Mistaken identity

Today is supposed to be 27 degrees. The first summer we've had all... summer. And I am waiting indoors for a possibly-non-existent Sky engineer. From the council. Or something. I don't really understand, but apparently I need a brand new box attaching to my wall in case the council forces me to get rid of my satellite dish. Typically the helpline number given by the council doesn't work. Fuckers.

Since the weather's so nice, I just want to be sitting on the grass finishing my trashy novel. Since Midnight's Children, I've found myself craving more and more junk in terms of fiction. Like my brain hasn't quite recovered from the intellectual trauma yet. I still haven't lowered myself to chick lit shit (why is it that I hate chick lit as a genre, but in terms of writing style, it's the only one I can seem to do?), but I've been indulging myself in some pretty rubbish crime fiction. I mean, I'm sure it's very good crime fiction. It certainly keeps me turning the pages. But it isn't - for me - "literature". It's like watching an action film - entertains you but doesn't give you much to think about beyond the next plot twist. It's easier for me to follow than thrillers at the cinema though; each of these usually ends with me saying, "Oh, were there two men with beards?"

Case in point: TheBloke (TM) and I went to see Step Brothers last night. Definitely recommended - very funny. However, I couldn't tell apart the two step brothers. To me, they looked exactly the same. I hope I am never called as a witness for a police line up. To be honest, I'm never completely sure that TheBloke (TM) is always the same person. That's my excuse, and I'm sticking to it.

Air rage

I was the only person in the business section flight on the AirFrance flight to Edinburgh. Before you think this sounds like a brilliant boast, worthy of Annabelle herself, let me assure you it was just a bit weird. There were only about six seats in business class, divided from the "plebs" by a little curtain.

I had my own (French) air steward. We stared awkwardly at each other for most of the flight. Well, actually, I tried to read my novel, but every time I looked up, he was looking awkwardly at me. Sometimes he winked.

Owing to the useless curtain, I had the whole "safety demonstration" performance entirely to myself in my section of the plane. Normally I ignore the safety demonstration. Despite being something of a nervous flier, I do tend to think that a bit of a padded jacket and a whistle are somewhat unlikely to save you from a fireball, toxic fumes or large mountain. Call me sceptical. So I normally try and switch off from that brilliant phrase, "In the unlikely event of an emergency". I love the fact they put the word "unlikely" in. As if they just said, "In the event of an emergency", people might run screaming from the plane. "They haven't said the emergency is unlikely! I can't cope!" It reminds me of the lifts in Hong Kong that say, "When there is a fire, do not use lifts." Not "If there is a fire", but "when". I like their definitiveness. Definitivy. Definitivinessly. You know what I mean.

Anyway, because this chap was doing his performance especially for me, I felt I ought to watch. He loved it. He winked at me every other sentence. He mimed "fasten, adjust and tighten the seatbelt" with more vigour than I've ever previously seen. I almost felt I should clap by the time he got to "Your lifejacket is under your seat."

Subsequent to the performance, he offered me a drink about every two seconds. It was all going brilliantly. Until the fatal moment. "Voulez-vous... excuze-moi... Would you like a drink... madame?"

Ruined. Ruined, ruined, ruined. The fucker called me "madame". I have always been "mademoiselle". It's official. I'm old.

Sunlight and highlights

Another August, another Edinburgh Festival. I had promised TheBloke (TM), who had never previously been to Scotland, that there would be haggis and kilts and - most importantly - a lot of rain.

He was disappointed. There was no haggis. There was not a single kilt. And - shockingly - it stayed dry and sunny for the entire Bank Holiday weekend. Something is wrong with the world.

So, review time. Short and sweet perhaps is the way to go with this. And chronological.

Alyssa Kyria - some interesting character comedy with a couple of good lines. Was slightly put off by the coupley-couple in front of me who seemed unable to get through an entire hour without leaning their fat heads together and blocking my view.

Ginger and Black - brilliant, great acting, good music and clever. A lot like Flight of the Conchords. Ginger and Black (I think) were just starting out when I was still doing comedy. I gigged with them once. One day I suspect this may be my greatest claim to fame.

Josie Long - so lovely I wanted to be her friend. She handed out handmade programmes at the start and chatted to the audience as they were coming in. I got given a special box that I had to open at a certain point in the show. I don't know that I'd call it "stand up" in its purest form. Though there were a few laughs, it definitely wasn't gag driven. It was more like spending an hour with someone who you loved to hear talk because they're lovely.

In a Thousand Pieces - TheBloke (TM) and Nice Kate's Other Half (NKOH) bailed on this one. It was an interpretive dance piece highlighting the plight of Eastern European women forced into the sex industry. TheBloke (TM) insisted on calling it "Rape: The Musical" for the entire weekend. The performers are talented and throw themselves into the piece, but it felt a bit "worthy" to me.

Watson and Oliver - not bad. Though NKOH did not look impressed. Likeable people, slightly over-long sketches which tapered off a bit.

John Pinette - fat bloke talking about food. Big shock. NKOH started to look murderous.

Elizabeth and Raleigh - should have been funny. Wasn't. Still, got a chocolate coin, so not a total loss.

The Vodka Bar - technically not a show, more of a, well, vodka bar, but the Jamaican Mule was excellent. I was a bit pissed. Not as pissed as Nice Kate had been a couple of days before though. She had so many unidentified falling over injuries that the GP's advice was necessary. We might have to stage an intervention.

There is far too much to write about, so other highlights will be listed:

• Rude waiters
• TheBloke (TM) being scarily good on the Wii Fit. The fat cheat.
• Guitar Hero - I rock! (On the Easy setting)
• Mary King's Close
• Fat ankles.

I am going back to Edinburgh tomorrow. But for work. Boo.

Shoes and ships and sealing wax and cabbages and kings

Last night was a GTG. A regular gathering of four women who are really old enough to know how to behave better but really don't. Or perhaps choose not to. We get together every month or so in a London restaurant and talk of many things. We are usually asked to leave at some point during the evening.

This particular GTG involved:

• Champagne - because I'm celebrating (more news in due course)
• Queefs
• How we open drawers at work once we've just farted, to pass off the sound as a creaky piece of furniture.
• Pubic hair styles - involving diagrams drawn on the back of dry cleaner receipts.
• Whether or not there's a heaven (two for, one against, one undecided.)
• Laughing so much that liquid comes out your nose.

In short, we covered pretty much every important topic. And I laughed until my stomach hurt. Others may have laughed until liquid came out of their nose. I can't comment.

Other news... it's off to Edinburgh tomorrow for TheBloke (TM) and me! We're visiting Nice Kate and doing exciting Festival things. Watch this space. Actually, don't. Watching a space is a bit dull. But maybe pop back in a few days. If you fancy it. No pressure.

Unsporting

Every morning whilst I'm getting dressed, I watch BBC News. They tell me news in an important tone of voice that suggests that if I miss it, I will somehow be stupider than my colleagues. All the news is delivered with the tone of Extreme Importance.

Yet suddenly, all news has stopped. Just stopped. Totally stopped. And instead my TV is showing pictures of people running in circles, dive-bombing swimming pools and jumping into sandpits. What the fuck? Is there genuinely no news at all during this month? Or are, perhaps, the BBC News reporters over-egging their pudding for the rest of the year?

Some ugly women lost some rowing race at the weekend, and were comforted by someone called Steve Something who had won several Gold Medals for sitting in a boat. The commentator said - and I quote - "There is nothing in the world more moving than seeing these women be comforted by Steve Something." Nothing? Really? Children with cancer? Little puppies being slaughtered? No. Apparently there is nothing more moving than ugly women crying, being rubbishly consoled by a pervy older man.

No more Olympics please. It's really boring.

Artist-dick

Yesterday in Sainsbury's I discovered some exciting "Design your own gingerbread men" kits. For under £2 for five gingerbread men, along with two tubes of decorative coloured icing, plus Smarties and hundreds and thousands for decoration, this looked very much like bargain-in-a-box, plus an afternoon's entertainment for Hazel, TheBloke (TM) and I.

I was shocked, SHOCKED to discover once we'd decorated our gingerbread men, that these kits are on sale to our children. A child could have done this. (See pictures) They didn't, it was us*. But the point is, Sainsbury's should not be facilitating this gingerbread obscenity.

To reiterate, these kits are on the shelf in every Sainsbury's store, available for innocent young children to see. Please write and express your disgust to Sainsbury's customer service immediately.

* When I say "us", it was pretty much exclusively me. Hazel was far too well-behaved. And TheBloke (TM) got upset as I'd already done all the cock jokes.

Diplogmacy

You know sometimes you really, really, really want to write about things, but unfortunately someone implicated in the situation you're writing about is quite likely to read your blog?

Well, most of the time it doesn't matter, not to you, because you're talking about lovely, lovely people, so it isn't an issue. Except you aren't me. And unfortunately, my strongest skill set is bitchiness. So I have to edit my own posts.

Yet, there's something strangely anonymous about blogging. Strange, isn't it? Broadcast to the entire world, with my name and picture attached to it and yet here, with me tapping away at the keyboard, alone in my flat, it feels entirely serene. Secret. Special.

And unfortunately I've never been a great diplomat. If something makes me laugh, I tend to say it, regardless. This is not always a sensible thing (see the Bum Deal and Annabelle posts). Where possible I try to change personal details. But sometimes it's the thing itself that makes it identifiable.

So today I can't bring you the Plog I wanted. It involved the Edinburgh Festival, anal sex, rain, half ping-pong balls and the word "sin". And it made me laugh until I almost did a fart. But sadly, it will have to remain secret. Sorry.

Bags and blogs and bullets

Sharp-eyed Ploggers may notice the page has changed. I'm not exactly sure what I've done, but the text seems to have gone a bit smaller. This, Ploggers, is "progress"!

I have also added some links to other blogs I read regularly. Some were very much the inspiration for my own writings. Others I've stumbled across accidentally but something has hooked me enough to keep reading. If you have a blog you think I should add, let me know. I'm strangely addicted to the minutae of other people's lives.

I did try and do a whizzy poll, but it all went a bit fucked. So I deleted it again.

So, what else is new? This week I have:

• Done something exciting and scary which I can't talk about yet
• Possibly started a war about rubbish bags with my neighbours
• Seen the X-Files movie at the cinema
• Had a loud group of teenage boys thrown out of the cinema for being - well - teenage boys
• Realised I am entirely incapable of dancing and singing simultaneously (not actually at the cinema)
• Failed to purchase a dead mouse in a milkbottle.

Just an average week really.

Split personality

Most of the time I am a grown up. I pay the mortgage, have Direct Debits, rarely (but sometimes) run out of milk. I like documentaries, theatre and literature. I like art deco, olives and tomato juice. I can express political opinions relatively eloquently. I go to the dentist of my own volition. I don't feel scared ordering meals in restaurants. I no longer buy clothes from Topshop or New Look. Most of the time I am a grown up.

But sometimes I am not. Recently a few of my schoolfriends got together, and we were discussing the recent school reunion. We were sharing not-so-fond memories of Belinda McOrange and Annabelle... and I floated the idea of becoming Annabelle - just for a week - in my Facebook status updates.

Now, the grown-up part of me (and Sarah, who often is my conscience, when my own conscience fails) knows that I should leave it. I should rise above it. That actually, not responding makes me the better human being. Mrs Nunn says I should just leave it alone and that Annabelle and Belinda McOrange are mentally unstable. However, Mrs Nunn has self-diagnosed herself as having Asperger's (she hasn't), but this enables me to ignore her suggestion as clearly people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.

But the not-grown-up part of me, and the part that doesn't listen to Mrs Nunn or to Sarah, thinks it would be very, very, very funny. And unfortunately, sometimes that voice wins over. Updating my status on Facebook for a week with messages such as "Laura - as Annabelle - is amazed at just how good her own reflection looks" or "Laura - as Annabelle - can't find a parking space for the Bentley" or "Laura - as Annabelle - is exhausted from having twenty-three orgasms in the last five minutes."

But I will take the lead from Ploggers. If you think I should grow up and leave it alone, let me know. (I may ignore you anyway.) If you think that sounds very, very, very funny, then let me know. If you have any Annabelle suggestions, even better, post them here, and they may get included on my Facebook status. If I do it. Which I won't if you tell me not to. But I probably will.

And if you'd like to be my Facebook friend, just add me with a note saying you read the Plog, and I'll make sure you can see my updates!

Apple of my eye

So a weekend in Loughborough, leaving TheBloke (TM) in London. I'll be honest, on my return I expected mayhem. Or at the very least, a bit of untidyness. I also knew he'd spent all day at the cricket on Sunday, and alcohol was likely to have made an appearance. It was with a certain amount of trepidation I let myself into the flat.

So it was a pleasant surprise indeed to find that not only was the flat in a tidy and shipshape state, but he had folded all the laundry and the bathroom smelled pleasingly of apple-scented detergent. It reminded me of Boots' Natural Collection Green Apple Shower Gel I used as a teenager. This was very impressive indeed, as, even though the cleaner had been earlier in the week, TheBloke (TM) had clearly made the effort and bought some special cleaning fluid. I know that I don't own any apple-scented detergent at all.

On seeing TheBloke (TM), I said, "Mmm, the bathroom smells lovely. All apple-y."

"Yes," he slurred. "I've been drinking cider all day and I've just been sick."

Brilliant.

From Christchurch, with love

What a lovely few days.

On Thursday, the London gang (plus honorary guest, Hazel) met up for dinner to celebrate Kath's birthday. There was gossip, there was Champagne, there was simultaneous celebration and giggling. All was excellent.

I didn't Plog about this at the time. I apologise. And when Erica and I went to pick Hazel up on Saturday evening for dinner in Loughborough, I was rebuked by Hazel's Mum - a Plogger - who had wanted to know all of the details, and fully expected a Plog about it. So I apologise.

Then Hazel's Mum and I got into a rather surprising conversation about knitted wombs. Hazel's Mum wished she'd had a knitted womb. Apparently Hazel turned round during birth and made things a bit more complicated than they needed to be. A knitted womb might have made things clearer somehow. (I wasn't exactly sure how.)

Hazel is a dear, dear friend, and I would trust her with my life. Unless the "life" thing involved any type of sense of direction. Let me be clear here. My sense of direction is shocking. Without my trusty sat-nav, Jessica, I can barely find my way to Sainsbury's. But Hazel makes me look like Ranulph Fiennes. She can literally get confused and disorientated in a square room with one door, bless her.

So it did make me giggle to realise that this isn't a new thing. Hazel is the only person I know who actually got lost and tried to go the wrong way during her own birth.

No wonder she lives in New Zealand. She was probably aiming for Edinburgh.

Swearing in

A few weeks ago I got a shiny new mobile phone. For the geeky amongst you, it's a Nokia N95. It can apparently do lots and lots of things. Except I haven't yet read the manual. So at the moment it can answer calls and send text messages. Just like my old phone.

And I've always been a bit of a gadget girl. I've had sat nav for about four years, I had broadband back in 1999... you get the picture. And I do love the moment that a shiny new phone appears and I get to play with it and stroke it and show it off to people. However, I have one big bugbear about new phones. It's the texting. Now I'm a recent Sony Ericsson to Nokia convert (mostly so I can use the same charger as my work phone), so it's not a brand-specific texting problem. So what is it?

Swearing.

Every time I buy a new phone, I have to spend ages teaching the customised dictionary all the swear words. On Friday I had to teach it "fuck" (it assumed I wanted "dual"). "Knackered" comes up as the brilliantly well-known word "localesfe". "Wanker" is "yankep" and "bastard" is "casuase". "Bastard" pisses me off the most (or, as Nokia would have it, "'Bastard' sipper me off the most"). Because "bastard" isn't even slang. It's a bone fide word for an illegitimate child. So if the Nokia people had uploaded a dictionary of the English language, someone would have to have gone through and manually taken out all the swear words. Why? Just so I can spend hours teaching each new phone how to spell "bollocks"? (Hint: it's not "colloals").

Bunch of "aunts", the lot of them.

Close knit

Sunday. A decent day meant that garden-sitting was possible. There were lots of us: my uni friends, plus boyfriends. Elinor was in charge of catering. You could tell because she was wearing the apron. And also it was her house.

Elinor accuses me of using short sentences. Perhaps she is right.

Anyway, in the garden we were, chatting away. There were two sets of new parents amongst us - along with their (OK, I'll admit it) fairly cute progeny. Talk progressed to ante-natal classes. This is a subject I'll admit to having fairly limited experience in. This, however, does not normally prevent me from giving an opinion.

"So," continued Jo to Corinne, "did you have a knitted womb?"

"Sorry," I interjected. "I think I misheard. What did you say?"

Jo said, "I was just asking whether or not Corinne had a knitted womb at her ante-natal classes."

"That's what I thought you said," said I. "A knitted womb?"

"Yes," said Corinne. "We did. We had a whole knitted reproductive system that we had to push a bean-bag baby through. You can actually get the knitting patterns, in case you wish to knit yourself a woollen vagina."

I was too helpless with laughter at this point to contribute meaningfully to the conversation. However, I do vaguely remember Jo saying, "This better not end up on your blog..."

Oops. Sorry.

Road rage

I hate the A40. I hate it with a passion. If the A40 and I were married, I would ask for a trial separation.

Three hours to get back from Beaconsfield. Three hours.

The only highlight was an Audi with a couple of guys who were enjoying their Barry White too much. TheBloke (TM) told them the 70s had called and they wanted their groove back.

A fucking 40 has been added to the list of ways I refuse to get round London. The others being the Circle Line and the North Circular. At this rate, I will be housebound by the year 2012. Just in time for the Olympics.

Even if the stadium isn't.

Play fighting

I am a little bit competitive. I mentioned this to my friend Teresa in the pub the other day.

She genuinely seemed a bit surprised. "You? Competitive? You hate anything like that. You refuse to play any sport at all. Because you're rubbish at it. You're not competitive."

"I'm only competitive at the things I'm good at," I said.

"Oh yes," said Teresa. "It's coming back to me now. You're still really angry about that time I could name more Shakespeare plays than you."

"What?" I said, somewhat brusquely. "Firstly I have absolutely no recollection of having a Shakespeare-play naming competition with you. And secondly, I totally would have won."

"No, no," insisted Teresa. "I won. You and I had a competition to see how many Shakespeare plays we could name. And I won."

"Was it all a wonderful dream, Teresa?" I asked.

"No!" insited Wrong Teresa. "Well," she conceded, "it might have been Jane Austen novels."

"And I would have beaten you at that too," said I.

Simon - refereeing - called for a re-match. Which is how, Ploggers, I spent my Wednesday evening in a trendy Shoreditch pub making a list of Shakespeare plays on the back of a "platters to share" menu.

To Teresa The Wrong's credit, she did name 14 plays, and had a couple which I'd missed off. I, however, named 21 plays. And I am NOT a bad winner. Because I didn't take a point off for her not-entirely-accurate Three Gentlemen of Verona.

"Jane Austen novels... GO!" may or may not have been my first reply on learning of my sweet, sweet victory. Funnily enough, the evening came to an end quite quickly after that. I guess everyone was exhausted from the exciting spectacle.