Clowning around

I write to you today as an accomplished trapeze artist. Indeed. I, Laura Nunn of Tower Hamlets today mastered the trapeze.

I hate team bonding sessions. I told TheBloke (TM) about it this morning in the sulky voice I save especially for team bonding sessions. "I'll have to do trapeze," I said. "And juggling. And a human pyramid. And I'll have to go on stilts."

"Your job is brilliant," said TheBloke (TM). "I wish I could piss around in a circus all day."

I hate team bonding. A lot. Like the time we went laser clay pigeon shooting and even though the pigeons weren't real and the guns didn't shoot anything, I still hit absolutely nothing. At all. In fact, twice I forgot to take the safety off. Why the buggery bollocks would a laser gun need a safety catch? Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Still, today I climbed a big scary ladder, jumped off a platform about 25 feet high (OK, it was probably nearer 15, but let me have my boasty moment) and didn't plunge to my untimely death.

And with a bit of luck, I won't have to do it again for another year.

Absolutely potty

Goblet of Fire (8th July 2000)

I had actually read the first three Harry Potter books by this date, and read this one too as soon as Mr Nunn had put it down. The diary entry for this date relies a lot on minute knowledge of fairly dull aspects of my life, so I'll summarise. I'd finished my first year at uni, and was back working in Coalville for the summer. With a new boyfriend whom I only saw at weekends, the bars on the window at work, looking out to a concrete carpark seemed a weekday prison. Whilst I still enjoyed the job and adored my colleagues, the weekends were my focus, and the soundtrack was Coldplay's Yellow and Spiller/Groovejet's If This Ain't Love. Later that summer I would go to my first (and only) music festival (OK, Party in the Park) in Birmingham and faint whilst Sid Owen sang something ridiculous.

Essentially - I was still a geek.

Order of the Phoenix (21st June 2003)

Working in my graduate job (for the company I still work for to this day), this was the day I moved to Bethnal Green with Erica. Some names have been changed.

"I'm knackered. Work's been busy and we had a team night out on Wednesday for Cookie's birthday. Daniel was there. (Latest 'Daniel is perfect' story: he has a black belt in karate, is a trained chef and spends Saturdays sketching in charcoal. Is this guy for real?) I wasn't very drunk but the combination of a late night, a big meal and alcohol meant I did throw up at 1.30 a.m. all over Erica's bathmat. Embarrassing. She took one look at the vomit, said, "I'm hungry. Can I have one of your chocolate bars?" I didn't feel I was in a position to refuse."

Could this be the start of a teenage rebellion? No. I gave up alcohol two years later.

I remember moving house on the day the novel came out, and with the wonderful, wonderful weather that year, Harry Potter and the park were prioritised for many weeks above the boxes of crap which littered my living room. I should really stop crapping in boxes.


Half-Blood Prince (16th July 2005)

A long journey to Gloucestershire for a wedding on this day. A tunnel collapse at Gerrard's Cross meant that it took me about seven hours to get to Stratford-Upon-Avon, involving a bus to Banbury and other ridiculous diversions. Normally this would have me utterly furious, but a Harry Potter book, purchased at the W H Smith's at Marlybone station distracted me from the tedium of the journey... and by the end of the seven-hour return journey home, the novel was finished.

A turbulent period in London and in Laura's head. It was good to get out of the city for a weekend, and out of myself for a day or so.

I remember the end of the novel - or something - made me cry on the train home.


Deathly Hallows (21st July 2007)

Ah! The SABE! The Second Annual Barbecue Extravaganza! I bought the book at Sainsbury's, along with a disposable barbecue and a book of matches. It rained all day and the SABE was abandoned in favour of Hairspray at the cinema and an al fresco lunch at Giraffe near the London Aquarium the following day.

All is well.

Potted history

OK, I don't normally do these meme things... It's not that they don't make me laugh or that I don't enjoy reading other people's, but I kind of figure that I generally tell you guys enough about my life, often in humilating detail, that you probably don't need to know which brand of toothpaste I prefer (Colgate Total) or whether I would kiss someone of the same sex for £1000 (obviously. Would probably do it for a tenner. If you have a tenner and would like to kiss me, let me know.).

Anyway, the below meme currently doing the rounds did interest me, mostly because it gives an interesting snapshot of the last few years, mostly pre-Plog, and allows me to wallow in a bit of nostalgia.

So without further ado, and with much quoting from diaries past I present: Things Wot I was Doing When the Harry Potter Books Came Out.


Philosopher's Stone (30th June 1997)

"Well, it's House Drama tomorrow. I'm not nervous so much as excited; I'm looking forward to it. I sense the cast is getting bored of the play, and although given more time and renewed vigour, we could make it a lot better, I think they've improved as much as they're going to and want to perform now. I expect I'll be very nervous tomorrow as director. I'll also miss it when it's over. It's a good distraction from gloomy thoughts. Other news - I've won a place on a drama course in France - all expenses paid! It's not until the last week in August, but it's something to look forward to. Anyway - a long day tomorrow as after the play, I'm off to Cambridge for an open day. Wish me and my cast luck... or tell us to "break a leg"!"

So much encapsulated in that one paragraph:

• Age 17 I was already a bossy theatre geek
• We did indeed win (well, jointly win) the House Drama contest with Daisy Pulls it Off
• The drama course in France was hilarious and deserves its own Plog one day
• And on a more melanocholic note, the leading lady of the play we put on, was killed on duty in Iraq last year.

Chamber of Secrets (2nd July 1998)

"I've not written for a couple of days. I've been really busy with Bugsy. Last night's performance was very enjoyable. Jennie came to see it again last night. I met her for a drink in the bar at the interval. I felt so sophisticated drinking (legally!) alcohol in front of the teachers - so grown-up - hello adulthood! Until I tipped most of the bottle of Stella down my front. Emma got dumped by pager on the way to the cast party - that's not got to be a lot of fun. I left the cast party early as I don't really like that sort of social occasion, but apparently there was all sorts of scandal and sexual intrigue. As ever by the time it all kicked off, I was at home with a good book! Tomorrow is my last ever day at school - the final leavers' assembly. I always thought I'd be sad at leaving. But actually, I'm ready to go."

• Again, theatre geek! Though I was only chorus for this one.
• Aged 18 now, and still utterly failing to have a teenage rebellion
• Dumped by pager?! Pager? At least these days you've got the option to put a little sad, tearful face when you dump someone by MSN Messenger.

Prisoner of Azkaban (8th July 1999)

"I miss Tunisia already. It was idyllic. It is nice to be back in England and away from the pestering blokes (total greasy men tally = 19 offers of sex, two of marriage and 4000 camels). Work was lovely today. Not too busy as I hadn't been in the office generating work, but lovely to see all my colleagues and chat about my holiday! Loads of people asked if I'd enjoyed my holiday; I barely thought they'd notice I'd gone!"

• In 1999 I was paid £7500 per annum to work for a tiny little company in Coalville. After paying my parents rent and running my car, I used to have about £100 per month left. It seemed a fortune, was enough for a weekly horse-riding lesson, a cheap girly holiday to Tunisia, and a PC when I went to uni the next year. And I genuinely don't think I've ever been as happy in any other job since.

Right, I think I'll save the rest for tomorrow. To give me something else to write about.

In other news, I had a giant queen bee in my flat yesterday. I thought I was just being a wuss and it was a regular-sized bee and I was blowing things out of proportion. Then I noticed another (regular) bee next to it, and I realised this really was a gargantuan of the bee world. It was six and a half feet tall. Not really, but it was at least an inch in length. I would have taken a photo but I was too busy standing near the front door with a glass, a piece of card and a terrified expression... which is exactly how TheBloke (TM) found me half an hour later. Both bees were despatched unharmed, you will bee (geddit?) glad to know.

Next to nothing

Ladies and Gentlemen of the Plog... Next are selling Invisibility Cloaks! Get yours now whilst stocks last!

Yesterday I bought a new top in the Next sale. Nothing special - just a light beige tank top with a lighter blouse already sewn in at the neckline. It was fine for work, so, as it's always fun to wear new clothes, I wore it to the office today. As the weather was unnervingly sunny, I felt I ought to make the most of it, so walked in. And as I approached the City, suddenly people kept walking into me, either expecting I'd swerve first (like a really rubbish game of Pedestrian Chicken) or else just not seeing me.

Later that day I walked on to the Barbican to check out a venue for an event I'm holding next month. Again, commuters barged cheerfully into me.

And as I walked to a play rehearsal this evening, once again the total gits made an utter beeline for me. Traffic failed to stop at zebra crossings. People cut straight in front of my path.

So either a new "rules of London walking" memo went out yesterday which I didn't see, or else I had powers of invisibility. And I think we'd all agree that for a mere £12 top, this is well worth the money. However, today mostly illustrated the sheer inconvenience of being invisible. I felt I got all of the strife, and none of the rewards. So when I next wear my magic top, I think I'll loiter at cashpoints, get into the cinema for free, and... bollocks, I genuinely can't think of many bonuses to being invisible.

Still, if being invisible is something that's always appealed to you, then hurry and buy your beige top now before the Next sale ends! I hope in the following seasons they start doing magic purses full of and endless supply of money. I might pop it in their suggestions box.

Wotsit all about?

I've Plogged about this before, and I'll Plog about it again. I think I have a worrying addiction to Cheesy Wotsits. Originally I'd only buy them when they were on special offer (and indeed they are this week at Sainsbury's - buy one multipack, get one free - bargain)... but now it's become a weekly purchase, often a daily consumable. Sometimes a twice-daily consumable. I'm not sure this is good for me.

Whilst my increasingly grown-up friends are extolling the values of home-delivered organic vegetable boxes to ensure the correct pesticide-free quota of their "five a day", I'm lucky if I manage five pieces of fruit or veg a week. Wotsits, on the other hand, I'm managing admirably with, you'll be pleased to know. Should there ever be a regional Wotsit-eating contest, please do let me know, as I think I might be in with a chance.

Colleagues think I've taken up smoking as my fingers are almost always a luxuriant orange colour.

I have been known to physically wrestle in the flat for the last Wotsit / packet of Wotsits. My behaviour has reached unacceptable levels.

I am going away to think about what I've done. But first I'm just going to pop quickly to the kitchen...

Sofa so good...

DFS. I do not know what these letters stand for (Dead Fur Sofas? Da Furniture Shop? Dodgy Furniture Store?). But I know that today was Sofa Day. Why the new sofa? Well, I have a sofa bed at the moment which is not too bad as a bed... but actually not that comfortable as a sofa. Also it's a bit broken. I'd like to blame Erica and Dean who used it last, but, no - fuck it - actually I will. It's all Erica and Dean's fault. You heard it here first. (OK, OK, it's been a bit dodgy for a while; it's just nice to blame someone.)

So today off we toddled to DFS, selected a sofa, and called over a member of staff to help us with the purchase.

"OK," said the pleasant-but-clueless employee of Desperate Furniture Salesmen. "Can I ask if it's just you two who will be using the sofa?"

I was slightly thrown by this question. "Yes," I said. "We might have the occasional guest. Do I need written permission for them to sit on it?"

"No, no, that's fine," said the man, gravely. He then ran through some "leather care" tips, including the fact that we were supposed to moisturise the sofa once every two weeks. Let me just re-state that. We were supposed to moisturise the sofa fortnightly. I don't moisturise myself on a fortnightly basis!

After asserting I'd like to take advantage of their one year interest free credit offer, our clueless member of staff asked me if I'd like to pay in full when the sofa arrived. I explained again I'd like the year of interest free credit. He made notes. Then asked me if I'd like to start paying in three months' time, when the sofa is due to arrive.

He asked me how much deposit I would like to leave. I asked him what the minimum deposit was I could leave. He told me that I didn't have to leave a deposit at all. I said I wouldn't then. He said that he thought I might like to. I said if I didn't have to, I wouldn't, in case the company went bust. He said, "We're not going bust!" then he looked a bit worried, he observed I worked in financial services and - to make things worse - TheBloke (TM) added, "It is the credit crunch you know!"

I didn't leave a deposit.

He told me my sofa would be delivered in about twelve weeks. They couldn't tell me when, but they wouldn't hang onto the sofa after they were ready to make delivery, so I had to guarantee to be in the flat when they wanted to deliver it - with a day's notice. I explained to him this might be tricky. He looked worried.

Ten minutes later, with all the paperwork complete, and after we'd left the store, he chased TheBloke (TM) and me into Curry's... he'd forgotten to take my phone number to arrange the sofa delivery.

Bless him. I think I might have popped his sofa-selling cherry.

Phoning it in

There doesn't seem much that's Plog-worthy at the moment. I've had a nice week - dinner with a friend, musical rehearsal, Book Club... but nothing outstandingly amusing has happened.

I have had only limited trials and tribulations with public transport. My bus was a bit delayed on Friday, but I still got into work at 8.58, so I can't really claim to have been late, nor rant at public transport as actually I chose not to run for a slightly earlier bus.

I even ordered a new mobile phone, and asked for it to be sent to work, hopeful that its certain loss or delay would give my Ploggers something to giggle over. Irritatingly, in the lift at 8.58, before Reception had even had a chance to lose it, I bumped into the courier who handed my package straight over to me. It works fine.

I had a watch battery replaced. I had some boots reheeled. I put some laundry away. Reception hand out Crunchie Bars on a Friday. This made me giggle.

There have been no:

- car thefts
- spiders
- moths
- wrong numbers
- stalkers
- police statements

all week. This is all good news, obviously. It's just a bit... boring for you. Sorry.

Turf war

So I have the Corsa back. Finally. After each day being assured that "parts haven't arrived yet"... apparently from Germany. One wonders how German Vauxhall actually is. Thinking about it though, to be fair, I have no idea where Vauxhalls are manufactured. Perhaps they are German. It is a bit worrying - I've driven a Vauxhall for ten years, and never paused to consider where in the world they might be made.

I'm guessing it isn't Vauxhall South London. Though now I think about it, it is the sort of area where one is likely to be able to purchase spare car parts - to order.

Hey ho. I have the Corsa back, though the bastarding fuck-wanky council are still refusing to refund the towing charge for the courtesy car which was parked in my own personal space which I pay for. Still, I'll get my own back somehow. Only this morning I failed to put my recycling out for collection. Oh yes, I'll win this one in the long term.

But for now it is Friday evening and all plans of council-based destruction will be put on hold until Monday. The reception on the first floor at work does free Crunchie Bars on a Friday. I may need to pop by there more often on Fridays, I suspect. These things happen.

Have a lovely weekend, Ploggers everywhere.

Horrors

So a while back I auditioned for a musical. As per the previous entry, I thought I'd be really rather good. I really wasn't. And so wasn't surprised when I received the prestigious part of Little Shop of Horrors chorus member. I didn't even know they had a chorus. I had a nasty suspicion they might have made one just for me.

Anyway, a few weeks later, I get an email from my friend Teresa who didn't even audition for the muscial. She forwards to me an email from the director, telling her that the girl who's playing Ronnette has dropped out, and asking Teresa if she'd like to step into the role. Teresa - laughing her head off - forwards the email to me with a note attached - "You must really suck." I have great friends.

Turns out the director asked at least two other people... before finally turning to me. Obviously I used this information to wind him up at rehearsal. So, self-esteem at an all-time low, I'm taking on the part of Ronnette. Badly, obviously. As well as not being a strong singer, and achieving a fairly weak American accent, I also can't dance. Really, if anything, they should have cast me as the plant. So long as I didn't have to move. Or speak. Perhaps not the plant then. Perhaps just a plant. Like a geranium. Or a begonia.

Fuck it, directing's much easier.

The Third Annual Barbecue Extravaganza

The TABE. Oh, the TABE.

The Third Annual Barbecue Extravaganza. What more can I say? Planned for Saturday, so Erica and Dean duly arrived. I was mid-cake-making. These things happen. Luckily they are tolerant people and withstood the cake-making on condition they could help with the cake sampling later.

Sadly, the weather on Saturday was somewhere between, "Ooh, the sky looks a bit threatening, doesn't it?" and "Jesus Christ, it's freezing." So, whilst the sun didn't shine, we chose not to make hay, and instead went to the cinema to see Journey to the Centre of the Earth in 3D. It was very silly and exactly what was prescribed for a chilly July Saturday. I even managed to follow the plot all by myself without any help from Erica at all.

We also went bowling. It looks like my skill at Wii bowling doesn't directly transfer into real-life bowling, which is a shame. On hearing we'd been real-life bowling, TheBloke (TM) asked Erica and Dean if I'd killed anyone this time. That's unfair. I didn't kill anyone last time. And really, you shouldn't let a toddler stand behind a bowling lane. You can't always choose accurately whether to roll it forwards or backwards.

So the TABE was postponed until Sunday. And lo, it was glorious. The sun shone, the barbecue lit. Dean didn't even cry this time. TheBloke (TM) and Dean did, however, get into a rather pointless competition of "who can stand closer to a squirrel". There was Pimms ("there were Pimms"? Is Pimms plural? Actually, I can answer that one. There were definitely plural Pimms.). There were sausages. There were burgers. There was even chocolate orange drizzle cake.

To commemorate the success, we took a photo. It looks like a slightly aged version of Dawson's Creek. Still, we had fun.

Roll on the FABE!

Let them eat cake

So much to tell, so much to tell, so little time. I was supposed to make a cake last night, but we got free theatre tickets instead to see The Female of the Species, with Eileen Atkins, Anna Maxwell-Martin and others, so cake-baking plans were kiboshed in favour of a very funny play. It's still in previews at the moment, but I'd definitely recommend it once it opens. The balsa wood cinema line had me chuckling many hours later.

Things I need to tell you, but probably won't get round to today:

1. Little Shop of Horrors rehearsals. Don't ask. Well, you won't have to, because I'll tell you, just not right now.
2. The latest CorSaga. The garage still has my Corsa a week later. I still have their courtesy car. Well, I did, the last time I checked. But with the wanky towing fuckheads around, it's probably already gone again.
3. The cake I nearly made, in fact might still. Lots to do.

But in the meantime I must prepare myself. For Erica and Dean are - as I type this - hurtling on their way from the Midlands to attend our Third Annual Barbecue Extravaganza (TABE). Obviously it's freezing cold and looks like it might rain any second. This is excellent, as that's exactly what happened last year. This year we will be cunning and consider delaying barbecue plans until tomorrow if necessary. I'm sure it will rain then too.

I will update you on the TABE once more news is available. I hope Dean doesn't cry again this year.

Car-lessness

So it turns out the car wasn't stolen after all. Towed, the fucking wanky bastards. Am in the process of complaining. Lots.

That's a fun conversation to have with a Vauxhall garage.

Me: Hello. My name is Laura Nunn and I borrowed an Astra from you on Saturday. Erm... could you tell me the registration number please?

Vauxhall: Erm, why?

Me: Just interested. Could I have the reg please?

Vauxhall: Why don't you go and look outside the window?

Me: There's something in the way at the moment. And I've hurt my leg. And also I'm at work. And other things. Can I please have the registration?

Vauxhall: Have you lost the car?

Me: No. Maybe. A bit, yes. It might have been stolen. I'm not sure.

So much of Monday was spent in a car pound in Bromley-by-Bow. Bromley-by-Bow confuses me. Because I always thought Bromley was near Kent but Bow is near me. My geography is poor enough for that simple place name to send me into a spiral of confusion and misery. So I got a cab. As if the £175 release fee wasn't enough, I thought I could nicely add an extra £13 to proceedings without too much trouble.

I will let you know how things go with the council. I wouldn't want to have to get nasty and write a more strongly-worded letter of complaint. But I will if necessary. I might even tut.

Discourteous

It seemed so routine. A bit irritating to have to get up so early on a Saturday after such a busy week, but routine nonetheless. At 8.30 yesterday morning I took the Corsa in to the Vauxhall garage as for an inexplicable reason, the boot no longer wants to open and the radio refuses to receive Radio 2 (though for the latter, I do suspect some intentional tampering on behalf of TheBloke (TM)).

I took the car in. They gave me a courtesy car - a rather peppy Astra. I drove it home, popped a note on the windscreen to explain the lack of a residents' permit, left the paperwork in the car to prove it, and toddled on with my day. The garage called at around midday to tell me they needed to get a Vauxhall expert to look at my car (go figure, who'd have thought?) so they would keep it until Monday. I could hang onto the courtesy car.

I continued to toddle on with my day. I - in no particular order - did laundry, received some lovely orchids, made lunch, chatted to my friend Juliet on the phone, and then went to see Hancock and out for dinner. Feeling all devil-may-care, I even indulged in a spot of light beer drinking. After one Corona and one half pint of something else, I was already tipsy and headed home.

Merrily, as we turned the corner to the flat, I said to TheBloke (TM), "Where's my car?" 'Twas gone. Possibly towed, possibly stolen.

Irritating. But, ever the grown-up, I called the local police station, who, understandably, wanted the registration number. Which was in the car. They asked me to call the Vauxhall garage to obtain the registration number. Surprisingly, at 11 p.m. on a Saturday, it wasn't open - and won't be until tomorrow.

It seemed unlikely it had been towed - there's loads of parking where I live, and I've never seen a tow-truck later than about three in the afternoon - especially not on a Saturday, and it would be a real jobsworth who towed a car with a note in the window clearly explaining the situation. Gut feel was it had been stolen. But apparently you can't report a car stolen unless you know the numberplate.

So if anyone sees a silver Vauxhall Astra, which I think had an 07 registration plate, being driven around Bethnal Green, could you get in touch? Thanks.

And for long-time readers of the Plog, no I didn't just forget where I parked it again, in order to get a lift home with the bomb squad. Shut up.

Is it cheeky to ask for a courtesy car because I lost the original courtesy car?

Hair raising

I have been very busy. So busy that I ran out of shampoo three days ago and haven't yet had enough time to go to the shops (whilst they're still open) to replenish the supply. Currently my hair is surviving on the absolute diluted squeezings of the last bottle, and snatched globules of shampoo belonging to TheBloke (TM). Don't tell him.

I have been so busy. I have:

- Not yet managed to get an acceptance card for a friend's wedding (sorry Karen - on the list, will be done at the weekend, promise!)
- Physically been at the office for more hours than I have been at home for the last three days, in one case memorably returning to the office just seven hours after I left it to go home.
- Seen a depressing play at the National Theatre ("A year of magical thinking" - a one-hander with Vanessa Redgrave. Well done, but a bit draining.)
- Had dinner with Boothie and caught up on the gossip.
- Been promoted from chorus in Little Shop of Horrors to Ronette. Amusing anecdote on this very subject may follow. When I'm less knackered. I just tried to spell "follow" as "phollow". When my spelling goes, you know things are bad.

And on that note... bonne nuit.