My friend Jeanette is job-hunting. Today she had an interview with a well-known legal firm. She called me this evening.
"How did it go, Jeanette?" asked I.
"Well..." she said. "It was a bit weird. The office was nice - over in the Docklands." She paused. "Laura, have you ever been in an interview where the interviewer has used the word 'cunt'?"
"Are you sure this was an legal firm?" I asked. "Because actually, that has happened to me, but it was a different sort of job, and it was kind of less Docklands, and more King's Cross. Mostly shift work. Nights, specifically."
"Seriously," she said. "He used the word 'cunt'. And said 'fucking' twice. He asked me if I had a boyfriend. And then he told me that Finsbury Park spelled backwards was Krapy Rubsnif."
"Did you get the job?" I asked.
"No. Apparently they were looking for someone with a bit more professional experience."
Still, Krapy Rubsnif? Brilliant!
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Gamey
Beware people. Back when the weather was sunnier and generally less dark, I introduced you to a genius game. Please see http://laurasplog.blogspot.com/2007/08/cine-tastic.html.
Take any film title, and add the phrase "between my legs" to the end of it. Instant hilarity guaranteed.
But now I feel it is my duty to warn you of the game. I have discovered a dark secret, much like when they suddenly realised that smoking cigarettes actually wasn't that good for you after all. Here you go - the dark secret: once you start playing this game with someone, there is absolutely no escape. One of you will come up with a film title... the other will have to better it. With competitive people, this game literally goes on for hours.
Basically yesterday evening two of us got stuck in loop. Between my legs.
Take any film title, and add the phrase "between my legs" to the end of it. Instant hilarity guaranteed.
But now I feel it is my duty to warn you of the game. I have discovered a dark secret, much like when they suddenly realised that smoking cigarettes actually wasn't that good for you after all. Here you go - the dark secret: once you start playing this game with someone, there is absolutely no escape. One of you will come up with a film title... the other will have to better it. With competitive people, this game literally goes on for hours.
Basically yesterday evening two of us got stuck in loop. Between my legs.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Only joking
Is there anything quite so sweet as remember a long-forgotten joke, and laughing at it anew? I have two absolute favourite jokes. The biscuit joke, and the orange-head joke. The biscuit joke I can't tell to anyone a) because I can't get to the end of it without laughing and b) because the joke recipient rarely (if ever) laughs, and then I find that I judge them for not finding one of my favourite jokes funny.
All I have to do to make Erica laugh is say, "the biscuit joke". I don't even have to tell the biscuit joke. I just have to say "the biscuit joke". It is very funny. But you probably wouldn't like it.
The orange-head joke ... again, hardly anyone finds it as funny as I do. I think I like it because it plays on the genre and because it's ultimately very, very silly. Tellingly, neither of my favourite jokes is rude... Which is odd for me!
But today I was reminded of a very short, but nonetheless hilarious joke about Noddy. And I thought I would share it with you, in the hope of brightening your last few hours of Sunday.
Q: Why does Noddy wear a little blue hat with a little yellow bell on the end of it?
A: Because he's a cunt.
All I have to do to make Erica laugh is say, "the biscuit joke". I don't even have to tell the biscuit joke. I just have to say "the biscuit joke". It is very funny. But you probably wouldn't like it.
The orange-head joke ... again, hardly anyone finds it as funny as I do. I think I like it because it plays on the genre and because it's ultimately very, very silly. Tellingly, neither of my favourite jokes is rude... Which is odd for me!
But today I was reminded of a very short, but nonetheless hilarious joke about Noddy. And I thought I would share it with you, in the hope of brightening your last few hours of Sunday.
Q: Why does Noddy wear a little blue hat with a little yellow bell on the end of it?
A: Because he's a cunt.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
When in Rome...
Easter Day 1996. I was 16 years old and on holiday with my parents in Italy. Mrs Nunn didn't like flying, so we'd taken a 30-hour coach ride. Picture a geriatrics ward at your local hospital. Add to that a few hacking coughs, wall-to-wall Richard Clayderman and Stan Getz over the PA system, and a brash fat blonde guide, waddling up and down the aisle, shouting, "Brandy Bombers? Anyone want a Brandy Bomber?" The journey there was a special type of hell.
We had been to Florence, where I had sulked around the Uffizi. (How many paintings of Jesus does one building need?) We had visited some old town that involved walking up lots of hills. Finally, it was time for the day-trip to Rome.
The weather was beautiful. Rome was a delight. We saw the Pope, who was so far away, he looked like a little milk bottle on his balcony. We wandered through the streets... and came across a portrait artist. I had always wanted my portrait sketched, and my parents haggled with the artist and agreed a price. He said something about money - perhaps that he didn't want paying until the end. Dad gave the money to me to give to the artist. I sat down and he started to sketch me.
A crowd gathered, watching him draw. He looked up at me, looked at his paper, sketched, looked up again. Behind me, the sun shone down onto the Colosseum. He sketched some more. More people gathered. Mum said, "It looks really good." Finally he finished. He held out the portrait to me. I took it.
"Thank you," I said. "That's great."
I handed over the money to him.
"NO!" shouted the artist. "NO! You must not let me see the money! No!"
He snatched my portrait back and ripped it into tiny pieces. "Go away!" he shouted at me. "Go away!"
Mad. As. A. Tree.
We had been to Florence, where I had sulked around the Uffizi. (How many paintings of Jesus does one building need?) We had visited some old town that involved walking up lots of hills. Finally, it was time for the day-trip to Rome.
The weather was beautiful. Rome was a delight. We saw the Pope, who was so far away, he looked like a little milk bottle on his balcony. We wandered through the streets... and came across a portrait artist. I had always wanted my portrait sketched, and my parents haggled with the artist and agreed a price. He said something about money - perhaps that he didn't want paying until the end. Dad gave the money to me to give to the artist. I sat down and he started to sketch me.
A crowd gathered, watching him draw. He looked up at me, looked at his paper, sketched, looked up again. Behind me, the sun shone down onto the Colosseum. He sketched some more. More people gathered. Mum said, "It looks really good." Finally he finished. He held out the portrait to me. I took it.
"Thank you," I said. "That's great."
I handed over the money to him.
"NO!" shouted the artist. "NO! You must not let me see the money! No!"
He snatched my portrait back and ripped it into tiny pieces. "Go away!" he shouted at me. "Go away!"
Mad. As. A. Tree.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Face to Facebook
I've tried to steer away from this, I really have. But I'm sorry, I'm going to have to talk about Facebook again. Specifically this time, an application called Compare People.
This application will bring up two of your friends at a time and ask things like "Who would you rather kiss?" You then click on the friend you'd rather kiss. Ratings can be anonymous, but you get the chance to see how you stack up against your other friends.
Well, over the last few weeks or so, results have been dribbling in. I would like to share some thoughts with you.
Apparently:
100% of people think I'm nicer than whoever they compared me to. I rock.
100% of people would rather live with me. Though the sample size is only two. And I can't stand to share, so to be honest, this one's a bit of a non-starter.
100% of people would rather sleep with me. Sounds fab. Sample size is one person. I'm hoping it's not my brother.
100% of people think I'm more famous. This is quite a coup, seeing as my friends include a large number of stand-up comics. Who are obviously a lot less famous than me, according to my friends.
100% of people think I'm more organised. I am.
But hang on a minute...
100% of people (three of the fuckers) think I'm more likely to skip class. ME? I was a total goody-goody. This is the girl who got a week's extension for her English coursework because she was in a school play. She then got flu for an entire week. Despite the flu, despite the play, she still handed in the work EARLY. Most likely to skip class indeed! (Unless they were university friends who voted, in which case, fuck yeah - wouldn't see me for dust if I had an optional lecture.)
0% of people (of a sample size of two) would rather get stuck in handcuffs with me. Good, because that's just going to be uncomfortable and embarrassing ultimately.
(This one really rankles) 0% of people think I'm more punctual! OK, the sample size was just one person, but really. I think I've only been late twice in my life. I'm guessing this "friend" is taking the piss. If I find out who it is, I'll arrange to meet up with them for a chat. And be early.
0% of people (of a whacking four people) think I'm more fashionable. This I can live with. Blame the personal shopper and move on.
One person thinks I'm better at science. We probably oughtn't let that person near the chemicals. Someone thinks I'm cuddly. I'm not sure in what way. One poor deluded soul thinks I have better taste in music. The Carpenters, The Beach Boys, Roxette and The Eagles would beg to differ. One person would rather take me shopping. I'd rather they didn't.
Is it time to get a real life yet?
This application will bring up two of your friends at a time and ask things like "Who would you rather kiss?" You then click on the friend you'd rather kiss. Ratings can be anonymous, but you get the chance to see how you stack up against your other friends.
Well, over the last few weeks or so, results have been dribbling in. I would like to share some thoughts with you.
Apparently:
100% of people think I'm nicer than whoever they compared me to. I rock.
100% of people would rather live with me. Though the sample size is only two. And I can't stand to share, so to be honest, this one's a bit of a non-starter.
100% of people would rather sleep with me. Sounds fab. Sample size is one person. I'm hoping it's not my brother.
100% of people think I'm more famous. This is quite a coup, seeing as my friends include a large number of stand-up comics. Who are obviously a lot less famous than me, according to my friends.
100% of people think I'm more organised. I am.
But hang on a minute...
100% of people (three of the fuckers) think I'm more likely to skip class. ME? I was a total goody-goody. This is the girl who got a week's extension for her English coursework because she was in a school play. She then got flu for an entire week. Despite the flu, despite the play, she still handed in the work EARLY. Most likely to skip class indeed! (Unless they were university friends who voted, in which case, fuck yeah - wouldn't see me for dust if I had an optional lecture.)
0% of people (of a sample size of two) would rather get stuck in handcuffs with me. Good, because that's just going to be uncomfortable and embarrassing ultimately.
(This one really rankles) 0% of people think I'm more punctual! OK, the sample size was just one person, but really. I think I've only been late twice in my life. I'm guessing this "friend" is taking the piss. If I find out who it is, I'll arrange to meet up with them for a chat. And be early.
0% of people (of a whacking four people) think I'm more fashionable. This I can live with. Blame the personal shopper and move on.
One person thinks I'm better at science. We probably oughtn't let that person near the chemicals. Someone thinks I'm cuddly. I'm not sure in what way. One poor deluded soul thinks I have better taste in music. The Carpenters, The Beach Boys, Roxette and The Eagles would beg to differ. One person would rather take me shopping. I'd rather they didn't.
Is it time to get a real life yet?
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Spooky
I have a shameful confession to make. Those of you who (mistakenly) consider me to be a reasonably intelligent human being, you may wish to look away now if you want to preserve that opinion.
It's a secret that I've tried to keep to myself, but I can no longer manage it. It's a momentous one. Here goes.
Every week I watch - and enjoy - Spooks. This is not (despite what my friend Jennie thinks) because I'm a spy. (She does actually hold this belief. It really cheers me up.) Just to qualify the first statement. I do watch, and do enjoy Spooks... it's beautifully edited, fast-paced, the characters are interesting, the gadgets are hugely fun. Here's the confession: I've never yet understood an entire episode all the way through.
Last week I thought we were in Iran, and it turned out to be some woods in the UK. (I had wondered why there was a UK licence plate, and put it down to poor attention to detail.) This week I had no idea how the Russians got involved in the vaccine thingy that the Americans had sold... nor why that woman had to download info from the computer to her memory stick. Made absolutely no sense to me.
Now you see, a couple of things worry me. Firstly, I do consider myself to be of average intelligence. I read Booker Prize-winning books - and enjoy them. I have a job that requires a certain amount of understanding what the fuck is going on. I have a mortgage and watch documentaries. I go to the theatre. I have frequented art galleries. Usually under duress, but that's beside the point. I'm fairly bright.
So - to address my first point - why the fuck can't I follow Spooks - presumably made for a mass-market audience?
Secondly, given that I've just admitted it to everyone, why the buggery bollocks do I keep watching it? Surely it has to be more than "it looks pretty on the television".
I never understood Inspector Morse either. Each episode would end with me saying to Mr Nunn, "Oh, so there were two men with beards?"
I have one small consolation. I have a friend (who will remain nameless as this is my confession, not hers), who is one of the brightest people I've ever met. She also watches Spooks every week, and like me, ends up totally confused at the end of every episode. We agree it looks good on TV.
Unless it's all an Emperor's New Clothes situation, and no-one understands it, but everyone else is unwilling to admit it. So - I propose a Spooks amnesty... Speak now if you're as confused as I am. (You don't have to admit to the Inspector Morse thing too.)
It's a secret that I've tried to keep to myself, but I can no longer manage it. It's a momentous one. Here goes.
Every week I watch - and enjoy - Spooks. This is not (despite what my friend Jennie thinks) because I'm a spy. (She does actually hold this belief. It really cheers me up.) Just to qualify the first statement. I do watch, and do enjoy Spooks... it's beautifully edited, fast-paced, the characters are interesting, the gadgets are hugely fun. Here's the confession: I've never yet understood an entire episode all the way through.
Last week I thought we were in Iran, and it turned out to be some woods in the UK. (I had wondered why there was a UK licence plate, and put it down to poor attention to detail.) This week I had no idea how the Russians got involved in the vaccine thingy that the Americans had sold... nor why that woman had to download info from the computer to her memory stick. Made absolutely no sense to me.
Now you see, a couple of things worry me. Firstly, I do consider myself to be of average intelligence. I read Booker Prize-winning books - and enjoy them. I have a job that requires a certain amount of understanding what the fuck is going on. I have a mortgage and watch documentaries. I go to the theatre. I have frequented art galleries. Usually under duress, but that's beside the point. I'm fairly bright.
So - to address my first point - why the fuck can't I follow Spooks - presumably made for a mass-market audience?
Secondly, given that I've just admitted it to everyone, why the buggery bollocks do I keep watching it? Surely it has to be more than "it looks pretty on the television".
I never understood Inspector Morse either. Each episode would end with me saying to Mr Nunn, "Oh, so there were two men with beards?"
I have one small consolation. I have a friend (who will remain nameless as this is my confession, not hers), who is one of the brightest people I've ever met. She also watches Spooks every week, and like me, ends up totally confused at the end of every episode. We agree it looks good on TV.
Unless it's all an Emperor's New Clothes situation, and no-one understands it, but everyone else is unwilling to admit it. So - I propose a Spooks amnesty... Speak now if you're as confused as I am. (You don't have to admit to the Inspector Morse thing too.)
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Phraseworthy
I am too tired to Plog properly. I've been over in Windsor* for the last few days, running a workshop. It went very well, but they're very long days, fraught with adrenaline, frustrations and standing up for about 10 hours straight, followed by socialising in the evening. Whilst everyone was lovely, I get my energy from time by myself, so the socialising aspect of the events are always something of an effort for me, and I'm delighted to be back home alone.
So, too tired for proper Plogging, I will instead share a phrase with you that Mr Nunn shared with me a day or so ago, and has made life more bearable. Anyone that annoys you (hotel receptionists who promise a lot and deliver nothing, people who cut you up on the motorway, opinionated know-nothings who take five minutes to say precisely sod all, usually when you're in a rush), basically anyone at all who gets on your tits... Mr Nunn defines these as "fuck-fairies".
What a great phrase. The world is peopled with fuck-fairies. Just saying the phrase in your head whilst a fuck-fairy is in the act of fuck-fairying is usually enough to make me smile. Thus making the day brighter.
Fuck-fairies. Brilliant.
* I still don't really know where Windsor is, but I think there's an airport nearby.
So, too tired for proper Plogging, I will instead share a phrase with you that Mr Nunn shared with me a day or so ago, and has made life more bearable. Anyone that annoys you (hotel receptionists who promise a lot and deliver nothing, people who cut you up on the motorway, opinionated know-nothings who take five minutes to say precisely sod all, usually when you're in a rush), basically anyone at all who gets on your tits... Mr Nunn defines these as "fuck-fairies".
What a great phrase. The world is peopled with fuck-fairies. Just saying the phrase in your head whilst a fuck-fairy is in the act of fuck-fairying is usually enough to make me smile. Thus making the day brighter.
Fuck-fairies. Brilliant.
* I still don't really know where Windsor is, but I think there's an airport nearby.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Jessica-n't
I am off tomorrow to Windsor. Windsor is one of those places that I know does exist, I imagine is sort of near London but I would really struggle to point at it on a map. Many people, quite rightly, might suggest that I struggle to point at a lot of things on a map. Including entire continents.
But it's not my fault if someone made South America and Africa the same shape, is it?
That's not the point. The point is, tomorrow Jessica, the Corsa and I are driving off to Windsor, with only a postcode for Jessica, and a vague awareness on my part that if I end up in Durham, I'm probably on the wrong track. Jessica might try to take me through Central London. I'm having none of it. So we very well might end up in Durham.
Watch this space. Not literally. It might be a day or so before I update again, and to be honest, that's a real waste of about twenty-four hours. Go and do something else. Maybe the washing up. Or reply to that email you've been meaning to. Go and stalk someone on Facebook. You know you want to.
And when (if) I find civilisation in Windsor, I'll be sure to let you know where it is. Deal.
But it's not my fault if someone made South America and Africa the same shape, is it?
That's not the point. The point is, tomorrow Jessica, the Corsa and I are driving off to Windsor, with only a postcode for Jessica, and a vague awareness on my part that if I end up in Durham, I'm probably on the wrong track. Jessica might try to take me through Central London. I'm having none of it. So we very well might end up in Durham.
Watch this space. Not literally. It might be a day or so before I update again, and to be honest, that's a real waste of about twenty-four hours. Go and do something else. Maybe the washing up. Or reply to that email you've been meaning to. Go and stalk someone on Facebook. You know you want to.
And when (if) I find civilisation in Windsor, I'll be sure to let you know where it is. Deal.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Red Faced-book
Dear Lord, help us all. Mr and Mrs Nunn are on Facebook.
At first I wasn't too worried. Mrs Nunn can barely operate a lightswitch, and Mr Nunn can usually find better things to do with his time. The damage potential was limited. Or so I thought.
Yesterday evening, I get a phone call. It is Mrs Nunn.
"Laura - what are you plotting and scheming about?"
"Sorry, what do you mean?" I ask.
"Your Facebook status. It says, 'Laura Nunn is plotting and scheming'. What are you plotting?"
"Nothing," I tell Mrs Nunn, quite truthfully. "Sometimes I can't think of anything to put in the status box. Last week it said 'Laura Nunn is a lumberjack and she's OK'. It doesn't mean anything."
"You're lying," says Mrs Nunn. "I can always tell when you're lying."
"I'm not!"
"Yes you are. You're plotting something. Or scheming. Probably both. Anyway," continues Mrs Nunn, "I've got some lovely baby photos that your Dad's going to scan in and tag for you on Facebook. There's a great one of you naked on a potty with your fat little face all beaming..."
I have nightmares that start like this.
At first I wasn't too worried. Mrs Nunn can barely operate a lightswitch, and Mr Nunn can usually find better things to do with his time. The damage potential was limited. Or so I thought.
Yesterday evening, I get a phone call. It is Mrs Nunn.
"Laura - what are you plotting and scheming about?"
"Sorry, what do you mean?" I ask.
"Your Facebook status. It says, 'Laura Nunn is plotting and scheming'. What are you plotting?"
"Nothing," I tell Mrs Nunn, quite truthfully. "Sometimes I can't think of anything to put in the status box. Last week it said 'Laura Nunn is a lumberjack and she's OK'. It doesn't mean anything."
"You're lying," says Mrs Nunn. "I can always tell when you're lying."
"I'm not!"
"Yes you are. You're plotting something. Or scheming. Probably both. Anyway," continues Mrs Nunn, "I've got some lovely baby photos that your Dad's going to scan in and tag for you on Facebook. There's a great one of you naked on a potty with your fat little face all beaming..."
I have nightmares that start like this.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Teenage kicks
At school I was a bit of a goody-goody. Never got a detention. Was never disciplined for anything. Once I got asked to stop talking about my English homework in a Textiles lesson, but that was about it. Oh, once I got told off for "skiving PE"... by sitting in the school library and doing a French translation. Wild, I wasn't.
Even outside of school, my hobbies stretched to reading, playing the piano, running my own mini-business, theatre - nothing that would give any parent a cause for alarm.
It's sad to admit, but the highlight of my weekend in my UVI year (when I was 18) was not the Friday night out to the pub with my friends, which I often forwent in favour of (sadly) the TV show Friends. In fact, many weekends I would come home from school on a Friday night, and not leave again until Sunday afternoon, when the highlight would occur.
Are you ready for this?
My highlight: on Sundays I occasionally used to take Mum's car (with Dad's supervision)... and drive to Tesco for my parents' weekly shop.
Did I listen to loud music? No. I had a Roxette album and some Rod Stewart which I played quite quietly. Did I stay out late? No - I was always home at least half an hour before I said I would be. Did I come home roaring drunk? Well, once or twice, but not until I'd left school. Did I throw up on the carpet? Actually, I'll take the fifth on that one.
My point is, I never quite got round to a teenage rebellion. I did well in exams, was involved in wholesome extra-curricular activities, took a year out with a sensible job, went to a good university and studied an academic subject.
Basically I forgot to have a teenage rebellion. My dad, ever mindful of this, has often warned me that it's probably lurking. He originally thought I'd have it when I was 22. He revised this a few years back to 26.
I mentioned this whilst I was out with my friends the other night, celebrating my 28th. "I think it's about time for my teenage rebellion," said I.
Sarah pondered this thoughtfully. "You need to be careful," she said. "At your age, it could get mistaken for a mid-life crisis."
Fuck.
Even outside of school, my hobbies stretched to reading, playing the piano, running my own mini-business, theatre - nothing that would give any parent a cause for alarm.
It's sad to admit, but the highlight of my weekend in my UVI year (when I was 18) was not the Friday night out to the pub with my friends, which I often forwent in favour of (sadly) the TV show Friends. In fact, many weekends I would come home from school on a Friday night, and not leave again until Sunday afternoon, when the highlight would occur.
Are you ready for this?
My highlight: on Sundays I occasionally used to take Mum's car (with Dad's supervision)... and drive to Tesco for my parents' weekly shop.
Did I listen to loud music? No. I had a Roxette album and some Rod Stewart which I played quite quietly. Did I stay out late? No - I was always home at least half an hour before I said I would be. Did I come home roaring drunk? Well, once or twice, but not until I'd left school. Did I throw up on the carpet? Actually, I'll take the fifth on that one.
My point is, I never quite got round to a teenage rebellion. I did well in exams, was involved in wholesome extra-curricular activities, took a year out with a sensible job, went to a good university and studied an academic subject.
Basically I forgot to have a teenage rebellion. My dad, ever mindful of this, has often warned me that it's probably lurking. He originally thought I'd have it when I was 22. He revised this a few years back to 26.
I mentioned this whilst I was out with my friends the other night, celebrating my 28th. "I think it's about time for my teenage rebellion," said I.
Sarah pondered this thoughtfully. "You need to be careful," she said. "At your age, it could get mistaken for a mid-life crisis."
Fuck.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
What what?
What a lovely birthday. Not only was there absolutely no skidding across the wooden floor and exposing myself to the neighbours (there's a sentence you shouldn't ever have to write), but I had some lovely presents from family and friends (special mention to my parents for the Les Mis CD, Erica for the brilliant and much-coveted monkey t-shirt, and to Hazel's mum for her inspirational Plog present. Which may or may not have included Marmite. I don't want to give too much away.).
The evening saw dinner at my favourite London restaurant, Patterson's, with Erica, Katy (who smells of wee), Kath, Sarah and Helen. The meal was excellent, the company was fantastic, and the chef wrote "Happy Birthday" on my plate in chocolate.
On seeing this, the blonde girl on the next table squealed at me: "Is it your birthday?"
"Yes," said I. For it was.
She looked shocked. "It's my birthday too." She said this as if it was the strangest coincidence in the world that two people in London should both have their birthday on the same day.
"Is it?" I feigned interest and delight.
"Only the waiter doesn't know," lamented the blonde girl. Who was frankly beginning to get a bit irritating.
Five minutes later her dessert arrived, with "Happy Birthday" duly iced on her plate in chocolate. The waiters at Patterson's are magic.
The blonde birthday girl actually clapped and squealed some more. I saw no reason to celebrate the fact that she'd lived this long.
At dinner this evening at Incognito with my friend Boothie (yes, I live a hedonistic lifestyle where I eat out a lot. I apologise. But I'm not really sorry.), the waiter was so French, we couldn't understand a bloody word he was saying. Let me just clarify. My French is actually pretty good. He was speaking English with such a thick French accent that we really, really struggled.
"Zee reeesottto, eet comes weeth leeeeat," said our waiter, to my enquiry as to what sort of risotto was on the menu.
"Sorry, could you say that again?" I asked politely.
"With leeeeat."
Boothie helped me out, "With what?" she asked.
"Yes," replied the waiter.
"With what?" Boothie and I enquired again.
"Yes," the waiter said confidently.
We didn't order the risotto. But did have a side order of what. After all, it is in season at the moment.
The evening saw dinner at my favourite London restaurant, Patterson's, with Erica, Katy (who smells of wee), Kath, Sarah and Helen. The meal was excellent, the company was fantastic, and the chef wrote "Happy Birthday" on my plate in chocolate.
On seeing this, the blonde girl on the next table squealed at me: "Is it your birthday?"
"Yes," said I. For it was.
She looked shocked. "It's my birthday too." She said this as if it was the strangest coincidence in the world that two people in London should both have their birthday on the same day.
"Is it?" I feigned interest and delight.
"Only the waiter doesn't know," lamented the blonde girl. Who was frankly beginning to get a bit irritating.
Five minutes later her dessert arrived, with "Happy Birthday" duly iced on her plate in chocolate. The waiters at Patterson's are magic.
The blonde birthday girl actually clapped and squealed some more. I saw no reason to celebrate the fact that she'd lived this long.
At dinner this evening at Incognito with my friend Boothie (yes, I live a hedonistic lifestyle where I eat out a lot. I apologise. But I'm not really sorry.), the waiter was so French, we couldn't understand a bloody word he was saying. Let me just clarify. My French is actually pretty good. He was speaking English with such a thick French accent that we really, really struggled.
"Zee reeesottto, eet comes weeth leeeeat," said our waiter, to my enquiry as to what sort of risotto was on the menu.
"Sorry, could you say that again?" I asked politely.
"With leeeeat."
Boothie helped me out, "With what?" she asked.
"Yes," replied the waiter.
"With what?" Boothie and I enquired again.
"Yes," the waiter said confidently.
We didn't order the risotto. But did have a side order of what. After all, it is in season at the moment.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Birthday suit
The challenge is on. Tomorrow is my birthday. Every birthday for the last three years (excepting the last one) has gone like this:
I get up for work and have a lovely shower. As I turn the shower off, I'm gradually aware that a phone is ringing. I listen harder. It is my landline, in my living room. No time for towelling before voicemail cuts off my early-morning caller, I rush into my living room, my wet feet skid on my wooden floor, and in an attempt to regain balance, I smack my knee against my desk. In considerable pain I grab the phone and answer proudly, just in time.
Then I realise that I am standing totally naked in front of my living room window. And I didn't draw the curtains last night. My knee is bleeding a bit.
"Happy birthday!" shout a ridiculously cheerful Mr and Mrs Nunn down the phone to me.
Mindful that this had happened three years in a row, last year I (cunningly) briefed them, telling them that this time I would call them. Yet, as I turned the shower off, on 17 October last year, sure enough I heard the phone ringing.
I dashed across the hall, skidded into the living room, smacked my leg across the desk, got to the phone just in time... realised I was naked in front of open windows... "Happy birthday!" said Hazel.
Ah well, tis good to have good friends and good family, and it entertains the neighbours once a year. This year, I'm taking precautions. I'm off to draw the curtains.
I get up for work and have a lovely shower. As I turn the shower off, I'm gradually aware that a phone is ringing. I listen harder. It is my landline, in my living room. No time for towelling before voicemail cuts off my early-morning caller, I rush into my living room, my wet feet skid on my wooden floor, and in an attempt to regain balance, I smack my knee against my desk. In considerable pain I grab the phone and answer proudly, just in time.
Then I realise that I am standing totally naked in front of my living room window. And I didn't draw the curtains last night. My knee is bleeding a bit.
"Happy birthday!" shout a ridiculously cheerful Mr and Mrs Nunn down the phone to me.
Mindful that this had happened three years in a row, last year I (cunningly) briefed them, telling them that this time I would call them. Yet, as I turned the shower off, on 17 October last year, sure enough I heard the phone ringing.
I dashed across the hall, skidded into the living room, smacked my leg across the desk, got to the phone just in time... realised I was naked in front of open windows... "Happy birthday!" said Hazel.
Ah well, tis good to have good friends and good family, and it entertains the neighbours once a year. This year, I'm taking precautions. I'm off to draw the curtains.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Not-so-super market
I'm going to be honest with you. I don't cook very often. I'm going to be more honest with you. I rarely ever cook. I probably defrost either a pizza or a microwave meal a couple of times a week, and if I happen to be around on a weekend, I might attempt an omelette or an easy-peasy spaghetti bolognaise. If I'm bored and have butter, I might make some chocolate chip cookies to take into work for my colleagues. The rest of the time I tend to eat out. There. I've admitted it.
OK, it means my monthly expenditure on restaurants is pretty high, but the plus side is that I only have to go to the supermarket about once every three weeks... and often spend less than a tenner.
My local supermarket is Sainsbury's, and currently they're refurbishing. They've already done the car-park, and I had a leaflet from them a few weeks ago saying they were going to be closed between 10-18 October to put their finishing touches to their "improved" store (i.e. more expensive and fewer car-park spaces). Still, this was only nine days. I can easily go for a month between supermarket visits. Besides which, I work opposite a Sainsbury's and live two minutes' walk from a Costcutter. It wouldn't be a problem.
Fuck me if I haven't wanted to go to Sainsbury's every single day since the 10th of October. Of course, it's for totally urgent things like sour cream and chive dip, Hula Hoops and Innocent Smoothie. The sort of things a girl simply can't get through the week without. And it's another FIVE days until they open again. And I'm OUT that night. Will the ridiculous cruelty of my life never end?
OK, it means my monthly expenditure on restaurants is pretty high, but the plus side is that I only have to go to the supermarket about once every three weeks... and often spend less than a tenner.
My local supermarket is Sainsbury's, and currently they're refurbishing. They've already done the car-park, and I had a leaflet from them a few weeks ago saying they were going to be closed between 10-18 October to put their finishing touches to their "improved" store (i.e. more expensive and fewer car-park spaces). Still, this was only nine days. I can easily go for a month between supermarket visits. Besides which, I work opposite a Sainsbury's and live two minutes' walk from a Costcutter. It wouldn't be a problem.
Fuck me if I haven't wanted to go to Sainsbury's every single day since the 10th of October. Of course, it's for totally urgent things like sour cream and chive dip, Hula Hoops and Innocent Smoothie. The sort of things a girl simply can't get through the week without. And it's another FIVE days until they open again. And I'm OUT that night. Will the ridiculous cruelty of my life never end?
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Air rage
Yes, yes, yes. I have been a rubbish blogger. This is a familiar refrain. However, I have been Very Busy Indeed.
On Wednesday I was up at 4.30 a.m. to go up to Edinburgh for work, and didn't get back until Thursday afternoon. I was up again at 6 a.m. on Thursday to get an early morning flight back to London City. I say "early monrning" - actually my 9 a.m. flight from Edinburgh Airport departed somewhere around midday. You've got to love BA. This time it was fog. As I've said before, if you can land in the dark, why the buggery bollocks can't you land when there's a bit of cloud? Also, presumably sometimes it's foggy up in the air - you can't see a bleeding thing, yet, miraculously, the planes don't drop out of the sky. I think it's an excuse for the staff to have a piss up. "At 9 a.m.?" I hear you ask. "This is Scotland," I would reply. "It is actually illegal not to be drunk by midday."
Then, most likely, I would get taken off the plane for talking to myself.
On Wednesday I was up at 4.30 a.m. to go up to Edinburgh for work, and didn't get back until Thursday afternoon. I was up again at 6 a.m. on Thursday to get an early morning flight back to London City. I say "early monrning" - actually my 9 a.m. flight from Edinburgh Airport departed somewhere around midday. You've got to love BA. This time it was fog. As I've said before, if you can land in the dark, why the buggery bollocks can't you land when there's a bit of cloud? Also, presumably sometimes it's foggy up in the air - you can't see a bleeding thing, yet, miraculously, the planes don't drop out of the sky. I think it's an excuse for the staff to have a piss up. "At 9 a.m.?" I hear you ask. "This is Scotland," I would reply. "It is actually illegal not to be drunk by midday."
Then, most likely, I would get taken off the plane for talking to myself.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Anger management
Angry Cockney in the flat below is being angry again. This is what he does best, and how he earned his (fabulously witty) nickname.
I think he is a taxi driver by trade, which explains a) the fact that he watches TV at top volume at four in the morning and b) the black cab I often see him driving.
He seems to be angry all the time. Once I heard him having a full-blown row about batteries for the remote. Most of the time it's a hectoring tone though... "And anyway, I said to him that he couldn't go on doing that and he ONLY did. I was going all up and down looking for it and IT'S RIDICULOUS." I'm putting in my own words, because all I can hear is the muffled rise and fall of his very angry voice, unless I have my windows open.
I wonder if he genuinely does get high blood pressure at things like running out of toothpaste or finding out he's got odd socks on. It must be a very stressful lifestyle. It really sounds like my own personal (slightly muffled) episode of Eastenders.
On which note, I will regale you with my favourite Islington anecdote. Now, Islington is a real mixture of very posh and very rough. Wandering through the market one winter's day, I heard one woman (who would probably fall into the latter category), talking to her friend, who demographically I think would also be in this section. I believe the exact phrase was:
"And I told her, I did. I said if she facking did that a-facking-gain, I'd kick her in the facking cunt."
It made me giggle for at least ten minutes.
I think he is a taxi driver by trade, which explains a) the fact that he watches TV at top volume at four in the morning and b) the black cab I often see him driving.
He seems to be angry all the time. Once I heard him having a full-blown row about batteries for the remote. Most of the time it's a hectoring tone though... "And anyway, I said to him that he couldn't go on doing that and he ONLY did. I was going all up and down looking for it and IT'S RIDICULOUS." I'm putting in my own words, because all I can hear is the muffled rise and fall of his very angry voice, unless I have my windows open.
I wonder if he genuinely does get high blood pressure at things like running out of toothpaste or finding out he's got odd socks on. It must be a very stressful lifestyle. It really sounds like my own personal (slightly muffled) episode of Eastenders.
On which note, I will regale you with my favourite Islington anecdote. Now, Islington is a real mixture of very posh and very rough. Wandering through the market one winter's day, I heard one woman (who would probably fall into the latter category), talking to her friend, who demographically I think would also be in this section. I believe the exact phrase was:
"And I told her, I did. I said if she facking did that a-facking-gain, I'd kick her in the facking cunt."
It made me giggle for at least ten minutes.
Saturday, October 06, 2007
The whole tooth
Well, Ploggers, I have to say your voting skills were generally poor. Mr and Mrs Nunn were confused and wanted to vote for previous Plogs. The rest of you didn't care. How do you think that makes me feel? Hmm? Hmm? I'll tell you: totally ambivalent.
Anyway, by a margin of 2:1, the Hackney dentist story came top. So here we go.
In March 2003 I became aware I hadn't been to the dentist for a little while, so registered with a Dr Kibble (yes, that was his real name - apparently) near where I lived in Dalston. My appointment was before work. And into the surgery I trotted.
Because my appointment was first thing in the morning, I didn't have to wait, and went straight through with Dr Kibble, who confirmed my fears that I'd need a couple of fillings. We consulted our diaries for when I could come back. Perhaps alarm bells should have started to ring when he informed me he'd be free that evening at 5.30. Usually for NHS treatment, there's a waiting list of a good few weeks. However, delighted that I could get an appointment so soon, I thought no more about it.
Back I trotted again to Dr Kibble in the evening. Now, I'm a bit of a nervous patient, and also local anesthetic works very slowly on me. It does work, but it takes longer than with most people - so usually I'm in pain when I have the procedure... and then half an hour later my mouth is totally numb.
I advised Dr Kibble of this. He took me through into the surgery. I was surprised that there was no dental assistant - just me and the dentist. Making small talk, I commented on the fact that he had a TV positioned in front of the dentist's chair.
"Yes, well, I live here," he said.
I thought he was joking. I laughed.
"I sleep in this chair actually."
I laughed again. Until it became very, very obvious that he was telling the truth. This was decidedly odd, and didn't sound particularly hygienic, but by this point I was strapped in with bits of cotton wool shoved into my mouth. Not literally strapped in. Although it wouldn't have surprised me by the end of the appointment.
Dr Kibble injected me with anesthetic. Suddenly I felt my heart absolutely racing, although I wasn't more nervous than your average patient who's alone in a room with a strange man who sleeps in his dentist's chair. OK, fair point. But my heart was really, really racing. I wondered if I'd had some sort of reaction to the injection. So I told Dr Kibble:
"I don't want to alarm you, but my heart's beating really fast."
"Yes," Dr Kibble said. "It will. I've injected you with adrenaline. It will make the anesthetic work faster."
Over the next hour (I was in there a long time), I learned the following things about Dr Kibble:
Anyway, by a margin of 2:1, the Hackney dentist story came top. So here we go.
In March 2003 I became aware I hadn't been to the dentist for a little while, so registered with a Dr Kibble (yes, that was his real name - apparently) near where I lived in Dalston. My appointment was before work. And into the surgery I trotted.
Because my appointment was first thing in the morning, I didn't have to wait, and went straight through with Dr Kibble, who confirmed my fears that I'd need a couple of fillings. We consulted our diaries for when I could come back. Perhaps alarm bells should have started to ring when he informed me he'd be free that evening at 5.30. Usually for NHS treatment, there's a waiting list of a good few weeks. However, delighted that I could get an appointment so soon, I thought no more about it.
Back I trotted again to Dr Kibble in the evening. Now, I'm a bit of a nervous patient, and also local anesthetic works very slowly on me. It does work, but it takes longer than with most people - so usually I'm in pain when I have the procedure... and then half an hour later my mouth is totally numb.
I advised Dr Kibble of this. He took me through into the surgery. I was surprised that there was no dental assistant - just me and the dentist. Making small talk, I commented on the fact that he had a TV positioned in front of the dentist's chair.
"Yes, well, I live here," he said.
I thought he was joking. I laughed.
"I sleep in this chair actually."
I laughed again. Until it became very, very obvious that he was telling the truth. This was decidedly odd, and didn't sound particularly hygienic, but by this point I was strapped in with bits of cotton wool shoved into my mouth. Not literally strapped in. Although it wouldn't have surprised me by the end of the appointment.
Dr Kibble injected me with anesthetic. Suddenly I felt my heart absolutely racing, although I wasn't more nervous than your average patient who's alone in a room with a strange man who sleeps in his dentist's chair. OK, fair point. But my heart was really, really racing. I wondered if I'd had some sort of reaction to the injection. So I told Dr Kibble:
"I don't want to alarm you, but my heart's beating really fast."
"Yes," Dr Kibble said. "It will. I've injected you with adrenaline. It will make the anesthetic work faster."
Over the next hour (I was in there a long time), I learned the following things about Dr Kibble:
- He is legally allowed to buy nitrous oxide (laughing gas) because he is a dentist. He does indeed buy it and puts it in his car to make it go faster.
- Because he is half-Chinese, he refers to himself as "the Chinky dentist". This made me feel somewhat uncomfortable. As if having your mouth shoved with cotton wool, your teeth drilled to fuck, being injected with borderline-legal substances and being alone with a possible psychopath wasn't enough, he had to top it all by being vaguely politcally incorrect.
- He wanted to garner my opinions on whether or not it was OK to ask patients out on a date.
Still, he was cheap.
But after moving to Bethnal Green, I didn't go back. Though to be honest, I've never yet met a normal London dentist. Perhaps it's all the mercury fillings they deal with, sending them all bonkers.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Face over-booked
Oh dear. Facebook, I love thee, but you're a demanding mistress.
Long day at work. Lovely dinner with a friend. Come home to ten Facebook messages/ bits and pieces and twenty-five personal emails, none of which I'm going to have time to reply to before the weekend.
How much admin can one person's life contain? I think I might have to hire a Facebook secretary.
In the meantime, you have until Saturday to vote for the anecdote of your choice. A quick reminder again: the Hackney dentist, the embarrassing (OK, more embarrassing than usual) smear test, or the School Disco cab driver. Vote now! (Or don't. I'm not that bothered.)
Long day at work. Lovely dinner with a friend. Come home to ten Facebook messages/ bits and pieces and twenty-five personal emails, none of which I'm going to have time to reply to before the weekend.
How much admin can one person's life contain? I think I might have to hire a Facebook secretary.
In the meantime, you have until Saturday to vote for the anecdote of your choice. A quick reminder again: the Hackney dentist, the embarrassing (OK, more embarrassing than usual) smear test, or the School Disco cab driver. Vote now! (Or don't. I'm not that bothered.)
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Air mail
Yesterday a dearth in Plogging, today an overwhelming richness. Now I'm not usually one for topical Plogging, but have a look at this:
http://tinyurl.com/ys6mog
In case that doesn't work in a few months' time, the basis of the story is that someone (person unknown) has been posting live budgies through the letterbox of an optician in Hertfordshire. My two favourite quotations are as follows:
"Last year, the same shop and the nearby Bourne Beauty beauticians had budgies posted through their letterboxes. "
This is reported in a matter-of-fact way, as though it's no big surprise to anyone that budgies are posted through a letterbox on an annual basis. My other favourite quotation is:
"We have no idea why anyone would do this, but whoever it is should stop."
Genius. You can imagine that one working brilliantly.
BUDGIE POSTER: Aha! Here is my bag full of budgies, all ready for posting through the opticians' and then the beautician next door! Aha! My plan is so masterful. I bet they will love my big bag of tweeting goodness. But hang on a minute. What's this? On the BBC website? Oh they think that whoever's posting the budgies should stop. How strange. Perhaps they don't like my brilliant budgie gift after all! Shocking! But in that case I absolutely, definitely won't post any more budgies. Good...
... Though I wonder how they feel about chaffinches? They didn't expressly say no chaffinches, did they? I bet they'd like my chaffinchy present...
I even avoided a weak joke about Shredded Tweet. Are you proud of me?
http://tinyurl.com/ys6mog
In case that doesn't work in a few months' time, the basis of the story is that someone (person unknown) has been posting live budgies through the letterbox of an optician in Hertfordshire. My two favourite quotations are as follows:
"Last year, the same shop and the nearby Bourne Beauty beauticians had budgies posted through their letterboxes. "
This is reported in a matter-of-fact way, as though it's no big surprise to anyone that budgies are posted through a letterbox on an annual basis. My other favourite quotation is:
"We have no idea why anyone would do this, but whoever it is should stop."
Genius. You can imagine that one working brilliantly.
BUDGIE POSTER: Aha! Here is my bag full of budgies, all ready for posting through the opticians' and then the beautician next door! Aha! My plan is so masterful. I bet they will love my big bag of tweeting goodness. But hang on a minute. What's this? On the BBC website? Oh they think that whoever's posting the budgies should stop. How strange. Perhaps they don't like my brilliant budgie gift after all! Shocking! But in that case I absolutely, definitely won't post any more budgies. Good...
... Though I wonder how they feel about chaffinches? They didn't expressly say no chaffinches, did they? I bet they'd like my chaffinchy present...
I even avoided a weak joke about Shredded Tweet. Are you proud of me?
Monday, October 01, 2007
Dental Plog
Don't worry - I haven't forgotten about the Choose Your Own Plog. I'm giving you until Saturday to vote. Votes only count if received on the Plog - Facebook votes are null and void. My life is so empty.
So what's new? Not a lot. Hard to write a Plog today. I did have a dentist appointment, which as regular Ploggers will know, usually provides excellent comedy fodder because my dentist surgery is quite, quite mad. However, today's appointment was relatively uneventful. My hygienist doesn't like New York, and thinks that men are vainer than women. She can't envisage spending £100 on a pair of jeans and her younger son spends ages in the bathroom. But it's hard to squeeze a Plog out of that. (That sounds a bit rude, sorry.) It's also hard to get a word in edgeways when your mouth is crammed with bits of metal. So essentially, she gets to talk about herself all day. It would be the perfect job for an egotist. Or a man*.
Here are some other potential Plog-starters for you:
- There was a fire engine outside my flat earlier, although (for once) it wasn't me who called them.
- I had Hula Hoops for dinner. Gillian McKeith would be proud.
- Both work and my social life are getting busy again.
Please rearrange the above three facts to make a witty and engaging Plog. Thank you.
* Blatant sexism. Please disregard.
So what's new? Not a lot. Hard to write a Plog today. I did have a dentist appointment, which as regular Ploggers will know, usually provides excellent comedy fodder because my dentist surgery is quite, quite mad. However, today's appointment was relatively uneventful. My hygienist doesn't like New York, and thinks that men are vainer than women. She can't envisage spending £100 on a pair of jeans and her younger son spends ages in the bathroom. But it's hard to squeeze a Plog out of that. (That sounds a bit rude, sorry.) It's also hard to get a word in edgeways when your mouth is crammed with bits of metal. So essentially, she gets to talk about herself all day. It would be the perfect job for an egotist. Or a man*.
Here are some other potential Plog-starters for you:
- There was a fire engine outside my flat earlier, although (for once) it wasn't me who called them.
- I had Hula Hoops for dinner. Gillian McKeith would be proud.
- Both work and my social life are getting busy again.
Please rearrange the above three facts to make a witty and engaging Plog. Thank you.
* Blatant sexism. Please disregard.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)