Cat-echism

I promise I will stop the cat posts soon. I realise I may start coming across as a crazy cat lady. And eighty years from now (optimism) you'll find my skeleton, flesh chewed off by the beasts I've fed for the best part of the last century.

But for now, things I have learned in the last 48 hours of being a cat owner:

1. There is nothing, nothing in the world more fun for her than a rolled up ball of silver paper.

2. Curtains were meant to be climbed. Deal with it.

3. Any attempts to nurse a rose plant to health will be fruitless because the cat will eat it.

4. Human food is yummier than cat food. This is still the case if you're a cat. She has a weird fondness for Cheesy Wotsits (who wouldn't?) which I'm not entirely sure I should be feeding her.
5. Cuddles are emotional blackmail for food. All cuddles are withdrawn once food is provided. This works for TheBloke (TM) too.

6. The toys bought for the cat are boring. BORING! However, clawing the cardboard box the toys came in is more fun than you can shake a stick at.

7. Cats are deaf when you call them. Unless you happen to be holding food at the time.

8. When she falls off the sofa or windowsill (regularly), that was meant to happen.

9. Cat claws are sharp.

10. There is nothing, nothing more fun for me than dangling a rolled up ball of silver paper over TheBloke (TM)'s private parts. See number 9.

Cat-chy

Christmas at the Nunn household. Mrs Nunn consented to play card games. This is very, very rare. Mrs Nunn does not like games. Of any kind. We played Cheat. For those of you unfamiliar with Cheat, the aim is to get rid of all your cards, by lying (as necessary) to say you're putting down cards "legally" even if you don't have said card.

The cards are played face down, because if they were face up, probably even Mrs Nunn might have been able to tell when someone was lying. However, this is doubtful.

It was Jack's turn. "Four threes," he said, putting down four cards face down. It was Mrs Nunn's turn next. "One three," she said. We all laughed and said, "Cheat!"

She couldn't understand how we knew. We explained to her for the third time that every deck of cards has four suits, so there were four of each number. Every time.

A bit later the same evening, Mrs Nunn said, unbelievingly, "You hardly ever see a five, do you? They're quite rare."

Believe it or not, she won twice. I am not sure if this is luck, if the rest of us are truly terrible at cards, or perhaps this was all part of her master plan, and really she's an evil genius.

However, her total lack of ability to grasp Wii Bowling would fly in the face of this final theory.

In other news, we're not sure the name Pickles suits the new cat. We've had a few suggestions, including Phoebe (she is quite a smelly cat and farts a lot. Unless this is TheBloke (TM) passing them off when really they're his own rancid works of fart), Charley or Tango (she's orange). We're still open to suggestions. She's ginger, she's a bit mad and she's eaten a bit of my skin. I'm not sure if this is a good thing. Suggestions please.

Pickles

Ploggers! Hello! Well, today marks an exciting event. TheBloke (TM) and I have a new kitten. She's called Pickles.

We have had her for two hours. I already have one broken lamp, TheBloke (TM) is wheezing from allergies, I nearly threw up when she did her first poo, and TheBloke (TM) is bleeding from her first claw attack.



Still, she is very sweet, and her fur matches TheBloke (TM)'s ginger eyebrows. We will be bored with her by New Year and probably drown her*.



* This is a joke. Please do not call the RSPCA.

Christmas visitations

TheBloke (TM) and I are visiting Mr and Mrs Nunn. There have been many and varied hilarious incidents so far, including:

- the dog I thought (briefly) was a reindeer
- Mrs Nunn's brilliance at card games*
- watching Mrs Nunn and my 85 year-old grandmother battle it out on the Wii. Hint: Mrs Nunn was not victorious
- watching TheBloke (TM) flick my brother's nipples, which then lit up. This is not an image I want to retain but fear it has burned itself onto the inside of my eyelids and will follow me to the grave.

I shall write about this and much more soon, my pretties. But for now there is driving to be done and Xbox to be played. Happy Boxing Day!


* this is sarcasm

Joining the 21st century

I used to be an early adopter. Used to be. And still am with things like sat nav and sparkly new phones, the functionality of which I rarely use. But I get it. I was the first friend in my age group on Facebook. I have a blog. I'm not a tech-tard.

But I've resisted Twitter for months now, though others have extolled its virtues. So I've finally caved. I do not understand it. Nor how it works. But if Stephen Fry can do it, I'm game*.

But if you would like to Twitter me, or whatever it's called, I'm Laurasplog. I have no idea if that's enough info to find me. Would some kindly Twitterer please hold my hand through this scary process?

* This does not apply to other activities that Mr Fry may or may not to choose to indulge in.

What the Dickens

I was asked for a pound yesterday to contribute towards "office decorations". I do not bother decorating my own flat, mostly because once you've put the bastards up, you've got to take them down again. I did not wish to donate. This did not deter my colleagues.

By 3 p.m. yesterday, it looked like Santa had vomited on our desk bank.

I am not a fan of Christmas, but I have recently read A Christmas Carol and, whilst I continue to shun:

- tinsel
- decorations
- dancing Santa figurines

I shall try to keep Christmas without Humbugging too much. And today was my last day of work until 2009. Hilarious tales of Mr and Mrs Nunn may soon follow. I still haven't dared speak to them about the kitten.

The pussy

This is a very chicken way of confessing to something I daren't do face to face:

Mr and Mrs Nunn, this message is for you.

I think I'm going to get a kitten. Sorry.

(Mr and Mrs Nunn don't like cats. But I am a grown up now, and I can do what I want and go out and play without tidying my room or doing my violin practice so there.)

Now I just have to convince TheBloke (TM). I mean, how serious can "cat-induced asthma" really be?

Green fingers and thumbs

About a year ago, TheBloke (TM) bought me a Christmas rose plant. I fully expected it to die after it had blossomed, as was suggested by the instructions that came with it. However, with my usual winning combo of weeks of neglect followed by total overwatering combo, somehow it managed to survive, and even blossomed again a couple of months later. I think it's bloomed three times so far.

However, about a month ago, the plant started looking a bit sickly. Its leaves turned from a deep green colour to an almost translucent white. I put it in the sunshine. The leaves went limp. I watered it. The leaves dropped off. I fed it. New leaf shoots sprouted... then turned brown and dropped off. I repotted it. Essentially at this point it looked like a dead twig. All was lost. TheBloke (TM) bought me a new rose plant. I didn't want to give up.

So I left it. Total neglect. Stuck it on the windowsill and forgot all about it, lavishing attentions instead on the new plant.

I looked at it properly for the first time yesterday. It has sprouted new leaves and is looking decidedly healthy. Also, the pot which had been littered with rose food and dead leaves looked really clear. I said to TheBloke (TM), "Look at this. Have you repotted the rose or something?"

"No," said TheBloke (TM). "But I did drop it on the floor last week. Sorry. I bought you a new one."

Gardeners, listen up. Rose problems? Knock it off the windowsill. Guaranteed. I'll take a picture if it blooms again.

In other news, I think my orchid is dead.

Iron will

I rarely see my cleaner. I'm usually at work when she comes to do the housework and my ironing, and the communication we have is usually by text message or notes left at the flat. My cleaner is Polish. When she first came for an interview, she looked at the flat, wandered round and said (best Eastern European accent please), "Ees very dirty. Very dirty. Eet need four hour this week, then two every week. Ees dirty. You give keys now." It wasn't so much as an interview as a lecture.

Anyway, other than occasionally being chastised for dirtiness, she's lovely, though I really don't see her very often at all. However, TheBloke (TM) was home this week whilst she was cleaning.

"I have something you must to tell Laura," said Katrina the Cleaner.

"OK," said TheBloke (TM), assuming she wanted to discuss Christmas dates.

"You know Laura white shirt?" she pointed at the offending article. "I no iron this again. Ees too old. You tell Laura this is last time I iron white shirt."

Fashion advice from my cleaner. And a great excuse to go shopping.

The whole tooth

I read in the news earlier this week that some supply teacher (no doubt overworked and underpaid) snapped at her class of seven year-olds and told them that Santa doesn't exist. The article can be found here:

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/education/article5326005.ece

Two things here spring to mind:

- Seven year olds still believe in Santa? The big pussies. I don't know a single seven year-old who believed in Santa when I was at school. Apart from my little brother, who believed until he was about fourteen. In fact, every year Mr and Mrs Nunn would get the video camera out and "interview" him about whether he was looking forward to Santa's visit, as every year they said to each other and to me, "This'll be the last year he believes." This went on until he was twelve, when it just became a bit creepy.

My younger brother now maintains he was "pretending" to believe in order to spare their feelings. This seems unlikely.

- The second thing is a story it puts me in mind of from when I was little. Whilst my younger brother was sweet, naive and - some might say - credulous, I was always a bit cynical. I remember when I was five telling my mum if I could be any age at all, I'd be four again - "those were the days". Five was too weighted down with responsibilities.

Anyway, I was in my first year at primary school, so would have been four or five years old, and I'd just lost my first tooth. As in milk tooth - it fell out. Wasn't punched out or anything, though that might have made a better story.

As was the custom, I put my milk tooth under my pillow, and the Tooth Fairy came in the night and left a ten pence piece for the tooth. Very exciting indeed. Though she didn't take the tooth away. So, I hatched a plan - I would leave the same tooth again the next night under the pillow and see if I could con another ten pence from the gullible hag. I announced this plan to Mr and Mrs Nunn with glee.

The next morning I woke up. My tooth was still there, but no money. Instead was a note from the Tooth Fairy in teeny tiny handwriting saying that she was sorry but she wasn't rich enough to pay me for the same tooth twice. Thrilling. But I was suspicious. Surely one tooth looks pretty much like another, and she wasn't taking the teeth away in any case. What sort of business model was she operating here? A flawed one, clearly. Besides which, Mr and Mrs Nunn were the only people who knew about the plan. I smelled a rat. I suspected they might be in on it. I could no longer trust them.

Instead I went to my primary school teacher the next day. She would help me clear this up. But I had to be cunning. So I announced in a very loud voice, "Mrs Burgin, my mummy and daddy say there's no such thing as the tooth fairy!"

"Shh," she said. "Don't spoil it for the other children."

My suspicions were confirmed. I had tricked a teacher and proved my own parents were liars in one morning's work. And I was still only five years old. Genius.

As a slightly unsavoury side note, about a year ago I found a matchbox full of my old baby teeth at my parents' house. It rattles disturbingly. I am not sure what they expect to do with this. I hope they're not planning on cloning me. The world can only take so much brilliance.

Sex-ism

Apparently the average person in their lifetime will have sex with 10.5 people. I'm resisting the obvious joke about the 0.5 (lots of dwarves getting action etc. etc.).


I found this information at http://www.durex.com/cm/gss2004Content.asp?intQid=401

There are a few things that interest me about this. Firstly, the Chinese seem quite a lot more slutty than the rest of the world - and the Japanese, despite that coy thing they do so well, are also far more promiscuous than even Americans.


What interests me most is this. Worldwide, men report having 12.4 partners. Women report having 7.2. Now, Maths was always one of my weaker subjects at school and I certainly wouldn't claim to be a statistician, but how on earth does this work? Surely, making the (reasonable) assumption we're talking exclusively about male/female sex, the numbers must match up. Because even if there's just one really whorey woman doing every single bloke in the world, her average would bring up the men's average too.


Someone, clearly, is lying.

But why? I can understand a certain amount of reluctance to divulge this sort of personal information, but if you're willing to be interviewed for such a survey, one assumes you'd be fairly honest. And I imagine the people conducting the survey didn't insist that you answered the question in front of all your mates in your workplace whilst people pointed and laughed at your genitals. Though I'll admit I haven't researched this facet that thoroughly.

So, is it the men, or is it the women? Are the men including any contact they've ever had with a woman in order to bolster their numbers (i.e. "I SO could have touched her breast if I'd wanted to - so she counts") or is it the women editing out the mingers? (i.e. "He was ugly and I was drunk so that totally doesn't count at all.")

Or are the definitions of sex different for men and women? For men, if she brushes past his penis on the tube, does that count?

Something isn't adding up. So I'm going to conduct my own survey. Well, I'm going to try. Sexual partners. Tell me how many. Totally anonymous. Use the comments box. Say if you're male or female. Try to remember not to sign in, or we'll all know how studly you are. I'll might even add my own once there are enough comments to be able to hide in the mix. BE HONEST. Go.

Oh, and as this is a "lifetime" survey of partners, it would really help if you're never going to have sex again, just so I can be sure the data is correct. Oh all right then, vote anyway.

Shopped

Someone had the stupid idea today to go to Argos. Argos. Two weeks before Christmas. Only an insane person would do this. Stupid, stupid, stupid person. Unfortunately that stupid person was me.

It wasn't even as if I was buying anything seasonal. Whilst standing next to people purchasing naff Christmas trees, games consoles, dolls and Elizabeth Duke jewellery, I patiently queued for (wait for the hedonism) a new clothes horse.

This is a lie, obviously. Not the clothes horse. That part is true. A new clothes horse is currently standing proudly in the living room, laden with clothes. Why would I lie about that? What a pathologically boring thing to lie about. You should be ashamed of yourselves for even suspecting it.

The bit that was a lie was when I said I queued "patiently". I have never knowingly done anything patiently in my life. I used the whizzy machines to pay for the clothes horse. Then I got quite overexcited when they called out the order number just a few minutes later. And even more so another five minutes or so later when I could see the clothes horse on the rack, awaiting its imminent dispatch. And then it just sat there. For ages. And ages. I started tapping my foot. I started not moving out of the way when people tried to get past. I gripped my receipt so hard that I think I made a bit of a hole in it. Then TheBloke (TM) started singing Jingle Bells and I'm afraid that's where I realised the entire trip was a bit of a mistake.

TheBloke (TM) loves Argos. Apparently they have nothing like it in South Africa, and he thinks it's amazing that they manage to have so much stuff in one little shop. He has bought everything he owns from Argos. On the other hand, I think it's amazing that everything I've ever bought from Argos has fallen to pieces or broken almost directly afterwards. I have a lot of venom towards Argos. But today was mostly my own fault.

I'm going away to think about what I've done.

Nutty

I will come right out and say it. I like pistachio nuts. I like them very much. I would even go so far as to say that they are a near-perfect snack, what with not only being tasty salty little morsels of goodness, but also providing a something to do with your hands whilst you snack. They are extremely good to eat in front of the television, or in the pub, or whilst chatting to friends.

They are not - as I discovered this evening - a particularly good to eat whilst you're trying to read a book. You see, pistachios are very much a two-handed snack. Hold pistachio between two hands, de-shell, eat, discard shell, repeat. Now try this with an Anne Tyler novel between your paws. It's hard - nay - impossible. I covered the sofa in pistachio shell. I covered myself in pistachio skin. It was not an entire success.

I'm also concerned that the politically-correct brigade are not properly doing their job. What about disabled people, people with one arm? How can they be expected to accurately operate this nut which has clearly - flouting all DDA regulations - been designed exclusively for able-bodied people?

It disgusts me. Boycott the pistachio. Send any unused ones to me. Usual address.

Pup fiction

It isn't often a book makes me angry. If I'm not enjoying a book, I tend to dismiss it as trashy or unreadable and then decide whether to soldier onwards, realising it's trash and enjoying in as much as I can in its newly-defined genre, or else abandon it altogether. It's rare I abandon. I'm a finisher-completer, after all.

An unforeseen side-effect of the new job is the commute. By London standards, it's hardly horrific - about 40 minutes door-to-door, but as my previous commute was about ten minutes, it's a noticeable difference. The biggest impact has been on my paperback consumption. I used to get through a novel a fortnight - now it's nearer two per week. Luckily, I work close to a library (sorry, Idea Store. Don't ask.) so I can be all credit crunchy and economical and manage to spend as little as possible on my paperback habit.


But sometimes I get caught short.

Last week my latest Book Club book (A Christmas Carol) still hadn't arrived from the mail order company, and my library books were finished. I had nothing to read and two lots of 40 minutes ahead of me. Of course, I could have read the Metro or the London Lite, but my brain hasn't yet atrophied sufficiently. I will keep you posted. I ransacked the bookshelf for TheBloke (TM)'s books. I'd read all his Stephen King. I'd read anything that looked readable. All that was left was a novel by Dean Koontz. I'd read one of his previously and it had been OK. Not great, very much trash, but OK. I took the plunge. This one was called The Darkest Evening of the Year.

Ooh. Spooky.

Now, I don't want to spoil it for Dean Koontz fans (who really should be ashamed of themselves), or for TheBloke (TM) who hasn't yet read this book. Its good points:

a) I finished it in about three days
b) It remained finished.

But what I will say is this: I never again want to read a grown-ups' novel where:

a) there is a magic dog
b) the denouement involes angels.

The angels done it. With the help of a magic dog. Great. This is my angry face. See it and fear me.

Number 600

Welcome Ploggers to my 600th post! Yay! 600 mini essays about absolutely nothing. Surely this is some sort of clever clever record. No? Oh well.

So, what is new in the land of Laura? Well, as ever, Laura Land is an exciting place. Here are some exciting things that have recently occurred in Laura Land:

1. An argument with Debenhams who appear to be misselling their store card. This is good though as it means I can report them to Trading Standards. I like to cause trouble.
2. A chocolate making workshop. Let me reiterate. A workshop. Where I made chocolate. What is not to like?
3. Yet another penalty notice from the Congestion Zone. Whoever has cloned my car's identity needs to get a job rather than cruising round the Congestion Zone when I'm at work.
4. A rare mid-week glass of wine for me last night. And anyone who says I accidentally walked into the door frame quite hard straight after is lying. LYING!
5. Watching the episode of Spooks Mr Nunn had already spoiled for me in his trademark way. (i.e. "You know American Beauty - it's the one where his neighbour shoots him in the head", "Have you got to the part of the book yet where it turns out his girlfriend is the murderer?" This week it was, "I'm up to date with Spooks now," (this is a spoiler warning for those who've not yet seen it). "I've seen the one where Connie slits that young man's throat." "I've not seen that yet, Dad." "Yes you have, it was on last week." "Yes, on BBC3." "Oh.") To be honest though, I actually appreciate being able to follow the plot a bit better when he's pre-warned me what's going to happen.

So that was my 600th post. Hope you enjoyed it.

Old Bill

Three fuck-wanky bills I've had in the last three days:

Fuck-wanky bill no. 1

RBS. The company I used to work for. I had some shares and - obviously - they're not what they were. In fact, they're now so worthless, that if I want to hang onto them (rather than write off £3000 of what was once cash) I have to pay RBS £375 to cover national insurance and tax. Gotta love the credit crunch.


Fuck-wanky bill no. 2

Lombard. RBS again, by another name. Apparently my company car when it was returned had £400 worth of "unsatisfactory repairs" done to it. Which is amusing a) because 7 out of the 8 repairs they mentioned never happened because the car never needed repairing and b) because the one repair that was done was done by a Vauxhall garage under warranty as the boot stopped working. And the garage used was recommended by Lombard. I am disputing the bill and will keep you posted.


Fuck-wanky bill no. 3

Congestion Zone. Fair cop, they got my car at 9.26 a.m. on Thursday driving through the Congestion Zone. A nice picture of my car's numberplates was attached to the letter. £60. You've got me. Oh, but hang on a minute, I was at work on Thursday. And the car hasn't been stolen. So looks like my numberplates have been cloned. Quick work; I've had the car for less than a month. Disputing this one too, with the help of the Metropolitan or City Police, whenever they can decide whose problem it is.

Still, British Gas sent me a cheque for £15 last week for no discernible reason, so that should see me through, shouldn't it?

Pet topic

A while back I wrote about the thorny issue of ferret moisturising. You can see the history here. http://laurasplog.blogspot.com/2006/07/flaky-ferrets.html I recommend you read this before proceeding.

Anyway, I was running a Google search at work for totally un-ferret related reasons (my job, whilst varied, has yet to include the moisturising of ferrets. Perhaps I shall bring this up at my next development chat), when the third or fourth hit returned pointed me to this site:

http://www.modernferret.com/

Modern Ferret Magazine. Let me just say that again. Modern. Ferret. Magazine. This, I imagine, has an entirely different readership to Traditional Ferret Mazagine and Historic Ferret Quarterly.

Modern Ferret is mostly concerned with issues facing today's ferrets. Namely (and these are genuinely covered by past issues): A Day of Ferrets and Fashion, Ferret Medical Topics with Dr. Bruce Williams, Hershey's Orthopedic Ordeal: Helping a Ferret With a Broken Leg and many, many more.

In teeny tiny print at the bottom of the Modern Ferret homepage, there is a slightly worrying statement. "Modern Ferret supports the legalization of ferrets in New York City."

What the fuck? Ferrets are illegal in New York City? How on earth do they enforce this? And why? I can't imagine a bunch of ferrets - whether moisturised or no - terrorising tourists on Broadway or bringing traffic to a screeching halt on Lexington. And I can't believe they're a threat to indigenous wildlife. If an officer suspects you of harbouring a ferret, does he need a ferret warrant before he searches your apartment for discarded bottles of ferret moisturiser?

The Internet is sometimes a scary place.

Crushed

Scene set: 1994, Loughborough High School car park. After school. Summer term. A fourteen year-old Laura waits for her lift home. Her Big Crush is also there, waiting for his bus. Normally she is totally tongue-tied around him. Today, however, there is a sparkle in the air and conversation begins to flow.

Big Crush (BC): Hey Laura. How are you doing?

Laura: I'm good thanks. Good. How are you?

BC: Not too bad. Looking forward to the weekend.

Laura: Me too. Do you have anything nice planned?

BC: Not really. I'm going go-karting with a friend on Sunday, but other than that, just coursework. You?

(Oh God, this is it. We're actually having a proper conversation. Soon he will ask me out and we will live happily ever after. Probably too soon to plan a summer wedding this year, as it's already May... and also I'm still fourteen.)

Laura: Yeah, I know what you mean. I've got stacks of English essays to do this weekend.

(I omitted the fact that I was probably quite pleased.)

BC: I hate Wednesdays. My afternoon ends with triple Physics!

Laura: Triple?! Wow. We don't get triple lessons. The most we get is doubles. But then again...

(Pause for dramatic effect, make eye contact)

Laura: Then again... How long are your periods?

BC tries not to laugh, fails. I then laugh too and turn bright red. Brilliantly at that moment, a gust of wind blows my summer uniform up in the air and I expose my knickers to the entire car park.

We never did hook up.

Lying low

I want to talk to you today about lying. As it happens, I'm one of those too-honest-for-my-own-good people most of the time. A sample conversation might run thusly:

Laura's colleague: What do you think about our new customer-driven, future-proofed, best-in-class proposal?

Laura: I think you're talking bollocks. Try again. Less wanky.

Tact and subtlety may never have been my strong points, but honesty I'll rate up there as something that comes naturally to me.

However, I think we all appreciate the times when we need the little white lies. When someone's holding a dull-dull-dull Christening ceremony for their pet dog in Scarborough, or a massive clubbing night in Manchester on a Friday and you just don't want to go. But even I have enough social skills to realise you're not supposed to say, "I'm terribly sorry. I just don't want to go."

So you come up with some guff. Admit it, we all do it. "Oh, I'd have loved to have come to your niece's school's teddy bears' picnic in Darlington. Loved to! But unfortunately that weekend I'm visiting my parents / have theatre tickets / need to stay in for a delivery."

No harm done. I get out of the crapfest, and the friend remains a friend because of the little white lie. Our lives go on as normal.

Except the Plog. Oh, the Plog. Let's imagine I've been invited to a naming ceremony for a new pet goldfish in Northampton, and I've used the reasonable - if not terribly true - excuse that unfortunately that weekend I have to drive to Liverpool for a relative's birthday party. Fine. Except helpful friend has given me at least a month's notice of the naming ceremony, and by the time the day has rolled round, I've successfully deleted the ridiculous event from my mind.

And that weekend I write a Plog. And perhaps the Plog might say what a boring weekend I've had and I've not even left the flat. Or perhaps it might say that I went and did something that blatantly wasn't going to Liverpool.

The friend reads the Plog. The friend knows I have lied.

Oops.

Luckily, my friends are blessed with tact and subtlety, and have never (yet) mentioned it to me. Leaving me to pootle onwards with honesty.

I also realise I've just made a rod for my own back; if I ever turn down a friend's request again - even if it's with a true date clash - no-one will ever believe me. Oh well, perhaps I should just get used to saying, "I really don't want to go. Sorry." Then scowl and walk off. I will keep you posted.

Double booked

I love book club. I love it. I love the fact that I get the chance to read and enjoy novels I'd never normally pick off the shelf. I love the fact that I've discovered some fantastic gems - The Time Traveler's Wife, Cloud Atlas, Rebecca, Midnight's Children and many, many more.

But most of all, I like to win.

That's right. I like to win book club. Because, you see, whilst it's primarily a social, fun night out for most people - a chance to catch up with ex-colleagues and discuss industry (yawn) news, for me it is a competition. You see, I did an English degree. For me, book club is a chance to win.

Co-members might say, "Henry and Clare's story was really interesting and the characterisation was good."

I might top that with, "Ah, but could we say either of them truly has Free Will? Indeed, can any literary character, controlled - of course - by the author - ever possess Free Will?"

And my co-members will look at me with a mixture of awe, wonder and - what looks like (but surely can't be) abject hatred.

This month's book was Idlewild. I finished Nick Sagan's novel (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Idlewild_(book)) on the tube on the way to book club earlier today. I felt smug. I had at least three Very Clever Things to say about the novel. Very Clever Indeed. I arrived at book club pretty early, and confidently slapped down my novel on the table.

My friend Fran arrived. "Hello Laura," she said.

"Hiya."

"Oh," Fran said, glancing at my copy of the novel. "You've got a different edition to me."

"Have I?" I said, not paying much attention.

"Oh," she said again. "Erm, one of us is wrong."

"What do you mean?"

Fran got out her copy of Idlewild. This one. http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/l/mark-lawson/idlewild.htm By Mark Lawson.

Turns out I read the wrong book. The rest of book club discussed American culture and politics. I tried to chip in with comments about virtual reality and identity. They mostly ignored me. I think - for the first time - I may have properly lost at book club.

Photo opportunity

Oh dear. I have lost another appliance in the household war. Whist Jessica remains a faithful companion (and I think the electric whisk is on my side), the new Epson printer has already showed a preference for TheBloke (TM).

Whilst I spent most of the afternoon yesterday cursing at the latest gadget and trawling internet forums for advice, TheBloke (TM) repaired to the bedroom to watch rugby and nonchalantly fiddle with his laptop. So to speak.

So, quietly in the living room I minded my own business. Suddenly I heard a popping noise. I reassured myself it was the fireworks outside the window. Then suddenly, without any warning at all, the printer burst into life - totally by itself and printed a test page. My PC wasn't even turned on.

TheBloke (TM) apparently pressed "connect printer wirelessly" on his PC in the bedroom and it did the rest for him. I had been trying that for approximately six hours. Then I stepped out the room and TheBloke (TM) configured my laptop in about twelve seconds. I think it's clear that the printer already has favourites.

Also, when I printed a test photo of TheBloke (TM) and me in Rome, the printer replaced the photo of my face with a picture of itself. Weird.

Print preview

Ah, Epson, you did not fail me.

Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time there was a girl called Laura who went to university. Before she went to university she used her hard-earned savings to buy herself a spangly, spangly PC with all the bells and whistles. Despite it only being 1999, and therefore technologically a bit shit, her spangly, spangly PC had a CD rewriter! And a DVD drive! And a 17 inch Belinia monitor. Which burst into flames - twice! But that is perhaps a story for another time.

It also had an Epson Stylus 660 printer. Colour. For Laura was the dog's bollocks.

To cut a long story short, I fucking hated that fucking printer. It took about half an hour to turn on. Once it had finished printing (usually with a white line printed thoughtfully through the middle of each text, so you'd spend half your life cleaning the already sparkling printer heads), if you left the printer on standby it would make little pleading chirpy noises at you until you paid it some attention. And the printing noise! It was like a dozen mice being fed through a paper shredder.

Essentially it was an attention whore of a printer. And when we parted ways I vowed never Epson. Never again.

And I have done without a printer very nicely thank you for the last three years or so. Until this week. When I caved. Mr Nunn must take some blame here, as he recommended a super-looking three-in-one wireless printer for under £100. Made by... Epson. Enough time had passed. Forgiveness was in the air. Reader, I bought it.

TheBloke (TM) and I have spent much of the last two days on our knees on the living room floor. And not in the good way.

It is a wireless printer, but apparently you need to cable it up for the first time you set it going. Fine. That's fair enough. It comes with an ethernet cable. As far as I can tell, this is a networky thing. Stop me if I'm getting too technical. Other than that, the only cable other than the mains one provided was a phone line cable, as it's also a fax machine.

Will it connect by ethernet? Does the Pope shit in the woods? No. Not normally. Someone Internetty suggested that I need to use a USB cable to connect it. Nothing in the instructions mentions this and there's no USB cable supplied.

I logged onto the Epson website. They invited me to a "live chat". I waited ten minutes for an advisor and gave up. I phoned the Epson helpline. I waited ten minutes on hold and gave up.

Every few minutes the printer chirps at me. It is gloating.

I hate Epson. Epson hates me. In the meantime, the living room is entirely taken up with giant boxes and a lot of swearing.

Anyone techy, feel free to chip in. Or buy a printer from me. Whichever is easier.

Still - wish fulfilment - at least I've had an excuse not to work on the novel today.

Booked

Here are the most recent excuses I've given myself for not writing my novel:

1. I'm tired
2. I'll have more time if I do it tomorrow
3. I'm not in the right mood
4. I haven't seen this episode of The Simpsons... for a few months
5. I have a slightly sore throat
6. I need to update my Facebook status
7. I ought to write a blog
8. Oooh, look at the shiny shiny thing
9. I don't have a printer and I need to do some editing before I can move forward with the plot in any meaningful way
10. That shiny shiny thing is back

But the printer has arrived and has even been taken out of the box by TheBloke (TM). Not plugged in, obviously, but de-boxed. TheBloke (TM) will be watching five hours of blokey blokey rugby this weekend - apparently a gift to me so I can do some writing. He's so thoughtful. So I have a printer. And the TV will be otherwise engaged. There is no excuse not to churn out at least five thousand words tomorrow.

I have stolen some of the novel from the Plog. If you have a favourite Plog entry, let me know and if I can include it, I will. Cuts down the number of new words I have to write anyway.

Cold case

When you live in fear of something, you worry that voicing it might make it come true. That has been the case for me today. (Whispers...) I think I might have man flu.

I will be fair to myself - I've actually avoided any type of cold for pretty much exactly a year. As I normally get a cold every six months or so, I'm quite proud of my Vicks First Defence and echinacea combo to date. But I have a scratch sore-ish throat, and a teensy headache. If I were a man, I'd be curled up in bed by now, demanding food and a tummy rub. Or maybe that's golden retrievers. I get them mixed up.

I am SO ill (well, considering the possibility of a mild cold) that although an exciting new printer arrived for me today (big fan of the gadgets), I haven't even bothered opening the box. That is super-super-super ill. It is a very big box. The sort of box small children like to play games in. I hope when I open it that it doesn't contain small children. That would be frightening. Particularly as I'm unlikely to open the box until Saturday. I wouldn't want to be responsible for a child trapped in a box for a few days.

I think I might be rambling. It's probably the man flu fever. These things happen.

Alphabet female

Laura's Pet Peeves - No. 4673

People who say "haitch"

Let's rationalise this one. It doesn't matter. Not in the grand scheme of things. In fact, it almost makes sense if the letter "h" is pronounced with the "huh" sound in front of it. But the point is, it's wrong. It's "aitch". Aitch aitch aitch aitch aitch. That is the truth.

And so many people say "haitch" and it makes me want to throw a book at their fat stupid heads. Illogical. It doesn't really matter.

And it's never bothered me all that much before. Except I now work for a company where the letter "H" figures quite prominently in the company's name. So I hear it a lot. And it seems I missed the memo circulated to every other member of staff where they redefined the pronounciation as "haitch".

Hated hogs of hell. Humph.

Career driven

March 2000. The second semester of my first year at Bristol University. Or the University of Bristol as it prefers to call itself.

Anyway, floating around the English department were a bunch of flyers about careers in IT and the Media. I'm not sure why they were floating. Maybe something they were doing at the Physics department down the road. I was a fairly conscientious student... in terms of getting myself a job at the end of my degree anyway. And with a background in website design (well, as much of a background as you can have at age 20) I thought I'd poddle along to the Careers department to check out what they had to offer.

Now, people who know me - and even those who don't - are often impressed by the severity of my directional inability. I get lost in: shopping centres, my home town, the local park... Bizarrely New York City is the only place where I never seem to get disoriented. And Australia. Go figure. So it won't surprise you to know that in the six months or so I'd been at uni by that time, I didn't really know where the street with the Careers department in Bristol was. (For future reference, it's about a hundred yards from the English department.)

I wandered lost-ish in the right sort of area for a while. At this stage, totally co-incidentally - I bumped into a girl who I'd been at school with. We'd been in the same year, but never friendly - she was very stand-offish and a bit up herself... Let's face it, she was an Annabelle. Not the Annabelle, but an Annabelle. But I thought she might know where the Careers department was. We made politer conversation than we'd ever done at school and she pointed at the building across the road. "That's it there," she Annabelled at me.

In I trotted and up the stairs I went. A cheerful reception desk greeted me. "Hello, can I help you?" the receptionist asked.

"Erm, yes, I was wondering if I could talk to someone about my career. I saw some flyers in the English department..."

"Well, we normally ask that you make an appointment in advance..."

I interrupted a bit, "Oh, I don't need an appointment - just any info you have to hand will be fine..."

"No, no, I was going to say that actually there's been a cancellation, and Pat should be able to see you in a minute. Is there anything in particular you want to discuss?"

"Well, it was specifically around IT careers in the media."

"OK, and your name please?"

We did the necessary, and she showed me through into the room to wait for Pat. The room wasn't quite what I'd expected - pretty large, two comfy chairs, and a beanbag. And, bizarrely, a box of tissues.

I perched myself on a comfy chair and waited. And waited.

Eventually the door creaked open, and the oldest person I have ever seen in my life creaked into the room, walking stick ahead of her.

"Hello, I'm Pat," she said.

"Hello, I'm Laura." I stood up and shook her papery frail hand. I didn't want to be ageist but I did wonder how much she was likely to know about the latest media IT developments.

She sat down. On a beanbag. Jesus Christ, this 90 year-old woman was never going to be able to stand again.

"So, Laura," Pat said, soothingly, "I hear you're worried about your career."

"Well, not really worried, no... just kind of considering my options."

"Would you say you worry about a lot of things? Would you describe yourself as a worrier?"

"Well, I suppose I am a bit of a worrier... but..."

"Hmm, that's interesting. So you're worried about your career - where would you say that pressure came from? Your school? Your parents? Yourself?"

"Erm... Well, I was really just hoping to get a bit more information on next steps really."

"Oh there are lots of next steps Laura, don't worry about that. Plenty of time, and plenty of options to explore. Medication works wonders these days you know."

"Sorry?" I wondered if she meant her own medication. Of which she clearly wasn't on enough.

"Absolutely - and there really isn't a stigma attached anymore. So, back to this worry. Tell me about your mother."

At this point the penny dropped. The tissues, the beanbags, the ancient do-gooder... "Pat, is this the Careers department?"

"No - it's Student Counselling."

"Ah. I think I'm in the wrong place. Sorry."

"Freud said there are no mistakes Laura. And I think we've got a lot to explore. I would like you to come back every week for - shall we say four weeks, and see how we're getting on then?"

Fucking Annabelles. Can't trust them.

Let there be light

Last night TheBloke (TM) and I went to the cinema to see Burn After Reading and then went for a meal at a favourite Turkish restaurant in Islington.

The only memorable thing about the meal (other than the excellent food) was that the lamppost outside the restaurant was number 0047. Like it was the James Bond of lampposts. But with a number four. We discussed tippexing out the offending digit, but realised there would be a space, so it would be 00 space 7, which doesn't sound nearly so good. Not that I've ever seen a James Bond film, but everyone else talks about them quite a lot.

Anyway, that's the only memorable thing about the evening. Certainly not the fact that I (normally teetotal) was celebrating the weekend with a Long Island Iced Tea and may possibly have knocked it over in a spectacular, possibly tipsy fashion that may or may not have entirely covered the couple sitting on the table next to us. To the extent that the guy turned round and asked TheBloke (TM), "What did you do to upset her?"

That definitely didn't happen. Because if it did, that would have been a bit on the embarrassing side. And could possibly be put down to me being a lightweight. Which totally isn't true. If it had happened. Which it didn't.

Just remember the lamppost. That's all that matters.

Oop North

I'm a regional reject. Londoners say I sound northern, with my flat "u" sound when I say words like "stuff", and the fact I use expressions like "at the minute", which are apparently unknown down South, where they prefer the slushier "at the moment".

Northerners say I sound posh and a bit southern.

I can't even imitate the East Midlands accent where I grew up.

My accent has been a bit of a mish-mash for the last twenty years or so: Loughborough, Bristol, London have all had their input. But until I was six I lived near Sheffield and had - I am told - a fairly strong Yorkshire accent. I really, really like the Yorkshire accent - perhaps because I associate it with my childhood.

Here's the weird thing... despite losing the accent totally once we moved to Loughborough, it sometimes switches itself back on again. I'm away with work on a course this week, and the lady sitting next to me is from Leeds. The more I talk to her, the more I find my speech patterns slow down, and this evening I even caught myself saying, "We've worked a right long day today, 'ant weh? I've not worked eight while eight ferrah long time."

Eight while eight? Really? Really, really? (Translation for Southerners: Yorkshire folk will say "while" to mean "until" - i.e. "I can't leave tonight while six 'o clock" means "I'm leaving at 6").

I'm sure the Leeds lady thought I was deliberately taking the piss. But I wasn't.

By the time I get home on Friday, I bet you anything, anything I've grown a flat cap and a whippet.

Friends like these

I hate my friends.

Saturday saw Karen's wedding. A delightful opportunity for the schoolfriends (minus lazy Hazel who couldn't be arsed to pop over from New Zealand) to get together.

I'd forgotten how much I hated them.

I should qualify: Erica and Kath were very well behaved. They are still my friends. Karen looked lovely and she too is still my friend.

However.

Katy Who Smells of Wee and Helen Who Doesn't Have a Nickname Yet, but may soon become Helen the Arseface, were big nasty bullies to me all night.

Helen the Arseface and Katy Who Smells of Wee are rowers. I know this because they talk about it. A lot. They are both at least six foot four and weigh at least twenty stones each. I can say this because they can't hurt me over the internet.

I am five foot two and a half. I weigh very slightly over seven stones.

And so, at three separate opportunities during the evening, Helen the Arseface and Katy Who Smells of Wee ambushed me, physically picked me up - one of them taking my head, and the other taking my legs... and threw me on the floor in the gents toilets. Onto all the boy wee. Three times. Once, they even picked up the chair I was sitting on and took me and the chair into the gents.

TheBloke (TM) did nothing to defend my honour. To be fair, I think he was laughing too hard.

Perhaps this is all a desperate attempt on their behalf to get a mention in the Plog. They are bastards. Here is proof.

My biggest issue is that with all the time that I spent on the floor of the gents, it may very well now be me who smells of wee. Typical.

Canned laughter

When I was seven years old I killed two pensioners.

For some reason, aged seven, I was put up a year at school. I have still never worked out why, nor why at the end of the year, I rejoined my old classmates and ended up in the correct year group after all.

This is all beside the point.

Anyway, final year infant, performing at a first year junior level, it was our class' responsibility to invite the local old people of Loughborough to the annual Harvest Festival at Booth Wood Primary School. The old people would be rounded up, herded into the hall, and then forced to take groceries home with them. I have never, never understood this. But, old people would sit there, we would sing and then they'd have to take home a couple of tins of salmon and a mouldy-looking pear. That's what Harvest Festival is all about. Praise the Lord.

So, the job of old people invitations was fairly divided between the class, and each of us was responsible for getting the list from the teacher and writing two invitations to old people. Finally, it was my turn for the list. It was a bit dog eared and had clearly been around for years. I wrote my invitations in my best handwriting to Mr Barsby and to Mrs Jessop. And, looking at the predecessors on the list, most of whom had a neat line ruled through them, I carefully ruled a line through both Mr Barsby and Mrs Jessop.

Proud as a peacock, I handed my invitations to my teacher, along with the list, so he could hand it onto the next child.

"Laura," the teacher said.

"Yes?"

"Did you cross Mr Barsby and Mrs Jessop off the list?"

"Yes, once I'd written their invites."

"Laura. Go and stand in the corridor and think about what you've done! Do you even know what you've done?"

My bottom lip started to quiver. "No..."

"We only cross the old people off the list once they're dead!"

That list had a lot of crossings out. I'm guessing some of that tinned salmon may have been past its best.

King of the swingers

I think my parents might be swingers. This is not an easy sentence to type. But the ugly truth must be told about Mr and Mrs Nunn.

"Do you have a Mitsubishi?" Mrs Nunn phoned me on Saturday to ask.

"No, you know I don't," I said. "What a stupid question."

"Well your dad has found some keys to a Mitsubishi in his jacket pocket, along with a Mitsubishi keyring. We think they might have been there since he visited you in London."

"Are you sure it's his jacket?"

"Yes," said Mrs Nunn. I think he's probably having an affair.

Mr Nunn came on the phone. "Do you know anyone who's lost a Mitsubishi?" he asked me.

"No, Dad, no I don't."

"Well, someone has put some car keys in my pocket. They're not mine. And they don't belong to anyone at tennis. They might belong to someone from my art class but I think they probably belong to your mum's fancy man."

It is all a giant cover up. Look at the evidence - the generation, the car keys, the suspicion. Clearly my parents are at the forefront of the East Midlands swinging scene. Sadly they're the only two doing it. Well, them and whoever has lost their car keys. I suppose that's one of the dangers of car-keys-in-a-stranger's-pocket sex. Can't be too careful.

Batteries not included

I have only cooked once in the last seven days. TheBloke (TM) is currently on holiday, so is enjoying performing the domestic goddess routine in the flat.

This morning though, I felt I'd been looked after quite enough, and made us some bacon sandwiches. I am nice like that. And - apparently - I make quite a good bacon sandwich. I've had rave reviews from previous patrons of the Laurasplog B&B. I may even have been partly responsible for un-vegetarianing Nice Kate.

So this morning, bacon was cooking and sandwiches were being prepared... and once again the sodding smoke alarm went off.

TheBloke (TM) said, "It's playing our song!"

The fucker. I think the smoke alarm hates me. Still, Jessica the sat nav hates him, and I think that's probably worse. I can't believe appliances are taking sides in this relationship, but I'm really going to get the Sky Plus side to come over to me. He can have the toaster.

Portrait of the artist as a madman

I'd been to Rome once before. I was sixteen and my parents took me on a coach trip to Italy. Because they hate me. Thirty hours on a coach with a whole load of old people, sadly none of whom snuffed it during the trip.

The journey was the most unpleasant form of travelling I've ever experienced, and that includes the 56 hour journey I had back from Fiji. We still have a signed document from Mum somewhere, signed at a service station in Belgium, swearing that she would never ever ever ever ever make us do a coach trip again.

Whilst I wasn't a massive fan of Florence when I was sixteen, I did love Rome. And I had an unusual experience with a portrait artist whilst I was there. See: http://laurasplog.blogspot.com/2007/10/when-in-rome.html

On the Saturday morning in Rome last weekend, TheBloke (TM) and I completed a guided tour of the Colloseum, wandered round a couple of fountains, and then headed for lunch. On the way there, I stopped dead. I couldn't believe it. It was my portrait artist! I recognised him immediately as when I last visited my parents, I went through some old photos and dug this one out as it made me giggle. Twelve years later, the mad old bastard had clearly given up on portraits and was now producing Tourist Shit Art (a valuable genre). I surreptitiously took his photo.

What are the chances, eh?

I almost asked him to do my portrait again, but wasn't sure I could take the rejection of having my face ripped up twice in one city.

Here he is. Doesn't he look loopy?

Nuns on the run

It was towards the end of Saturday afternoon, and TheBloke (TM) and I had had a very full day of walking all around Rome's many sites, seeing many sites.

We decided to fit one more attraction in before heading back to our hotel for a rest prior to dinner. We decided this attraction should be the church Santa Maria del Popolo. We had a wander down an expensive street, where TheBloke (TM) helpfully pushed me quite hard in the direction we were travelling as I stopped to look in any appealing-looking windows.

And into Santa Maria del Popolo we went. Firstly I was struck by how many skulls were decorating the place. You have to wonder just how holy a place is if they use human skulls as decoration. And whilst one or two of them looked like plaster casts of some description, a fair few of them looked pretty authentic to me. Not that I've got a lot of experience in human skull identification. I wonder if whoever's skull it was had any say in whether their noggin got used to decorate an ornate marble entrance. I wonder if I'd like my skull to do the same one day. It's an interesting way of gaining immortality. The weird thing is that I will never, ever see my own skull. That bothers me slightly. I'm not sure why.

I digress.

So, the church was impressive on the inside, and one of the big attractions appeared to be this picture here:

Clearly this was a big pull for the nuns, as a bus load of them were in the church, gathered round this chapel. It made me giggle a bit that they all had digital cameras. I don't tend to think of nuns being particularly into digital photography, or uploading their shots onto Facebook, but perhaps that's my own narrow-mindedness coming out. I imagined the nuns' Facebook status: "Sister Mary Mark is... reading psalms". What I did notice was that this chapel very clearly had a sign stating "No flash photography" - presumably so as not to fade the important work of art. The nuns were blithely ignoring this. If a nun can be blithe. They were snapping away, flashes flashing, and then giggling over the photos they'd taken with each other. Troublemakers.


I noticed the nuns were all wearing wedding rings, which confused me for a second, and then I remember that they use it as a sign to show that they're married to Jesus, or God, or the Tooth Fairy or something. Now I've never been to a nun's wedding - I'm assuming they have one when they get the ring, and I'll be honest, I'm not that fussed about attending one. I don't know any nuns, so it would probably be a bit inappropriate for me to just turn up on their big day.

I would however, be interested at the bit where the vicar says, "If anyone knows of any just law or impediment why this nun and this God cannot be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace..."

I would be tempted to pipe up on two accounts. Firstly, God is already married to all the other nuns (bigamist), plus he's knocked up a married woman and has a child from a previous relationship, whom he let die. Now, it's none of my business, love is blind, and all that, but the nuns at the very least ought to be made aware of this information before committing to a bloke who doesn't sound like he's a safe bet to be a good father. Social services should definitely be involved.

Secondly, I'm not sure God ever speaks to say, "I do" - therefore is it even legally binding?

I digress again. Really what I'd like to do is skip the wedding entirely. But I would very much like to go to a nun's hen night. I imagine the need for veils might be superfluous as they can wear their little headdress thingies. But I would love to see a group of nuns on a night out round the Vatican, pissed out of their habits, with L-plates attached. Halfway through the evening, the chief hen will have organised a sexy vicar to come over and do some Gregorian chants, whilst the other nuns crow raucously in the background.

And then take flash photographs of holy relics when you're clearly not supposed to.

Naughty, naughty nuns.

I think I need more sleep.

Bone to pick

I will tell you about Rome, of course I will. But at the moment I'm exhausted from a day's work and probably won't do the subject justice.

So in the meantime I will tell you something I saw at work today. Two asian guys, possibly Chinese standing chatting by the lift. Nothing unusual so far. Except they each had a broken arm.

This intrigued me. Did they get chatting because they each had a broken arm, or were they part of some secret society that involved arm breaking as part of its initiation?

Now the building is big, I'll give you that. There are approximately 8000 people working there. At any one time it makes sense that there would be a few broken bones. But two broken arms? Both Chinese guys? And standing together and chatting?

Something fishy is going on.

Italian job

I was whisked to Rome for my birthday. How glamorous does that sound? I knew I was going away for the weekend, but "Europe somewhere" was as much as I was getting out of TheBloke (TM), despite my wily and cunning ways of finding out information.

He eventually told me at midnight on the night of my birthday. So Rome it was, and I have much, much, much to tell you. However, at the moment, I am more tired than a tired person after a lovely but tiring weekend. Similes might not be my forte.

So... I will tell you about:

- Naughty nuns
- Tiny lifts
- Thieving Americans
- The mad portrait artist
- Insistent restaurateurs

and maybe more. But not tonight. Tonight you will have to sing a little song to yourself to keep yourself busy. Sorry.

I have been spoiled. I like it. More please.

Getting to know all about you...

"So, tell me about Laura Nunn," said my new boss' boss' boss at a "getting to know you" session.

"What would you like to know?" I asked.

"Well, imagine we're speed dating. What's the first thing you'd say to me?"

"Back off, sonny, I've got a boyfriend."

His face dropped in panic. Shit, shit, shit, I'm doing this wrong. Again.

"I've got a wife," he quickly added.

"Then you shouldn't be at a speed dating event," I asserted. Bollocks. This wasn't going well.

I changed the subject. Talked about my career history, talked about theatre, book clubs, and then added, "I'm not very sporty. I'd like to say I kept fit, but I really, really don't."

"Oh, but you're really slim, you look like you work out."

"Are you hitting on me again?" Fuck. I'm actually getting worse at this. I backtracked. "Don't be fooled by the slimness. It's a cunning combination of anorexia and bulimia. And the heroin addiction doesn't hurt."

A flicker of worry crossed his face. Not for the first time.

Later we talked about socialising. I mentioned I didn't drink. "What? Not at all?" he asked.

"Not really. I find that alcohol gives me terrible hangovers, and I just find heroin a better lifestyle choice for me."

In summary, in a thirty minute conversation I managed to convince the head of department that I have a drug problem, two eating disorders and am likely to accuse him of sexual harrassment any minute.

I have a feeling the new job is going to go very well indeed.

No smoke without fire

I got back to my flat today to see smoke billowing out from the downstairs neighbour's flat. As I was about to enter, another neighbour said to me, "I wouldn't go in the block if I were you, Laura. He's set his flat on fire again."

This happens with reasonable regularity.

In the hallway, the one-legged, sweary arsonist neighbour refused to leave the block. (Well, as much as you can when you're in a wheelchair and pretty much at the mercy of anyone who can operate a wheel.) He had a cigarette in one hand and was swearing about needing his bag. He shouted, "Wanker" indiscriminately. Though to be honest, I'm not sure you can discriminately shout, "Wanker".

The fire engines arrived (this time it wasn't me who called them, honest). One-legged man called the firemen wankers as they wheeled him against his will out of the block into the entrance. Whilst blocking the exit, he lit a fag. I used my mobile to call upstairs to the flat and suggested that TheBloke (TM) might want to consider exiting. He said he'd be down. He took ages. I thought he'd probably inhaled smoke and collapsed on the stairs. Turns out he was putting some trousers on for the first time that day.

The block of flats smoked. The one-legged, sweary neighbour blocked the exit with his wheelchair and smoked. The firemen had big hoses. TheBloke (TM) and I tried to find a coffee shop, but cafe culture has yet to hit Bethnal Green. After ten minutes of fruitless wandering, we returned to the flat and ate dinner.

Life has gone on pretty much as before.

Award winning

So last night saw TheBloke (TM)'s annual cricket dinner. Smart clothes were worn, toenails were painted (mine, mostly) and all was looking good for a splendid evening of good food and good company.

Until the award section.

Last year TheBloke (TM) received the coveted Golden Duck Award for fewest runs scored in a season, so this year my hopes were high for a similar piss-taking session. Things started going badly when the captain singled TheBloke (TM) out at the very start of his speech, saying how much he'd improved. It got worse. Not only did he scoop the award for best bowler, he also won the popularity contest of "Players' Player". And two trophies. This represented about a fifth of the entire trophies awarded. This has made him insufferable. Beyond insufferable.

Then he won the fucking raffle.

If he makes a cup of tea now, he expects to be given a trophy. If he carries a bag successfully up the stairs, he expects a trophy. If he does a particularly loud fart, he expects a trophy and the opportunity to make a speech.

So... It is time to equal the score a little. Nice Kate has nominated my Plog for some blogging awards. I believe there are only about five days until they close, so I'm not expecting miracles, but if you would like to vote for the Plog, here's the link: http://bloggerschoiceawards.com/blogs/show/59154

You do need to register, but it's pretty quick and painless.

TheBloke (TM) now fully expects to win this too, even though he's only blogged twice in the last six months, and it's usually about masturbation. For which he also expects a trophy.

Smokin'

Last week there was one - just one - incident where I sort of set off the smoke alarm whilst I was cooking. And in fact, it's a good job I did because it led me to realise that the battery in the smoke alarm was flat. And actually I didn't set the smoke alarm off because the battery was flat.

And it wasn't my fault anyway - it was a baking tray with some stuff stuck to it that started burning whilst the meal was cooking, so it wasn't like I set anything on fire or anything.

So all in all, there's really nothing to talk about.

Except TheBloke (TM) now won't let me grate cheese unsupervised "in case you burn it".

I have just cooked chicken in a barbecue sauce, jacket potato and Caesar salad. And didn't burn anything. Well, maybe the salad. A bit.

Where are those piss-easy Jamie Oliver recipes?

Northern nosh

I am watching Jamie Oliver's programme about how kids in Rotherham are eating so poorly that it beggars belief. In a typically middle-class way I am tutting appropriately as I learn that little Kylie has never eaten anything other than a kebab, that Donna spends all her benefits money on ciggies and chocolate and that Chardonnay can't recognise boiling water.

And then I realise that for the last three evenings this has been my evening meal:

Sunday - takeaway pizza
Monday - reheated takeaway pizza, followed by chocolate hobnobs
Tuesday - microwaved pasta

Hmm. Probably ought to put that middle-class smugness on hold for the time being. Though I went to playgroup in Rotherham, so perhaps it's just my genes reverting to type.

Decisions

If you had to live without cheese or chocolate for the rest of your life, what would it be? It's a difficult one, I'll give you that, but I found it easy enough to come to my decision. Whilst giving up chocolate would be a massive sacrifice, a life without cheese is no life at all.

Choose cheese, choose life.

Through this game (give up spring or give up autumn? Give up shoes or give up your eyebrows?) I have discovered - finally - my favourite thing in the world.

I gave up cheese, spring, chocolate, shoes, eyebrows, cuddles, reading, cinema, orgasms, television, Shakespeare, Sunday mornings for... wait for it... cherry blossom.

Something tells me my priorities might be a bit fucked.

I do like cherry blossom though.

Novel idea

I am trying to write a novel. Not because I'm particularly creative or talented, but mostly because I quite fancy a day job where I don't have to get out of bed or on the tube.

So I am trying to write a novel. And I want it to be good. And I am shamelessly stealing bits of Plogs to go into it. Mostly because this increases my word count and makes me feel as though I've done more work than I actually have.

Apparently the average novel is about 100,000 words. I have written 6,000. So I'm nearly there, right?

Can I have a multi-million pound book deal now please?

Rusty roof, smelly cellar

So the hair is showing some signs of changing colour...

... it appears to be going slightly ginger.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck

Hairy scary

I've noticed that I've tended to mark important moments in my life with a new hairstyle. I'm not talking about popping to the hairdresser's for a bit of a trim or a couple of highlights - I'm talking major image change.

When I was 18, on the day of my last-but-one high school exam, I had my hair cropped very short. This was a mistake as during my last exam I spent the entire three hours trying to push the fringe out of my eyes. Also, it looked shit.

After my year out, before I went to uni, I went blonde. Properly blonde. This was a mistake as I was too poor to get my highlights re-done every six weeks, so looked two-tonal for most of my first year.

At the end of my three years at uni, before I started my new job, once again I went for an inadvisedly short hairstyle. I was even conned into buying "hair gum". Which I never used.

And, Ploggers, I've done it again. After six years with the same company and not too many utterly disastrous hairstyles, I rashly decided to go back to being my natural brunette. It would save me cash and time on the highlights, and my hair's always much shinier when it's brown. Brunette I went. Except it would seem that I judged my "natural" colour to be three shades darker than it actually is. Meaning my hair is very very very very dark brown.

And, as TheBloke (TM) so sympathetically put it on seeing the result, "Jesus Christ, you look like a witch." Later on, when I talked about getting a kitten, he suggested I might want to go for a black cat. And asked if I wanted a pointy hat to go with my new hair colour. I said I would be car shopping at the weekend. He suggested a broomstick. The humour is overwhelming.

And of course, with a new job comes the inevitable time-capsule that is your security pass. However you look on your first day at work is captured by a poorly-positioned webcam and printed off for you to carry round your neck for time immemorial. You'd have thought I'd have considered this prior to any major hair decisions.

You see, starting a new job is a bit like starting at a new school. You hope you get on with the other kids, that the food isn't too bad and that you keep out of the way of bullies. Except it's different this time. With the amount of dye I'd like to get rid of from my hair, this time I'll be begging them to flush my head down the toilet. Repeatedly.

I'll keep you posted.

Damn magazine!

So I've spent approximately ten hours on a stage over the last week or so. Most of the time it was sitting and observing, doing little bits of "business" - as they would have it in the industry. This does not mean shitting on the stage, as I found out the hard way. It's to do with doing minor things, not usually in the script. The purpose of our "business" was to show the audience we were still there, hopefully without detracting from the main action on stage.

As we were playing three street urchins, we had a whole load of women's magazines to flick through whilst the main action was happening. The detail was great - they were given 50s' front covers... but inside it was Cosmo, Elle, Glamour - the usual suspects. I gave up reading women's magazines years and years ago because of the revolting hypocrisy: it doesn't matter what you look like, he should love you anyway vs. buy this hideously expensive wrinkle cream - he won't love you if you look old. Why women don't need men vs. how to get your man to propose. It made me barf. Plus those pages and pages and pages of fashion that a) no-one I know could afford and b) no-one I know would be seen dead in.

But, faced with a stack of magazines and action going on behind us that we weren't supposed to watch (and which we'd seen about seven million times), read the magazines I did. And Jesus, they're awful. I particularly hated the agony aunt page where unfortunate women's neuroses were displayed and dissected for the world to see. Women having boyfriend troubles were usually given a brilliant piece of advice like, "Until you love yourself, how can you expect others to love you? Take up a hobby - how about swimming or a cookery class?"

Fuck that. Toddle off to Ann Summers, buy a rabbit. Bloke problem solved, spare time issue solved.

There was always an article about how anorexia had ruined some model's life... then they talk about how this 5'11" woman is now a "healthy" eight stones. No. No, no, no. Yes, I'm underweight, and at seven stones, I shouldn't be throwing rocks around my greenhouse. But I'm 5'3". I'm no nutritionist, but I'm guessing eight stones is not a healthy weight for someone nearly six foot tall. The article will talk about a balanced diet and the importance of loving yourself. (Perhaps get a hobby - how about swimming or a cookery class?)

Turn the page and there are bony waifs wearing ridiculous unaffordable, ugly clothes.

To quote the great Steven Moffat in Coupling: "Magazines! A hundred pages of 'men are useless bastards,' and an article about why you should wake him up with a blowjob."

Rant over. You may now go back to your day job. Today's title is an inside joke. I apologise for the cliqueyness. Cliqueism. Fuck it, you know what I mean.

Top ten

I have been the world's worst Plogger. In my defence, I've had quite a ridiculously busy time of it, with about three "major life events" happening in the same day.

I'm far too tired to consider Plogging in detail at the moment, but in the last week, the following things have happened. I may tell you more about them in some detail at a later date. If you ask me nicely.

1. Tech rehearsal, dress rehearsal, four performances of Little Shop of Horrors plus cast party
2. Quit my job. Didn't I tell you that? Well I have. My last day was Friday.
3. Didn't quite have a contract from the new job. Until Friday. The same day that the sector I work in announced more large-scale redundancies. Fun times and small amounts of panicking, whilst pretending to the parents I wasn't bothered. Because they were panicking too.
4. Had a new sofa delivered. Oh the glamour.
5. Had a lovely succession of overnight guests: Kath, Nice Kate and the Nunn clan.
6. Received a cornucopia of flowers - from work, from Nice Kate (who might get upgraded to Lovely Kate) and from TheBloke (TM). I am a lucky girl.
7. Spent most of the week tracking glitter through the flat. TheBloke (TM) found some in his underwear yesterday. He now worries he might be gay.
8. Got to play with the inflatable bed.
9. Cleared stuff out of the Corsa. Company car. It has to go. I'm not ready to talk about this yet.
10. Saw Tropic Thunder at the 02 Arena.

I will Plog properly soon. In the meantime, apologies to all friends I've been ignoring for ages!

Dressed up

I have glitter in my hair. I have eye make-up that won't come off. I have long, blonde curly hairs all down my back.

And I am tired, tired, tired.

And tonight was only the dress rehearsal. I have another four days of late nights, eye make-up and more glitter than any self-respecting girl needs.

Too tired to finish this sentence properl

Drama queen

This weekend represents the calm before the storm. Next week looks something like this:

• Full time job. Extra stressful at the moment for reasons which will (hopefully) be revealed shortly.
• Monday = technical rehearsal, followed by first dress rehearsal.
• Tuesday = dress rehearsal
• Wednesday = performance and overnight guest
• Thursday = performance and overnight guest
• Friday = performance and the Nunn clan as overnight guests
• Saturday = entertaining the Nunns, performance, plus cast party.

So I am trying to use this weekend to gather my thoughts, recharge my batteries and chill out. This isn't really working. I am currently worrying about forty-seven different things (I did actually list them out a day or so ago), most of which I have absolutely no control over, and in many cases, worrying about them will probably just make things worse.

Like the fact that I might catch a cold in the next few days. So I'm overloading my system with echinacea, Vicks First Defence and Vitamin C. Every slight throat tickle is the heralder of doom.

If I live through to opening night, wish me luck - or tell me to break a leg!

Getting personal

Off to the well-known department store I went. I was greeted by my personal shopper. (Before the piss-taking commences, please be aware of the following facts: a) I hate shopping and so try to wrap up an entire year's worth in one appointment a year, b) I missed the girls' lesson at school when they explained how to accessorise and c) the service is free).

Now, I'm no stranger to personal shoppers, who have ranged from the tardy (Lakeside) to the extremely old and deaf (Macy's). I wanted work clothes. Not suits necessarily, but corporate wear. I think it would be fair to say I was a bit taken aback by my personal shopper's appearance. Again, before you judge me, I genuinely don't normally evaluate people based on their looks... but when that person's going to be picking out your clothes, well, I suppose it's fairly natural to hope for a similar style.

Ploggers, her head was shaved. She wore a tweed jacket with a denim skirt and bright orange tights and patent leather sandals. She greeted me with the words, "Hi Laura. Well, you're my first ever client."

Oh good.

The appointments usually take about two hours. This one took four and a half hours. Four and a half hours! An entire hour of this was devoted to shoes. Shoes! A whole hour on shoes! That's just madness. I will not be shopping again for a very, very long time. Apologies to anyone with a birthday in the meantime.

Sick

I had a day off work ill today. I never take time off ill. But ill I was, and so time off I took.

And felt slightly guilty all day. And worked all afternoon.

But I feel better, thank you for asking.

Sheepish

So I live practically next door to a knitting shop. This isn't something of particular interest to me, as I've only ever once tried to knit anything. I was six years old and my grandma decided to help me knit some white woollen mittens for my brand new baby brother.

By the time he was eleven, and I was seventeen, we decided perhaps it was best to abandon the project. Textiles lessons at school usually involved the teacher shouting at me that, "When I said 'tack it', Laura, I did not mean with Pritt Stick!". When I finally fessed up that I hated textiles, she looked shocked and said to me, "What are you going to do when your husband needs a button sewing on his trousers?" This was 1993, by the way, not 1883. I got into a reasonable amount of trouble for looking her dead in the eye and saying, "Mrs Firth, I'm not going to marry a man."

Anyway, you get the picture. Me and handicraft, not a match made in heaven. So the knitting shop nearby, Prick Your Finger http://www.prickyourfinger.com/, has drawn nothing more than the occasional glance from me. It does however, get an occasional glance because they do knit some weird and funky stuff and put it in the window. In the last few months there has been a life-size knitted toilet and basin, a knitted jar of Marmite and a woolly tin of Heinz Baked Beans.

Often I'll come home at about seven or eight o'clock, and there'll be a group of women sitting on stools around the shop, knitting. Inoffensive, I suppose, if you need a hobby. But the other day, when I came home, there was a woman in the shop signing autographs on a book which appeared to be about knitting. Autographs. On a knitting book? And the shop was absolutely full of people. A tiny little shop on a back street in Bethnal Green hosting an autograph signing event? It has to be a cover-up for something. I suspect Mafia involvement.

Still, I think I've finally found somewhere that might knit me a vagina, as they appear to have the male genitalia quite literally all sewn up.

Fruitless

It's been a rubbish summer, weather-wise. Barely three days of warm sunshine at a stretch, and it seems someone has already pushed the Autumn button. Whilst it's sunny today, there's that smell of a new school term in the air and the leaves seem somehow crisper.

Whilst I've been lucky enough to take a couple of holidays this year, neither New York nor Toronto were particularly warm (in fact I almost got hypothermia in New York.) so I feel I've kind of missed out on sunshine due to me this year. But last night I had a dream where I was snoozing on a Greek beach. The heat and radiant warmth were almost overpowering, as I lay back and relaxed. Then - in my dream - I suddenly sat bolt upright as I thought, "Fuck! I'm supposed to be on stage!"

Yes, Ploggers. The stress dreams for the latest play have started. Partly this is my own fault. The production is less than two weeks away and I haven't yet totally entirely learned my lines. I'm confident experience as a stand-up will help me to ad-lib. Maybe. Even if the other character's don't appreciate it. Yes. It's the fourth play-related stress dream I've had in as many nights.

I don't think it's just me who's feeling the stress either. I had to miss Thursday's rehearsal as I was up in Manchester for work, but apparently I missed a corker of a row between our (very good) musical director and the guy who plays the lead. It's been brewing for a while, and I guess the stress and the reality of the situation have suddenly all come to a head. Glad I was out of there anyway. I don't like conflict, unless it's over the phone with a fuckwit company and I'm getting some sort of refund.

So, if you would like to come and see Little Shop of Horrors, please let me know. I will be wearing a blonde wig and a hideous dress. I will be singing and - horror of horrors - dancing. Until I fall over in my pointy shoes and show my knickers to everyone. Front row seats not advised.

We're running from Wednesday 24 September through to the Saturday, and tickets are £15. It's on in a central London theatre. So if you'd like to come along, drop me an email to laura.nunn@gmail.com and I'll reserve you some tickets. Please bring your own rotten fruit. Everywhere near me is already sold out in anticipation.

Reality sucks

So we didn't all get sucked into a black hole and transported to an alternate reality. Or maybe we did. But the alternate reality seems pretty similar so far - mostly Top Gear repeats and reheated pasta for dinner. Unless, of course, that's what they want us to think. And in fact, neither Top Gear nor pasta actually existed until they switched on their magic machine, but our reality has been reprogrammed to believe that such things have always been.

TheBloke (TM) explained to me that we could all be sucked into the black hole. I told him I wouldn't because I'd hold onto the door frame really, really hard. He tried to explain that the door frame would also get sucked into the vortex. I reasoned that they couldn't just do that because I'm a leaseholder, so I have certain rights. He wasn't sure vortexes respected leaseholder rights. But what does he know?

So anyway we're not in a black hole. Probably.

I'll be honest, philosophy pisses me off.

Whilst school and university friends would happily ponder the meaning of life, whether each atom was a miniature universe in itself and whether we all saw colours the same way, I had to bite my lip very, very hard to resist the temptation to shout, "It doesn't fucking matter. You will never, never know. This is a totally pointless conversation. Shut up and bring me cake!"

It's a bit like modern art. You either love it and find it endlessly fascinating and provocative, or, like me, wander round the Tate Modern saying, "That's shit. That's shit. An autistic two year old could have done that. That's shit and pretentious. Where's the cafe? I need cake."

Unless of course, cake didn't actually exist until they turned on the black hole machine. My head hurts. I'm going to get some cake. Existential or otherwise.

Pockets of time

The weather is bad. The weather is so bad that on Sunday I deployed my winter coat for a walk in the park with a friend. I may have overestimated the bad-ness a little, as the winter coat was perhaps a bit too heavy for a gentle stroll through the parkland of Bethnal Green, but I digress. This Plog is not about the weather.

I haven't worn my winter coat since - well - the winter. Which this year ended round about May. So the pockets of the coat (I'm not a proper girl - I insist on a coat with useful pockets at all times) contain a veritable treasure trove of forgotten keepsakes which are - quite literally - at least four months old. Thrilling eh? I feel like an archaeologist.

I shouldn't keep you hanging further. A summary of That Which Was Found In My Coat Pockets:

- One of my old business cards with "Jennifer Gosbery" scrawled across it, in my own handwriting. No idea who she is.
- A NatWest receipt for withdrawing £500 in cash. Worryingly I have absolutely no memory of this
- A NatWest receipt for depositing over £1000 by cheque. Again, no recollection of this. Still, it seems I'm winning in the transactional process so far
- A British Airways boarding pass from City Airport to Edinburgh
- One squashed heart-shaped chocolate
- Two tissues (used)
- A receipt from the hairdressers. Presumably in case I wanted to return my hairstyle.
- A British Airways boarding pass from Edinburgh to City Airport
- A Sainsbury's shopping list comprising: potatoes, bacon, butter, cheese, kitchen roll, Mr Muscle Kitchen and Bathroom, eggs, bread and squash. Healthy.
- The tear-off part of a doctor's prescription.
- 7p. In cash, no less.
- A "Refreshing Towel" from BA. My spring / autumn jacket has four of these in the pocket from Air France. See how my loyalties have changed?

Blow it

I barely left the inflatable bed yesterday. I played Xbox on the bed. I ate pizza on the bed. I drank coke on the bed. I ate Jaffa Cake bars on the bed. Then, when it was dinner time - as it was my turn to cook - I ordered Chinese takeaway. And ate it on the bed.

At the end of the night, I decided it was time to deflate the bed. It does, after all, take up about half the floor space in the living room. But it was so sad. I just wanted the bed back up.

I now suspect the deflating of the inflatable bed may signal the end of every weekend from now on. Roll on Friday!

Sock it to 'em

I'm trying to be sensible with money at the moment. I figure I ought to do my bit to tighten my belt because of the credit crunch. Not that it's actually affecting me in any way at all. Yet. But, you know, a bit of sensibility never hurt anyone.

On Saturday, off to Lakeside I toddled. I needed socks. Even with a credit crunch you can be excused buying socks, can't you?

Actually, not really. There's nothing wrong with my old socks. About two years ago, I got fed up of all my black socks not actually matching, so I threw all of them away and bought a shitload of plain black socks from Next. Or so I thought. My genius plan was that having loads of identical socks, it wouldn't matter when they all got mixed up in the washing machine, and I could wear any two socks that popped up in my drawer. Good plan, poorly executed. After a few weeks of ignorant sock-wearing bliss, I noticed that actually the Next socks had a little tag designed to sit on the outside of the foot. This essentially marked a left and a right sock. Well, who would notice that? No-one. So it surely wouldn't matter if I wore two "left" socks. Would it? Would it?

That's when I began to get a little bit OCD about the whole thing. Over a period of a couple of months, I went from "preferring" to have a left and a right sock to "needing" to make sure the socks were a proper pair.

And this is where the madness must stop. So I decided to buy some Marks and Spencers' socks, which ostensibly do not have left and right foot markers.

Long story short. Credit crunch = Laura spending over £200 at Lakeside on lunch, shower gel, books, a Wii dance mat and an inflatable bed. And socks. Don't ask.

Jealous Jessica

TheBloke (TM) is convinced Jessica, my sat nav system, is trying to kill him. Many a Saturday evening he's returned from cricket, swearing at "that stupid bitch" who either tried to take him a tortuously long route round, or else - he claims - told him to turn left verbally whilst showing an arrow pointing right on screen.

Now Jessica has her foibles, I'm the first to admit. And I've not yet totally forgiven her for the time she took me across Tower Bridge, then back across London Bridge at two in the morning - presumably just for kicks. But I will say, on the whole, though she might not always plot the most accurate route, she does usually get me where I need to be. Which is not bad for a sat nav which is over three years old.

I dismissed TheBloke (TM)'s witterings as incessant blokey whingeing. Until last Sunday. When I have to say, he was partly vindicated. It appears Jessica may have entered the Terrible Threes. She was certainly acting out.

After driving to Havant, near Portsmouth, and it taking rather longer than I expected, on the journey home, I asked TheBloke (TM) if he'd mind taking over, as I was really sleepy. We switched at a service station, and trusted Jessica to guide us on the final stretch home into London.

Through the Blackwall Tunnel, Jessica guided us - and - understandably lost reception whilst we were underwater. So we missed a turn straight after coming out of the tunnel. No worries. Jessica would recalculate. And she did.

"Turn right," instructed Jessica, a little bossily. TheBloke (TM) indicated right, looked, then realised... she was trying to guide him into the fast lane of oncoming traffic of a dual carriageway.

He was right. Jessica is indeed trying to kill him. I am not sure of her motivation - perhaps jealousy. In the meantime, there's definitely an atmosphere between them. I can sense them throwing evil looks at each other whilst I'm driving. It's awkward. I just hope I don't have to choose between them. Because I don't think I could give up my sat nav. Even if she is slightly on the homicidal side.

Sucks to be me.