aquarium has signs. In. Braille. What the fuck do they say?

Here's a guess:

"Fish."

"Fish."

"Blue fish."

"Turtle."

"Double decker bus. Not really, but we had you going, didn't we?"

Or do you think they're more knowing than that? If I was in charge of braille signs at London Aquarium (and one day I will be, you mark my words) they would probably read more like this:

"Your family brought you to London Aquarium. They must really hate you. Look at all the pretty fish. Oh, wait a minute, you can't. Please follow the tour to Zone 2."

"Back again are you? So, been up to much lately? Oh, there's not much here. Fish and shit. Some are quite big, and the others are small-ish. Are your family taking you on the London Eye afterwards? No? Thought not. Please go to Zone 3."

"Seriously, haven't you given this up yet? OK, here's the deal. There's water. And fish. And that's about your lot. We're playing some seaside sound effects, but really you're not going to get a lot more than that out of it. Now, why don't you go and sit in McDonalds for a bit until your group has finished?"

In other news, I have man flu. Please commence sympathy.

Waxing lyrical

There are some jobs, I imagine, for which a high pain threshhold is probably a good thing. Perhaps if you work with sewing machines and end up stabbing yourself quite a lot (is it just me that used to have that problem in Textiles lessons?), or perhaps you're a not-very-good chef and you cut yourself or burn yourself a lot. I mean accidentally. I don't mean if you are a self-harming chef.

If you are a self-harming chef, please do seek some sort of psychological help. Thank you.

I digress.

A few days ago I came across a profession for which a high pain tolerance was definitely not a good thing. It was my bikini waxist. She said hello. She was covered in tattoos. Now, untattooed myself, I can't say for certain that I know having a tattoo hurts. But I bet it smarts. And I was letting this woman loose on my nether regions. In an entirely professional way, please understand.

So, she shows me to the little room and she heats the wax. Making conversation she says, unhelpfully, "I would never have my bikini line waxed."

"Oh," said I, acting super-well to keep the fear out of my voice. "Why not?"

"It hurts far too much," she said. "When I was at beautician school we had to practise on our friends and family. I was rubbish. My sister was black and blue down there for weeks and didn't speak to me for a month. Right, shall we get started?"



When our culture has evolved (or when our bodies have, to rid ourselves of the hair we do not need), children will learn about bikini waxing in awe and wonder.

"Let me get this right, Miss," they will say. Because although they are future-children, they are still respectful to their elders. "You're saying that in the 21st century - the 21st century - professional, intelligent women would go to places and have their pubic hair ripped out by a stranger?"

"Yes," Miss would reply. "That is true."

"And," would continue future-children, "after the humiliation of exposing their genitals to a stranger and suffering excruciating pain, the intelligent, professional women would then - this can't be right - would then pay the stranger?"

"It's true," their teacher would say. "And sometimes, if the intelligent, professional woman was particularly embarrassed about her girly screaming, she would even leave a generous tip."

"Bollocks," would say the future child. "You're making it up. Miss is a big fat liar."

Sometimes future-children also have too much tartrazine.