I am still on annual leave. I am liking it very much. Which is a good job, because I have another week and a half left yet. I have lots of things to do, ranging from lunch with friends to installation of exciting electrical equipment. And I need to get new taps fitted, but that's not so exciting. I find the older I get, the more my levels of excitement change. Buying a Nintendo DS is quite exciting, but picking out a paint colour for my kitchen is very exciting indeed.
Perhaps I need this break from work more than I realised.
So, what have I done today? Well, as you know, I tend to live a life based around scandal and intrigue. Today was no exception. I put away some laundry. I spoke to lovely Hazel in New Zealand. I wandered up Roman Road and failed to use a NatWest cashpoint. I made lunch. I ate a Creme Egg. I read On Chesil Beach. I procrastinated about tidying my living room (and continue to do so). I lost at Facebook Scrabble. Again. Twice.
I thought about making a cake but I didn't. I decided to write a novel but realised I'm not very good at it.
It's probably a good job I normally go to work. I will probably return to New York-based anecdotes, just so my poor readership doesn't die of boredom.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
New York - Part 2
We knew it was going to be cold in New York. We knew this. In fact, as we were booking it, I did say, "You know it's going to be cold in New York, don't you?" We knew.
We even looked online at the weather forecast. "Ooh," we'd say, "ooh, it's -2 at the moment. Ooh."
As we arrived in New York to a practically tropical zero, it didn't feel so bad. Until the next day, when the temperature dropped.
One of two things is true: New Yorkers are obssessed by the weather, to the extent that it always makes the evening news, or else I happen only to visit New York during times of extreme weather.
I was pleased - at first - not to know how to convert to Centigrade. But it was 20 degrees Fahrenheit. I knew it was a bit chilly. But still, TheBloke (TM) and I had booked a swanky-pants looking restaurant and were going out for the evening. And of course I was going to wear my little black dress. Because I was gorgeous.
I was gorgeous. For about sixty seconds. Until my legs turned first red and then purple and finally blue. No-one remarked on the little black dress, but a few concerned glances from fellow subway commuters suggested they were recognising someone in the early stages of hypothermia.
Turns out 20 degrees Farenheit is about -7 Centigrade. I had bare legs. On the Laura scale of chilliness (which records temperatures from "A Bit Nippy" to "Fucking Hell It's Cold") we achieved a never-before-seen "Oh My God I Actually Think I Might Die".
Admittedly this level was achieved just once before in the Lake District in March, immersed in an underground tank of water. But I wasn't wearing a little black dress at the time. And trained staff soon bundled me into a fleece, sat me in a van and put the heaters on. New York City has no such trained staff. More is the pity.
We even looked online at the weather forecast. "Ooh," we'd say, "ooh, it's -2 at the moment. Ooh."
As we arrived in New York to a practically tropical zero, it didn't feel so bad. Until the next day, when the temperature dropped.
One of two things is true: New Yorkers are obssessed by the weather, to the extent that it always makes the evening news, or else I happen only to visit New York during times of extreme weather.
I was pleased - at first - not to know how to convert to Centigrade. But it was 20 degrees Fahrenheit. I knew it was a bit chilly. But still, TheBloke (TM) and I had booked a swanky-pants looking restaurant and were going out for the evening. And of course I was going to wear my little black dress. Because I was gorgeous.
I was gorgeous. For about sixty seconds. Until my legs turned first red and then purple and finally blue. No-one remarked on the little black dress, but a few concerned glances from fellow subway commuters suggested they were recognising someone in the early stages of hypothermia.
Turns out 20 degrees Farenheit is about -7 Centigrade. I had bare legs. On the Laura scale of chilliness (which records temperatures from "A Bit Nippy" to "Fucking Hell It's Cold") we achieved a never-before-seen "Oh My God I Actually Think I Might Die".
Admittedly this level was achieved just once before in the Lake District in March, immersed in an underground tank of water. But I wasn't wearing a little black dress at the time. And trained staff soon bundled me into a fleece, sat me in a van and put the heaters on. New York City has no such trained staff. More is the pity.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Lit crit shit fight
Fear not, more New York anecdotes will follow. But I am saving them. (And trying to remember them through the haze of jetlag.)
Today I have mostly been studying for a course I'm taking in a few weeks. Not very interesting, and indeed, I haven't even left the flat today. So, instead of regaling you with an exciting anecdote from today (mostly because there isn't one), I shall challenge you to a fight.
I would like to have a fight with anyone who believes university days were the best days of your life.
Yes, there were good points. Free Fridays, and one year, free Fridays AND free Mondays. Nice people. Gossip. Cups of tea and cake. Scrambled egg in hall on a Thursday. Student theatre discounts. These were all good things.
But there was a lot of rubbish too, notably the course itself. Clearing out my hard drive earlier today, I came across some university essays. As ever with essays, the ones you spent hours researching and carefully writing up got a low 2:1. Those which you rushed off and didn't really think about, usually through flu or a hangover tended to get me a high 2:1. Try, or don't try - it didn't really matter, and about 95% of us left the course with - you've guessed it - a 2:1.
I didn't mind the essays. I quite like writing. And I managed to choose a course with no exams, which suited me very well. However, would you please look at the following (genuine) essay title, set for one of my Shakespeare and Jonson modules, and tell me if I was naive in thinking it made absolutely no fucking sense:
‘The romances explore what it means to be a subject: an agent of the self, within the state, seeking for satisfaction. And so the epitomic figures are the ones denied their place at the centre, not only the rogues, slaves, fishers, and vagabonds, but the itinerant princes, and, crucially, the exiled women.’ (Palfrey) Discuss with reference to Jonson and/or Shakespeare.
What the buggery bollocks is "an agent of the self"? I tried my best. I gamely blagged with sentences such as, "Are any of us, even in ‘real life’, ‘agents of the self’, or are our desires and our search for ‘satisfaction’ shaped by Art and the ideals it upholds? "
I tried again later with, "Are we too being directed upon a stage controlled by some other author, our lives exposing dramatic ironies detected by an invisible audience? Can we be sure that we are ‘agents of the self’ and not, as Hitchcock might have put it, ‘cattle’?"
My Shakespeare and Jonson tutor was not impressed. I like to imagine this was owing to a clash of personal styles rather than him guessing that to this day I have never read a Jonson play in full.
Low 2:1. Fuck it. So, anyone want a fight about university days? And if you do - are you sure that you're acting as an agent of the self?
Today I have mostly been studying for a course I'm taking in a few weeks. Not very interesting, and indeed, I haven't even left the flat today. So, instead of regaling you with an exciting anecdote from today (mostly because there isn't one), I shall challenge you to a fight.
I would like to have a fight with anyone who believes university days were the best days of your life.
Yes, there were good points. Free Fridays, and one year, free Fridays AND free Mondays. Nice people. Gossip. Cups of tea and cake. Scrambled egg in hall on a Thursday. Student theatre discounts. These were all good things.
But there was a lot of rubbish too, notably the course itself. Clearing out my hard drive earlier today, I came across some university essays. As ever with essays, the ones you spent hours researching and carefully writing up got a low 2:1. Those which you rushed off and didn't really think about, usually through flu or a hangover tended to get me a high 2:1. Try, or don't try - it didn't really matter, and about 95% of us left the course with - you've guessed it - a 2:1.
I didn't mind the essays. I quite like writing. And I managed to choose a course with no exams, which suited me very well. However, would you please look at the following (genuine) essay title, set for one of my Shakespeare and Jonson modules, and tell me if I was naive in thinking it made absolutely no fucking sense:
‘The romances explore what it means to be a subject: an agent of the self, within the state, seeking for satisfaction. And so the epitomic figures are the ones denied their place at the centre, not only the rogues, slaves, fishers, and vagabonds, but the itinerant princes, and, crucially, the exiled women.’ (Palfrey) Discuss with reference to Jonson and/or Shakespeare.
What the buggery bollocks is "an agent of the self"? I tried my best. I gamely blagged with sentences such as, "Are any of us, even in ‘real life’, ‘agents of the self’, or are our desires and our search for ‘satisfaction’ shaped by Art and the ideals it upholds? "
I tried again later with, "Are we too being directed upon a stage controlled by some other author, our lives exposing dramatic ironies detected by an invisible audience? Can we be sure that we are ‘agents of the self’ and not, as Hitchcock might have put it, ‘cattle’?"
My Shakespeare and Jonson tutor was not impressed. I like to imagine this was owing to a clash of personal styles rather than him guessing that to this day I have never read a Jonson play in full.
Low 2:1. Fuck it. So, anyone want a fight about university days? And if you do - are you sure that you're acting as an agent of the self?
Sunday, January 27, 2008
New York - Part 1
So, what should I tell you first about New York? Firstly, perhaps the most surprising thing. Those of you who know me in person will know that I have a truly terrible sense of direction. Despite having spent thirteen or so years of my life in Loughborough, I still regularly get lost in the town centre. In London I'll drive nowhere other than my local Sainsbury's without satnav, and I still haven't yet worked out how to walk between Oxford Street and Piccadilly Circus.
Yet for whatever reason, this utter lack of directional ability appears to be disabled in New York. I can pop up from whichever subway station, take one glance at the street and avenue, and know instantly which direction to walk in. And am rarely wrong. Partly, I think, this is to do with the fact that New York is based on a grid system... so unless you're totally innumerate (shut up), you can only wander a block or so without realising you've gone wrong. But having spent a total of about 20 days of my life in New York City, in some ways I feel I know it better than London.
The above does not apply to the subway, which was designed by a moron. See http://laurasplog.blogspot.com/2007/04/washed-out.html. Luckily TheBloke (TM) was placed in charge of the subway (not as a full time job - that would have been a bit surprising) and most public transport happened without incident. Though I did have to sit next to a man who decided to read the New York Times out loud to himself. For a full twenty minutes.
I will return for more New York based anecdotes, but in the meantime I will share with you:
Yet for whatever reason, this utter lack of directional ability appears to be disabled in New York. I can pop up from whichever subway station, take one glance at the street and avenue, and know instantly which direction to walk in. And am rarely wrong. Partly, I think, this is to do with the fact that New York is based on a grid system... so unless you're totally innumerate (shut up), you can only wander a block or so without realising you've gone wrong. But having spent a total of about 20 days of my life in New York City, in some ways I feel I know it better than London.
The above does not apply to the subway, which was designed by a moron. See http://laurasplog.blogspot.com/2007/04/washed-out.html. Luckily TheBloke (TM) was placed in charge of the subway (not as a full time job - that would have been a bit surprising) and most public transport happened without incident. Though I did have to sit next to a man who decided to read the New York Times out loud to himself. For a full twenty minutes.
I will return for more New York based anecdotes, but in the meantime I will share with you:
- We saw Cloverfield at the cinema (sorry, "movies") in Times Square. Admittedly, tiredness meant I drifted off a bit and slept through some of the loudest explosions, but there was nowhere better than NYC to see buildings you'd walked past earlier that day being destroyed. The mixture of handheld video camera in the style of Blair Witch plus impressive special effects brought an interesting edge of reality to the film. Not sure I'd have enjoyed it as much had we not been on location there.
- It snowed! In Times Square! It felt very New York, and almost made up for the fact that it had been -8 Centigrade the day before.
- I wore a very silly hat for the duration of the trip. Friends can find evidence of this on my Facebook photos.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Native New Yorker
Ploggers! I have returned from New York!
I have been on hols so exciting, magnificent, and - frankly chilly - that if I were to tell you about them right now, you would literally die of jealousy, and, perhaps cold.
Also, I am jetlagged and a little bit hysterical. So tales will follow, but not today. Tales of psychics and Americanisms, and diners and how my legs went blue, and subway freaks and, well, just so much excitement, you could barely shake a small badger at it.
I can tell you're thrilled.
I have been on hols so exciting, magnificent, and - frankly chilly - that if I were to tell you about them right now, you would literally die of jealousy, and, perhaps cold.
Also, I am jetlagged and a little bit hysterical. So tales will follow, but not today. Tales of psychics and Americanisms, and diners and how my legs went blue, and subway freaks and, well, just so much excitement, you could barely shake a small badger at it.
I can tell you're thrilled.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Hobby horse
I have been an absent Plogger. But I have been doing things. Things, and also stuff. Things, stuff and sometimes watchermacallits.
I acquired a new book this week. Well, actually I acquired about seven new books this week, but that's my own problem for being a paperback addict. It's like crack but cheaper and gets me fired less frequently.
Anyway, I digress. Sadly, my Grandma died recently, and I was sorting through some of her books with Mrs Nunn. Grandma was not the sort of person to throw something away lightly. This was the woman who, in 2001, presented my then-boyfriend with a Christmas present of the 1975 Socialist Women's Workers Desk Diary. We never did find out why. Her book collection ranged from an entire 400-page book solely dedicated to the subject of Pansies and Violets to a baffling tome entitled, How to Turn your Ex-Boyfriend into a Frog. One wonders (before forcing oneself to think of something else) how often Grandma had the need to turn an ex-boyfriend into an amphibian. Perhaps my ex got off lightly with his diary. Though admittedly I haven't heard from him recently...
You will be pleased to know I have rescued my favourite book from her collection; the mighty How To Make Animal Models. Not hugely hilarious in itself (though one does again wonder how often she sat at home thinking, "Hmm, well, I've done all my chores. I think I'll make an owl out of a bean bag. That would definitely be the best use of my time."). My favourite thing about this book is the list of other books in the series on the back cover. These include...
How to Make Flowery Things - delightfully non-specific. "Is it flowery?" "Yes." "Fuck it, put it in the book."
How to Make Jewellery from Junk - "Is that Tiffany?" "No, I made it from a milk bottle top and a sticky label from a loaf of bread. I'm wearing it to the office party next week."
(These get better)
How to Make Patterns from Thread - just how meaningless and boring would your life have to be before you sat and thought to yourself, "I genuinely can't think of anything better to do with my life at this moment in time than to make patterns with thread."? If you ever find yourself doing this, perhaps you ought to cross-reference with How to Kill Yourself Successfully.
How to Stand on your Head - what the fuck? An entire book on this? Really? I almost want to Ebay it. But I suppose if the Pansies book was 400 pages, I suppose they could spin out standing on your head for a good 70 or so.
How to Make Robots - a bit sinister this one, especially as the series was published in the 70s. I imagine it might have involved cardboard and not a lot else.
How to Watch Wildlife - step one, go somewhere with wildlife. Step two - watch the fucking wildlife. Not hard.
The frankly baffling How to Make Simple Boats (not complex ones, mind you) and How to Make your Own Kinetics (anyone know what a kinetic is?)
My second favourite, in runners' up place is How to Sew Presents from Scraps. "Happy birthday, mate!" "Erm, thanks. Did you sew this from scraps, by any chance?" "Yes, yes I did. How could you tell?" "It looks shit."
And finally, the ultimate one which is a) baffling b) a total waste of time and c) utterly desirable to own:
How to Disguise Yourself
I imagine this book comes free when you've bought all the others. Your friends think you're a total twat for making them shit presents, standing on your head, building robots and too thick to work out how to watch wildlife by yourself... So eventually you have to get How to Disguise Yourself, How to Get New Friends, and for the advanced reader, How Not to be a Cunt. This one is 600 pages long, and involves burning the rest of the series.
I acquired a new book this week. Well, actually I acquired about seven new books this week, but that's my own problem for being a paperback addict. It's like crack but cheaper and gets me fired less frequently.
Anyway, I digress. Sadly, my Grandma died recently, and I was sorting through some of her books with Mrs Nunn. Grandma was not the sort of person to throw something away lightly. This was the woman who, in 2001, presented my then-boyfriend with a Christmas present of the 1975 Socialist Women's Workers Desk Diary. We never did find out why. Her book collection ranged from an entire 400-page book solely dedicated to the subject of Pansies and Violets to a baffling tome entitled, How to Turn your Ex-Boyfriend into a Frog. One wonders (before forcing oneself to think of something else) how often Grandma had the need to turn an ex-boyfriend into an amphibian. Perhaps my ex got off lightly with his diary. Though admittedly I haven't heard from him recently...
You will be pleased to know I have rescued my favourite book from her collection; the mighty How To Make Animal Models. Not hugely hilarious in itself (though one does again wonder how often she sat at home thinking, "Hmm, well, I've done all my chores. I think I'll make an owl out of a bean bag. That would definitely be the best use of my time."). My favourite thing about this book is the list of other books in the series on the back cover. These include...
How to Make Flowery Things - delightfully non-specific. "Is it flowery?" "Yes." "Fuck it, put it in the book."
How to Make Jewellery from Junk - "Is that Tiffany?" "No, I made it from a milk bottle top and a sticky label from a loaf of bread. I'm wearing it to the office party next week."
(These get better)
How to Make Patterns from Thread - just how meaningless and boring would your life have to be before you sat and thought to yourself, "I genuinely can't think of anything better to do with my life at this moment in time than to make patterns with thread."? If you ever find yourself doing this, perhaps you ought to cross-reference with How to Kill Yourself Successfully.
How to Stand on your Head - what the fuck? An entire book on this? Really? I almost want to Ebay it. But I suppose if the Pansies book was 400 pages, I suppose they could spin out standing on your head for a good 70 or so.
How to Make Robots - a bit sinister this one, especially as the series was published in the 70s. I imagine it might have involved cardboard and not a lot else.
How to Watch Wildlife - step one, go somewhere with wildlife. Step two - watch the fucking wildlife. Not hard.
The frankly baffling How to Make Simple Boats (not complex ones, mind you) and How to Make your Own Kinetics (anyone know what a kinetic is?)
My second favourite, in runners' up place is How to Sew Presents from Scraps. "Happy birthday, mate!" "Erm, thanks. Did you sew this from scraps, by any chance?" "Yes, yes I did. How could you tell?" "It looks shit."
And finally, the ultimate one which is a) baffling b) a total waste of time and c) utterly desirable to own:
How to Disguise Yourself
I imagine this book comes free when you've bought all the others. Your friends think you're a total twat for making them shit presents, standing on your head, building robots and too thick to work out how to watch wildlife by yourself... So eventually you have to get How to Disguise Yourself, How to Get New Friends, and for the advanced reader, How Not to be a Cunt. This one is 600 pages long, and involves burning the rest of the series.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Balls
"No, I bowl pretty well," I told TheBloke (TM). "I went not that long ago with Nice Kate, and I won. I think I bowled 240."
"240?" asked TheBloke (TM) incredulously. "You do realise 300 is a perfect game? And, not to be mean, but sports aren't really your thing..."
"Well, it might not have been 240," said I. "But I was good. And I hardly used those lane buddy things they have to stop your ball going down the gutter."
Unsurprisingly it was not long before I was challenged to bowling. You see TheBloke (TM) is a) quite athletic and b) a little bit competitive. Still, I was confident in my bowling competency.
Somewhat misguidedly, as it turns out. Do you know what my score was for my first ten frames? For those not in the know, ten frames equals twenty attempts at chucking a ball down an alley and trying to knock over pins. One point per pin. Do you know what my score was after twenty goes at this?
Twenty-fucking-three. Not very close to 240. My second game was better in terms of score (slightly) but worse in terms of health and safety. I don't really want to talk about what TheBloke (TM) termed the "high point of the evening", but it might have involved me dropping the ball the wrong way so it actually rolled behind me and nearly took out a toddler.
Next week, mini golf! I'm really good at mini golf...
"240?" asked TheBloke (TM) incredulously. "You do realise 300 is a perfect game? And, not to be mean, but sports aren't really your thing..."
"Well, it might not have been 240," said I. "But I was good. And I hardly used those lane buddy things they have to stop your ball going down the gutter."
Unsurprisingly it was not long before I was challenged to bowling. You see TheBloke (TM) is a) quite athletic and b) a little bit competitive. Still, I was confident in my bowling competency.
Somewhat misguidedly, as it turns out. Do you know what my score was for my first ten frames? For those not in the know, ten frames equals twenty attempts at chucking a ball down an alley and trying to knock over pins. One point per pin. Do you know what my score was after twenty goes at this?
Twenty-fucking-three. Not very close to 240. My second game was better in terms of score (slightly) but worse in terms of health and safety. I don't really want to talk about what TheBloke (TM) termed the "high point of the evening", but it might have involved me dropping the ball the wrong way so it actually rolled behind me and nearly took out a toddler.
Next week, mini golf! I'm really good at mini golf...
Saturday, January 12, 2008
I only want to say...
... I have eaten my first Cadbury's Creme Egg of the season.
And lo, it was good.
And lo, it was good.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Miss Potato Head
I think I may have solved the riddle of the gritty jacket potato. I am aware that you've probably been in suspense all week about this, and I apologise unreservedly for my slow detective skills.
So, Friday being Friday, and planning on snuggling up with Jam and Jerusalem, a hot water bottle and enough chocolate to fell a small sapling, I thought a baked potato might be a good way to start my evening. I followed my usual potato recipe. I left the butter out to soften. I grated cheese in advance. My food processor (which regularly torments my neighbour's cockatiel) is slightly on the old side, and the blades aren't that sharp anymore. So often when I'm grating cheese, the blades will get stuck, it will make a horrible noise, and I will have to dislodge the cheese. Luckily I am quite adept at cheese-dislodging. I am a woman of many talents.
The potato was lovely. Fluffy and crispy and buttery and mmmmm. Then suddenly... grit! But a hard lump of grit - a bigger bit of grit than previously. This called for further investigation. I isolated the grit from the potato. I examined it closely... It was only a sodding piece of plastic. From the food processor. The blades are so dull, and the horrible crunching noise it makes when whizzing the cheese must be tiny bits of plastic chipping off.
I wonder how much plastic I've eaten over the last year or so. Luckily, as everyone knows, fruit cake is a known anecdote to plastic consumption. I shall go and seek out this remedy directly.
So, Friday being Friday, and planning on snuggling up with Jam and Jerusalem, a hot water bottle and enough chocolate to fell a small sapling, I thought a baked potato might be a good way to start my evening. I followed my usual potato recipe. I left the butter out to soften. I grated cheese in advance. My food processor (which regularly torments my neighbour's cockatiel) is slightly on the old side, and the blades aren't that sharp anymore. So often when I'm grating cheese, the blades will get stuck, it will make a horrible noise, and I will have to dislodge the cheese. Luckily I am quite adept at cheese-dislodging. I am a woman of many talents.
The potato was lovely. Fluffy and crispy and buttery and mmmmm. Then suddenly... grit! But a hard lump of grit - a bigger bit of grit than previously. This called for further investigation. I isolated the grit from the potato. I examined it closely... It was only a sodding piece of plastic. From the food processor. The blades are so dull, and the horrible crunching noise it makes when whizzing the cheese must be tiny bits of plastic chipping off.
I wonder how much plastic I've eaten over the last year or so. Luckily, as everyone knows, fruit cake is a known anecdote to plastic consumption. I shall go and seek out this remedy directly.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
A little bit green
I am easily brainwashed. At the moment I am trying to be a bit more green. I have always done fairly well - I recycle everything I can, have energy efficient appliances... but I have a weakness when it comes to carrier bags. I never remember to take my own to the supermarket, and whilst I do reuse carriers as bin liners, they tend to end up stockpiled in my cupboard, sometimes until they start to biodegrade.
So today, I thought it was time to save the environment. I did this by taking three carrier bags with me when I drove the ten-minute walk to Sainsbury's. I also bought eco-friendly washing powder, so if you all die of global warming, you can't blame me. These were my thoughts as I filled my car (which I only ever really use to drive to Sainsbury's and occasionally to visit my parents) up with petrol.
I used my carrier bags. All was good. I felt smug. Until I drove home, parked in front of the giant flood-puddle, where my parking space is, leaned over at an awkward angle to get the groceries from the boot without drowning... and the carrier bag split. Luckily I had a spare. Still at an awkward angle, I decanted groceries from the (frankly substandard) Costcutter bag to the (much more durable) Tesco bag. As I lifted them out of the boot, I dropped my car keys. In the puddle. Then a potato fell out of my bag. Then I twisted my arm. Then the split (substandard) Costcutter bag blew across the car park, and I had to abandon my groceries and my unlocked car whilst I chased after it.
God was clearly sending me the signal that we should screw the environment. I think I'll have roast panda bear for dinner.
So today, I thought it was time to save the environment. I did this by taking three carrier bags with me when I drove the ten-minute walk to Sainsbury's. I also bought eco-friendly washing powder, so if you all die of global warming, you can't blame me. These were my thoughts as I filled my car (which I only ever really use to drive to Sainsbury's and occasionally to visit my parents) up with petrol.
I used my carrier bags. All was good. I felt smug. Until I drove home, parked in front of the giant flood-puddle, where my parking space is, leaned over at an awkward angle to get the groceries from the boot without drowning... and the carrier bag split. Luckily I had a spare. Still at an awkward angle, I decanted groceries from the (frankly substandard) Costcutter bag to the (much more durable) Tesco bag. As I lifted them out of the boot, I dropped my car keys. In the puddle. Then a potato fell out of my bag. Then I twisted my arm. Then the split (substandard) Costcutter bag blew across the car park, and I had to abandon my groceries and my unlocked car whilst I chased after it.
God was clearly sending me the signal that we should screw the environment. I think I'll have roast panda bear for dinner.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Taking it lying down
I am one of those people you hate. I am a Morning Person. My alarm, usually set somewhere about 7.25 a.m. beeps every morning, yet I'm usually awake a minute or two beforehand. I leap straight out of bed (why dally? I'm already awake.). I do not understand the function of snooze: surely if you've got time to spare, it's better to have full, proper sleep than sleep interrupted every five minutes with more beeping. And - let's face it - no-one likes the beeping.
So the alarm will sound, I will get out of bed and allow the tooth brushing and the showering to commence. All is good. Now, don't get me wrong, I enjoy a lie-in as much as the next person. (Well, not as much as my brother who has actually elevated the humble lie-in to life purpose.) I do enjoy those Sunday mornings when there's no reason to go out and no reason to get up just yet. But when I have to get up... well, I just do. I'm not particularly grumpy... I have several friends who lose the power of speech for a good fifteen minutes after they've woken up, whereas I'm pretty lucid straight away. Up I get, and on the day goes.
Not for the last two mornings.
The last two mornings have been a real test of character for me. Dark still when the alarm sounds, cold outside, still only the very start of the week - not even nearly the weekend... And the bed so warm and sleepsome. Suddenly I understood everyone's dilemma: bed = good, outside of bed = bad. Sadly also for me - as for many of the population, outside of bed also = getting paid.
Luckily, I am an upbeat, positive person, and I do not like to present you, my fellow Ploggers, with a solution-less problem.
Problem: In order to get paid I need to leave my bed.
Solution: Become a prostitute!
It's genius. I can be a prostitute all winter whilst the weather is rubbish, and keep warm (and exercised), then in the summer, I can go back to my normal job. Now I just have to find a way of pitching it to my boss. "Self-employment opportunity" perhaps... I'll let you know how I get on.
So the alarm will sound, I will get out of bed and allow the tooth brushing and the showering to commence. All is good. Now, don't get me wrong, I enjoy a lie-in as much as the next person. (Well, not as much as my brother who has actually elevated the humble lie-in to life purpose.) I do enjoy those Sunday mornings when there's no reason to go out and no reason to get up just yet. But when I have to get up... well, I just do. I'm not particularly grumpy... I have several friends who lose the power of speech for a good fifteen minutes after they've woken up, whereas I'm pretty lucid straight away. Up I get, and on the day goes.
Not for the last two mornings.
The last two mornings have been a real test of character for me. Dark still when the alarm sounds, cold outside, still only the very start of the week - not even nearly the weekend... And the bed so warm and sleepsome. Suddenly I understood everyone's dilemma: bed = good, outside of bed = bad. Sadly also for me - as for many of the population, outside of bed also = getting paid.
Luckily, I am an upbeat, positive person, and I do not like to present you, my fellow Ploggers, with a solution-less problem.
Problem: In order to get paid I need to leave my bed.
Solution: Become a prostitute!
It's genius. I can be a prostitute all winter whilst the weather is rubbish, and keep warm (and exercised), then in the summer, I can go back to my normal job. Now I just have to find a way of pitching it to my boss. "Self-employment opportunity" perhaps... I'll let you know how I get on.
Monday, January 07, 2008
You're bard
I am reading a book on Shakespeare at the moment. It is by Bill Bryson, who writes very very funny books usually about travel. I would like to be Bill Bryson, but at the moment I am Laura Nunn, so you will have to put up with that for now. As and when (or if) I become Bill Bryson, I will let you know. I am still trying to grow the beard.
Anyway, I digress. I am reading a book about Shakespeare. I did English at uni, so I know a little bit already about the Brummy Bard, but most of the stuff I read was criticism of his works, or else his works themselves, whereas the Bryson book is a biography.
Jesus, we don't know anything at all about Shakespeare! Only six signatures of his exist, and they reckon that at least three of them were probably faked. No-one knows where he was or for how long, whether he was gay or not, and we also (carelessly) appear to have lost a fair number of his plays.
Well, in your face, Shakespeare. I am very careful to keep an accurate diary, and I predict now that this Plog will outlast any of your rubbish sonnets. If this be false and it upon me proved...
Oh, never mind.
Anyway, I digress. I am reading a book about Shakespeare. I did English at uni, so I know a little bit already about the Brummy Bard, but most of the stuff I read was criticism of his works, or else his works themselves, whereas the Bryson book is a biography.
Jesus, we don't know anything at all about Shakespeare! Only six signatures of his exist, and they reckon that at least three of them were probably faked. No-one knows where he was or for how long, whether he was gay or not, and we also (carelessly) appear to have lost a fair number of his plays.
Well, in your face, Shakespeare. I am very careful to keep an accurate diary, and I predict now that this Plog will outlast any of your rubbish sonnets. If this be false and it upon me proved...
Oh, never mind.
Friday, January 04, 2008
I say potato...
When I got up at seven this morning, it was still totally dark outside, as if it was the middle of the night. I have been told that the mornings are getting lighter, but I'm not sure I believe it. I went to work (in a basement) and by the time I left around five, it had already been dark for over an hour. I have literally seen no natural light today.
As I left the office and walked towards the tube station, the cold enveloped me, and little drops of rain shuddered down my neck. I squeezed myself into a busy carriage and stood for the journey back to Bethnal Green.
Finally I arrived home, put on the oven and lovingly prepared a jacket potato. After last year's potato-cooking crisis, I have now found the perfect method of cooking. For anyone interested:
- Preheat oven to about 180 degrees
- Wash potato and stab it all the way through with a sharp knife about eight times
- Put in microwave for ten minutes. I usually turn it over halfway through.
- Cover with olive oil and salt
- Bung in oven for about 20-30 minutes - again, I usually turn it over halfway.
- Load on dollops of cottage cheese or mature cheddar and revel in your winter snugness.
So after a cold, dark day, my potato was finally ready. I cut into it and I fluffed up the potato. I put enough butter on it to keep several dairy farmers in business for a decade or so, and heaped it with enough cheese to upset the government's obesity watchdogs.
I dug in.
Inedibly gritty. What the fuck? I have had potatoes with hard lumpy bits before. I have conquered this. I have had potatoes whose skins won't go crispy. I have solved this with the olive oil. I have even had potatoes that "just don't taste that nice". But gritty?
Why are potatoes so difficult? Why do they torment me? What sort of human being allows herself to be tormented by a potato?
These are all questions I shall ponder over the weekend.
As I left the office and walked towards the tube station, the cold enveloped me, and little drops of rain shuddered down my neck. I squeezed myself into a busy carriage and stood for the journey back to Bethnal Green.
Finally I arrived home, put on the oven and lovingly prepared a jacket potato. After last year's potato-cooking crisis, I have now found the perfect method of cooking. For anyone interested:
- Preheat oven to about 180 degrees
- Wash potato and stab it all the way through with a sharp knife about eight times
- Put in microwave for ten minutes. I usually turn it over halfway through.
- Cover with olive oil and salt
- Bung in oven for about 20-30 minutes - again, I usually turn it over halfway.
- Load on dollops of cottage cheese or mature cheddar and revel in your winter snugness.
So after a cold, dark day, my potato was finally ready. I cut into it and I fluffed up the potato. I put enough butter on it to keep several dairy farmers in business for a decade or so, and heaped it with enough cheese to upset the government's obesity watchdogs.
I dug in.
Inedibly gritty. What the fuck? I have had potatoes with hard lumpy bits before. I have conquered this. I have had potatoes whose skins won't go crispy. I have solved this with the olive oil. I have even had potatoes that "just don't taste that nice". But gritty?
Why are potatoes so difficult? Why do they torment me? What sort of human being allows herself to be tormented by a potato?
These are all questions I shall ponder over the weekend.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Simply super
Sometimes I have to work to squeeze a Plog out each day. Sometimes the Plog plops effortlessly into the lavatory bowl of the Internet. Today my Plog was delivered to me pretty much by hand by my brother Jack, who forwarded to me the following (genuine) email:
A Hero for Leicester.
Metropolis has Superman. Gotham has Batman. New York has Spiderman. Leicester needs a superhero and we want you to create them!
As part of its season celebrating manga and graphic novels Leicester Libraries is inviting budding comic book artists and writers to create a short comic strip introducing a new superhero for Leicester. What powers would a Leicester superhero have? Perhaps they need the protection of a secret identity? Do they fight crime, or maybe they are a supervillain! Let your imagination run wild!
You can use any style and techniques you want to create your comic, but your final entry must be no more than four A4 pages in size. The best entries will be judged by a panel of comics industry professionals.
The winning entry will be published on the Leicester Libraries website and the author will win a selection of graphic novels.
Jesus, really?
So, a superhero for Leicester. Jack suggests the superpowers might be "stabbing and casual racism". A good suggestion, but nothing which differs itself fantastically enough from the rest of middle England.
A superhero for Leicester... Well, Leicester - nay - Leicestershire isn't really famous for anything other than the McCann family, and even I'm not tasteless enough to suggest a superhero down that route. (Well, OK, I am, but not in a public forum.) Once in Leicester the Pizza Hut burned down. Philip Larkin's mum used to live there (not at the Pizza Hut. That was ambiguous grammar on my part. Sorry.). Basically, nothing happens in Leicester.
So, in order to reflect the spirt of the city, a true Leicester superhero should do absolutely fuck all. Maybe burn down Pizza Hut and hold a book of poems. I reckon with enough training, my brother himself may be able to take on that role. Jack - do you reckon there's a salary attached?
A Hero for Leicester.
Metropolis has Superman. Gotham has Batman. New York has Spiderman. Leicester needs a superhero and we want you to create them!
As part of its season celebrating manga and graphic novels Leicester Libraries is inviting budding comic book artists and writers to create a short comic strip introducing a new superhero for Leicester. What powers would a Leicester superhero have? Perhaps they need the protection of a secret identity? Do they fight crime, or maybe they are a supervillain! Let your imagination run wild!
You can use any style and techniques you want to create your comic, but your final entry must be no more than four A4 pages in size. The best entries will be judged by a panel of comics industry professionals.
The winning entry will be published on the Leicester Libraries website and the author will win a selection of graphic novels.
Jesus, really?
So, a superhero for Leicester. Jack suggests the superpowers might be "stabbing and casual racism". A good suggestion, but nothing which differs itself fantastically enough from the rest of middle England.
A superhero for Leicester... Well, Leicester - nay - Leicestershire isn't really famous for anything other than the McCann family, and even I'm not tasteless enough to suggest a superhero down that route. (Well, OK, I am, but not in a public forum.) Once in Leicester the Pizza Hut burned down. Philip Larkin's mum used to live there (not at the Pizza Hut. That was ambiguous grammar on my part. Sorry.). Basically, nothing happens in Leicester.
So, in order to reflect the spirt of the city, a true Leicester superhero should do absolutely fuck all. Maybe burn down Pizza Hut and hold a book of poems. I reckon with enough training, my brother himself may be able to take on that role. Jack - do you reckon there's a salary attached?
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Time in lieu
Happy New Year, Ploggers!
Today saw a somewhat unwelcome return to the office - not just because I've had a week or so off, thank you very much, or even because it's so chilly outside, but also because with the overseas travel I did recently, it's been almost a month since I spent a day actually sitting at a desk. Not that when I was overseas I was standing at a desk. It wasn't the physical position at the desk I was talking about. It was more the presence of the desk itself. As in... oh, never mind.
I have to be honest with you - I suspect my employers for today's trauma. I am 99% sure that this morning the IT people were hacking into the system and altering the clocks on the PCs so they went back an hour every fifteen minutes. Because when my PC's clock showed 10 this morning, I felt as if I'd been in work for at least three days. Admittedly the IT department would also have had to change my watch and the office clocks, and the time on both my mobile phones and my Blackberry, but this is not beyond their wit. If they are able to crash an entire email system when I'm at my utmost busiest, then surely a bit of time-tomfoolery is not much of a challenge for them.
Anyway, I cleared all of my email, made a to-do list, renewed my home insurance (oh, the glamour) and at 10.21, announced to the team, "Right, that's enough work for 2008. See you next year. Have a good Christmas."
I've been working for nearly ten years. Surely I deserve a (fully-paid) year off?
Today saw a somewhat unwelcome return to the office - not just because I've had a week or so off, thank you very much, or even because it's so chilly outside, but also because with the overseas travel I did recently, it's been almost a month since I spent a day actually sitting at a desk. Not that when I was overseas I was standing at a desk. It wasn't the physical position at the desk I was talking about. It was more the presence of the desk itself. As in... oh, never mind.
I have to be honest with you - I suspect my employers for today's trauma. I am 99% sure that this morning the IT people were hacking into the system and altering the clocks on the PCs so they went back an hour every fifteen minutes. Because when my PC's clock showed 10 this morning, I felt as if I'd been in work for at least three days. Admittedly the IT department would also have had to change my watch and the office clocks, and the time on both my mobile phones and my Blackberry, but this is not beyond their wit. If they are able to crash an entire email system when I'm at my utmost busiest, then surely a bit of time-tomfoolery is not much of a challenge for them.
Anyway, I cleared all of my email, made a to-do list, renewed my home insurance (oh, the glamour) and at 10.21, announced to the team, "Right, that's enough work for 2008. See you next year. Have a good Christmas."
I've been working for nearly ten years. Surely I deserve a (fully-paid) year off?
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