I've lived in London for more than five years now. It feels like my home, and I feel as comfortable as any other Londoner in finding my way round the city. (With the occasional - OK - regular episode of getting lost.) I take it for granted that everyone knows how to use an Oyster Card, or knows where Zone 2 ends, or knows that you have to change at Holborn for the Piccadilly Line. I carry a mini version of the tube map in my head. I know instinctively where you're likely to find a sushi bar or a not-too-busy pub. I know that you're not supposed to say "Blackwall Tunnel" without saying "bloody" beforehand. I can hail black cabs without batting an eyelid. I know which bus to take if the Central Line is down. I can even hold conversations about whether to take the A1 or the North Circular. Sometimes I forget how naive I was when I first moved to London.
So, ever a supporter of interactive Plogs, I will give my dear readers a choice of anecdotes from when I was a brand-new 22/23 year-old Londoner, and odd experiences the anecdotes engendered.
Your choices are:
- The mini cab driver on the way back from School Disco (October 2002). WARNING - involves farts and racism
- The excruciatingly embarrassing smear test (August 2002) WARNING - involves adult themes
- The Hackney dentist story (March 2003) WARNING - involves drug use, racism and adult themes
And on that note... have a smashing weekend.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Feeling chilled
You know sometimes in the middle of summer (perhaps not the most recent summer), it's so, so hot that you think to yourself, "I literally cannot imagine winter. I cannot imagine being cold enough to need a coat. Why would I ever want a hat? That would be ridiculous!" We've all felt that way. When the grass outside is prickly and scorched-looking, and you walk to the corner shop, trying to stay in the shade. And you think to yourself, "I wonder what it feels like to be cold..."
The next time you find yourself thinking that, get on a plane, or a train, or, if you're feeling ambitious - drive, to Scotland. Fuck me, it's cold. And no, it's not just a "nippy September day" today, it's always sodding like this. Of course the population is well trained by the tourist board to say consoling things like, "Oh no, you should have been here last weekend - it was beautiful."
But I have been to Scotland at least fifty times, at all different times of the year, and not once, not even in August, has it been anything less than, "Oh shit, I've freezed my tits off."
So yes, I am in the Burgh of Edin. Currently waiting for a very delayed flight, because, as we all know, if Smirnoff made airlines and then forcefed its staff with vodka, they still couldn't be worse than BA.
But anyway, I had a decent trip yesterday, and rather than yet another faceless hotel, I stayed over with my friends Nice Kate and Kev who live here in their very own igloo*. We discussed how stupid some people are. And whether we were scared of spiders. And how Nice Kate is worried because her feet smell of feet.
Today I have also vowed never to buy Samsung products as their advert in my cab this afternoon read, "It's connectivity - at it's best". My eyes, my beautiful eyes! Assaulted by your nasty apostrophisation. Yes, that is a word. I know everything. I hope you join me in boycotting their products. Unless they sell something you really want. That's what I'm doing with Sky. I love Sky+ far too much ever to give it up (and indeed recommend it to all of my friends), but Sky's customer service is so terrible, I am boycotting them. Just not very effectively.
Right. Let's go and see if I can lay my grubby hands on some BA Lounge Shortbread. My life is so full.
* This might be a lie for comic effect.
The next time you find yourself thinking that, get on a plane, or a train, or, if you're feeling ambitious - drive, to Scotland. Fuck me, it's cold. And no, it's not just a "nippy September day" today, it's always sodding like this. Of course the population is well trained by the tourist board to say consoling things like, "Oh no, you should have been here last weekend - it was beautiful."
But I have been to Scotland at least fifty times, at all different times of the year, and not once, not even in August, has it been anything less than, "Oh shit, I've freezed my tits off."
So yes, I am in the Burgh of Edin. Currently waiting for a very delayed flight, because, as we all know, if Smirnoff made airlines and then forcefed its staff with vodka, they still couldn't be worse than BA.
But anyway, I had a decent trip yesterday, and rather than yet another faceless hotel, I stayed over with my friends Nice Kate and Kev who live here in their very own igloo*. We discussed how stupid some people are. And whether we were scared of spiders. And how Nice Kate is worried because her feet smell of feet.
Today I have also vowed never to buy Samsung products as their advert in my cab this afternoon read, "It's connectivity - at it's best". My eyes, my beautiful eyes! Assaulted by your nasty apostrophisation. Yes, that is a word. I know everything. I hope you join me in boycotting their products. Unless they sell something you really want. That's what I'm doing with Sky. I love Sky+ far too much ever to give it up (and indeed recommend it to all of my friends), but Sky's customer service is so terrible, I am boycotting them. Just not very effectively.
Right. Let's go and see if I can lay my grubby hands on some BA Lounge Shortbread. My life is so full.
* This might be a lie for comic effect.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Write on
I am really, really tired. The sort of tired where you're hungry but you're too exhausted to pop into the kitchen and microwave something. The sort of tired where you can't quite be bothered to turn off the TV, even though America's Next Top Extreme Makeover Idol is on. The sort of tired where I should really be going to bed instead of writing this.
But the thing is, after a couple of totally separate conversations with a couple of good friends within the last two days, I've decided to redouble my writing efforts. I love my Plog, and although my lifestyle often means it's not feasible to write every day, perhaps I should try and write more words when I do write. I've previously tried to write a novel, but realised quite quickly that I wasn't very good at it. I tried to write a sitcom but couldn't be arsed with characters or plot. I had some luck with Erica writing some (halfway decent) sketches... then a few months later they turned up (better executed) by Catherine Tate. Not suggesting for a moment that there was any thieving going on (unless she happened to be on holiday with us when we were writing), but there were a lot of similarities in some of the stuff we wrote, which meant we'd seem like plagiarists - or not very good imitators at best. I've tried a "comedy novel", but without a plot, it drifts aimlessly.
It's a bit like being set homework by your English teacher. I would always get pretty high marks in English; with two parents who taught English, correct adjectival hyphenation and a love of reading had been drummed into me from a pretty young age. I think they used to make me spell onomatopoeia for the entertainment of dinner party guests. (Sometimes this helped distract them from Mrs Nunn's "tuna surprise" - the surprise usually being a layer of apples or something.)
I digress. I generally got high marks in English, with one exception: when we were set work such as, "write anything you like - a poem, a play, an essay - it's up to you". Then I would sit at the kitchen table, one arm along the radiator, as was my favourite homework position, rough book in hand, pencil at the ready... Saturday would pass. Sunday would start ebbing on. I would start a jokey poem about a hamster, and abandon it an hour in. I would decide to write a poem about a thunderstorm, and would give up when I realised I'd run out of words to describe clouds. Memorably, once I wrote about a swan, but that is perhaps a story for another time.
As the weekend ticked by, I would get more and more frantic; not only had I not written anything good yet, but I only had 18 hours left until it had to be handed in. More than once there were tears. Usually my dad's, as I forced him to re-read the nineteenth heart-wrenching draft of "Annie the Anorexic".
And of course, I couldn't bear to get anything lower than an "A-". Once (please don't tell anyone) I got a "B++". I remember it as "Black Tuesday".
Give me a solid essay question: "Fair is foul and foul is fair: how true of this is Macbeth?" or "Which is the greater tragedy, Othello or Death of a Salesman?" or "Why the fuck did I make you read Mansfield Park for A-level? Discuss." Fine. Not a problem. An "A" grade would land back on my desk eventually.
But staring at that blank piece of paper that could literally be anything... (Except a paper plane; I've never been able to make those). Terrifying. So what I'm saying is I'd love to write. I'd love to be a writer. But I don't know where to start.
So if any of you have plotlines or characters you'd like to donate, please send to the usual address. In the meantime, I shall keep on Plogging.
But the thing is, after a couple of totally separate conversations with a couple of good friends within the last two days, I've decided to redouble my writing efforts. I love my Plog, and although my lifestyle often means it's not feasible to write every day, perhaps I should try and write more words when I do write. I've previously tried to write a novel, but realised quite quickly that I wasn't very good at it. I tried to write a sitcom but couldn't be arsed with characters or plot. I had some luck with Erica writing some (halfway decent) sketches... then a few months later they turned up (better executed) by Catherine Tate. Not suggesting for a moment that there was any thieving going on (unless she happened to be on holiday with us when we were writing), but there were a lot of similarities in some of the stuff we wrote, which meant we'd seem like plagiarists - or not very good imitators at best. I've tried a "comedy novel", but without a plot, it drifts aimlessly.
It's a bit like being set homework by your English teacher. I would always get pretty high marks in English; with two parents who taught English, correct adjectival hyphenation and a love of reading had been drummed into me from a pretty young age. I think they used to make me spell onomatopoeia for the entertainment of dinner party guests. (Sometimes this helped distract them from Mrs Nunn's "tuna surprise" - the surprise usually being a layer of apples or something.)
I digress. I generally got high marks in English, with one exception: when we were set work such as, "write anything you like - a poem, a play, an essay - it's up to you". Then I would sit at the kitchen table, one arm along the radiator, as was my favourite homework position, rough book in hand, pencil at the ready... Saturday would pass. Sunday would start ebbing on. I would start a jokey poem about a hamster, and abandon it an hour in. I would decide to write a poem about a thunderstorm, and would give up when I realised I'd run out of words to describe clouds. Memorably, once I wrote about a swan, but that is perhaps a story for another time.
As the weekend ticked by, I would get more and more frantic; not only had I not written anything good yet, but I only had 18 hours left until it had to be handed in. More than once there were tears. Usually my dad's, as I forced him to re-read the nineteenth heart-wrenching draft of "Annie the Anorexic".
And of course, I couldn't bear to get anything lower than an "A-". Once (please don't tell anyone) I got a "B++". I remember it as "Black Tuesday".
Give me a solid essay question: "Fair is foul and foul is fair: how true of this is Macbeth?" or "Which is the greater tragedy, Othello or Death of a Salesman?" or "Why the fuck did I make you read Mansfield Park for A-level? Discuss." Fine. Not a problem. An "A" grade would land back on my desk eventually.
But staring at that blank piece of paper that could literally be anything... (Except a paper plane; I've never been able to make those). Terrifying. So what I'm saying is I'd love to write. I'd love to be a writer. But I don't know where to start.
So if any of you have plotlines or characters you'd like to donate, please send to the usual address. In the meantime, I shall keep on Plogging.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Play on words
Apologies for my absence. The last few days have been somewhat hectic with a performance every night, and (during the week) in the office during the day too.
So the play... I like the image of it being similar to giving birth. Beforehand, you think it's a great idea, then it's insufferable agony, and finally at the last curtain call, your brain tricks you into forgetting the pain - you decide it's all worth it and you'd go through it again.
At the moment I'm at the "it's all worth it" stage. The cast were lovely and committed (as in worked hard, not as in mentally unstable and signed into an institution by a medical professional).
Anyway, the performances were a lot of fun, and, as I'm sure is tradition, the cast and crew were taking the piss a bit at last night's performance. There was supposed to be a note reading, "Thank you for the gorgeous, gorgeous coat, you gorgeous, gorgeous man," and instead on the final night the note just read, "COCK". Because we were nothing if not grown up.
Also, the "rotten pair of gloves" one character was bought for Christmas became, "a revolting pearl necklace". You see where they were going with that.
The cast party was a fairly civilised affair, except from at 11 p.m. when the landlord had obviously decided he hated us (despite having been promised we could stay in the room as long as we wanted to), and he asked us to leave. He had been rude to us all week, but in addition to literally saying, "You all have to go now," he then went round to the back of the bar and turned the lights out. No, "Would you mind going in about ten minutes?" or anything. Just "Get out," and off went the lights. It was very, very funny. I wonder if he might have heard us calling him "Basil" all week.
I do wonder what I'm going to do with all my time now that I've got Tuesday and Thursday evenings back. Knowing me, I'll probably volunteer for something else stupid.
So the play... I like the image of it being similar to giving birth. Beforehand, you think it's a great idea, then it's insufferable agony, and finally at the last curtain call, your brain tricks you into forgetting the pain - you decide it's all worth it and you'd go through it again.
At the moment I'm at the "it's all worth it" stage. The cast were lovely and committed (as in worked hard, not as in mentally unstable and signed into an institution by a medical professional).
Anyway, the performances were a lot of fun, and, as I'm sure is tradition, the cast and crew were taking the piss a bit at last night's performance. There was supposed to be a note reading, "Thank you for the gorgeous, gorgeous coat, you gorgeous, gorgeous man," and instead on the final night the note just read, "COCK". Because we were nothing if not grown up.
Also, the "rotten pair of gloves" one character was bought for Christmas became, "a revolting pearl necklace". You see where they were going with that.
The cast party was a fairly civilised affair, except from at 11 p.m. when the landlord had obviously decided he hated us (despite having been promised we could stay in the room as long as we wanted to), and he asked us to leave. He had been rude to us all week, but in addition to literally saying, "You all have to go now," he then went round to the back of the bar and turned the lights out. No, "Would you mind going in about ten minutes?" or anything. Just "Get out," and off went the lights. It was very, very funny. I wonder if he might have heard us calling him "Basil" all week.
I do wonder what I'm going to do with all my time now that I've got Tuesday and Thursday evenings back. Knowing me, I'll probably volunteer for something else stupid.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Don't Dress for Dinner Dress Rehearsal Dressing Down
"... Most thespians consider a problematic dress rehearsal as a good omen for the performances. Some people who scoff at this superstition say that it's all in the psychology of the performers, that they get all the jitters worked out, and recognize that they can make it through the performance even when mistakes or other weird events happen. Due to another superstition, the dress rehearsal may be the only version of the performance a director sees, as many directors consider it bad luck to attend the performances."
Let's just say that things are looking good for the actual performances. And, as director (purely for luck's sake), you won't see me for dust.
Let's just say that things are looking good for the actual performances. And, as director (purely for luck's sake), you won't see me for dust.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Letting go
Today I was a big grown up and am very proud of myself. I love my car. I love my shiny new car. It is shiny and new and less than a year old and I love it lots.
Today at the theatre after work, I really needed to rehearse sound cues as we hadn't been able to do this yesterday. However, the sound cues were sitting on someone's iPod in Bow. Manfully, the iPod owner volunteered to walk fifteen minutes to the tube station, get a tube, get a bus and then do the same return journey. I doubted all this would happen before eight, when I'd promised the cast they could go home.
Can I just remind you I love my shiny car.
I couldn't go and get the sounds myself - as director, I needed to be there to rehearse the cast... also the iPod owner's flatmates might think it a bit strange if I let myself into their property and helped myself to electronic gadgets.
I do love my car by the way.
So, after checking that the iPod owner was a permanent member of staff for the company (and therefore legally covered by my company car insurance), I handed over my keys. This was a difficult moment. I think it's the first time I've let anyone else drive my car at all. It is shiny. It is mine.
I didn't hand over Jessica. I'm not that giving.
Anyway, all was fine (which makes a dull anecdote, but a much nicer end to my day than an exciting anecdote), the sound cues are queued, and the only negative impact was the fact that I couldn't reach my pedals when I got back in the car.
Today at the theatre after work, I really needed to rehearse sound cues as we hadn't been able to do this yesterday. However, the sound cues were sitting on someone's iPod in Bow. Manfully, the iPod owner volunteered to walk fifteen minutes to the tube station, get a tube, get a bus and then do the same return journey. I doubted all this would happen before eight, when I'd promised the cast they could go home.
Can I just remind you I love my shiny car.
I couldn't go and get the sounds myself - as director, I needed to be there to rehearse the cast... also the iPod owner's flatmates might think it a bit strange if I let myself into their property and helped myself to electronic gadgets.
I do love my car by the way.
So, after checking that the iPod owner was a permanent member of staff for the company (and therefore legally covered by my company car insurance), I handed over my keys. This was a difficult moment. I think it's the first time I've let anyone else drive my car at all. It is shiny. It is mine.
I didn't hand over Jessica. I'm not that giving.
Anyway, all was fine (which makes a dull anecdote, but a much nicer end to my day than an exciting anecdote), the sound cues are queued, and the only negative impact was the fact that I couldn't reach my pedals when I got back in the car.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
The weak ahead
Today is the calm before the storm. It has been a special kind of calm. I dozed until ten this morning, took a lazy shower, had a bacon sandwich, read some of Ian McEwan's Atonement (thus jumping on the literature bandwagon, but I'm not feeling too bad, as I've also read The Cement Garden, Enduring Love and - brilliantly - Saturday so have previously proved my McEwan credentials). I have lain on my fluffy white floor cushions as September's dying sunlight filters hotly through my windows.
I have taken deep breaths. I have eaten chocolate. I have thought about planning a holiday. I have written my diary and spoken to friends.
I have taken more deep breaths.
Tomorrow sees our technical rehearsal. Tuesday another rehearsal, Wednesday the dress rehearsal. Thursday through Sunday are performances. Monday is reserved mostly for sleeping. Hopefully without stress dreams.
I have taken deep breaths. I have eaten chocolate. I have thought about planning a holiday. I have written my diary and spoken to friends.
I have taken more deep breaths.
Tomorrow sees our technical rehearsal. Tuesday another rehearsal, Wednesday the dress rehearsal. Thursday through Sunday are performances. Monday is reserved mostly for sleeping. Hopefully without stress dreams.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Can't stress enough
I will be honest with you. At the moment this is how my life goes:
Wake up with a migraine, conscious I've been having stress dreams all night.
Go to work. Stress about things.
Go to a play rehearsal. Try to make it fun, but ultimately end up stressing at the cast because they still don't know their lines and we're opening on Thursday.
Come home. Be stressed.
Go to sleep. Have dreams about turning up to a full theatre with no cast, a piano and Judy Dench sitting in the middle of the stage wearing a turban and flip flops. She doesn't know her lines either. I have to step in. Not only do I not know the lines, I am inexplicably unable to speak in any language other than ancient Greek.
Wake up with a migraine, conscious I've been having stress dreams all night.
Apologies for below-par Plogging.
As a side note, massive thanks to all those of you who have donated to www.justgiving.com/laurasplogforhannah. Where you've left me your name / email, I've tried to drop everyone a quick personal note to say thank you very much. And for those of you who've chosen to remain anonymous, please see this as a big public thank you. The site is still open for about another 24 hours, so if you'd like to make a last-minute donation, I will wish you happy thoughts between the stress, migraines and homicidal / suicidal tendencies.
Wake up with a migraine, conscious I've been having stress dreams all night.
Go to work. Stress about things.
Go to a play rehearsal. Try to make it fun, but ultimately end up stressing at the cast because they still don't know their lines and we're opening on Thursday.
Come home. Be stressed.
Go to sleep. Have dreams about turning up to a full theatre with no cast, a piano and Judy Dench sitting in the middle of the stage wearing a turban and flip flops. She doesn't know her lines either. I have to step in. Not only do I not know the lines, I am inexplicably unable to speak in any language other than ancient Greek.
Wake up with a migraine, conscious I've been having stress dreams all night.
Apologies for below-par Plogging.
As a side note, massive thanks to all those of you who have donated to www.justgiving.com/laurasplogforhannah. Where you've left me your name / email, I've tried to drop everyone a quick personal note to say thank you very much. And for those of you who've chosen to remain anonymous, please see this as a big public thank you. The site is still open for about another 24 hours, so if you'd like to make a last-minute donation, I will wish you happy thoughts between the stress, migraines and homicidal / suicidal tendencies.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Arsing around
This evening I went with a friend to see a TV show being taped at White City. It's a pilot for a show presented by Jimmy Carr (who else?) for the BBC.
I've seen a fair few things taped in my time... and having recently read Jimmy Carr's (very good) book on the art and the science of comedy, I thought it'd be interesting to see how he works a live crowd. And I was impressed. I liked him a lot. He's an unusual looking chap - somewhere between very good looking and extremely ugly. I couldn't work out if I quite fancied him, or wanted to point and jeer at him. Luckily with me (perhaps less so for him), these things are rarely mutually exclusive.
Unfortunately the most memorable part of the evening was the bloke sitting in front of us. The chairs were those plastic ones that you get at secondary schools, that have the little window at the back, the rectangular hole that makes it easy to pick them up. The - shall we say "larger than life" - bloke in the seat in front of me had a hairy builder's bum that, somewhat unfortunately, poked through the back of the seat.
Once my friend had pointed it out to me, I was sadly unable to draw my gaze away from it for the rest of the evening.
Seriously though - although the show had the excellent Rob Rouse warming up the crowd, he literally did five minutes off the top, and then Jimmy kept the crowd going himself in between takes. Natural, effortless and really rather good at what he does. One of those people you'd like to hate, but actually, he's pretty good.
However, if you ask me my first memory of seeing Jimmy Carr live, I suppose it would have to be, "what a great big fat, hairy arse".
No offence meant.
I've seen a fair few things taped in my time... and having recently read Jimmy Carr's (very good) book on the art and the science of comedy, I thought it'd be interesting to see how he works a live crowd. And I was impressed. I liked him a lot. He's an unusual looking chap - somewhere between very good looking and extremely ugly. I couldn't work out if I quite fancied him, or wanted to point and jeer at him. Luckily with me (perhaps less so for him), these things are rarely mutually exclusive.
Unfortunately the most memorable part of the evening was the bloke sitting in front of us. The chairs were those plastic ones that you get at secondary schools, that have the little window at the back, the rectangular hole that makes it easy to pick them up. The - shall we say "larger than life" - bloke in the seat in front of me had a hairy builder's bum that, somewhat unfortunately, poked through the back of the seat.
Once my friend had pointed it out to me, I was sadly unable to draw my gaze away from it for the rest of the evening.
Seriously though - although the show had the excellent Rob Rouse warming up the crowd, he literally did five minutes off the top, and then Jimmy kept the crowd going himself in between takes. Natural, effortless and really rather good at what he does. One of those people you'd like to hate, but actually, he's pretty good.
However, if you ask me my first memory of seeing Jimmy Carr live, I suppose it would have to be, "what a great big fat, hairy arse".
No offence meant.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Sporting chance
Those of you who know me even a little tiny bit will know I'm not exactly a sports fan. Sit me in front of Wimbledon for a few hours, and I'll be happy enough, or if there's a particuarly good one-day cricket match at Lord's, I'll be entertained for the duration, so long as the weather's good, but generally I'm just Not That Fussed. I used the football World Cup to go shopping or sit in largely-empty parks.
So you can imagine my delight today on entering our office sweepstake for the Rugby World Cup. My knowledge of rugby goes as follows: there are hookers. This makes me giggle. Even when rugby players succeed in scoring points, it's still called a "try", like they didn't quite manage it. Rugby players have funny-shaped ears. Any game that has a blood bin is probably a bit too violent for me. I think someone plays at Twickenham because I was on a train through it once with some rugby fans. Until three weeks ago, I didn't know Scotland played rugby, even though I'd been to a conference at Murrayfield.
So let's just wrap all that up by saying my knowledge of the sport is somewhat lacking. But, if not sporting in actual physical ability, or indeed particularly competitive by nature, I am - I hope - up for joining in with merriment at work, so I paid my £2 and drew one of the two remaining folded up pieces of paper from the pot.
So ladies and gentlemen (announcement coming), it would be much appreciated if you could send all of your very best thoughts and wishes for the Rugby World Cup to my chosen team... fucking Canada.
So you can imagine my delight today on entering our office sweepstake for the Rugby World Cup. My knowledge of rugby goes as follows: there are hookers. This makes me giggle. Even when rugby players succeed in scoring points, it's still called a "try", like they didn't quite manage it. Rugby players have funny-shaped ears. Any game that has a blood bin is probably a bit too violent for me. I think someone plays at Twickenham because I was on a train through it once with some rugby fans. Until three weeks ago, I didn't know Scotland played rugby, even though I'd been to a conference at Murrayfield.
So let's just wrap all that up by saying my knowledge of the sport is somewhat lacking. But, if not sporting in actual physical ability, or indeed particularly competitive by nature, I am - I hope - up for joining in with merriment at work, so I paid my £2 and drew one of the two remaining folded up pieces of paper from the pot.
So ladies and gentlemen (announcement coming), it would be much appreciated if you could send all of your very best thoughts and wishes for the Rugby World Cup to my chosen team... fucking Canada.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Play plug on the Plog
Yesterday I walked to work.
"Yesterday?" you ask (and rightly so). "Yesterday was a Saturday, Laura. Do you mean Friday?"
"No," I reply. "I mean yesterday. Yesterday I walked to work."
And indeed I did. And yet, I did no work at all. Instead I attended a play rehearsal (held at the office) for the play I'm directing. We've only got about a week and a half to go, and I've been having stress dreams for about a month already.
But yesterday's rehearsal went not too badly. The play is getting shorter and shorter, which either means that the actors are really picking the pace up... or else that they keep missing out huge chunks of dialogue. I shall let you, dear Ploggers, decide which is more likely.
It's been a nice weekend all in all. For those of you who'd like to come along and laugh uproariously at (by which I mean with) the play, drop me an email to laura.nunn@googlemail.com and I'll let you know the details.
Friday, September 07, 2007
Cab-tivated
The year, 1997, the location, my parents' house in Loughborough, the time, approximately 2 a.m.
The phone rings. A bleary-eyed Mr Nunn answers.
"Hello?"
A very drunk man at the other end of the phone slurs, "Can I have a taxi at Pulse nightclub please?"
"Sorry," a polite but firm Mr Nunn replies. "I think you have the wrong number." Mr Nunn hangs up.
Five minutes later, the phone rings again, "Can I have a cab at Pulse?"
"I'm sorry," Mr Nunn says more insistently, "but you have the wrong number." He hangs up again.
The phone rings straight away. An irate Mr Nunn answers.
"Hello?"
It is the same man. "Can I order a taxi please?"
"Look, this isn't a taxi firm. We don't have any taxis!"
There is a pause. The drunk man has infallible logic: "Well, why did you answer the phone then?"
Mr Nunn is stumped.
In other news... Thank you to everyone who's donated to my appeal to raise money for Cardiac Risk in the Young. We've so far raised £285, which is fantastic. The page closes in about a week, and I'd really like to get that total up to £300. I know a lot of you have already donated, but I also know there are a lot of people who read the Plog regularly who've not yet made a donation. Of course it isn't compulsory, but if you enjoy reading my near-daily ramblings, it would mean a lot to me if you could spare a few quid to support the charity in Hannah's memory.
If you don't wish to identify yourself, it's perfectly possible to donate anonymously via the site, and it's a totally secure way of donating cash. Many thanks in advance - here's the link again.
http://www.justgiving.com/laurasplogforhannah
The phone rings. A bleary-eyed Mr Nunn answers.
"Hello?"
A very drunk man at the other end of the phone slurs, "Can I have a taxi at Pulse nightclub please?"
"Sorry," a polite but firm Mr Nunn replies. "I think you have the wrong number." Mr Nunn hangs up.
Five minutes later, the phone rings again, "Can I have a cab at Pulse?"
"I'm sorry," Mr Nunn says more insistently, "but you have the wrong number." He hangs up again.
The phone rings straight away. An irate Mr Nunn answers.
"Hello?"
It is the same man. "Can I order a taxi please?"
"Look, this isn't a taxi firm. We don't have any taxis!"
There is a pause. The drunk man has infallible logic: "Well, why did you answer the phone then?"
Mr Nunn is stumped.
In other news... Thank you to everyone who's donated to my appeal to raise money for Cardiac Risk in the Young. We've so far raised £285, which is fantastic. The page closes in about a week, and I'd really like to get that total up to £300. I know a lot of you have already donated, but I also know there are a lot of people who read the Plog regularly who've not yet made a donation. Of course it isn't compulsory, but if you enjoy reading my near-daily ramblings, it would mean a lot to me if you could spare a few quid to support the charity in Hannah's memory.
If you don't wish to identify yourself, it's perfectly possible to donate anonymously via the site, and it's a totally secure way of donating cash. Many thanks in advance - here's the link again.
http://www.justgiving.com/laurasplogforhannah
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Well-seasoned
I have a friend who likes all the seasons. "What's your favourite season?" I will ask her.
"Hmm," she will say thoughtfully. "Hmm." Then she will answer, "I love spring when it's just getting warm and all the blossom comes out."
"Me too," I would say. "Spring is my second favourite season."
"But I like summer too, when it's really, really hot and you go rampaging for ice-cream."
"I love summer," I would say. "Summer is quite literally my absolute favourite season."
"But I love it when it's cold," she continues. "Ooh, I love being all warm inside with a cup of hot chocolate when it's freezing outside."
"There I would disagree with you, my friend," I would say. "Winter is in my bottom two seasons."
"And of course I love autumn too," she will say. "When the leaves go brown and there are bonfires and toffee apples."
I hate autumn. I absolutely loathe it. I probably ought to like it more because I have an autumn birthday, but every year around the start of September you can smell how the air has changed and although it might be August-hot, the gravel seems crunchier and you know the first frost is on its way.
And that is why my friend is wrong, and summer is the best. Unfortunately we seem to have skipped my favourite season this year and gone straight to my least favourite. Letters of complaint have been lodged with the relevant people.
"Hmm," she will say thoughtfully. "Hmm." Then she will answer, "I love spring when it's just getting warm and all the blossom comes out."
"Me too," I would say. "Spring is my second favourite season."
"But I like summer too, when it's really, really hot and you go rampaging for ice-cream."
"I love summer," I would say. "Summer is quite literally my absolute favourite season."
"But I love it when it's cold," she continues. "Ooh, I love being all warm inside with a cup of hot chocolate when it's freezing outside."
"There I would disagree with you, my friend," I would say. "Winter is in my bottom two seasons."
"And of course I love autumn too," she will say. "When the leaves go brown and there are bonfires and toffee apples."
I hate autumn. I absolutely loathe it. I probably ought to like it more because I have an autumn birthday, but every year around the start of September you can smell how the air has changed and although it might be August-hot, the gravel seems crunchier and you know the first frost is on its way.
And that is why my friend is wrong, and summer is the best. Unfortunately we seem to have skipped my favourite season this year and gone straight to my least favourite. Letters of complaint have been lodged with the relevant people.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Driving Miss Nunn
Oh the tube strike. The tube strike. Oh.
Two and a half hours it took me to get to work today. I could have walked it much quicker, though admittedly not in the shoes I was wearing. Two and a half hours!
The tubes aren't running. My cab never showed up. The buses went past full, not stopping to let people on. Eventually, a maverick bus driver turned up. You've got to love maverick bus drivers. He didn't care how many people he had on his bus. He thought it was all a bit of a laugh.
"Look," he said to me, pointing at his CCTV screen. "Those blokes at the back are having a fight." He laughed.
In we crammed. There were probably about fifty of us standing on the lower deck, as the bus slowly edged towards the city. We were as squished as it was possible for human beings to be. I may have had a lesbian experience. I'm not sure.
At one point the maverick bus driver caught my eye. I half-smiled, as if to say, "Dear bus driver, isn't this ridiculous?"
He raised one eyebrow and actually said to me, "I think it's funny. I've got a seat."
Brilliant.
Two and a half hours it took me to get to work today. I could have walked it much quicker, though admittedly not in the shoes I was wearing. Two and a half hours!
The tubes aren't running. My cab never showed up. The buses went past full, not stopping to let people on. Eventually, a maverick bus driver turned up. You've got to love maverick bus drivers. He didn't care how many people he had on his bus. He thought it was all a bit of a laugh.
"Look," he said to me, pointing at his CCTV screen. "Those blokes at the back are having a fight." He laughed.
In we crammed. There were probably about fifty of us standing on the lower deck, as the bus slowly edged towards the city. We were as squished as it was possible for human beings to be. I may have had a lesbian experience. I'm not sure.
At one point the maverick bus driver caught my eye. I half-smiled, as if to say, "Dear bus driver, isn't this ridiculous?"
He raised one eyebrow and actually said to me, "I think it's funny. I've got a seat."
Brilliant.
Sunday, September 02, 2007
Houston, we have a problem
So I work in a basement. Lucky old me. No natural light, which is bad (though at least I can honestly say I don't suffer from glare from the windows), but the worst thing is that we sit near the kitchens for the canteen. They listen to music all day.
This would be fine - maybe slightly irritating - if they listened to Radio 1 or Capital FM all day. But no. Instead, they have a 1992 soundtrack CD of The Bodyguard and listen to Whitney Houston. On repeat. All day. Loudly. Did you know you can listen to the same CD 17 times in one working day? I do.
I used to quite like Whitney Houston. Now I hope her work is made illegal, and fairly quickly.
So, driving back to London this afternoon, I listed to Elaine Paige on Radio 2 do her Broadway and musicals show. She's a bit annoying, but she usually plays some good tracks. Today, she played a bit of Les Mis (nice), something from Oliver! (great), and a few bits and pieces from Joseph (fine). But she ruined my drive by saying, "This next film was released in the early nineties... and I can't imagine anyone doing it quite like Kevin and Whitney."
A full five minutes of fucking Whitney followed. And that, your honour, is the reason I abandoned my car on the North Circular.
This would be fine - maybe slightly irritating - if they listened to Radio 1 or Capital FM all day. But no. Instead, they have a 1992 soundtrack CD of The Bodyguard and listen to Whitney Houston. On repeat. All day. Loudly. Did you know you can listen to the same CD 17 times in one working day? I do.
I used to quite like Whitney Houston. Now I hope her work is made illegal, and fairly quickly.
So, driving back to London this afternoon, I listed to Elaine Paige on Radio 2 do her Broadway and musicals show. She's a bit annoying, but she usually plays some good tracks. Today, she played a bit of Les Mis (nice), something from Oliver! (great), and a few bits and pieces from Joseph (fine). But she ruined my drive by saying, "This next film was released in the early nineties... and I can't imagine anyone doing it quite like Kevin and Whitney."
A full five minutes of fucking Whitney followed. And that, your honour, is the reason I abandoned my car on the North Circular.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
The birds and the bees
Today I visited some bee hives. I will try my hardest to refrain from making bee-related jokes for the rest of the post, but I doubt I'll succeed.
Things you may not know about bees:
- They go to each other's hives and try and rob each other's food. Then they have big fights and try to tear each other's wings off.
- Usually more than one queen bee hatches at once, and they have a big fight to decide who lives and who dies.
- The queen bee gets fertilised in mid-air by a drone bee. A mid-air shag! Imagine that! Worse luck for the drone bee... his genitalia snaps off and remains inside the queen bee to fertilise her. I can imagine pitching that to the drone:
"Fancy a shag?"
"Not half."
"All you have to do is fly up really high, find the queen and give her one."
"Great."
"Oh, one thing..."
"What?"
"Well, it's not important, but basically, when you do, your little bee penis will snap off and stay inside the queen, and you'll die a slow death. Mid-air."
"Oh, that's fine. Thanks for letting me know. I'm off. How do my wings look?"
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