Ploggers, I don't understand you. I dangle ominous slapping noises from my parents' bathroom in front of you, and you want to know about padkos (Google it) and rollercoasters? I despair, and, in this case, ignore your editorial input.
Sorry.
Several weeks ago I did a course in Neuro-Linguisting Programming, and we learned of a strange habit that a one of the tutor's previous clients had adopted. At 11 p.m. every night, he would slap himself vigorously until 11.03. They solved this by hypnotising him not to recognise 11.00 on the clock. I worry about how this may have impacted on his life when he had to attend meetings.
That is kind of an aside, but also potentially relevant.
So, Sunday morning at Mr and Mrs Nunn's house. It's a full house. There's Mr and Mrs Nunn, TheBloke (TM), Jack and Jack's girlfriend. We are at full capacity. It's about 8 a.m. TheBloke (TM) and I have already woken up, but are doing that Sunday morning dozing thing where you almost drift back off to sleep, then wake up again, then doze again.
Then, through the dozy fog we hear a door open. I wasn't sure which door it was, but it sounded like it might have been the door of Jack's girlfriend's room. We heard someone go into the bathroom and lock the door. All normal so far.
Then we heard six rapid slaps. One after the other. Then the bathroom door unlocked, and whoever had been in there went back to their room.
TheBloke (TM) and I simultaneously burst out laughing. Why on earth would you go into a bathroom, lock the door, slap yourself a few times and then come out again? Thing is, I don't really know Jack's girlfriend all that well. She seems nice and normal and everything, but you never really know, and - let's be honest - she is dating Jack, so chances are something is wrong somewhere.
I didn't want to bring it up in front of her. Curiosity ate away at me for the rest of the morning, until one point where just Jack, Mrs Nunn and me were in the room together.
Tentatively I said, "Did anyone else hear someone go into the bathroom this morning and slap themselves a few times?" I'll be honest, you can't really say something like that all that tentatively.
"Yes, that was me," said Mrs Nunn, matter-of-factly.
"You went into the bathroom and slapped yourself?" I asked. Mrs Nunn is eccentric certainly, but clearly this was reaching new levels of loopy-dom.
"No," clarified Mrs Nunn. "I went into the bathroom to get a tissue, and saw a nasty magpie trying to attack the baby blackbirds, so I scared it off by clapping."
Obviously. This is classed as normal behaviour in the Nunn household. For most people, obsessive compulsive slapping disorder might be slightly less unusual.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Freak show
Embarrassing Bodies on Channel 4. Yes, I admit I'm bored this evening. I planned to be bored, as it was such a hectic weekend, but I'm already pretty much caught up on my Sky+ so thought I'd give regular TV a try.
The premise of Embarrassing Bodies is that people who have something a bit icky wrong with their bodies go and talk to a TV doctor who gives advice. I imagine the pitch was somewhere between "We're helping people seek medical advice" and "Ooh, look at the freaks".
There are some people with genuinely embarrassing problems. One woman had a tail growing out of her anus. Another had enough skin round her lady parts to knit a toy ferret. Assuming you could knit ferrets using lady-part skin. Let's assume for the purpose of this Plog that you can.
These people were "too embarrassed" to go to their doctor with the problem. Whilst not a sufferer of doctor nerves myself (please see gynaecologist Plog), I do appreciate it's a problem for a lot of people. That's fine. What I don't understand is if they're too scared to see their usual GP with a problem, why it is that as soon as there's a boom mike and a film crew with an HD camera, they couldn't be keener to drop their trousers and show us their scabby arse or big old flappy vagina.
Lucky old us. Nowt so queer as folk.
The premise of Embarrassing Bodies is that people who have something a bit icky wrong with their bodies go and talk to a TV doctor who gives advice. I imagine the pitch was somewhere between "We're helping people seek medical advice" and "Ooh, look at the freaks".
There are some people with genuinely embarrassing problems. One woman had a tail growing out of her anus. Another had enough skin round her lady parts to knit a toy ferret. Assuming you could knit ferrets using lady-part skin. Let's assume for the purpose of this Plog that you can.
These people were "too embarrassed" to go to their doctor with the problem. Whilst not a sufferer of doctor nerves myself (please see gynaecologist Plog), I do appreciate it's a problem for a lot of people. That's fine. What I don't understand is if they're too scared to see their usual GP with a problem, why it is that as soon as there's a boom mike and a film crew with an HD camera, they couldn't be keener to drop their trousers and show us their scabby arse or big old flappy vagina.
Lucky old us. Nowt so queer as folk.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Tyred
Too tired to type straight. In fact, so tired, I almost spelled it "tyred". And almost spelled "almost" "moalmst".
It has been a lovely weekend, filled to the brim of exciting and joyous things. It involved:
It has been a lovely weekend, filled to the brim of exciting and joyous things. It involved:
- Padkos
- Family
- Champagne
- Wii
- Big scary rollercoasters (I was exceptionally brave. Well, mostly.)
- A girl in the shortest skirt I have ever seen
- Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
- Sunburn
- Kite flying
- A kite-eating thorn bush
- Teasing my brother about handbrakes
- Ominous slapping noises from my parents' bathroom at 8 a.m.
- More padkos
However, I am too tired now to talk about any of it. If any of the above particularly interests you, let me know and I may Plog about it at a future date. But right now, I am off to bed. Bonne nuit.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Traff-oriffic
I got a cab from London Bridge station home this evening. I was carrying lots of stuff, and the tube at rush hour didn't seem like a brilliant idea.
As I got into the cab, the driver was listening to a traffic report on the radio. Sensible enough - he was tuned into Capital FM, which gives regular update about London's traffic. Useful for a cabbie. All fine so far. The report ended. A popular music song started.
The cabbie switched radio channels. Perhaps he didn't like the work of the artiste exhibited. That's fair enough - his prerogative. He tuned into another radio station playing a traffic report. This time it was Radio 2. Fair enough. We listened to the national radio traffic report, and I learned there was a queue at Junction 23 on the M1. This is near my parents. I was interested enough, but not that interested. It's about 130 miles away, and I didn't think it would impact on Cambridge Heath Road.
Radio 2 started playing a song. The cabbie switched radio channels again - to yet another traffic report. It was at this point I realised. The driver was actually addicted to traffic reports, just like I am to Cadbury's Creme Eggs. As soon as one would finish, he'd start another - a chain traffic report user. Seemingly uncaring whether the report was for Kent or Newcastle, he'd flit between stations, desperate for his next hit.
I bet he's so much fun at home.
"How was your evening, darling?"
"Well, London traffic was same old, same old, but there was a terrible snarl up on the B359 near Worcester."
"Gosh darling, did you have a fare that took you all the way to Worcester?"
"Well, no. But according to Sally Traffic, the tailbacks were the worst since last Thursday's Pocklington roundabout fiasco."
"Darling, you've never been to Pocklington, have you?"
"No."
"Darling?"
"Yes?"
"Shut up."
As I got into the cab, the driver was listening to a traffic report on the radio. Sensible enough - he was tuned into Capital FM, which gives regular update about London's traffic. Useful for a cabbie. All fine so far. The report ended. A popular music song started.
The cabbie switched radio channels. Perhaps he didn't like the work of the artiste exhibited. That's fair enough - his prerogative. He tuned into another radio station playing a traffic report. This time it was Radio 2. Fair enough. We listened to the national radio traffic report, and I learned there was a queue at Junction 23 on the M1. This is near my parents. I was interested enough, but not that interested. It's about 130 miles away, and I didn't think it would impact on Cambridge Heath Road.
Radio 2 started playing a song. The cabbie switched radio channels again - to yet another traffic report. It was at this point I realised. The driver was actually addicted to traffic reports, just like I am to Cadbury's Creme Eggs. As soon as one would finish, he'd start another - a chain traffic report user. Seemingly uncaring whether the report was for Kent or Newcastle, he'd flit between stations, desperate for his next hit.
I bet he's so much fun at home.
"How was your evening, darling?"
"Well, London traffic was same old, same old, but there was a terrible snarl up on the B359 near Worcester."
"Gosh darling, did you have a fare that took you all the way to Worcester?"
"Well, no. But according to Sally Traffic, the tailbacks were the worst since last Thursday's Pocklington roundabout fiasco."
"Darling, you've never been to Pocklington, have you?"
"No."
"Darling?"
"Yes?"
"Shut up."
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Mad as a tree
I had another plumber come and look at my boiler today. He too has decided it's the ignition. He too left my flat without fixing said ignition.
I want to be a plumber. It's the only job I know where you can earn £100k per year for essentially using three phrases:
I want to be a plumber. It's the only job I know where you can earn £100k per year for essentially using three phrases:
- There's nothing I can do love, it wasn't installed right.
- They didn't make many of those because they're always breaking down.
- (Intake of breath through pursed lips) It's not going to come cheap.
As far as I can tell, not a single plumber in the whole world has ever done any work. If I could be absolutely certain of this, I'd take up the mantle. But, as it happens, I don't like touching anything yucky, so perhaps plumbing isn't the ideal career after all.
In other news, I spent most of yesterday evening crawling round my living room floor, trying to fix the wireless Internet that I broke by messing round with the settings when trying to connect the Wii. After an hour-long conversation with my ISP helpline, at least an hour and a half on the phone to Mr Nunn, and a lot more swearing and crawling, I finally fixed it. Who'd have thought that typing in the correct password, without missing out a letter, would be so helpful?
Also I appear to be a human wasp magnet. Should anyone need any wasps, please contact me at the usual address and I shall fulfill your wasp requirements at a hard-to-beat cost.
I worry I might be going mad. Perhaps it's syphilis.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Game for a laugh
TheBloke (TM) bought a new Xbox today. I was allowed a go on Halo. I'm not really sure what it's about, but I think it involved aliens. A woman's voice instructed me that I'd been chosen for my strength and stamina. I wondered if she'd got the right person. I put the game on the easiest setting and marched purposefully into the jungle with my platoon.
For about two seconds.
Then I got lost. I was separated from the platoon within about a second and a half, and spent the next thirty seconds looking confusedly at the floor, whilst TheBloke (TM) gave helpful instructions such as, "Look up! Go left! Mind the rock!" It was just like my sat nav all over again.
A few minutes later I fell into a pond and drowned. The enemy hadn't even shown up at this point. I fear I may not be much help to mankind when the alien revolution comes. But if you do want me, I'll either be walking into a rock or drowning rubbishly in a pond.
TheBloke (TM) on the other hand, shot a member of his own platoon in the head. On purpose. The US Army are looking to recruit him any day.
For about two seconds.
Then I got lost. I was separated from the platoon within about a second and a half, and spent the next thirty seconds looking confusedly at the floor, whilst TheBloke (TM) gave helpful instructions such as, "Look up! Go left! Mind the rock!" It was just like my sat nav all over again.
A few minutes later I fell into a pond and drowned. The enemy hadn't even shown up at this point. I fear I may not be much help to mankind when the alien revolution comes. But if you do want me, I'll either be walking into a rock or drowning rubbishly in a pond.
TheBloke (TM) on the other hand, shot a member of his own platoon in the head. On purpose. The US Army are looking to recruit him any day.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Busy body
This has been a Very Busy Week. It feels like it should be Friday. In fact, it feels like it should be next Friday. That is how busy my week has been.
On Monday I was in Edinburgh (yes, OK, perhaps I am never in the office. Get over it.). It was a fun day - but long, as I was up at 4.30 for an early flight, didn't get home until 9 p.m., and then had to sort out some work files. Still, I got to see Nice Kate and remind her that even if my parents did like her when they met her, no-one else does.
Mr and Mrs Nunn have been unbearable since getting back from holiday. To recap, they went on an all-inclusive, week-long package holiday to Tunisia. Here are some snippets of actually conversation from the parental unit:
"Oh, Mrs Nunn and I can't get used to this awful English weather. It's so different in Africa."
"We can't believe it's snowing. It's a bit of a shock to our system after Africa."
"Of course, cuturally it's very different."
No, it isn't. You were in a four star all-inclusive hotel. For a week. This does not a colonial make. (Though amusing photos of Mr Nunn have appeared on Facebook, where he does appear to be dressed as a 19th century empire builder. Bet that went down really well.)
Other things this week... I've been on a training course. I've done yet more Myers-Briggs. For anyone interested, I'm an ISTJ, and getting more and more extreme on my scores every time I do the test. Essentially this means, personality-wise and scientifically speaking, I'm better than you. ISTJs are punctual, reliable, thorough, direct, clear-cut, concise and structured. We are detailed people and hate big picture painters who can't be clear about exactly what they want. And people who are more than ten minutes late deserve to die. (See what I mean about the extreme thing?)
I was back in the office today for the first time in a week (OK, OK) and had more emails to deal with than you could shake a small ferret at.
I think I might be rambling. I am tired. It has been a busy week.
On Monday I was in Edinburgh (yes, OK, perhaps I am never in the office. Get over it.). It was a fun day - but long, as I was up at 4.30 for an early flight, didn't get home until 9 p.m., and then had to sort out some work files. Still, I got to see Nice Kate and remind her that even if my parents did like her when they met her, no-one else does.
Mr and Mrs Nunn have been unbearable since getting back from holiday. To recap, they went on an all-inclusive, week-long package holiday to Tunisia. Here are some snippets of actually conversation from the parental unit:
"Oh, Mrs Nunn and I can't get used to this awful English weather. It's so different in Africa."
"We can't believe it's snowing. It's a bit of a shock to our system after Africa."
"Of course, cuturally it's very different."
No, it isn't. You were in a four star all-inclusive hotel. For a week. This does not a colonial make. (Though amusing photos of Mr Nunn have appeared on Facebook, where he does appear to be dressed as a 19th century empire builder. Bet that went down really well.)
Other things this week... I've been on a training course. I've done yet more Myers-Briggs. For anyone interested, I'm an ISTJ, and getting more and more extreme on my scores every time I do the test. Essentially this means, personality-wise and scientifically speaking, I'm better than you. ISTJs are punctual, reliable, thorough, direct, clear-cut, concise and structured. We are detailed people and hate big picture painters who can't be clear about exactly what they want. And people who are more than ten minutes late deserve to die. (See what I mean about the extreme thing?)
I was back in the office today for the first time in a week (OK, OK) and had more emails to deal with than you could shake a small ferret at.
I think I might be rambling. I am tired. It has been a busy week.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Underground spy
Ploggers, I fear a conspiracy is afoot. Or, more precisely, a-Tube.
Today I was on a training course at The Oval (pause whilst several Ploggers take a pop at the fact I'm never in the office). I live in Bethnal Green, on the Central Line: The Oval is on the Northern Line. This should be an easy journey - Central Line to Bank, change to the Northern Line and off we pop.
Except every station on the London Underground is making the bold announcement, "There is no interchange for the Northern Line at Bank Station, due to escalator repair work." Two things struck me as fishy here. Firstly, as my high school English teacher taught me, it should be "owing to escalator repair work", but grammar quibbles aside, I was pretty certain that there is no escalator between the Central Line and the Northern Line. There is a spiral staircase. And I know it's great to talk up your achievements, but pretending a staircase is an escalator one might call excessive hyperbole.
I was early. (Pause whilst several Ploggers make sarcastic comments.) I had time to backtrack if I needed to. I thought I'd risk it. I got off at Bank and tried to interchange at the Northern Line.
I was right - it was just stairs. Not an escalator in sight. And even more interestingly (OK, "interestingly" might be pushing it), there wasn't a workman in sight, or any evidence at all of any work they might be doing. And I changed without any difficulty at all for the Northern Line. (And arrived very early.)
What is going on? What are they trying to hide? Why are they telling people (lying) that you can't change at Bank? A conspiracy is afoot.
Today I was on a training course at The Oval (pause whilst several Ploggers take a pop at the fact I'm never in the office). I live in Bethnal Green, on the Central Line: The Oval is on the Northern Line. This should be an easy journey - Central Line to Bank, change to the Northern Line and off we pop.
Except every station on the London Underground is making the bold announcement, "There is no interchange for the Northern Line at Bank Station, due to escalator repair work." Two things struck me as fishy here. Firstly, as my high school English teacher taught me, it should be "owing to escalator repair work", but grammar quibbles aside, I was pretty certain that there is no escalator between the Central Line and the Northern Line. There is a spiral staircase. And I know it's great to talk up your achievements, but pretending a staircase is an escalator one might call excessive hyperbole.
I was early. (Pause whilst several Ploggers make sarcastic comments.) I had time to backtrack if I needed to. I thought I'd risk it. I got off at Bank and tried to interchange at the Northern Line.
I was right - it was just stairs. Not an escalator in sight. And even more interestingly (OK, "interestingly" might be pushing it), there wasn't a workman in sight, or any evidence at all of any work they might be doing. And I changed without any difficulty at all for the Northern Line. (And arrived very early.)
What is going on? What are they trying to hide? Why are they telling people (lying) that you can't change at Bank? A conspiracy is afoot.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Restaurant culture
Last night - because I'm worth it - TheBloke (TM) took me to my favourite restaurant. He was looking extra-smart, and I (as usual) was gorgeous. Proper London-ites at a swanky pants restaurant.
Where we failed, perhaps, to fit in was the fit of giggles we got, daring each other to say inappropriate things. So imagine crisp linen tablecloths, designer toiletries in the washrooms, and a menu simply heaving with dishes involving "squab", "lingoustine", "millefeuille" and "fennel".
Add to that two overexcited people old enough to know better, saying a deliberately a bit too loudly, "You want me to put it WHERE?", "Has the RASH cleared up yet?", "Did you just say PENIS?" I'm guilty too. Whilst I don't join in loudly, I think I still encouraged him by laughing so much I smudged my carefully-applied mascara.
I'm not sure I'll ever be grown up enough to properly experience the London restaurant scene. At least, I hope not.
Where we failed, perhaps, to fit in was the fit of giggles we got, daring each other to say inappropriate things. So imagine crisp linen tablecloths, designer toiletries in the washrooms, and a menu simply heaving with dishes involving "squab", "lingoustine", "millefeuille" and "fennel".
Add to that two overexcited people old enough to know better, saying a deliberately a bit too loudly, "You want me to put it WHERE?", "Has the RASH cleared up yet?", "Did you just say PENIS?" I'm guilty too. Whilst I don't join in loudly, I think I still encouraged him by laughing so much I smudged my carefully-applied mascara.
I'm not sure I'll ever be grown up enough to properly experience the London restaurant scene. At least, I hope not.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Quizzical
It should have been remembered as "The Night of the Great Victory". It should have.
The Theatre Pub Quiz - bringing together two things I love perhaps more than anything else - theatre, and being right. Disaster nearly struck when it looked like I might be in Manchester and have to miss the quiz, but fate intervened, meaning I could attend after all.
Though by the time Manchester was cancelled, the team with my friends in was already full. At least that's what they told me. Even if I hadn't seen two of them before ever, and one of them looked suspiciously like a bag lady. These things happen.
So I was "assigned" a team. We shall come back to the "team" later.
This pub quiz was a dream. The questions were almost all literature and the arts. There were no sports questions or facetious entire rounds on James Bond's cars (still angry about that one). Rounds entitled "Period Drama", "Brush up your Shakespeare" and "Musicals" had me literally jittering in my seat with excitement. I introduced myself to my team. I warned them I could get a bit competitive and nasty at pub quizzes. They giggled politely.
The first round was brilliant - recognising musicals from their album covers. I'll come out and say it, I'm great. I got (sorry, "we" got) all sixteen albums correct, including some rather tricky ones like Sondheim's Into the Woods. Go me! (I mean "us".)
Then it all went downhill and becomes a bit of a blur.
Some flashes of things I may have said during the evening:
To the MC: "On what planet is Virginia Woolf an American children's author? She wrote potentially-lesbian literature and lived in fucking Bloomsbury. I demand a point!"
To a team mate: "Well done, you've sung half a nursery rhyme, now would you like to concentrate on the question we've actually been asked?"
To a different team mate: "James McAvoy was not Mr fucking Darcy. He's fucking Scottish. No, fool, not Mr Darcy. Mr Darcy isn't Scottish. Don't you know anything?"
To the last team mate who was still speaking to me: "Nellie the Elephant is spelt with an 'ie'. No, an 'ie'. Not a 'y', an 'ie'. Oh for fuck's sake, I'll write it."
I'm ashamed to say we came last. I'm also ashamed to say that I'm not allowed to attend any more Theatre Club meetings without firstly signing a behavioural contract.
The Theatre Pub Quiz - bringing together two things I love perhaps more than anything else - theatre, and being right. Disaster nearly struck when it looked like I might be in Manchester and have to miss the quiz, but fate intervened, meaning I could attend after all.
Though by the time Manchester was cancelled, the team with my friends in was already full. At least that's what they told me. Even if I hadn't seen two of them before ever, and one of them looked suspiciously like a bag lady. These things happen.
So I was "assigned" a team. We shall come back to the "team" later.
This pub quiz was a dream. The questions were almost all literature and the arts. There were no sports questions or facetious entire rounds on James Bond's cars (still angry about that one). Rounds entitled "Period Drama", "Brush up your Shakespeare" and "Musicals" had me literally jittering in my seat with excitement. I introduced myself to my team. I warned them I could get a bit competitive and nasty at pub quizzes. They giggled politely.
The first round was brilliant - recognising musicals from their album covers. I'll come out and say it, I'm great. I got (sorry, "we" got) all sixteen albums correct, including some rather tricky ones like Sondheim's Into the Woods. Go me! (I mean "us".)
Then it all went downhill and becomes a bit of a blur.
Some flashes of things I may have said during the evening:
To the MC: "On what planet is Virginia Woolf an American children's author? She wrote potentially-lesbian literature and lived in fucking Bloomsbury. I demand a point!"
To a team mate: "Well done, you've sung half a nursery rhyme, now would you like to concentrate on the question we've actually been asked?"
To a different team mate: "James McAvoy was not Mr fucking Darcy. He's fucking Scottish. No, fool, not Mr Darcy. Mr Darcy isn't Scottish. Don't you know anything?"
To the last team mate who was still speaking to me: "Nellie the Elephant is spelt with an 'ie'. No, an 'ie'. Not a 'y', an 'ie'. Oh for fuck's sake, I'll write it."
I'm ashamed to say we came last. I'm also ashamed to say that I'm not allowed to attend any more Theatre Club meetings without firstly signing a behavioural contract.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Plumb fool
Words cannot express how much I hate plumbers.
Someone will call between 8 and 9, they said. No-one did. Someone will be with you between 9 and 12 they said. 12.01, the plumber arrives.
"My boiler keeps locking out. It's making lots of clicking noises. I'm not a heating engineer, but if I was, I'd think it might be the ignition," said I, with a cheeky smile. "Can I get you a coffee?"
The plumber took all of my carrier bags out of my boiler cupboard. I have a lot of carrier bags.
"I can make it work again," said I, "by pressing the reset button. But after half an hour or so, it locks out again."
The plumber grunted. "Your boiler's not been fitted right. It's a hazard."
"Oh," said I. "But it's been like this since I moved in three years ago, and no other plumber has ever mentioned it. And - that as it may be - I'm sure it's got nothing to do with this new problem."
"It's a hazard," he said, "and I'll have to report it."
Five minutes later, my kitchen was covered with carrier bags. I really do have a lot of carrier bags.
"How are you getting on?" I asked.
"I've made it work," said the plumber.
"Did you just press the reset button?" I asked.
"Yes," he said.
"Well, that's what I've been doing. It'll break down again soon."
"It's working now. I'm not going to take apart a boiler when I can't see a fault," said the plumber.
"But it wasn't working when you arrived; you can see there is a fault."
"Hmm," said the plumber. And then told me again how I needed the entire boiler re-plumbed in.
As his tedious monologue continued, the boiler - bless it - started making its clicking noises and promptly conked out. Hoorah!
"Hmm," said the plumber, clearly disappointed he'd actually have to do some work. "I can have a look at it now."
Ten minutes later: "It's your ignition."
I feigned surprise.
"Can you fix it?"
"Not now!" he said, with incredulity equal to if I'd suggested a quick bonk in the shower before he left. "Besides which, I'm going to have to recommend you get the whole thing replumbed before anyone does anything."
"Right," said I. "Apart from the replumbing, can you give me a rough idea of how much replacing the ignition will be?"
"Oh no," he said, "I don't do the numbers. The office will do the numbers. Sign here."
"But what happens next?" I asked.
"I don't know. How would I know the specifics of your insurance policy?" he asked me with a withering look.
Plumbers. Cunts. Fact.
Someone will call between 8 and 9, they said. No-one did. Someone will be with you between 9 and 12 they said. 12.01, the plumber arrives.
"My boiler keeps locking out. It's making lots of clicking noises. I'm not a heating engineer, but if I was, I'd think it might be the ignition," said I, with a cheeky smile. "Can I get you a coffee?"
The plumber took all of my carrier bags out of my boiler cupboard. I have a lot of carrier bags.
"I can make it work again," said I, "by pressing the reset button. But after half an hour or so, it locks out again."
The plumber grunted. "Your boiler's not been fitted right. It's a hazard."
"Oh," said I. "But it's been like this since I moved in three years ago, and no other plumber has ever mentioned it. And - that as it may be - I'm sure it's got nothing to do with this new problem."
"It's a hazard," he said, "and I'll have to report it."
Five minutes later, my kitchen was covered with carrier bags. I really do have a lot of carrier bags.
"How are you getting on?" I asked.
"I've made it work," said the plumber.
"Did you just press the reset button?" I asked.
"Yes," he said.
"Well, that's what I've been doing. It'll break down again soon."
"It's working now. I'm not going to take apart a boiler when I can't see a fault," said the plumber.
"But it wasn't working when you arrived; you can see there is a fault."
"Hmm," said the plumber. And then told me again how I needed the entire boiler re-plumbed in.
As his tedious monologue continued, the boiler - bless it - started making its clicking noises and promptly conked out. Hoorah!
"Hmm," said the plumber, clearly disappointed he'd actually have to do some work. "I can have a look at it now."
Ten minutes later: "It's your ignition."
I feigned surprise.
"Can you fix it?"
"Not now!" he said, with incredulity equal to if I'd suggested a quick bonk in the shower before he left. "Besides which, I'm going to have to recommend you get the whole thing replumbed before anyone does anything."
"Right," said I. "Apart from the replumbing, can you give me a rough idea of how much replacing the ignition will be?"
"Oh no," he said, "I don't do the numbers. The office will do the numbers. Sign here."
"But what happens next?" I asked.
"I don't know. How would I know the specifics of your insurance policy?" he asked me with a withering look.
Plumbers. Cunts. Fact.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
On form
There's a database we have to fill in at work which tells my employer how I arrive to the office in the morning, and how I go home again in the evening. It has several options: tube, bus, train, walk, cycle, drive - and so on. I think this is probably so they know where you're likely to be should your train capsize or your bus is hijacked. But you can only fill in one option - they make the assumption that you a) always arrive at work the same way and b) that your method of transport home is the same as your method of transport in.
This causes me an issue. I have a strict set of criteria for my mode of arrival at the office:
1. The night before, watch the weather forecast. If the weather is supposed to be nice, set the alarm ten minutes early. Walk 35 minutes to work.
2. If the weather is not nice, or if the alarm goes off early and your first thought is, "I would trade the big toenail on my right foot and both of my tonsils for another ten minutes in bed", then stay in bed for another ten minutes and progress to step three.
3. Walk to nearest bus stop. If you can see a bus approaching, wait. Chances are bus won't stop as it's already full. If it does stop, get on bus for a leisurely 15-minute journey to work. If the bus doesn't stop, or if you can't see a bus, go to step four.
4. Walk to bus stop by tube station. If you still can't see a bus approaching, get on tube.
5. Detest humanity for the ten minutes it takes you to push onto the Central Line. Wish you had a gun with you for all three minutes of the journey. Arrive at work fractious.
I always take the tube home from the office in the evening. I don't know why. I just do.
This morning all was going well. We'd started at step two, and had - for once - some success at getting on the bus close to where I live. I was reading Proust and feeling smug. Until we hit a scooter. (Luckily the scooter-ist was fine. Just angry, and his scooter was a bit broken.)
Basically my employer needs to provide a form that encompasses all of these potential outcomes (possibly exempting the scooter). Should my tube get diverted to Newcastle they have not a hope of finding me.
This causes me an issue. I have a strict set of criteria for my mode of arrival at the office:
1. The night before, watch the weather forecast. If the weather is supposed to be nice, set the alarm ten minutes early. Walk 35 minutes to work.
2. If the weather is not nice, or if the alarm goes off early and your first thought is, "I would trade the big toenail on my right foot and both of my tonsils for another ten minutes in bed", then stay in bed for another ten minutes and progress to step three.
3. Walk to nearest bus stop. If you can see a bus approaching, wait. Chances are bus won't stop as it's already full. If it does stop, get on bus for a leisurely 15-minute journey to work. If the bus doesn't stop, or if you can't see a bus, go to step four.
4. Walk to bus stop by tube station. If you still can't see a bus approaching, get on tube.
5. Detest humanity for the ten minutes it takes you to push onto the Central Line. Wish you had a gun with you for all three minutes of the journey. Arrive at work fractious.
I always take the tube home from the office in the evening. I don't know why. I just do.
This morning all was going well. We'd started at step two, and had - for once - some success at getting on the bus close to where I live. I was reading Proust and feeling smug. Until we hit a scooter. (Luckily the scooter-ist was fine. Just angry, and his scooter was a bit broken.)
Basically my employer needs to provide a form that encompasses all of these potential outcomes (possibly exempting the scooter). Should my tube get diverted to Newcastle they have not a hope of finding me.
Monday, April 07, 2008
Winter wonderland
I braved the wintery weather to take an early lunch today. And to buy hot chocolate. Yes, it was that cold.
Stepping out of the lift into Reception on my way to lunch, I caught a very peculiar scent. Sweet, it reminded me of something. Some confectionery I didn't much like. Then it suddenly clicked. Our Reception smelled strongly of Turkish Delight.
Well, this was ridiculous. Why would a corporate building smell of Turkish Delight? (Sidenote, it's called Cyprus Delight if you're in Cyprus. They don't much like the Turks, and claim to have invented it first.)
Then suddenly it all became clear. Of course the place should smell of Turkish Delight. Because, having recently admitted defeat in Narnia, the White Queen has obviously been in the location touting for more business, and has created permanent fucking winter.
Explains a lot.
Stepping out of the lift into Reception on my way to lunch, I caught a very peculiar scent. Sweet, it reminded me of something. Some confectionery I didn't much like. Then it suddenly clicked. Our Reception smelled strongly of Turkish Delight.
Well, this was ridiculous. Why would a corporate building smell of Turkish Delight? (Sidenote, it's called Cyprus Delight if you're in Cyprus. They don't much like the Turks, and claim to have invented it first.)
Then suddenly it all became clear. Of course the place should smell of Turkish Delight. Because, having recently admitted defeat in Narnia, the White Queen has obviously been in the location touting for more business, and has created permanent fucking winter.
Explains a lot.
Saturday, April 05, 2008
Race riot
I'm not really a gambler. I bought one lottery ticket last year, and pulled Canada out of the office Rugby World Cup sweeptstake. Neither of which paid dividends of any kind.
However, I do like the Grand National, and usually have a bit of a gamble in some way or other. Even when I was a kid, my dad would go to the bookies and put £1 each way for me on a horse. Except there's always been a problem with me and the Grand National. Some would call it a curse.
Whilst Mr Nunn has a very high rate of success in picking a sure-fire winner, whichever horse I back - favourite or 200-1 outsider - always dies. I'm not talking about failing to finish the race or coming last. I'm talking about falling over (usually taking several others with it) and then being shot, to be put out of its misery. I am Laura Nunn, horse-slayer.
So this year I pulled out Opera Mundi from the office sweepstake. I Googled it to find out that already, a day before the race, it was already injured and not running. (It'll probably be shot later.) I demanded a redraw, and the horse dying in this year's Grand National will be...
Point Barrow.
You heard it here first.
However, I do like the Grand National, and usually have a bit of a gamble in some way or other. Even when I was a kid, my dad would go to the bookies and put £1 each way for me on a horse. Except there's always been a problem with me and the Grand National. Some would call it a curse.
Whilst Mr Nunn has a very high rate of success in picking a sure-fire winner, whichever horse I back - favourite or 200-1 outsider - always dies. I'm not talking about failing to finish the race or coming last. I'm talking about falling over (usually taking several others with it) and then being shot, to be put out of its misery. I am Laura Nunn, horse-slayer.
So this year I pulled out Opera Mundi from the office sweepstake. I Googled it to find out that already, a day before the race, it was already injured and not running. (It'll probably be shot later.) I demanded a redraw, and the horse dying in this year's Grand National will be...
Point Barrow.
You heard it here first.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Write now
I have learned a lot this week. I have learned that if you vaguely mention religion, the recruiters come out in force. I have learned that February 29th is to stop the seasons rather than the days getting out of whack. I have learned tips and tricks on writing styles from Stephen King's manual On Writing.
From now on I shall avoid the passive tense. From now on, the passive tense shall be avoided. Tee hee, I'm so funny.
See, I'd like to write a novel. I love writing. As Stephen King says, for a writer, writing isn't work, it's a kind of "inspired play". And that's how I feel about my Plog - most of the time I love writing it. Most of the time I haven't got a clue what I'm going to write before I start typing... and sometimes the direction it goes off in surprises me. Sometimes those are the best ones.
So every so often I make an attempt at writing something a bit more solid - a novel. I gave up writing a serious novel, as I pick apart my own sentences the minute they fail to live up to the standards of Ian McEwan or Anne Tyler. And my main problem - even with a comedy tome - is that I am rubbish with plot or character. In so much as I don't care enough about the characters (even if they're based on myself!) to develop them, and I'm not imaginative enough to come up with a creative story.
Stephen King suggests asking "what if..." - what if vampires attacked a suburb? What if an innocent was sent to Death Row? What if... But really, all this lets you do is write like Stephen King. No bad thing, but (sadly owing to a lack of imagination), I'm not looking to write in the horror genre. My "what ifs" go: what if I turned up a few minutes late for work? What if I did my supermarket shopping at Tesco instead of Sainsbury's? Inspiring.
So if anyone has any plot or characters they'd like to donate, please get in touch. Thank you.
From now on I shall avoid the passive tense. From now on, the passive tense shall be avoided. Tee hee, I'm so funny.
See, I'd like to write a novel. I love writing. As Stephen King says, for a writer, writing isn't work, it's a kind of "inspired play". And that's how I feel about my Plog - most of the time I love writing it. Most of the time I haven't got a clue what I'm going to write before I start typing... and sometimes the direction it goes off in surprises me. Sometimes those are the best ones.
So every so often I make an attempt at writing something a bit more solid - a novel. I gave up writing a serious novel, as I pick apart my own sentences the minute they fail to live up to the standards of Ian McEwan or Anne Tyler. And my main problem - even with a comedy tome - is that I am rubbish with plot or character. In so much as I don't care enough about the characters (even if they're based on myself!) to develop them, and I'm not imaginative enough to come up with a creative story.
Stephen King suggests asking "what if..." - what if vampires attacked a suburb? What if an innocent was sent to Death Row? What if... But really, all this lets you do is write like Stephen King. No bad thing, but (sadly owing to a lack of imagination), I'm not looking to write in the horror genre. My "what ifs" go: what if I turned up a few minutes late for work? What if I did my supermarket shopping at Tesco instead of Sainsbury's? Inspiring.
So if anyone has any plot or characters they'd like to donate, please get in touch. Thank you.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Practically jokes
Ah, April the first, how I love thee. Especially this year when no-one and nothing hoodwinked me (I even saw through the BBC's flying penguins, despite the early hour), and I managed to pull a rather funny work-based joke on Nice Kate (who may not be speaking to me anymore, but it was kind of worth it...).
Mrs Nunn's concept of April Fool is somewhat... unusual. Mrs Nunn believes so long as you make someone believe something that isn't true, then you have "April Fooled" them. It doesn't have to be funny or clever - just not true. Essentially this means every morning on April 1st each year, Mrs Nunn tells lies.
For example, this morning a package arrived for Mr Nunn. "That'll be the printer cartridges," said Mr Nunn.
Mrs Nunn went downstairs. She came back up. "It's not the printer cartridges," said Mrs Nunn. "It's a whole stack of vouchers for Aldi."
"Oh," said Mr Nunn.
"April Fool!" cried Mrs Nunn, gleefully, before phoning me, smirkingly, to tell me how gullible Mr Nunn had been.
Previous Mrs Nunn April Fools gems include: telling Mr Nunn he'd left the bathroom window open when he hadn't, telling him he'd had an email when he hadn't... the mayhem goes on and on. So long as he believes her, she counts it as "getting him".
Next year I might ring Mrs Nunn to tell her she's really good at April Fools' jokes... and then say, "April Fool!" and skip away joyously.
Mrs Nunn's concept of April Fool is somewhat... unusual. Mrs Nunn believes so long as you make someone believe something that isn't true, then you have "April Fooled" them. It doesn't have to be funny or clever - just not true. Essentially this means every morning on April 1st each year, Mrs Nunn tells lies.
For example, this morning a package arrived for Mr Nunn. "That'll be the printer cartridges," said Mr Nunn.
Mrs Nunn went downstairs. She came back up. "It's not the printer cartridges," said Mrs Nunn. "It's a whole stack of vouchers for Aldi."
"Oh," said Mr Nunn.
"April Fool!" cried Mrs Nunn, gleefully, before phoning me, smirkingly, to tell me how gullible Mr Nunn had been.
Previous Mrs Nunn April Fools gems include: telling Mr Nunn he'd left the bathroom window open when he hadn't, telling him he'd had an email when he hadn't... the mayhem goes on and on. So long as he believes her, she counts it as "getting him".
Next year I might ring Mrs Nunn to tell her she's really good at April Fools' jokes... and then say, "April Fool!" and skip away joyously.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)