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Monday, March 31, 2008

Working mum

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a working mother is generally shat upon by her employer.

If a father would like to take an afternoon off to see his daughter's sports' day, everyone in the office goes, "Ahh." If a mum wants to do exactly the same thing, some people question her commitment to her job.

I don't have kids. I work fairly regular hours (with the occasional silly blip) and even so have not yet managed to fix the taps in my bathroom for over three months. There just isn't enough time in the day to organise and stay in for a plumber. So how you would manage to run a house, hold down a full-time job and raise infants is a fact that utterly boggles my tiny little brain.

So I have a genius plan. Whenever I move to my next job, I am going to tell people I have children. And then I am going to do exactly the same job that I always do - same hours, same quality... Except people should be really, really impressed at my level of commitment: how does she do it all? Did you know she's got five children?

Also, whenever I fancy a day off, I could just phone in and tell them that Tracey and Stacey (the twins) have got flu. Or there's a parents' evening. Or a sports' day. I don't think it's illegal to invent children, and you very rarely see them in the office, so I don't reckon I'd have to prove I had them. If I did, I'm sure I could borrow a friend's sprogs for the day. They'd probably be glad to offload for a few hours. I could even put their photos on my desk.

I would have to work them into my weekend anecdotes sometimes. "Ooh, this weekend was a nightmare. Little Trish got a penny stuck up her nose," I might say.

"I thought she was called Tracey?" a colleague might ask.

"Mind your own fucking business," I would say, before apologising. "Sorry. I'm just very stressed at the moment. I do have five children, all under the age of three."

And people would be so impressed at the fact I still managed to turn up at 8.30 and not leave until the end of the day. I'd probably get promoted. Genius.

Sunday, March 30, 2008

Leap of faith

Mr Nunn said, "Don't blog about that. You'll sound stupid."

This has never yet deterred me.

So here's what I don't understand. Leap years. Of course, I understand leap years, insomuch as once every fourth year we get a 29th February. An extra day (for which I am unpaid, let me add...). This is apparently because the earth takes very slightly more than 365 days each year to travel round the sun. It takes 365 and a quarter to be precise. So once every four years, we add up all the quarters and all is square.

I understand that much.

What I don't understand is this: if we're getting a quarter of a day out each year, why by the third year isn't it bright sunshine during the night and dark during mid-morning? Surely if we're a quarter of a day out each year, by year three we should be a full eighteen hours out of whack.

Mr Nunn tried to explain this but couldn't. I asked Mrs Nunn. She said, "I don't understand it either. But you know what? I don't care."

Things are simple in Mrs Nunn's world.

I have decided that I am not sure I believe that the earth goes round the sun. At all. I also don't believe in hummingbirds.

Saturday, March 29, 2008

Belief system

So, on Facebook, a friend made a genius suggestion about what I could give up next year for Lent. She suggested giving up atheism. I think this is a very good idea indeed. But to maximise the potential, I need to have a different creed each week. I really like the idea of embracing Islam for Lent. Well, maybe not Islam, if as and when I decide not to be Muslim anymore I might get stoned to death. Perhaps I'll save that one for last.

So suggestions of religions to practise / gods to believe in for next Lent please. I have already had a request for Baha'i. The only thing I really know about Baha'i is that you're not allowed to drink alcohol, so I figure I'm halfway there already.

I'm not sure how to judge which religion wins... I have to say I'm quite a big fan of religions with good songs. Hence Christianity is actually getting a fair few points for this one (minus the churches that don't believe in singing, and those who think "One more step along the world I go" is an example of "music"). I don't know many songs from other religions, other than a couple of Hannukah songs (OK, one).

Also the food you get is going to be important. I'm not a big fan of the communion thing - transubstantiation or no. Wine and a cracker = boring. Body and blood = a bit yuck. I don't know if other religious services involve food. I don't like curry or peas, but I can't think of any religions off the top of my head that involve curry - or indeed peas - as a staple part of their weekly service.

I know that Jewish weddings involve breaking a glass - that sounds fun. But I don't know if you get to do it every week.

Praying to the East five times a day is going to be difficult because of my rather rubbish sense of direction. I've also always wondered what you do if you live to the East of Mecca. Do you pray West? These things worry me.

Anyway, by Easter Day next year I should either have a new religion, or enjoying my return to atheism.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

Wheely good

Praise the Lord (or other religious figurehead of your choice)! For unto me, hubcaps have been delivered! Hallelujah!

The entire process took roughly a month, which I guess is probably some sort of astonishingly good record. I'm planning on contacting the Guinness Book later today.

In the meantime, the local chavs are probably viewing my car as the local Corsa hubcap factory.

Great.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

School daze

Today I was doing some training with the Prince's Trust (I do a lot of work for charity, but I don't like to talk about it etc. etc.).

One of the things we were asked to do is to think about our secondary school experience - both the positive and the negative, and then consider how that might engage or disengage a young person who might have learning difficulties, problems at home, an unstable lifestyle and so on.

So everyone was sharing their school experiences, and most of the people in the group were a good 10-15 years older than me. And suddenly I realised something: I went to school in the 1950s. Not literally of course, but whilst the other delegates were talking about smoking behind the toilet block, and bunking off during cross country, I told everyone how we had Flower Monitresses, whose role it was to ensure fresh flowers were in the classroom each week, by way of a Flower Rota. A Door Monitress would stand outside each classroom and open the door for the teacher at the start of a lesson. We would stand up when a teacher entered the room. The Window Monitress would ensure all windows were closed at the end of the day, and the Blackboard Monitress would clear the board at the end of each lesson.

Cookery baskets were compulsory, and you lost marks for forgetting your garnish.

Not having your socks pulled up was probably the most serious crime that anyone got into trouble for, although rumours spread about a girl in the year below who was suspended for a week for smoking on school property.

It was a day school, so not totally Malory Towers, but I have to admit that I think it's unlikely that the young people with whom the Prince's Trust work have ever been Flower Monitors, and perhaps I should keep that information to myself, unless I want (and deserve) severe beatings.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Holy communion

I sometimes give something up for Lent. Not for religious reasons because I don't believe in getting into arguments about whose imaginary friend is better, but forty days and forty nights is a good length of time to try living without something to see if you miss it... and also has a clearly defined stop date for starting again. Unlike New Year's Resolutions.

So this year, I decided to give something up for Lent. And, as a teetotaler... I decided to give up not drinking.

Except I kept forgetting to drink, or kept offering to drive. My wildest excess involved three vodka and cokes (singles) in one night. I had two glasses of wine one evening. Other than that, it was pretty uneventful. Which doesn't make a great Plog, but shows how I really don't miss alcohol that much. I did manage to avoid hangovers, which was great... but actually, through not drinking, I pretty much avoid hangovers anyway.

I like the idea of giving up something you don't do for Lent, but am a bit scuppered as to next year. I don't really want to give up not smoking, or not injecting heroin between my toes. So if you've got any suggestions for something I can give up not doing, that would be much appreciated.

Monday, March 24, 2008

Estival

It has been a long time since I Plogged. And for that I apologise. But things have been very busy in the world of Laura. Very busy indeed. I have done some, possibly all, or maybe none of the following:

  • Been to a wedding
  • Bought a Wii and hurt my arms
  • Been beaten at every single sport on the Wii by TheBloke (TM). Until we get a second pair of nunchucks, that is, then boxing victory will be mine.
  • Been to a strip club
  • Visited the parents
  • Seen snow - two days in a row
  • Been appointed Chief of the Universe

OK, not all of that is true, but a lot of it is. And so I am tired. And busy. And my arms hurt too much to keep typing. I hope you have had a joyous Easter.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Doctor, doctor

Those of you who know me personally will know that when I'm nervous, I tend to make jokes. This is fine when you're working as a stand-up comic; it's not so great when you have an appointment with your gynecologist. Parents, you may wish to look away now.

Now before anyone starts worrying, no there's nothing at all wrong. Just a standard doctory appointment thing. I won't gross you out with the details.

I decided it was my job to put my doctor at ease. "The first smear test I had," I told her (and thankfully it was a her, or I would probably be on some sex offenders list by now), "I turned up in high heels, and once I'd spread my legs, I felt like a porn star."

Thankfully she laughed. Albeit slightly nervously.

"Right," said the doctor, "if you remove your underwear, we can get started."

"I think I've seen a dodgy film that starts like this," I quipped. Luckily she laughed again. And edged away slightly.

There's no pleasant way to put the next part, so squeamish Ploggers may want to look away and think about kittens instead.

So there the doctor was, with her fingers... erm... inserted, and she said to me (and this is true), "How does that feel for you?"

I couldn't help it. I laughed a lot. Again, luckily so did she. I actually couldn't stop laughing. Neither could she. Though she was still... erm... inserted. She laughed, "Let me take my fingers out, and I'll ask you again! How does that feel?"

This was the point I absolutely definitely shouldn't have said:

"I think I liked it better with the fingers."

Joking when nervous in front of medical professionals is sadly a Nunn family trait. I would love to share the story of Mr Nunn and the nurse (no, that isn't a film available in your local hardcore store... yet) that nearly got him banned from the local doctors' practice, but sadly it's not my story to tell.

Anyway, if anyone knows a new surgery in Bethnal Green, I'm on the lookout for recommendations.

Monday, March 17, 2008

Poitrine

Our next Book Club book is Proust's In Search of Lost Time or, to be all French about it, À la recherche du temps perdu. As a keen - and somewhat longwinded diarist myself (I think I have about 120 full diaries at last count), I've kind of always meant to read Proust, but never quite got round to it.

So Book Club is going properly intellectual on me. Far gone are the days of The DaVinci Code and The Time Traveler's Wife. Last read was a God-awful J M Coetzee novel... we seem to have gone terribly "worthy". Maybe I should nominate some Shakespeare and get my own back. Though I think the ultimate has already been achieved when we had to read Kafka's The Trial. Jesus Christ, I think I would rather gouge out my eyes with a dirty teaspoon than read anything by him ever again.

Last Book Club was memorable as a (male) Book Club member accused me of talking about breasts a lot. I don't. He said I did, and referenced the fact that I'd previously said my own breasts were much larger than Keira Knightley's breasts, and that I was quite obsessed by how she had no tits at all. This is disturbing:

a) I have no memory of this conversation
b) This is not really an appropriate topic of conversation for a work-based Book Club
c) It is true that I do get obsessed by Keira Knightley's (lack of ) breasts, so seems a feasible comment. Chances are I did actually say this.

I don't know if Proust will have tits or not. The novel, that is, not the author. I doubt he had man boobs, but you never know. Perhaps he covers this in his later work. I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, I shall try to refrain from referencing breasts at any further book clubs.

Sunday, March 16, 2008

There's a little ditty they're singing in the city...

I pretended I was being considerate in inviting TheBloke (TM) over after the rugby had finished. I pitched it as if I was doing him a favour. I didn't mention it was because I wanted to watch I'd Do Anything by myself. For my international readers, this is the first in a new TV series where Graham Norton, Andrew Lloyd-Webber and others audition the public at large for a leading role in a new production of Oliver! Previous series have already had successes with The Sound of Music and Joseph. And this time they're casting three Olivers and a Nancy.

Oliver! is one of my favourite musicals; I even named a bunny rabbit after the show when I was ten. I begged my mum to buy me the sheet music when I was seven and barely able to hammer out the melody line of Where is Love? I can still play a mean Food Glorious Food, given the three Ps - piano, privacy and practice. I digress, but I do love the musical, and Nancy is a fab part for an alto. Also I remain totally fascinated by how much Andrew Lloyd-Webber resembles my high school's headmistress. I'm digressing again.

Unfortunately TheBloke (TM) was a few minutes early, and - having paused the Sky+ for some reason or other, I was a few minutes behind live TV... So essentially he arrived before I'd finished watching it. I tried to turn it off, but he insisted I should watch the last ten minutes.

"Do you promise not to make sarcastic comments?" I asked.

"Have you been crying at the television?" he asked back at me.

"Shut up," I said, thus winning the argument.

All in all, it was not a brilliant idea. TheBloke (TM) made a sarcastic comment approximately every 0.2 seconds, topping it all with: "Shock horror - Graham Norton on the lookout for Nancies."

Saturday, March 15, 2008

Sun, sea and sheer embarrassment

I am frightened. Genuinely and thoroughly terrified.

"What is it, Laura?" you might ask, because you are a concerned and generous Plogger. "What fills your soul with the utmost of utmosty dread?"

"Well," I would reply, "It's like this..." And I would continue until you too are pallid and shaking at the thought of what is to come.

Mr and Mrs Nunn are enjoying a well-deserved holiday in Tunisia. I have been to Tunisia. It is nice. I particularly liked the mountains providing a pretty backdrop and the sea being green and clear. I also liked the children's disco at the hotel we were staying at. Yes, I was 19. This is beside the point. I am not frightened of Mr and Mrs Nunn experiencing either mountains or a children's disco. That would be ludicrous.

A little while back, I was chatting to Nice Kate, who has just booked herself a well-deserved holiday... in Tunisia. The same week my parents are there. "Oh Laura," you might say. "You needn't worry. Tunisia is a big old country. There's no chance of them bumping into each other."

"Well," I would say. "Turns out they're staying at the same resort."

"Even so," you would continue, pacifyingly. "Your parents have never met Nice Kate. Even if they do bump into each other, they'll never recognise each other."

This is the point I would shake my head gravely. "They have swapped mobile numbers. There are vague plans to meet."

You would look a bit scared, but would say, "Well, how bad could that be? Nice Kate is - well - nice. And it might be lovely for her to meet your parents."

I would look at the floor and take a deep breath. "The last time Mrs Nunn met a colleague it ended with the immortal phrase, 'And anyway, I told your father, I'm not sleeping with any man who wears a mask to bed.'"

"Ah," you would say. "I see."

And slowly but surely the horror would sink in. This time I'm not even going to be there to supervise.

Friday, March 14, 2008

School Belle

So I've got a school reunion coming up. And I've kind of said I'll go. And I kind of want to go. But only in the way that you can't really stop yourself from looking when you see the motorway in front of you closed and an upside-down Mini on the hard shoulder.

Also, I'm on holiday until literally about five hours before, landing at Heathrow early afternoon before the event is due to take place in the evening in Loughborough. So rather than glamorous and gorgeous, I'm likely to be jetlagged and arsey. Still, "Sorry I'm late - I just got back from Canada," sounds OK.

A couple of my close friends are going (though Katy Who Smells of Wee has apparently said she'd rather slit her throat with a rusty toenail, or words to that effect, and Selfish Hazel says she can't really make the trip back from New Zealand just for one evening. Lazy. I'm coming all the way from Canada, after all.). I am glad I have some friends coming, because events like these always bring out the sarcasm in me. And let's be honest, sarcasm is never very far away from me. It's nice to be able to share the sarcasm.

Most people at school were lovely, and it will be interesting to see how we've all grown up - or otherwise. There were just one or two... "Annabelles". The type who (probably through insecurity) just can't resist telling you how much better their life is than yours. There's one particularly irritating Annabelle, who I think I've mentioned before, who updates her Facebook status practically hourly with messages such as, "Annabelle is shocked at the cost of insuring her Rolls Royce", "Annabelle is deciding whether to spend the weekend at her country mansion or to take the helicopter to Monte Carlo" or "Annabelle is realising she really can have it all".

I can always smile though, remembering the moment in Maths where she called our teacher "Dad".

Maybe he was. That would explain a lot.

So, flight-dependent, I am planning on attending the reunion. The worst part is I won't easily be able to Plog about the ins and outs, as my Plog is linked to my Facebook page and lots of school chums can read. I don't think for a moment Annabelle has enough self-awareness to realise she's Annabelle but you never know. Someone might point it out to her. She might set her butler on me.

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Statistically speaking

Number of new hubcaps to date: 0.

Likelihood of total number of hubcaps increasing over the next few days: exactly as likely as King Henry VIII coming over for dinner on Tuesday.

Chances that new hubcaps will be stolen fairly soon after they arrive: very likely (if the hubcaps ever turn up in the first place).

Number of bewildering conversations with the garage when I try and convince them I have a Corsa Club 3-door 1.2 in silver, and they insist that it's a Corsa Expression 5-door 1.0 in green: 6.

Number of times I've had to measure my own tyres: 2

Likelihood of nervous breakdown prior to hubcap arrival: wibble wibble lobster.

Synonym for hubcap: wheel trim. This has made my life easier. A bit. But not much. See above.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

I scream

Americans! Take note.

When you do not care one way or the other, the phrase you are searching for is, "I couldn't care less about..." Let's use a worked example. You're not fond of ice-cream and you don't want to go to your friend's house. Your friend says that if you come over to her house, you can have ice-cream. Your reply should be, "I couldn't care less about ice-cream." In this instance, as in every instance, "couldn't" is a contraction of "could not". This means - roughly translated - "I could not care less about ice-cream." It is physically impossible to care less about ice-cream. You don't care at all.

Americans, you always seem to say, "I could care less about ice-cream". Whilst this may be symbolic of an over-fed, over-sugared nation, if you genuinely care not for our creamy, icy friend, you are unfortunately substanially grammatically weak. Your phrase, "I could care less about ice-cream" means, "I do care about ice-cream enough to be able to care less about it. Ergo, it is possible for me to care less about ice-cream, therefore I don't dislike ice-cream all that much."

This makes no sense. Go away and think about what you've done. And next time, don't be so rude to your friend who was inviting you over. She might have had chocolate too.

Monday, March 10, 2008

Job opportunity

I was thinking today that I'd quite like to be the office pervert. We don't have one at the moment (or if we do, he's steering clear of me). And in this age of equal opportunities, I'd very much like to see a female office pervert appointed.

I'd be great at it. I'd hang round the kitchen, waiting for the chaps to reach down to the fridge for milk, and saying things like, "Phwoar, look at the arse on that. Milk? I'll give you some milk, darling." (Admittedly, this particular line works better if a man delivers it, and has rather different connotations coming from a woman, but I can work on that.)

As far as I am aware, the company I work for has never had a female office pervert. Wake up guys, it's the 21st century. Time for equality. Admittedly the role itself is often a short-lived one - quite a high turnover, which is something to do with HR policies. But I look forward to making the role my own.

And as men outnumber women about two to one where I work, there's plenty of fodder for me to perve over and make inappropriate comments to. I could even start "accidentally" rubbing up against them in the lift.

Might make the days go quicker.

Sunday, March 09, 2008

Deep breaths

Last week I was on a course, studying Neuro-Linguistic Programming (NLP). TheBloke (TM) has a small-ish brain and despite being told eight or nine times, was totally unable to remember the fact. One of his colleagues asked the name of the course I was doing. He couldn't remember, panicked and replied, "Anger management."

Anger management?

I was fucking furious.

Luckily, TheBloke (TM) is South African, so no-one can understand anything he says anyway. We assume he's just saying, "I hate black people" over and over. That's probably it.

Fucking anger management.

Friday, March 07, 2008

Can cook, will cook

Last night saw the monthly gathering of the girls, for one of our joyous dinners. I've always loved our get-togethers of Boothie, Cookie, Ms N and myself. We would always take it in turn to choose a nice restaurant, sample some great food, have great conversation, a lot of laughs, Cookie would always sexually harrass a waiter and then we'd head home.

Until one fateful day last October when Cookie said, "Tell you what girls, I'll cook for you next time. I'll do a proper Jamaican dinner."

"Oooh, lovely," said everyone. And it was.

Then Ms N invited us to her house next for dinner, and cooked some fantastic cous-cous, and we talked about life, love, and - in this particular case - poppers.

You see Boothie lives a long way away, so it wasn't feasible to go to hers. There was only one thing to be done. With reluctance I took a deep breath and said, "So, would you like to come to mine next time?" Why was I reluctant? Well, I don't cook a lot. And the last time I made food for Cookie, she insulted it, said she couldn't believe I didn't keep salt in the house, and told everyone I couldn't cook. I prefer the term "choose not to cook".

So it was not without a certain amount of trepidation I invited the girls over last night. But a lovely time was had by all. The chicken and mushroom risotto I cooked turned out pretty well, and my homemade chocolate orange truffles were a hit. I made sure there was a salt cellar in front of Cookie's place. Boothie said she had a cold and couldn't taste anything (and seemed worryingly a little bit grateful for that). Ms N was very complimentary.

Before we knew it, it was late late late, and as their cabs pulled up to take them off into the night, I went outdoors and measured my sodding Corsa's wheels. Don't ask.

Wednesday, March 05, 2008

Tempting excommunication

Don't get me started on the hubcaps. We don't need to resurrect that particular branch of Laura-frustration this evening.

Speaking of resurrection, today I would like to talk about Jesus Christ who went into the wilderness for forty days and forty nights. Or, depending on who your primary school teacher was, he might have gone into the desert. Desert or wilderness. They're quite different though, aren't they? Cause a wilderness has trees and berries and stuff, but a desert just has sand and roadside bombs. Anyway, I digress.

So, copying Noah's timescales, off trots Jesus to the desertness or the wildernert. And Satan comes to tempt him. Jesus resists temptation, and, to mark this fantastic abstention on the part of our Lord, the idea is that Christians should give something up that they really, really like for the same period of time. Forty days and forty nights. Pancake Day until Easter Egg Day. This makes sense, I suppose.

But let's just stop a minute and have a think about the things Jesus was actually tempted with. On suspicion that my friend Boothie's suggestion that she thought it was wine, biscuits and Creme Eggs may not be spot on, I looked this up. Firstly, naughty Satan tempts him by telling Jesus to turn the stones into bread. Doesn't offer him bread, but suggests that Jesus turns the stones into bread. Like Jesus couldn't have thought of that himself. Not exactly temptation, I wouldn't have thought, more like a suggestion.

Secondly, naughty Satan takes Jesus to the top of a temple and tells him to throw himself off, to let God save him. Again, I don't really see the temptation in this. It's not like Jesus was wandering round the wildernert going, "Oh you know what I really fancy right now? Lobbing myself off a really tall tower. Mmmm, yeah."

And finally naughty Satan takes Jesus to the top of a mountain and says that he can have all the kingdoms if Jesus will pay homage to him. Jesus can be king of the world. Again, not really that tempting. I imagine there's a lot of paperwork involved in being king of the world. Despite which, he was already King of the Jews, and everyone knows they have the best schools anyway.

So what I'm essentially saying is that I am better than Jesus every single day because I have never turned stones into bread, chucked myself off a building or been king of the world - and, unlike Jesus - who we all know was "tempted" by Satan, I've never even wanted to do those things. Also, if these things really tempted Jesus, as the Bible tells us they do, I think perhaps he could have done with some cognitive behavioural therapy. Perhaps he has father issues.

Tuesday, March 04, 2008

Corsaga

The hubcap saga continues. The Geordie at the call centre promised that one of two garages would call me within the next couple of hours to arrange collection of the car (I assume he imagined that such a serious problem as missing hubcaps would definitely require a towtruck). One of the garages was in Loughton (which he pronounced "Luffton") and the other was in Woolwich (which he pronounced, well "Wool-wich").

Neither Luffton nor Wool-wich have been in touch with me. I imagine this is because there are furious ongoing conversations with Vauxhall.

"Hello Vauxhall? This is the Loughton garage. We've got a Corsa due to come in with missing hubcaps, and none of my staff have a bloody clue what they are. You've never heard of them either? Can I spell it? Sure, I think it's spelt h-u-b-b-c-a-p-p-s. We've got as much information from the driver as possible, but I'm afraid it's a woman and they don't know anything about cars. I'm fairly sure my mate used to own a Rover with hubcaps. I think it's something to do with the radiator. The driver said it was something to do with the wheels, but you know what women are like! You'll get back to me? Great. Thanks."

In the meantime, the Woolwich garage is also phoning Vauxhall.

"Hello, Vauxhall? Have you ever heard of hubcaps? No this isn't a prank call. No, it's not like asking an apprentice builder for a glass hammer. Apparently they're real things. Go on a Corsa. No? We've never heard of them either."

No wonder mine were stolen - it appears they're rather difficult to get hold of.

Monday, March 03, 2008

The wheels on the car go round and round

So I called the insurance people today about the hubcaps. The car is a company car, so everything has to go through them. If it was my personal car, I probably wouldn't bother, as it's just cosmetic, but I thought I ought to go through the proper channels. First stop was a call centre in Rotherham.

"Hello?"

"Hello, my name's Laura Nunn. I have a Corsa through the company car scheme." I gave them my registration number. "My hubcaps have been stolen."

(Best South Yorkshire accent please) "Eeh, the cheeky buggers. I'll just put you through to the right department."

I was transferred to a call centre - going by accent alone - somewhere near Newcastle.

"Hello. My name's Laura Nunn. I'm calling to report my hubcaps stolen."

(Please put on your best Geordie accent whilst imagining the next line. I can't do the Geordie accent, so you're going to have to imagine it quite hard): "Your hubcaps?"

"Yes, that's right," I confirmed.

"Can you explain to me what hubcaps are?" asked the Geordie.

I was genuinely floored. I had called a car insurance company - and the staff had never heard of hubcaps.

"Erm," I said, "they go on the wheel."

"So they've taken your wheels then?" said the Geordie.

"No - not the wheel, the hubcap."

"But what's a hubcap?"

"I can't think of a synonym!"

"What's a synonym?"

Progress was slow with the Geordie. Eventually I tried, "Imagine a car... You know the wheels? Well, it's the silver bit in the middle of the wheel."

"Oooh," said the Geordie. "Like a mudflap, like?"

"No," I said. "Like a hubcap. In the middle of the wheel."

"I'll ger and get my supervisor," said the Geordie.

Hubcaps and I are not great friends.

Sunday, March 02, 2008

Balls up

TheBloke (TM) accused me of catching with crocodile hands. He is basing this on one incident, many months ago. Actually, out of the many, many sporting things I do extremely badly, I'm not that terrible at catching. Someone at work even said once, "You don't catch badly - for a girl." I took that as praise.

Though TheBloke (TM) is convinced I catch with crocodile hands.

He was trying to prove to me earlier that I don't catch well. This was complicated by the fact I was lying down at the time and he was lobbing a tennis ball at me. It's very hard to catch a ball when you're lying down. I fumbled it. I dropped it. Twice. TheBloke (TM) laughed. I tried to explain to him that it was the angle that was making things difficult for me. The ball was coming straight towards me, whilst I was lying down. Which was apparently when I uttered the now infamous line:

"The gravity was going in the wrong direction."

I wonder how long before the English cricket team starts using that excuse.

Saturday, March 01, 2008

Cap it all

I have been on a course for seven days. Think about that. Seven whole days. It started last Sunday (Sunday!) and finished this afternoon (Saturday!). Weekends! Course! Look how hard I work!

Now you're feeling suitably sorry for me, I would like to point out that actually it was a course I really wanted to do, that the company paid for it, and I'm also taking Monday off work as annual leave. So you can stop feeling quite so sorry for me now.

Whilst the decorating has been eminently successful (apart from my usual paint-related headache), in my absence, some Bethnal Green urchin has stolen my hubcaps. Well, the hubcaps from my car. Not my own personal hubcaps. I don't have hubcaps. I did have to check that this didn't mean the wheels would fall off. Car design isn't my strong point. Which is OK actually because I'm not a car designer. Yet.

I already have hubcap-related antipathy; when I was about 15 my friend Jennie got her first car. (She's a few years older than me, not just a joyrider who fancied a Nissan Micra.) The Nissan Micra, I'm sure Jennie won't mind me saying, was a little bit shit. Still, she loved it, and that was the most important thing. She loved it so much that my Dad spent a whole summer helping her to "pimp her ride" - spray painting bits of it, knocking out the occasional dent, and - vitally - fitting alloy hubcaps, which apparently made all the difference.

They did make all the difference. Because they didn't actually fit properly. And every so often, driving along with the wind in our hair and the sun in our faces, one of Jennie's alloy hubcaps would fly off at 60 miles per hour on the dual carriageway... and she'd pull over and ask me to retrieve it from any given ditch... or sometimes the middle of the road. It was exciting to have a friend with wheels, but it has to be said that these particular wheels were a quite a lot shit. So hubcaps and I are not great friends.

Anyway, mine are gone now, so I shouldn't have that problem in the future. Phew.