Let's talk about Doctor Who. Specifically two things:
Thing One:
What has happened to Billie Piper's speech? She sounds like she's wearing badly-fitted dentures to go with that oil slick of cheap lipgloss and the naff Essex accent. And anyone who suggests I'm jealous of her because she's younger than me is lying.
Thing Two:
Has anyone, anywhere, ever under any circumstances ever found a Dalek scary? OK, they can fly, but they're slightly less aerodynamic than a pepper pot with a lead weight in the bottom. And Davros? Davros? Really? Why would you name a scary supervillain after the bloke that runs your local chip shop?
That is all.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Playing on fears
There aren't many things that scare me. I don't mean in a big spider or giant moth way. I don't even mean in a jumping out of a plane or making a speech to three hundred thousand people - naked - way.
I mean in a horror film way. Of course, I can be made to jump as much as the next person - but I'm talking about getting freaked out and scared after a film has ended. I don't know if it's a lack of imagination, but whilst I enjoy horror films, I don't mind being in the flat by myself; if I hear a noise in the night, I'd rather go and investigate it; I'm not scared of ghosts or vampires or very thin monsters (don't think I've forgotten, Erica*).
Mirrors can bother me a bit, owing to being exposed to an (admittedly Disney) horror film at a young age - Watcher in the Wood which traumatised me for most of my childhood and quite a large portion of my adolescence. Other than that, I'm all good.
So I went to see Relocated at the Royal Court Theatre this afternoon. The Royal Court is probably my favourite London theatre and I really have seen some cracking plays there. Today's was billed as "the scariest show in London" and starred - amongst others - the very watchable Nicola Walker. I went alone.
Yes, there were bits that made me jump, mostly done by clever lighting and set. Other than that, I was fine. Mostly. Until two characters started singing - for absolutely no good reason - in a spooky chant-like voice:
Hush little baby,
Don't say a word,
Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird
and so on. How did they guess my one phobia (other than moths and mirrors, obviously)? They sang the whole song. With the audience in total darkness and the stage lights out.
Unlike my lights. Which may well be left on tonight.
* Not that Erica is a very thin monster. I mean, that's not a comment about her weight. She's thin. Just not a monster. Oh never mind.
I mean in a horror film way. Of course, I can be made to jump as much as the next person - but I'm talking about getting freaked out and scared after a film has ended. I don't know if it's a lack of imagination, but whilst I enjoy horror films, I don't mind being in the flat by myself; if I hear a noise in the night, I'd rather go and investigate it; I'm not scared of ghosts or vampires or very thin monsters (don't think I've forgotten, Erica*).
Mirrors can bother me a bit, owing to being exposed to an (admittedly Disney) horror film at a young age - Watcher in the Wood which traumatised me for most of my childhood and quite a large portion of my adolescence. Other than that, I'm all good.
So I went to see Relocated at the Royal Court Theatre this afternoon. The Royal Court is probably my favourite London theatre and I really have seen some cracking plays there. Today's was billed as "the scariest show in London" and starred - amongst others - the very watchable Nicola Walker. I went alone.
Yes, there were bits that made me jump, mostly done by clever lighting and set. Other than that, I was fine. Mostly. Until two characters started singing - for absolutely no good reason - in a spooky chant-like voice:
Hush little baby,
Don't say a word,
Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird
and so on. How did they guess my one phobia (other than moths and mirrors, obviously)? They sang the whole song. With the audience in total darkness and the stage lights out.
Unlike my lights. Which may well be left on tonight.
* Not that Erica is a very thin monster. I mean, that's not a comment about her weight. She's thin. Just not a monster. Oh never mind.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Greasing up
Scene set: The first ever training course I delivered, 2005.
The course: Lean 5S. (Essentially "How to keep your desk tidy". Pot and kettle, I know.)
The objective: Talk through a picture of a disorganised office and the problems it could cause.
What happened: Well, the picture showed an office with computer equipment everywhere, wires all over the place, filing lying on the floor. I'd seen the picture about ten times as I'd observed the course being run several times already. However... when looking at it with my training group I suddenly spotted something new.
"Oh look," said I. "This person even has a pot of Vaseline on her desk."
Shit, shit, I just said "Vaseline" in a training course. This could have dodgy connotations. How could I rescue the situation? I thought quickly.
"Perhaps she has chapped lips," I said. Oh God, even worse! Better clarify!
"I mean, chapped facial lips."
There was an awkward pause. Then thankfully laughter. But if you want top tips on running a training course, try never to use the phrase "facial lips". I have plenty more of these handy hints.
The course: Lean 5S. (Essentially "How to keep your desk tidy". Pot and kettle, I know.)
The objective: Talk through a picture of a disorganised office and the problems it could cause.
What happened: Well, the picture showed an office with computer equipment everywhere, wires all over the place, filing lying on the floor. I'd seen the picture about ten times as I'd observed the course being run several times already. However... when looking at it with my training group I suddenly spotted something new.
"Oh look," said I. "This person even has a pot of Vaseline on her desk."
Shit, shit, I just said "Vaseline" in a training course. This could have dodgy connotations. How could I rescue the situation? I thought quickly.
"Perhaps she has chapped lips," I said. Oh God, even worse! Better clarify!
"I mean, chapped facial lips."
There was an awkward pause. Then thankfully laughter. But if you want top tips on running a training course, try never to use the phrase "facial lips". I have plenty more of these handy hints.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Medicine woman
I have antibiotics. I was only allowed antibiotics when I was a child if I was Very Ill Indeed. This wasn't for any medical reason, more that antibiotics turn me into a complete psycho cow. (Pause whilst you all simultaneously wonder if I take them every day.) Dad said even the banana flavoured kiddy medicine used to turn me into a nightmare. I'm not surprised. I fucking hate bananas.
I can't actually remember the last time I took antibiotics. Certainly not since I went to uni. Maybe not even at secondary school. I discovered today there is very good cause for this:
I can't actually remember the last time I took antibiotics. Certainly not since I went to uni. Maybe not even at secondary school. I discovered today there is very good cause for this:
- When my taxi driver didn't hear me, I tapped on his window twice and shouted at him
- He was holding a cigar in the cab. Not smoking it, but holding it. I took exception to this and told him so
- Top Gear made me cry
- I visualised smacking the Chinese takeaway delivery man in the face for absolutely no good reason other than it wasn't terribly convenient at that particular moment to answer the doorbell.
Hey ho, two more days to go. And I'm running a course, so I get to inflict my bad mood on fourteen enthusiastic delegates.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Bookish
Top ten books of all time. Go.
Mine:
Mine:
- The God of Small Things - Arundati Roy
- Lolita - Vladamir Nabakov
- Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
- Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
- The Time Traveler's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
- Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
- Saturday / Atonement - Ian McEwan (couldn't choose between them. Know it's cheating. Sorry.)
- Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte
- Back when we were Grown Ups - Anne Tyler
- Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie (though still in the middle of this one, it's already snuck into my top ten. Unless the ending is really disappointing. I'll keep you posted.)
If you don't want to list ten, what are you top two or three? What should be on my list?
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Fluffy kittens and knitting patterns
TheBloke (TM) solved the spider crisis - picked up the monster with a piece of kitchen roll and launched it out of the window, unharmed. This extreme bravery surprised me as I was always under the impression he was terrified of spiders. Turns out he's only scared of his native poisonous South African spiders munching on his face. The pussy.
I've been such a girl recently, what with ironing, making cakes, cooking dinners and being scared of spiders. I might go and spit in the street later, grow some nice leg hair or scratch my balls just to reaffirm my feminism. Grr.
But first I have to do the washing up. What on earth is happening to me?
I've been such a girl recently, what with ironing, making cakes, cooking dinners and being scared of spiders. I might go and spit in the street later, grow some nice leg hair or scratch my balls just to reaffirm my feminism. Grr.
But first I have to do the washing up. What on earth is happening to me?
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Spider woman
I have a spider. A big spider. Not a fat spider, but a big spider. One of those ones with the tiny little body and great big long legs. It's also very mobile, so when I turn my back on it, it finds a different part of my flat to terrorise me from.
I have loitered near it with a glass and a piece of junk mail, window ready open for spider-launching, but its current position makes the angle a bit difficult to approach, without fear of lopping off one of its ridiculously long legs.
My dad bought me a spider catcher - a mini vacuum cleaner that traps the spider for safe release. But this one's too big for that sort of thing. This one might need its own postcode.
We have been edging round each other for the last hour. One of us has to go.
Well, I've enjoyed living here. So long. Worst thing is, it's sitting by the door, so I'm going to have to exit by the window. Still, two floors up... I'll live. Probably.
I have loitered near it with a glass and a piece of junk mail, window ready open for spider-launching, but its current position makes the angle a bit difficult to approach, without fear of lopping off one of its ridiculously long legs.
My dad bought me a spider catcher - a mini vacuum cleaner that traps the spider for safe release. But this one's too big for that sort of thing. This one might need its own postcode.
We have been edging round each other for the last hour. One of us has to go.
Well, I've enjoyed living here. So long. Worst thing is, it's sitting by the door, so I'm going to have to exit by the window. Still, two floors up... I'll live. Probably.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Damned lies and statistics
Would someone who understands standard deviation please explain it to me very simply, as if they were talking to a five year old?
(Preferably without using words like "statistical representation", "graphical analysis" and "inter quartile").
I have an exam on Tuesday. And bizarrely, not doing maths for twelve years hasn't (as I'd expected) made me automatically good at it without any effort at all. I thought it might be like a sprained muscle, and if I rested my maths inability for a bit then it might get better all by itself. It didn't.
I still don't know all of my eight times table. Don't tell anyone at work.
(Preferably without using words like "statistical representation", "graphical analysis" and "inter quartile").
I have an exam on Tuesday. And bizarrely, not doing maths for twelve years hasn't (as I'd expected) made me automatically good at it without any effort at all. I thought it might be like a sprained muscle, and if I rested my maths inability for a bit then it might get better all by itself. It didn't.
I still don't know all of my eight times table. Don't tell anyone at work.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Spoilers
Mr Nunn is known as a spoiler of films. Bless his little guilty sad face when he's accidentally done it again, but it's a regular thing in the Nunn household. Sample conversation:
Jack: I've never seen American Beauty.
Mr Nunn: Yes you have. It's the one where the neighbour shoots Kevin Spacey in the head at the end.
Jack: No. I haven't.
Mr Nunn: Oh. (cue sad guilty face)
Whilst I was in Canada, the final episode of The Apprentice aired. I was careful not to look at any UK websites. I forbade TheBloke (TM) from texting me the winner. I made the mistake of telling Mr Nunn on the phone that I was trying not to find out who won. And then quickly added, "Don't spoil it for me!"
Mr Nunn said, "Don't worry, I won't. But you won't be happy with who won."
Thanks Dad. Never mind - as far as I knew, Mr Nunn didn't actually know who my favourite was, so so far, so good.
Cut to Loughborough. I get through the entire reunion without anyone bringing it up. I get home. I have breakfast the next day. In my jetlagged state, I mention that my plans for when I get back to London involve watching The Apprentice.
Mr Nunn chips in, "Did you hear.."
I cut him off, fingers in ears, "La la la la, not listening."
"OK, OK," says Mr Nunn, who doesn't even watch the show. "I was just going to say there was a lot of furore as the winner faked his or her CV."
"Thanks Dad. That was in last week's episode."
"Oh." Mr Nunn's face fell. Sad and guilty.
Still, there was still hope. Perhaps a second candidate had faked their CV too. I got into my car and with Radio 2 playing in the background, motored to London. Just in time to hear a trailer for Steve Wright's show, "... interviewing Lee McQeen, Apprentice winner and runner up Claire!"
Fuck it. I've always hated Steve Wright. Not as much as Jeremy Vine, who just appears to run a moan-in for pensioners and taxi drivers. But he's on the list. Beware the list.
And Mr Nunn was right - I was rooting for Claire. I instinctively don't trust anyone who talks about themselves in the third person.
Jack: I've never seen American Beauty.
Mr Nunn: Yes you have. It's the one where the neighbour shoots Kevin Spacey in the head at the end.
Jack: No. I haven't.
Mr Nunn: Oh. (cue sad guilty face)
Whilst I was in Canada, the final episode of The Apprentice aired. I was careful not to look at any UK websites. I forbade TheBloke (TM) from texting me the winner. I made the mistake of telling Mr Nunn on the phone that I was trying not to find out who won. And then quickly added, "Don't spoil it for me!"
Mr Nunn said, "Don't worry, I won't. But you won't be happy with who won."
Thanks Dad. Never mind - as far as I knew, Mr Nunn didn't actually know who my favourite was, so so far, so good.
Cut to Loughborough. I get through the entire reunion without anyone bringing it up. I get home. I have breakfast the next day. In my jetlagged state, I mention that my plans for when I get back to London involve watching The Apprentice.
Mr Nunn chips in, "Did you hear.."
I cut him off, fingers in ears, "La la la la, not listening."
"OK, OK," says Mr Nunn, who doesn't even watch the show. "I was just going to say there was a lot of furore as the winner faked his or her CV."
"Thanks Dad. That was in last week's episode."
"Oh." Mr Nunn's face fell. Sad and guilty.
Still, there was still hope. Perhaps a second candidate had faked their CV too. I got into my car and with Radio 2 playing in the background, motored to London. Just in time to hear a trailer for Steve Wright's show, "... interviewing Lee McQeen, Apprentice winner and runner up Claire!"
Fuck it. I've always hated Steve Wright. Not as much as Jeremy Vine, who just appears to run a moan-in for pensioners and taxi drivers. But he's on the list. Beware the list.
And Mr Nunn was right - I was rooting for Claire. I instinctively don't trust anyone who talks about themselves in the third person.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Back to the future
Oh God. I have turned into a 1950s' housewife.
"How can this happen, Laura?" I hear you cry. "For you have always championed the cause of feminism. You work in a male-dominated industry, you tackled the extremely sexist world of stand-up comedy and have always been brought up to believe gender stereotypes are wrong! There is less chance of you becoming a 1950s' housewife than getting invited to Annabelle's wedding. (Which will obviously be better than anyone else's wedding. Ever.)"
I understand what you're saying. I feel your grief.
But last night whilst TheBloke (TM) did manful things with putting together a wardrobe, manfully, I:
a) cooked dinner
b) washed up
c) made a cup of tea and brought him chocolate
d) ironed his shirt
e) may have uttered the phrase, "Can I get you anything?"
Balls.
It reminds me of that bloody awful Burt Bacharach song:
Hey, little girl,
Comb your hair,
fix your make-up.
Soon he will open the door.
Don't think because
There's a ring on your finger,
You needn't try any more
For wives should always be lovers, too.
Run to his arms the moment he comes home to you.
I'm warning you.
Day after day,
There are girls at the office,
And men will always be men.
Don't send him off
With your hair still in curlers.
You may not see him again.
For wives should always be lovers, too.
Run to his arms the moment he comes home to you.
He's almost here.
Hey, little girl
Better wear something pretty... etc. etc.
That song genuinely makes me feel a little bit sick.
Still, at least there's fuck all chance of having my hair in curlers. Me and my extremely straight hair gave up that quest a long time ago. Other than that, I shall be spending the rest of the day finding something pretty to wear and worrying about the girls in the office. Not. And the last time I ran anywhere... actually, I can't really remember the last time I ran anywhere.
Right. Off to make stock from scratch whilst I darn some socks, lovingly.
Christ, I think too much annual leave has sent me a bit mental.
"How can this happen, Laura?" I hear you cry. "For you have always championed the cause of feminism. You work in a male-dominated industry, you tackled the extremely sexist world of stand-up comedy and have always been brought up to believe gender stereotypes are wrong! There is less chance of you becoming a 1950s' housewife than getting invited to Annabelle's wedding. (Which will obviously be better than anyone else's wedding. Ever.)"
I understand what you're saying. I feel your grief.
But last night whilst TheBloke (TM) did manful things with putting together a wardrobe, manfully, I:
a) cooked dinner
b) washed up
c) made a cup of tea and brought him chocolate
d) ironed his shirt
e) may have uttered the phrase, "Can I get you anything?"
Balls.
It reminds me of that bloody awful Burt Bacharach song:
Hey, little girl,
Comb your hair,
fix your make-up.
Soon he will open the door.
Don't think because
There's a ring on your finger,
You needn't try any more
For wives should always be lovers, too.
Run to his arms the moment he comes home to you.
I'm warning you.
Day after day,
There are girls at the office,
And men will always be men.
Don't send him off
With your hair still in curlers.
You may not see him again.
For wives should always be lovers, too.
Run to his arms the moment he comes home to you.
He's almost here.
Hey, little girl
Better wear something pretty... etc. etc.
That song genuinely makes me feel a little bit sick.
Still, at least there's fuck all chance of having my hair in curlers. Me and my extremely straight hair gave up that quest a long time ago. Other than that, I shall be spending the rest of the day finding something pretty to wear and worrying about the girls in the office. Not. And the last time I ran anywhere... actually, I can't really remember the last time I ran anywhere.
Right. Off to make stock from scratch whilst I darn some socks, lovingly.
Christ, I think too much annual leave has sent me a bit mental.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Water torture
I fucking hate fucking jetlag. Fuck it. It makes me all sweary and arsey. Well, more sweary and arsey than usual.
To remind myself that it's all worth it, a photo from Niagara. That is all.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Orange and Greene
Graham Greene belived that every writer must have a chip of ice in his or her heart. As much as I try to deny this, more and more I'm beginning to accept it's true. So yes, I have dithered about writing about my high school reunion, but to be honest, that chip of ice, manifesting itself as bitchy mischievousness will simply not allow me to abandon material that's just pure gold.
Mrs Nunn and I arrived at Heathrow just before 1 p.m. It was an overnight flight with a baby next to us. Let's just say by the time I drove 120 miles up the M1, I was tired and a bit fractious. I slept for an hour or so before forcing myself into the shower, popping on a dress and driving to my old school. Everything felt a bit dreamlike. Possibly because mostly I was still asleep.
God, in His or Her knowingness of my reunion had blessed me with two giant spots. This is why I don't believe in Him or Her. It's a two-way spite thing.
I arrived. A gaggle of girls were already gathered. I was greeted by a boy from our brother school. "Hello Laura," he said. Then conspiratorially, "Don't worry... I haven't sat you next to Annabelle." This confused me. I barely knew this guy at school... yet he reads the Plog? Seemed unlikely. And the rather more likely explanation of some sort of rumour doing the rounds began to formulate itself.
I went to join the gaggle of girls - none of whom I'd stayed in touch with, but all of whom I got on fine with at school. The school was a girls' school - so whilst the boys' school was next door, I knew the girls far better than the boys. We made very polite small talk about how odd the experience was, and I said something, talking about the boys, like, "It's weird - a sea of faces that you vaguely recognise, but can't quite put a name to."
At this point a small, yapping started up from someone who seemed a bit unnaturally short and orange. "You remember me though, don't you Laura? I'm Annabelle." This came from - let's call her Belinda McOrange. Now I'm no stranger to the bad fake tan (as TheBloke (TM) said to me just last week, "Ooh, aren't you tanned... in places."), but this really was something extra-special.
"Sorry?" I said.
"I'm Annabelle, aren't I? From your blog?"
"Oh - no, Belinda," I said.
"So who is Annabelle then?" yapped Belinda, orangely.
I launched into my standard (and boringly true) explanation of my Plog, "You know how I do stand-up? Well, very much like stand-up, everything in my blog is exaggerated for comic effect*. Annabelle is a composite of lots of people."
"So who is Annabelle then?" Belinda oranged at me**.
"Well, as I just said..."
She cut me off. "I think it's me. I have a sports car. I call my Maths teacher Dad. I'm flattered that you're so jealous of me."
"That's nice, Belinda." Her friends, sensing Belinda McOrange was making an utter tit of herself, tried to shut her up, but like an hysterical springer spaniel, she wouldn't be silenced.
"I'm flattered you write about me and that you're jealous of me. You're looking really nervous. Do I make you nervous? Are you in a relationship? I'm in a relationship. I met my boyfriend in Fiji. Have you been to Fiji? I have. I've been to Fiji. I met my boyfriend there. Do you have a garden? I have a garden. I have a sports car. And a garden. And a boyfriend I met in Fiji."
"OK, Belinda, in order, no, you don't make me nervous, yes, I'm in a relationship, yes I've been to Fiji. No, I don't have a garden..."
She cut me off again. "I have a garden. Do you still live in East London? I hate East London. I live in Richmond. It's much nicer there. Do you read the Daily Mail? I love the Daily Mail."
I wouldn't have guessed.
Luckily at this point, a few more people arrived and I was able to have some less-mad conversations.
I haven't been that irritated by something that small and that orange since I sat on a cheesy Wotsit last Christmas.
OK, bitchiness over with, the rest of the evening was lovely. It was a bit odd to be surrounded by faces once so familiar and now quite distant. And whilst it's true that generally I've done pretty well at keeping in touch with my closest school friends - and have happily let people I didn't get on with so well drift away, there is also a raft of people I got on well with but perhaps because we were in different friendship groups, didn't really keep in touch with after school. So it was genuinely lovely to catch up with some old faces last night.
Even if I did feel a bit guilty that about 30% of the room kept coming up to me and saying, "I read your Plog about Annabelle - and emailed it to all my friends."
I was sitting near (she picked her own pseudonym out) Isabella last night. Isabella doesn't need a pseudonym because she's lovely anyway, but she wanted one so she got one. We went to a drama course in France together many moons ago (which was strange enough to perhaps merit its own Plog one day), and she now reads my Plog too. To say Isabella reads my Plog isn't perhaps doing her justice. In fact Isabella knows every detail of my Plog and can recite it back to me. She claimed it wasn't that she was stalking me, it was that she just had a good memory.
Which I almost believed until she told me she'd stolen my hubcaps.
Anyway, I'm still jetlagged and probably ought to toddle off to bed. Where I can think about what I've done and what sort of person I am.
* Apologies to anyone who thought it was the utter truth. I hate to be the man behind the curtain in the Wizard of Oz.
** If Shakespeare can turn "incarnadine" into a verb, I'm having "to orange". Shut up.
Mrs Nunn and I arrived at Heathrow just before 1 p.m. It was an overnight flight with a baby next to us. Let's just say by the time I drove 120 miles up the M1, I was tired and a bit fractious. I slept for an hour or so before forcing myself into the shower, popping on a dress and driving to my old school. Everything felt a bit dreamlike. Possibly because mostly I was still asleep.
God, in His or Her knowingness of my reunion had blessed me with two giant spots. This is why I don't believe in Him or Her. It's a two-way spite thing.
I arrived. A gaggle of girls were already gathered. I was greeted by a boy from our brother school. "Hello Laura," he said. Then conspiratorially, "Don't worry... I haven't sat you next to Annabelle." This confused me. I barely knew this guy at school... yet he reads the Plog? Seemed unlikely. And the rather more likely explanation of some sort of rumour doing the rounds began to formulate itself.
I went to join the gaggle of girls - none of whom I'd stayed in touch with, but all of whom I got on fine with at school. The school was a girls' school - so whilst the boys' school was next door, I knew the girls far better than the boys. We made very polite small talk about how odd the experience was, and I said something, talking about the boys, like, "It's weird - a sea of faces that you vaguely recognise, but can't quite put a name to."
At this point a small, yapping started up from someone who seemed a bit unnaturally short and orange. "You remember me though, don't you Laura? I'm Annabelle." This came from - let's call her Belinda McOrange. Now I'm no stranger to the bad fake tan (as TheBloke (TM) said to me just last week, "Ooh, aren't you tanned... in places."), but this really was something extra-special.
"Sorry?" I said.
"I'm Annabelle, aren't I? From your blog?"
"Oh - no, Belinda," I said.
"So who is Annabelle then?" yapped Belinda, orangely.
I launched into my standard (and boringly true) explanation of my Plog, "You know how I do stand-up? Well, very much like stand-up, everything in my blog is exaggerated for comic effect*. Annabelle is a composite of lots of people."
"So who is Annabelle then?" Belinda oranged at me**.
"Well, as I just said..."
She cut me off. "I think it's me. I have a sports car. I call my Maths teacher Dad. I'm flattered that you're so jealous of me."
"That's nice, Belinda." Her friends, sensing Belinda McOrange was making an utter tit of herself, tried to shut her up, but like an hysterical springer spaniel, she wouldn't be silenced.
"I'm flattered you write about me and that you're jealous of me. You're looking really nervous. Do I make you nervous? Are you in a relationship? I'm in a relationship. I met my boyfriend in Fiji. Have you been to Fiji? I have. I've been to Fiji. I met my boyfriend there. Do you have a garden? I have a garden. I have a sports car. And a garden. And a boyfriend I met in Fiji."
"OK, Belinda, in order, no, you don't make me nervous, yes, I'm in a relationship, yes I've been to Fiji. No, I don't have a garden..."
She cut me off again. "I have a garden. Do you still live in East London? I hate East London. I live in Richmond. It's much nicer there. Do you read the Daily Mail? I love the Daily Mail."
I wouldn't have guessed.
Luckily at this point, a few more people arrived and I was able to have some less-mad conversations.
I haven't been that irritated by something that small and that orange since I sat on a cheesy Wotsit last Christmas.
OK, bitchiness over with, the rest of the evening was lovely. It was a bit odd to be surrounded by faces once so familiar and now quite distant. And whilst it's true that generally I've done pretty well at keeping in touch with my closest school friends - and have happily let people I didn't get on with so well drift away, there is also a raft of people I got on well with but perhaps because we were in different friendship groups, didn't really keep in touch with after school. So it was genuinely lovely to catch up with some old faces last night.
Even if I did feel a bit guilty that about 30% of the room kept coming up to me and saying, "I read your Plog about Annabelle - and emailed it to all my friends."
I was sitting near (she picked her own pseudonym out) Isabella last night. Isabella doesn't need a pseudonym because she's lovely anyway, but she wanted one so she got one. We went to a drama course in France together many moons ago (which was strange enough to perhaps merit its own Plog one day), and she now reads my Plog too. To say Isabella reads my Plog isn't perhaps doing her justice. In fact Isabella knows every detail of my Plog and can recite it back to me. She claimed it wasn't that she was stalking me, it was that she just had a good memory.
Which I almost believed until she told me she'd stolen my hubcaps.
Anyway, I'm still jetlagged and probably ought to toddle off to bed. Where I can think about what I've done and what sort of person I am.
* Apologies to anyone who thought it was the utter truth. I hate to be the man behind the curtain in the Wizard of Oz.
** If Shakespeare can turn "incarnadine" into a verb, I'm having "to orange". Shut up.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Freaky Friday
Mrs Nunn has travelled a lot. She has even travelled alone. This astounds me. Because Mrs Nunn has no "traveller's radar". Those of you who frequently travel alone will know immediately what I mean. For those of you who don't... Your traveller's radar is always on when you're in a strange place. It's a sixth sense that tells you if a certain street is likely to have a cafe on, or leads to a red light district. (In my time, I've done both.) It tells you which person on the bus is likely to be a freak who spends their entire journey arguing with their left hand. It makes you conscious about the times you need to keep your bag close by. It is perhaps the most useful travelling tool there is.
Mrs Nunn was born without this radar.
Case in point: we're off to Niagara Falls via a Greyhound bus. Anyone who has ever been to the USA or Canada will know immediately that Greyhound bus stations tend to attract the crazies. Port Authority bus station in NYC is the only place in New York that has ever made me feel genuinely uncomfortable. Still, we bought our tickets and went for breakfast in a cafe next door.
We ordered. We went to grab a seat. "Let's sit here!" exclaimed Mrs Nunn. She sat down. Right next to a woman whose trousers were round her ankles (and was wearing - unfortunately - no underwear). The lady had compensated for her lack of underwear with a sprightly sprig of leaves in her hair. I say "sprig" - it was more of a small tree. Still, I suppose it did the trick, and distracted me - momentarily - from her genitals.
"How about we sit here, instead?" I asked and guided Mrs Nunn to the other side of the cafe. Mrs Nunn wasn't happy as our new seats weren't as comfortable. Eventually I pointed out the unusually-attired lady. Whom she hadn't even seen.
Don't even start me on the coffee maker story.
So we're leaving Canada at midnight, and then - if the flight is on time - I'm bombing jetlaggedly up the M1 to attend a ten-year high school reunion. I suspect a Plog may follow. Though I have to be careful as my Plog is linked to my Facebook page, and I've already been pulled up twice on my Annabelle stories by separate people who have (correctly) guessed her identity... Luckily they laughed along, but apparently I'm not as subtle as I thought. Who knew?
Mrs Nunn was born without this radar.
Case in point: we're off to Niagara Falls via a Greyhound bus. Anyone who has ever been to the USA or Canada will know immediately that Greyhound bus stations tend to attract the crazies. Port Authority bus station in NYC is the only place in New York that has ever made me feel genuinely uncomfortable. Still, we bought our tickets and went for breakfast in a cafe next door.
We ordered. We went to grab a seat. "Let's sit here!" exclaimed Mrs Nunn. She sat down. Right next to a woman whose trousers were round her ankles (and was wearing - unfortunately - no underwear). The lady had compensated for her lack of underwear with a sprightly sprig of leaves in her hair. I say "sprig" - it was more of a small tree. Still, I suppose it did the trick, and distracted me - momentarily - from her genitals.
"How about we sit here, instead?" I asked and guided Mrs Nunn to the other side of the cafe. Mrs Nunn wasn't happy as our new seats weren't as comfortable. Eventually I pointed out the unusually-attired lady. Whom she hadn't even seen.
Don't even start me on the coffee maker story.
So we're leaving Canada at midnight, and then - if the flight is on time - I'm bombing jetlaggedly up the M1 to attend a ten-year high school reunion. I suspect a Plog may follow. Though I have to be careful as my Plog is linked to my Facebook page, and I've already been pulled up twice on my Annabelle stories by separate people who have (correctly) guessed her identity... Luckily they laughed along, but apparently I'm not as subtle as I thought. Who knew?
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Aboot Canada, eh?
There's no way I can hide it any longer. Someone has to reveal the awful truth...
Canada is boring*.
There, I've said it. Don't get me wrong, Toronto is a lovely, lovely place. The people are polite, everyone is environmentally conscious. There appears to be very little crime. People obey the "Walk / Don't Walk" signs. In short it's dull as fuck.
Everyone here looks slightly spacey like they've been smoking something... which I'd almost suspect, except everyone is so law abiding, the chances of smoking anything stronger than a herbal organic Vicks Vapouriser is hard to imagine. The streets are clean. People say, "Excuse me" if you bump into them. They are like Stepford Canadians.
It makes me want to run amok. I'm not really certain what "amok" means, but it definitely makes me want to do something a bit wrong. Like littering. Or jaywalking. Or putting the wrong type of paper in the recycling bin.
Oh God - perhaps Grand Theft Auto has corrupted me after all. I can't wait till they release a version set in Canada. I'd love to see their bland Canadian expressions as I mow them down for looking at me a bit Canadianly.
* Though admittedly Niagara Falls was quite impressive.
Canada is boring*.
There, I've said it. Don't get me wrong, Toronto is a lovely, lovely place. The people are polite, everyone is environmentally conscious. There appears to be very little crime. People obey the "Walk / Don't Walk" signs. In short it's dull as fuck.
Everyone here looks slightly spacey like they've been smoking something... which I'd almost suspect, except everyone is so law abiding, the chances of smoking anything stronger than a herbal organic Vicks Vapouriser is hard to imagine. The streets are clean. People say, "Excuse me" if you bump into them. They are like Stepford Canadians.
It makes me want to run amok. I'm not really certain what "amok" means, but it definitely makes me want to do something a bit wrong. Like littering. Or jaywalking. Or putting the wrong type of paper in the recycling bin.
Oh God - perhaps Grand Theft Auto has corrupted me after all. I can't wait till they release a version set in Canada. I'd love to see their bland Canadian expressions as I mow them down for looking at me a bit Canadianly.
* Though admittedly Niagara Falls was quite impressive.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Cause for alarm
Midnight, a hotel in Toronto.
The alarm clock goes off. Mrs Nunn (mostly asleep) first blames Mr Nunn (mostly on a different continent) and then me. As this didn't happen the previous night, and she's the only one who's touched it in the interim, I think we can guess who might be to blame. (She had previously struggled with the lightswitch for a good three minutes before giving up.)
I disable the alarm. We go back to sleep.
1 a.m., the same hotel.
Another beeping starts. Mrs Nunn blames Mr Nunn again, then changes this quite quickly to "Laura, what have you done now?" She then checks her mobile phone. I explain to her it's the fire alarm. She insists we evacuate. We are on the 23rd floor of the hotel, and we can't use the lifts. The hotel staff say that there's no need to evacuate, they're just seeing what the problem is. "That's what they said during 9/11," Mrs Nunn retorts, and down the stairs we go. A hotel in Toronto at 1 a.m. doesn't seem to me to be a likely terrorism target, but one argues with Mrs Nunn at one's peril. Off we go down 23 flights of stairs. Me limping quite a lot as my knee is - as a qualified physio might put it - fucked.
We watch the Fire Brigade for a bit (even though I promise I wasn't responsible for calling them this time). Then we go back up to the hotel room.
The giant city hall clock starts striking the hour every hour from 5 a.m. onwards.
I wonder what delight we'll have this evening. Niagra tomorrow. Mrs Nunn doesn't know, but I've booked her the full "Barrel Experience".
The alarm clock goes off. Mrs Nunn (mostly asleep) first blames Mr Nunn (mostly on a different continent) and then me. As this didn't happen the previous night, and she's the only one who's touched it in the interim, I think we can guess who might be to blame. (She had previously struggled with the lightswitch for a good three minutes before giving up.)
I disable the alarm. We go back to sleep.
1 a.m., the same hotel.
Another beeping starts. Mrs Nunn blames Mr Nunn again, then changes this quite quickly to "Laura, what have you done now?" She then checks her mobile phone. I explain to her it's the fire alarm. She insists we evacuate. We are on the 23rd floor of the hotel, and we can't use the lifts. The hotel staff say that there's no need to evacuate, they're just seeing what the problem is. "That's what they said during 9/11," Mrs Nunn retorts, and down the stairs we go. A hotel in Toronto at 1 a.m. doesn't seem to me to be a likely terrorism target, but one argues with Mrs Nunn at one's peril. Off we go down 23 flights of stairs. Me limping quite a lot as my knee is - as a qualified physio might put it - fucked.
We watch the Fire Brigade for a bit (even though I promise I wasn't responsible for calling them this time). Then we go back up to the hotel room.
The giant city hall clock starts striking the hour every hour from 5 a.m. onwards.
I wonder what delight we'll have this evening. Niagra tomorrow. Mrs Nunn doesn't know, but I've booked her the full "Barrel Experience".
Monday, June 09, 2008
Warm hearted
So, we made it to Canada. This is despite Mrs Nunn:
- Insisting we arrive at Heathrow five hours before the flight was due to depart.
- Engaging the very chatty Canadian woman next to her in a three-hour conversation about... well, fuck all, whilst I tried to sleep.
- Getting lost in the lift. Twice.
Apparently we are here during a heatwave. This is something of a shock, as it was barely 30 degrees Centigrade today. Apparently tomorrow (after today's "record breaking" temperatures) it will be back to a "more seasonal" average. This worries me. I only have one pair of long trousers. Sucks to be me.
Everyone here is a bit suspiciously friendly. If you ask them for directions (which Mrs Nunn does about once every 2.3 seconds), the Canadians smile at you a lot and touch you on the shoulder. This disturbs me. A woman who we'd never ever seen before said good morning to us. Things like that don't happen in London. And if they do, your new friend is probably a loony and you're within your right to shoot them.
I think they might all be stoned. We shall see.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Mum's the word
Mrs Nunn is staying at the moment. In case you hadn't realised from earlier Plogs, Mrs Nunn is entirely mad. She drinks a lot of tea. It's not really tea. It's a Tesco Value tea-bag waved over a cup of hot water and half a pint of milk added. She also makes two cups of tea at a time and drinks one straight after the other.
Additionally, Mrs Nunn - unsurprisingly given the sheer volume of liquid she consumes - is rarely (if ever) out of my bathroom. This would be OK, except for the fact that my toilet takes about ten minutes to fill, and can't be flushed again until it's done. So essentially, when Mrs Nunn is staying, between her quarter-hourly toilet dashes, I am totally unable to relieve myself.
Anyway, Mrs Nunn and I are on holiday as from tomorrow. Off to Canada for a few days which just sounds terribly glamorous. So if you don't hear from me, I'll be chasing moose and - no doubt - being embarrassed in lingerie shops by Mrs Nunn shouting at the top of her voice, "I do have enormous breasts - can you find me a great big bra?" It has happened before. It'll happen again.
Mrs Nunn wonders if the sound of Niagra Falls might worsen her "condition". I think it'll improve it. Especially when I push her in.
Additionally, Mrs Nunn - unsurprisingly given the sheer volume of liquid she consumes - is rarely (if ever) out of my bathroom. This would be OK, except for the fact that my toilet takes about ten minutes to fill, and can't be flushed again until it's done. So essentially, when Mrs Nunn is staying, between her quarter-hourly toilet dashes, I am totally unable to relieve myself.
Anyway, Mrs Nunn and I are on holiday as from tomorrow. Off to Canada for a few days which just sounds terribly glamorous. So if you don't hear from me, I'll be chasing moose and - no doubt - being embarrassed in lingerie shops by Mrs Nunn shouting at the top of her voice, "I do have enormous breasts - can you find me a great big bra?" It has happened before. It'll happen again.
Mrs Nunn wonders if the sound of Niagra Falls might worsen her "condition". I think it'll improve it. Especially when I push her in.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Fobbed off
It should have been so simple. I wanted a spare key fob for the secure entrance on my block of flats.
I made all the necessary arrangements; I phoned Tower Hamlets Council yesterday, and spoke to the requisite 14 different departments until we located the right one. I ascertained that to obtain a spare key fob, I needed to bring along a bill with my address on and some photographic ID, and pay the princely sum of £10. I learned that the office I had to go to was a good 20 minutes' walk from where I lived. So far, so good.
So, armed with my driving licence and my TV licence, I headed up the Roman Road, to the delightful council offices.
The offices were very futuristic and high-tech. Built around a circle, ten glass windows welcomed me and an LED screen invited me to take a ticket. I did. Of the ten glass windows, just one was being used to serve the public. The woman next to me sounded as though she was in the advanced stages of TB. Sadly not advanced enough for her to expire and cease irritating me.
The member of public at the glass window was vociferously complaining that his benefits didn't cover his rent. As he was doing it quite so loudly, it was very tempting to wander over, tap him on the shoulder and say, "I say, old chap - couldn't help overhearing... Terrible business about the benefits situation, what? Just a suggestion, have you thought about getting a fucking job?"
I held my tongue though. He probably had a knife. Or poor people germs. One can't be too careful.
Eventually my ticket was called. I went to the window, explained the situation. The barely-conscious member of staff asked me for my rent book. I explained I was a leaseholder. She asked for my ID. I was prepared. She did some photocopying. Brilliant. All going well so far. Then she couldn't find the key fobs and had to phone head office. Then she found the key fobs, and spent about six minutes trying to get one off of the bunch.
Finally she had the key fob in hand. This was my chance. I handed the £10 note to her.
"Oh no, we don't take cash," she said.
"No problem," I replied. I am resourceful and flexible. I brought out my Switch card.
"We don't take cards either," she explained.
"Ah. I think I have my chequebook somewhere... hang on," I said.
"We don't take cheques," said the lady from the council.
"OK," I said. "Here's my problem. You have something I want - and I am willing to pay £10 for it. We have agreed this is a fair price. How do I get that £10 to you if you won't take cash, cards or cheques?"
"Wait a minute," she said. She returned a few minutes later with a credit-card type thing. "You need to take this to the Post Office, get them to put £10 on it, and then bring it back here and I'll give you the key."
The whole process took slightly under an hour. An hour. For a key. Getting two (regular) keys cut later that day on the high street took about 30 seconds.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is how I spent part of a hedonistic day of annual leave. It sucks being grown up. Still, at least the council has worked out how to get really really thick, unemployable people off benefits - make them work for the council. Genius.
I made all the necessary arrangements; I phoned Tower Hamlets Council yesterday, and spoke to the requisite 14 different departments until we located the right one. I ascertained that to obtain a spare key fob, I needed to bring along a bill with my address on and some photographic ID, and pay the princely sum of £10. I learned that the office I had to go to was a good 20 minutes' walk from where I lived. So far, so good.
So, armed with my driving licence and my TV licence, I headed up the Roman Road, to the delightful council offices.
The offices were very futuristic and high-tech. Built around a circle, ten glass windows welcomed me and an LED screen invited me to take a ticket. I did. Of the ten glass windows, just one was being used to serve the public. The woman next to me sounded as though she was in the advanced stages of TB. Sadly not advanced enough for her to expire and cease irritating me.
The member of public at the glass window was vociferously complaining that his benefits didn't cover his rent. As he was doing it quite so loudly, it was very tempting to wander over, tap him on the shoulder and say, "I say, old chap - couldn't help overhearing... Terrible business about the benefits situation, what? Just a suggestion, have you thought about getting a fucking job?"
I held my tongue though. He probably had a knife. Or poor people germs. One can't be too careful.
Eventually my ticket was called. I went to the window, explained the situation. The barely-conscious member of staff asked me for my rent book. I explained I was a leaseholder. She asked for my ID. I was prepared. She did some photocopying. Brilliant. All going well so far. Then she couldn't find the key fobs and had to phone head office. Then she found the key fobs, and spent about six minutes trying to get one off of the bunch.
Finally she had the key fob in hand. This was my chance. I handed the £10 note to her.
"Oh no, we don't take cash," she said.
"No problem," I replied. I am resourceful and flexible. I brought out my Switch card.
"We don't take cards either," she explained.
"Ah. I think I have my chequebook somewhere... hang on," I said.
"We don't take cheques," said the lady from the council.
"OK," I said. "Here's my problem. You have something I want - and I am willing to pay £10 for it. We have agreed this is a fair price. How do I get that £10 to you if you won't take cash, cards or cheques?"
"Wait a minute," she said. She returned a few minutes later with a credit-card type thing. "You need to take this to the Post Office, get them to put £10 on it, and then bring it back here and I'll give you the key."
The whole process took slightly under an hour. An hour. For a key. Getting two (regular) keys cut later that day on the high street took about 30 seconds.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is how I spent part of a hedonistic day of annual leave. It sucks being grown up. Still, at least the council has worked out how to get really really thick, unemployable people off benefits - make them work for the council. Genius.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Heeling touch
There is a cobblers near where I work at Liverpool Street Station. Their staff wear t-shirts with perhaps the cleverest slogan I can possibly imagine for a cobblers:
"Time wounds all heels"
Isn't that genius? It makes me smile every time I go past. Which is twice a day, at least. Two smiles per day. For free! Who says London's expensive?
"Time wounds all heels"
Isn't that genius? It makes me smile every time I go past. Which is twice a day, at least. Two smiles per day. For free! Who says London's expensive?
Monday, June 02, 2008
Gang warfare
I am a faulty geek.
The fact that I'm a geek is not really up for debate. A nice person might describe me as an "early adopter" of technology. But essentially I'm a geek. My hobbies are geeky. I don't paint model aeroplanes or anything (mostly because I'd be shit at it) but I have my certain favourite TV shows that aren't always exactly mainstream.
"But a faulty geek?" I can hear you ask. "In what way are you faulty?"
That is a good question. Well, every other geek I've ever met is always extremely keen to share their (pathetically dull) passion with you. They will bore you about minutae of Star Trek or tell you the exact number of Orc extras in Lord of the Rings. I am the opposite. I don't like anyone else sharing my geekery. It is mine. All mine.
It's time to come clean. As some of you will know, a kids' TV show called Press Gang featured heavily in my childhood. The best show ever written - in my opinion (which is always right, obviously) and the writer - Steven Moffat - was only about 25 when the first series was commissioned.
Mr Moffat has gone on to do great things. The fabulous (but sadly mostly forgotten) Joking Apart, the not-quite-so-great (and probably best forgotten) Chalk, the well-received Coupling and the recent Jekyll. He's also written the best episodes of Dr Who.
And this is where my faultiness comes out, as far as geekery is concerned. Suddenly I'm seeing Facebook status updates, geeky fan forums all praising Steven Moffat to the skies for being the best writer ever. Which of course he is. Possibly with the exception of Shakespeare. And I don't want to share The Moff. He is my geeky secret. And we Press Gang fans feel niche and a teeny tiny community. I shouldn't have to share him with the Dr Who massive.
That is all.
Oh, and if you don't own Press Gang (and if you love Dr Who - or even if you don't - you should), then Tesco are doing the complete box set (usually about £70) for a rather amazing £18. I've even got the link for you. Don't say I never give you anything.
http://www.tesco.com/entertainment/product.aspx?R=660656&&in_merch=1&in_merch_title=Best_Sellers&in_merch_name=Press+Gang+-+The+Complete+Series+%5bBox+Set%5d
The fact that I'm a geek is not really up for debate. A nice person might describe me as an "early adopter" of technology. But essentially I'm a geek. My hobbies are geeky. I don't paint model aeroplanes or anything (mostly because I'd be shit at it) but I have my certain favourite TV shows that aren't always exactly mainstream.
"But a faulty geek?" I can hear you ask. "In what way are you faulty?"
That is a good question. Well, every other geek I've ever met is always extremely keen to share their (pathetically dull) passion with you. They will bore you about minutae of Star Trek or tell you the exact number of Orc extras in Lord of the Rings. I am the opposite. I don't like anyone else sharing my geekery. It is mine. All mine.
It's time to come clean. As some of you will know, a kids' TV show called Press Gang featured heavily in my childhood. The best show ever written - in my opinion (which is always right, obviously) and the writer - Steven Moffat - was only about 25 when the first series was commissioned.
Mr Moffat has gone on to do great things. The fabulous (but sadly mostly forgotten) Joking Apart, the not-quite-so-great (and probably best forgotten) Chalk, the well-received Coupling and the recent Jekyll. He's also written the best episodes of Dr Who.
And this is where my faultiness comes out, as far as geekery is concerned. Suddenly I'm seeing Facebook status updates, geeky fan forums all praising Steven Moffat to the skies for being the best writer ever. Which of course he is. Possibly with the exception of Shakespeare. And I don't want to share The Moff. He is my geeky secret. And we Press Gang fans feel niche and a teeny tiny community. I shouldn't have to share him with the Dr Who massive.
That is all.
Oh, and if you don't own Press Gang (and if you love Dr Who - or even if you don't - you should), then Tesco are doing the complete box set (usually about £70) for a rather amazing £18. I've even got the link for you. Don't say I never give you anything.
http://www.tesco.com/entertainment/product.aspx?R=660656&&in_merch=1&in_merch_title=Best_Sellers&in_merch_name=Press+Gang+-+The+Complete+Series+%5bBox+Set%5d
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Go go go
TheBloke (TM) took me to see Joseph on Friday. I think I managed to hide the fact from him that I'm a little bit in love with Lee Mead. Especially in a loincloth. Though a few of TheBloke (TM)'s comments, querying Mr Mead's sexuality and saying that he didn't think his voice was all that great perhaps did indicate a certain amount of jealousy. I'm not sure.
I really enjoyed the show, though there were some slightly odd moments (inexplicable French accents for just one scene, Joseph - chucked into a pit - playing with a sock puppet, and an unusual choice of a replica London Eye passing by). There were also some stupendously terrible lyrics:
"Potiphar was cool and so fine (Potiphar)But my wife would never toe the line (Narrator). It's all there in chapter thirty-nine. Of Genesis."
and this year's best example of litotes:
"Poor, poor Joseph, locked up in a cell. Things ain't going well, hey, locked up in a cell."
Still, it was a fun evening, with a suprisingly moving ending. TheBloke (TM) said he could feel himself getting gayer by the second, and I think by the time of the curtain call, he might have fought me over Lee Mead. I'll keep you posted.
I really enjoyed the show, though there were some slightly odd moments (inexplicable French accents for just one scene, Joseph - chucked into a pit - playing with a sock puppet, and an unusual choice of a replica London Eye passing by). There were also some stupendously terrible lyrics:
"Potiphar was cool and so fine (Potiphar)But my wife would never toe the line (Narrator). It's all there in chapter thirty-nine. Of Genesis."
and this year's best example of litotes:
"Poor, poor Joseph, locked up in a cell. Things ain't going well, hey, locked up in a cell."
Still, it was a fun evening, with a suprisingly moving ending. TheBloke (TM) said he could feel himself getting gayer by the second, and I think by the time of the curtain call, he might have fought me over Lee Mead. I'll keep you posted.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)