Pack up your troubles

I am supposed to be packing. I'm not. I'm procrastinating. This also begins with "p", but achieves a lot less in a relatively similar period of time.

I hate packing. I mean, no-one likes it, but my last job involved living out of a suitcase (not literally. That would make me a mime artist), so I'm naturally wary when I have to pack. And so I put it off. And put it off. And finally end up throwing into a suitcase a whole load of clothes that don't go together and which I haven't tried on for a year. This is why I am wearing all of Erica's clothes in the Kenya photos - mine just didn't fit. Not that I'm wearing all of Erica's clothes. This would have left me rather on the warm side, and her rather naked. It wasn't that sort of holiday. Well, not really. Though I do have one compromising photo of her. I will trot it out on her wedding day. Or other appropriate family gathering.

I digress.

I hate packing. But packing I must do. I always forget something. It's usually pyjamas. I always forget pyjamas. Or my toothbrush. Never anything vital (yet) like my passport... usually just irritating enough to cause one of those, "Oh bugger" moments.

I have tried making lists. In my youth I had extensive, colour-coded lists that itemised objects and clothes in a three-layered suitcase system. Then I got a life. Well, not really, but I did pay a visit or two to Ann Summers. Basically I don't do the list system anymore. I do the "chuck it all in and hope for the best". This is how I ended up going round the world with seven pairs of trousers and only three tops. And a woolly jumper. Quick note for anyone planning on Fiji in February... the woolly jumper wasn't that useful.

So I am packing. Well, I'm not. I am writing my Plog. And then I shall probably watch Ugly Betty and tomorrow I shall probably re-tidy my already tidy flat and maybe go for a walk. And on Monday morning, three hours before my flight leaves, you'll hear a squawk from Heathrow Terminal 4.... "Oh bugger, I've forgotten my pyjamas."

Pipe dream

I am waiting in for a plumber. Although he is not late yet, already I can feel every muscle in my body bristling as the undeniable certainty of late-plumberness edges closer. Plumbers and I do not have a good history.

But my toilet is leaking, and apparently, Blu-tak (whilst useful in so many other situations) will not suffice long-term from a health and safety perspective. Who knew?

So I am waiting in for a plumber. Ho hum.

*Twiddles thumbs. Checks work email. Twiddles thumbs again. Thumbs begin to ache from over-twiddling.*

I could go and make myself a bacon sandwich, but it's inevitable that the moment I do, the plumber will arrive. So I will put off the bacon sandwich, getting hungrier and more resentful with every few minutes that pass. My thoughts will go, "I could have had that bacon sandwich by now. I could have had two bacon sandwiches by now. I could have got pregnant, given birth AND had a bacon sandwich by now..."

Not that I'm expecting the plumber to get me pregnant. As I said, plumbers and I do not have a good history. Not that I regularly date plumbers. I can confidently say I've never been out with a plumber. Am I rambling?

I think I better go and have a bacon sandwich.

Lingo bingo

Bullshit bingo is nothing new. The basic idea is that you go into a meeting with a chart with key business cliches on it, and when you've heard them all in the meeting, you shout out "bullshit!". These phrases would typically include:

Heads up
Key drivers
Optimisation
Goal oriented
Top down
Bottom up
Fast-track
Deliverables
Learnings
Quick win
Low-hanging fruit

... and let's be honest, the place I work uses at least as many of these phrases as the next company. In fact I was in a meeting today that used the phrase "value add" (this basically means "useful") seven times. As in, "We need to create a value-add process." I mean, really, fuck off.

But the thing that annoyed me the most is how several people have started using the phrase, "So I'm hearing something about..." (i.e. cross-selling optimisiation, goal-oriented value-add). Why not just say, "We need to cross-sell." Why "I'm hearing something about..."? It makes me imagine that these people have got small pixies on their shoulders telling them what to do in a very faint voice. "I'm hearing something about cross-selling from my little pixie, but he's talking in a very quiet voice today because I remembered to take my blue pill this morning."

Fuck fairies.

Given the boot

Today I have spent six hours in Edinburgh Airport. Not even delays (so far), just badly-timed meetings. Along with Bristol Temple Meads station, I think it is probably the place I have waited the most. I thought you would want to know.

So, greetings from Edinburgh Airport. It is rainy. It is cold. It is aiporty. I have nothing new to impart to you on that front.

So... I gather you would like to hear about my argument in Jones the Bootmaker? It is a very big argument.

About three weeks ago, I was given a voucher for a 15% discount at Jones. I needed some new boots, so along I toddled in my lunch hour. Now, I am very fussy about my boots. My job involves a lot of faciliating and training delivery, so I sometimes stand up for a full eight hours or so. I need comfortable boots. Jones had a lovely pair in very soft leather with quite a small heel... Reader, I bought the boots.

I wore them the next day at an event at which I was facilitating. It was like standing on little expensive clouds. They were very comfortable boots. Success! There was a tiny bump in the leather on one of them, but I know that leather is a natural material, so wasn't going to return them for such a minor flaw.

Two weeks later, dear readers, and a fingernail-sized bit of leather had started to peel off where the bump had been. Not good. But I wasn't going to worry. I still had the receipt, I'd only had the boots for two weeks, and the shop was close to my office. It wasn't going to be a major hassle to swap them.

So, the next day, along with my colleague Clair, who had been interested in buying some shoes, we went back to the shop, and I explained to the shop assistant what had happened. They sent the Rude Manager (RM) to deal with the issue.

RM: You see, I'm going to have to send these to head office for a second opinion as you may well have damaged these yourself.

Me: Erm... how? The tear in the leather is right on top of the shoe, and as I told you, there was a flaw in the shoe from the start.

RM: You probably tore it on an escalator*...

* what the fuck?

RM: Anyway, it's your word against mine, so I'll have to send it to head office for a second opinion.

Me: I'm not going to be in the country for more than a few days - I need to get this sorted out now. I thought this was going to be a straightforward exchange; I've only had the boots for two weeks - they're clearly faulty and...

RM: (interrupting) That's immaterial.

Me: But...

RM: (interrupting) That's immaterial.

Me: Can I just finish my sentence?

RM: No, but... (realising he's being a tosser) Sorry, go on.

Me: I don't see what head office will be able to do that we can't achieve today.

RM: Sorry.

Me: (to Clair) What's your opinion on this?

Clair opens her mouth, but before she can speak, Rude Manager interrupts.

RM: I'm not talking to her. She's not a customer.

Clair: I was going to be a customer. I was going to buy those shoes over there. But you've been really rude to me.

RM: That's immaterial. Anyway, you've been....

Me: Calm and reasonable? I was just asking my friend for her opinion.

RM: Fine then. You talk to your friend. I won't. Call me when you need me.

Eventually I called head office myself and spoke to RM's area manager. Again I was getting nowhere until I said in quite a loud voice, "I can't believe I'm standing in the middle of your shop at its busiest period talking in such a loud voice at the head of your queue about how terrible your customer service is!"

"Oh, are you still in the shop?" asked the area manager. Suddenly, everything changed. Before we knew it, they'd agreed to a "goodwill" exchange, though I rather suspect there wasn't an awful lot of goodwill. And the manager still shot Clair a dirty look when she left the shop.

Still, I reckon I've told at least ten people about this story now, and probably an awful lot more via the Plog.

But the boots are lovely.

Bullets over Broadway

I am very, very tired right now, so will not be any use as a Plogger.

However, my week has been full of exciting things, and I will regale you with a selection of potentially hilarious anecdotes once full consciousness has been regained. This may not be until next week.

Some things you may want to look forward to:

• Winning at Book Club (Fasting, Feasting by Anita Desai. Don't bother. Nominated for the Booker Prize as far as I can tell because it was a) ethnic and b) female. If you want to read something in this category, go for The God of Small Things which is astonishingly good. Although I have to say that my experiences earlier in the week have put me off anything vaguely Indian.)
• A very big argument with the manager of Jones the Bootmakers.
• Two theatre trips in two days. I'm so Sex and the City. Oh, hang on, they didn't go to the theatre, did they? They mostly got pissed and shagged around a lot. Back to the drawing board.

That is all for now. May your weekends be shiny and splendiferous.

Indian Embassy: The Empire Strikes Back

And thanks to Mr Nunn for today's Plog title.

I shan't go into detail other than to say I arrived at the Embassy at 6.15 this morning in the dark to approximately 300 people in the queue in front of me. This is not hyperbole. By 7 a.m. there were approximately 400 people in the queue behind me. Confusingly, a lot of them seemed to be Indian.

Highlights included:

• The Swiss woman who stood too close, kept bumping into me in the (non-moving) queue then followed me around the building. She also forged her partner's signature on the form. (Indian officials: he's Swiss and his surname is Bruno. Couldn't be arsed to dob her in at the time, but she pissed me off sufficiently to name and shame on the Plog.)
• Getting to queue in three different places for different numbers to hand in at different queues.
• Handing over thirty quid for a sellotaped bit of paper into my passport.

I went prepared for the weather: pyjama bottoms under my jeans, two pairs of socks, two undershirts, a thin jumper, a thick jumper and a coat. A hat. A scarf. I was still cold.

I only just remembered that I wasn't really dressed for the office and probably ought to go home and get changed first. Still, I am now fully visa-ed up and ready to experience the delights of Delhi. For two fucking days.

India-Nunn

Tomorrow I have to go and queue at 6 a.m. in the street outside the Indian Embassy to get a visa. The Indian Embassy doesn't open until 8.30, but only issues 2000 visas a day, and I have been warned that if I arrive later than 7 in the morning, then the 2000 people in front of me will mean I will depart visa-less. And India-less. Work is certainly getting their money's worth out of me at the minute.

So, late November, 6 a.m., I am realistically imagining the following scenarios:

• It will be too dark to read. I will be forced to make conversation with a) a batty old man who stands too close and calls me 'darling' and b) a hippy with smelly dreadlocks. Dreadlocks always smell. Don't pretend they don't.
• It will rain. A lot.
• It will start to sleet a bit.
• I will find out that the hippy in front of me was actually just keeping a place in the queue for 30 other people.
• It will rain some more.
• The batty old man will start an inappropriate topic of conversation. Probably corsets or oral sex. If I'm really lucky, maybe both.
• At midday when I finally reach the head of the queue, the Indian Embassy will decide a) I don't look anything like my passport photo (this, bizarrely is true, even though it was only five years or so ago) b) my application letter from India was published on a public holiday and therefore not valid or c) they have reached their daily quota of women in their twenties wanting a business visa.
• I will have to come back the next day. When it's snowing.

Wish me luck.

Dark and windy night

I wasn't very well last night. I reckon a combination of stress factors was to blame. The most amusing part of being ill (please be aware that with the vomiting and stomach cramps, there wasn't an awful lot to choose from) was the forty-five second fart that I did.

It actually went on so long that at one point I thought it might actually never end. That I would forever be known as the girl with the motorbike bottom. That it could ruin several important life occasions... board meetings, annual reviews, walking up the aisle... though that would entail finding a guy who wanted to marry a girl whose bottom spewed an unending air biscuit.

It did stop eventually, you'll be pleased to hear.

Anyway, I wasn't going to Plog about this, but on telling someone about the humungous guff (I really have to keep my mouth shut more), I was challenged to Plog on the subject. Hence the last remaining scrap of my dignity disappears into the ether. Much like the arse blast itself.

Time after time

I have often wondered about having been born in another era. If it would be better or worse than now. If my personality would suit an era better than the modern day. Let me go on record and say that fair enough, medicine, technology and quality of life are undoubtedly vastly superior in the twenty-first century to any time previous. But personality-wise...

I don't think I'd be a very good medieval peasant. There seems to be a lot of farming involved, and I can't even keep a houseplant alive for more than a year. Plus giving a tenth of my stuff to the church would really piss me off.

I don't think I'd have been much good in the Renaissance. Changing from Protestantism to Catholicism and back again would be taxing for an athiest. I would probably have been burned at the stake.

What about in the times of Jane Austen? Napoleonic wars and gossiping about the neighbours? Well, mostly I think I'd be all right here. I would play the harpsichord to entertain our gentleman callers; I would be good at moralising and putting a serious face on when the vicar came round. I rather suspect the neighbours might call me a "horrid freckled thing", but that would be OK. However, my shit sewing skills would definitely let me down. Having to sew sampler after sodding sampler would do my head in. Each "Cleanliness is next to Godliness" cross-stitch would undoubtedly be covered in a mixture of blood, and tiny stitched swear words all around the border. This would make me rather less marriageable and, in the times of Jane Austen, I rather suspect I'd become a scary spinster. Or a fallen woman. Both sound fun.

Skipping ahead to Victorian times, you know, I actually think I'd have made quite a good Victorian. Again, I could entertain our visitors on the pianoforte, though my sketching and sampling would yet again let me down. I would be very good at entertaining and ensure the cook made exquisite feasts for our guests. Crinoline would suit me. I think I would make an excellent Victorian lady. Except for my predisposition to use the word "cunt" rather a lot.

Couldn't exist in the 1920s. Those flapper dresses are rubbish if you've got big boobs, and photographic evidence exists to prove short hair doesn't suit me.

No thank you on the 1940s. Brown tweed skirts are not for me.

The 1960s would be disappointing. All of my friends would be practising free love and doing drugs. I would be staying inside with a good novel, and wondering how to get the stench of henna out of my flat.

All in all, many thanks to the Doctor for his offer of a time machine, but I think I'll stay put where I can give my sewing to my dry-cleaner, say "cunt" as much as I want (though perhaps less often in business meetings might be advisable) and play on Facebook Scrabble.

Video killed the audio star

I had a video conference today. This is where some colleagues up in Scotland have a TV screen that they can see us lot down in London on - and vice versa. A regular patron of audio conferences (via telephone), this was my first video conference.

The Laura-curse of being early meant that I was in the room well before anyone else had arrived. A large TV wall greeted me, though it was blank, like a switched off telly.

I shuffled some papers. I tucked my hair behind my ears. Ploggers, I may have picked my nose.

Suddenly God spoke. "Laura Nunn?"

The TV was still blank, but someone had spoken to me. I am ashamed to admit that I checked all four corners of the 3 metres square room for God. Who was female. And apparently didn't approve of nose-pickers.

"Laura Nunn?" repeated the voice.

"Yes?" I said to God.

"Laura, it's Kate. Can you see me? I can see you!"

I pressed a button, and suddenly, Nice Kate (friend and colleague) sprang into view before me, beamed directly from Edinburgh. I got a bit over-excited and waved.

I don't know whether or not I was picking my nose. I hope not, though it's probably the sort of thing I would do.

I was telling Mrs Nunn about it later. She laughed a lot, paused, then added sagely, "It's a good job you weren't scratching your twat."

Thank you, Mrs Nunn.

Tech-no-logic

I have changed my broadband supplier. Along with defrosting the freezer, this makes me feel very adult.

There was nothing wrong with my old broadband supplier - Zen. They were recommended by a friend, and their tech support and customer service was excellent. But, sadly, Sky have tempted me by offering me the same speed product with a greater download limit for only £5 per month, when I'd previously been paying £18. It was a no brainer.

Much like Sky's tech support person I spoke to earlier.

Ho hum. Still, I'm all set up and whizzy now. Can't send emails yet, but I can receive them. Besides which, Facebook's kind of replaced all that, hasn't it?


It's really odd how the Internet has - within the last ten to twelve years - totally revolutionised the way we live. I'm not just talking about leisure time, downloading files and watching video clips on YouTube. My family was an early adopter, and I was on the Internet back in 1995. But actually, that's not all that long ago.


Whilst personally I've never worked in a company without email, the first proper job I ever had, only my PC had the internet - because I was in charge of the website. I used to print everyone else's emails off for them each morning. Bigger companies had memo systems where multi-coloured carbon paper was filled out in triplicate and sent through an internal mail system. Sounds amazing, like something from the 1930s. And yet this was only twelve years ago.


Child of the new millennium I may be, but I genuinely can't imagine how an office could function without the ability to send files to each other at the click of a button and to know they were received instantly and securely.


Being in the office today for the first time in four days, I had 140 emails, all of which needed actioning.


Occasionally I wonder if the memo system defined a more metred pace, and perhaps less frantic stress.


Ah well, the joys of Facebook Scrabble are recompense enough.

Hair today... more tomorrow

OK Ploggers, this is a girls' only post. Any men entering the Plog may leave now.

(Waits. Waits some more. Peers round the corner, and sees a few men still lurking. Hang on, this should work...)

Oooh, isn't Brad Pitt dreamy? This Plog is going to be about how dreamy Brad Pitt is, and then after that I might talk about periods or other things that make men feel a bit icky.

(Checks. Men all gone.)

OK girls. Let's talk about hair. What the fuck is going on? The older I get, the more body hair I seem to sprout in new and interesting places. I'm sure I'm not alone, but I definitely remember when I was about eighteen, I used to shave my legs once a week or so and that was pretty much it. Possibly I plucked my eyebrows.

These days I have to employ a twenty-four hour care team, just to deal with - as I like to term them - "strays". Hairs that exist in places which no-one, man or woman should have hairs. What the fuck is going on? I'm not even a particularly hairy or dark-skinned person. In fact, I'm pale as a particularly pasty pancake.

My bikini line now starts somewhere mid-calf and finishes approximately at my belly-button. I say "approximately" because to be honest, it's hard to keep up. There's more every day.

I did a quick cost/income analysis and realised that with the amount I'm spending on waxing, razors and so on, I should just cut my losses and invest in a sex change operation. Stop the shaving, get a cock. Result.

From now on, you may call me Barry.

Star-struck

"That girl in the film looked familiar," said I. "She looked a bit like Gwyneth Paltrow, but it wasn't. The other girl looked like Gwyneth Paltrow too, but she wasn't either."

"Which one?" asked my friend.

"Both of them," I replied, perfectly coherently.

We'd been to see Stardust, which comes highly recommended. Man-flu had abated sufficiently to risk a brief cinematic outing - especially where there's a chance to catch Dexter Fletcher dressed as a pirate.

"Do you mean the girl who played the star?" asked my friend, patiently.

"Well, yes, she was one of them. And that Victoria one."

"Well Victoria was Sienna Miller."

"Oh, OK," I said.

"And the one who played the star was Claire Danes."

"Noooo!" I said. "Nooooo!"

Back in the day, I was a big My So-Called Life fan. Surely I couldn't have watched an entire film with Claire Danes in without even realising? Ploggers, I had. Well, to be fair to myself, she'd changed her hair colour. How am I supposed to see through a disguise like that? Cunning vixen.

"Anyway," I continued, "was the chief pirate Ian Holm?"

My friend laughed. "Really?"

"Well," I said, "was it?"

"That was Robert De Niro."

"Oh," said I. "Who's he? He looks an awful lot like Ian Holm."

The friend laughed a lot.

Jennie, if you're reading this, this is why I'm not a spy. I don't recognise people if they change their hair colour, and apparently also if they're "one of the most famous actors in the world". Not that famous, clearly.

Bird flu

Ah, man-flu... the joys.

Yes, it's only a cold, yes, I'm not technically a man, so I'm not supposed to be allowed man-flu, but essentially I would like someone to feed me soup and tempt me with tasty tidbits when I feel strong enough to raise my poorly head.

So I apologise for brief blogging, but I am off to snooze. Soup may be mailed to the usual address.

Going bust

As we all know, Mrs Nunn is a bit... eccentric. However, Mrs Nunn's own mother takes eccentric to entirely new levels. Genetically, I have to admit, it's not looking good for me.

Mrs Nunn told me today that she'd spoken to Grandma on the phone, and had told her I was likely to be abroad with work in Asia in a few weeks. Clearly forgetting I'd already been round the world by myself, and done loads of solo travelling, Grandma dispensed her wisdom:

"Tell her to wear long sleeves. Tell her not to wear a skirt that's too long. Or too short."

Mrs Nunn, stood up for me, "What if she wants to wear trousers?"

Grandma pondered this for a few seconds. "Tell her not to. People might be confused and think she's a man."

Thanks Grandma. So the long blonde highlights and the 32D bust* clearly aren't working for me. Better wear a calf-length skirt. And maybe get my nails done.

* Did I really just reveal my bra size to the internet? Ah well, only Cliff Richard fans read this anyway. I should be safe.

Thank you for the music

Two years ago I got a song stuck in my head. OK, it's happened to us all at some point, but this was like nothing I'd ever experienced before. I blame it on Terry Wogan. One morning, whilst I was having a shower, he played a version of "Don't Know", originally done, I think by Kirsty MacColl. This one was recorded by Katrina - of Katrina and the Waves fame. It was a nice song. A bit hypnotic, but nice.

He played it again the next morning. This sealed the deal. For literally two weeks, I had barely anything but this song traipsing through my head, morning, noon and night. At one point it was so bad, I fairly seriously considered seeing a doctor. Particularly one phrase repeated itself in my head: "No I won't listen to their wasted lines, got my eyes wide open and I see the signs..." Over and over and over. If you're brave, you can check it out at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dywp6Ktx3fI

I tried everything to get rid of it. I tried listening to the song again, to see if that would help. It didn't. I tried singing other songs - everything from Tiffany to children's songs. Nothing worked. Eventually it faded and I was able to get on with my day job again.

The madness was over. Until yesterday.

Since following a link on the cursed YouTube at the weekend, I've had a song from Avenue Q on constant repeat in my noggin. It's got so bad, I've even been back to YouTube to listen to Katrina's song again to see if that one can replace it. Now I have them both stuck in my head. I think I might be going quite mad.

So if anyone knows a sure-fire cure to get rid of annoying head-based songs, then please let me know. I'll try anything. I'm desperate*.

* Not desperate enough to try Cliff Richard.

Blind man's guff

Time for some honesty. I don't like Christmas. At all. Before you wave me off with shouts of "Bah humbug", here are some things I do like about Christmas:

• Choosing gifts for people
• Taking the piss out of the Midnight Mass sermon
• Getting to sing "It came upon the Midnight Clear" (beneath the angel strain hath tolled two thousand years of wrong... and man at war with man hears not the love song which they bring. Oh hush the noise ye men of strife, and hear the angels sing... Lovely.)
• Getting to see friends and family that I don't always manage to catch up with at other times of the year.

There are many things I do not like about Christmas. A lot of this is the shopping frenzy. For a few years now, I've done all my Christmas shopping online, but I still hate having to pop into Boots for a sandwich or whatever near Christmas as I end up queueing with all the stupid people. Luckily this year, it looks like I might be abroad for the worst part of it.

Also, I hate how they change the words of carols to be more politically correct. "And warring humankind hears not the love song which they bring. Oh hush the noise of human strife..." Oh fuck off. It's usually men fighting anyway. Unless you're in Coalville on a Friday night.

Anyway, yesterday, yesterday, barely scraping into November, I was at Liverpool Street tube station. There was a busker, who I've often heard at Chancery Lane... he's blind... and whistles. Badly. This is annoying enough when he does "Greensleeves" or a selection from The Sound of Music. Last night I was treated to an out-of-tune version of "The Holly and The Ivy".

It's early November! The fucker. Still, he didn't see me make off with his little hat full of money, so there's a silver lining to every cloud.

Freeze frame

I am a proper grown up.

I am defrosting the freezer*.

That is all.

* This may be because I accidentally left it half open because maybe I'm not quite as responsible as other proper grown ups.