When I was seven years old I killed two pensioners.
For some reason, aged seven, I was put up a year at school. I have still never worked out why, nor why at the end of the year, I rejoined my old classmates and ended up in the correct year group after all.
This is all beside the point.
Anyway, final year infant, performing at a first year junior level, it was our class' responsibility to invite the local old people of Loughborough to the annual Harvest Festival at Booth Wood Primary School. The old people would be rounded up, herded into the hall, and then forced to take groceries home with them. I have never, never understood this. But, old people would sit there, we would sing and then they'd have to take home a couple of tins of salmon and a mouldy-looking pear. That's what Harvest Festival is all about. Praise the Lord.
So, the job of old people invitations was fairly divided between the class, and each of us was responsible for getting the list from the teacher and writing two invitations to old people. Finally, it was my turn for the list. It was a bit dog eared and had clearly been around for years. I wrote my invitations in my best handwriting to Mr Barsby and to Mrs Jessop. And, looking at the predecessors on the list, most of whom had a neat line ruled through them, I carefully ruled a line through both Mr Barsby and Mrs Jessop.
Proud as a peacock, I handed my invitations to my teacher, along with the list, so he could hand it onto the next child.
"Laura," the teacher said.
"Yes?"
"Did you cross Mr Barsby and Mrs Jessop off the list?"
"Yes, once I'd written their invites."
"Laura. Go and stand in the corridor and think about what you've done! Do you even know what you've done?"
My bottom lip started to quiver. "No..."
"We only cross the old people off the list once they're dead!"
That list had a lot of crossings out. I'm guessing some of that tinned salmon may have been past its best.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
King of the swingers
I think my parents might be swingers. This is not an easy sentence to type. But the ugly truth must be told about Mr and Mrs Nunn.
"Do you have a Mitsubishi?" Mrs Nunn phoned me on Saturday to ask.
"No, you know I don't," I said. "What a stupid question."
"Well your dad has found some keys to a Mitsubishi in his jacket pocket, along with a Mitsubishi keyring. We think they might have been there since he visited you in London."
"Are you sure it's his jacket?"
"Yes," said Mrs Nunn. I think he's probably having an affair.
Mr Nunn came on the phone. "Do you know anyone who's lost a Mitsubishi?" he asked me.
"No, Dad, no I don't."
"Well, someone has put some car keys in my pocket. They're not mine. And they don't belong to anyone at tennis. They might belong to someone from my art class but I think they probably belong to your mum's fancy man."
It is all a giant cover up. Look at the evidence - the generation, the car keys, the suspicion. Clearly my parents are at the forefront of the East Midlands swinging scene. Sadly they're the only two doing it. Well, them and whoever has lost their car keys. I suppose that's one of the dangers of car-keys-in-a-stranger's-pocket sex. Can't be too careful.
"Do you have a Mitsubishi?" Mrs Nunn phoned me on Saturday to ask.
"No, you know I don't," I said. "What a stupid question."
"Well your dad has found some keys to a Mitsubishi in his jacket pocket, along with a Mitsubishi keyring. We think they might have been there since he visited you in London."
"Are you sure it's his jacket?"
"Yes," said Mrs Nunn. I think he's probably having an affair.
Mr Nunn came on the phone. "Do you know anyone who's lost a Mitsubishi?" he asked me.
"No, Dad, no I don't."
"Well, someone has put some car keys in my pocket. They're not mine. And they don't belong to anyone at tennis. They might belong to someone from my art class but I think they probably belong to your mum's fancy man."
It is all a giant cover up. Look at the evidence - the generation, the car keys, the suspicion. Clearly my parents are at the forefront of the East Midlands swinging scene. Sadly they're the only two doing it. Well, them and whoever has lost their car keys. I suppose that's one of the dangers of car-keys-in-a-stranger's-pocket sex. Can't be too careful.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Batteries not included
I have only cooked once in the last seven days. TheBloke (TM) is currently on holiday, so is enjoying performing the domestic goddess routine in the flat.
This morning though, I felt I'd been looked after quite enough, and made us some bacon sandwiches. I am nice like that. And - apparently - I make quite a good bacon sandwich. I've had rave reviews from previous patrons of the Laurasplog B&B. I may even have been partly responsible for un-vegetarianing Nice Kate.
So this morning, bacon was cooking and sandwiches were being prepared... and once again the sodding smoke alarm went off.
TheBloke (TM) said, "It's playing our song!"
The fucker. I think the smoke alarm hates me. Still, Jessica the sat nav hates him, and I think that's probably worse. I can't believe appliances are taking sides in this relationship, but I'm really going to get the Sky Plus side to come over to me. He can have the toaster.
This morning though, I felt I'd been looked after quite enough, and made us some bacon sandwiches. I am nice like that. And - apparently - I make quite a good bacon sandwich. I've had rave reviews from previous patrons of the Laurasplog B&B. I may even have been partly responsible for un-vegetarianing Nice Kate.
So this morning, bacon was cooking and sandwiches were being prepared... and once again the sodding smoke alarm went off.
TheBloke (TM) said, "It's playing our song!"
The fucker. I think the smoke alarm hates me. Still, Jessica the sat nav hates him, and I think that's probably worse. I can't believe appliances are taking sides in this relationship, but I'm really going to get the Sky Plus side to come over to me. He can have the toaster.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Portrait of the artist as a madman
I'd been to Rome once before. I was sixteen and my parents took me on a coach trip to Italy. Because they hate me. Thirty hours on a coach with a whole load of old people, sadly none of whom snuffed it during the trip.
The journey was the most unpleasant form of travelling I've ever experienced, and that includes the 56 hour journey I had back from Fiji. We still have a signed document from Mum somewhere, signed at a service station in Belgium, swearing that she would never ever ever ever ever make us do a coach trip again.
Whilst I wasn't a massive fan of Florence when I was sixteen, I did love Rome. And I had an unusual experience with a portrait artist whilst I was there. See: http://laurasplog.blogspot.com/2007/10/when-in-rome.html
On the Saturday morning in Rome last weekend, TheBloke (TM) and I completed a guided tour of the Colloseum, wandered round a couple of fountains, and then headed for lunch. On the way there, I stopped dead. I couldn't believe it. It was my portrait artist! I recognised him immediately as when I last visited my parents, I went through some old photos and dug this one out as it made me giggle. Twelve years later, the mad old bastard had clearly given up on portraits and was now producing Tourist Shit Art (a valuable genre). I surreptitiously took his photo.
What are the chances, eh?
I almost asked him to do my portrait again, but wasn't sure I could take the rejection of having my face ripped up twice in one city.
Here he is. Doesn't he look loopy?
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Nuns on the run
It was towards the end of Saturday afternoon, and TheBloke (TM) and I had had a very full day of walking all around Rome's many sites, seeing many sites.
We decided to fit one more attraction in before heading back to our hotel for a rest prior to dinner. We decided this attraction should be the church Santa Maria del Popolo. We had a wander down an expensive street, where TheBloke (TM) helpfully pushed me quite hard in the direction we were travelling as I stopped to look in any appealing-looking windows.
And into Santa Maria del Popolo we went. Firstly I was struck by how many skulls were decorating the place. You have to wonder just how holy a place is if they use human skulls as decoration. And whilst one or two of them looked like plaster casts of some description, a fair few of them looked pretty authentic to me. Not that I've got a lot of experience in human skull identification. I wonder if whoever's skull it was had any say in whether their noggin got used to decorate an ornate marble entrance. I wonder if I'd like my skull to do the same one day. It's an interesting way of gaining immortality. The weird thing is that I will never, ever see my own skull. That bothers me slightly. I'm not sure why.
I digress.
So, the church was impressive on the inside, and one of the big attractions appeared to be this picture here:
Clearly this was a big pull for the nuns, as a bus load of them were in the church, gathered round this chapel. It made me giggle a bit that they all had digital cameras. I don't tend to think of nuns being particularly into digital photography, or uploading their shots onto Facebook, but perhaps that's my own narrow-mindedness coming out. I imagined the nuns' Facebook status: "Sister Mary Mark is... reading psalms". What I did notice was that this chapel very clearly had a sign stating "No flash photography" - presumably so as not to fade the important work of art. The nuns were blithely ignoring this. If a nun can be blithe. They were snapping away, flashes flashing, and then giggling over the photos they'd taken with each other. Troublemakers.
I noticed the nuns were all wearing wedding rings, which confused me for a second, and then I remember that they use it as a sign to show that they're married to Jesus, or God, or the Tooth Fairy or something. Now I've never been to a nun's wedding - I'm assuming they have one when they get the ring, and I'll be honest, I'm not that fussed about attending one. I don't know any nuns, so it would probably be a bit inappropriate for me to just turn up on their big day.
I would however, be interested at the bit where the vicar says, "If anyone knows of any just law or impediment why this nun and this God cannot be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace..."
I would be tempted to pipe up on two accounts. Firstly, God is already married to all the other nuns (bigamist), plus he's knocked up a married woman and has a child from a previous relationship, whom he let die. Now, it's none of my business, love is blind, and all that, but the nuns at the very least ought to be made aware of this information before committing to a bloke who doesn't sound like he's a safe bet to be a good father. Social services should definitely be involved.
Secondly, I'm not sure God ever speaks to say, "I do" - therefore is it even legally binding?
I digress again. Really what I'd like to do is skip the wedding entirely. But I would very much like to go to a nun's hen night. I imagine the need for veils might be superfluous as they can wear their little headdress thingies. But I would love to see a group of nuns on a night out round the Vatican, pissed out of their habits, with L-plates attached. Halfway through the evening, the chief hen will have organised a sexy vicar to come over and do some Gregorian chants, whilst the other nuns crow raucously in the background.
And then take flash photographs of holy relics when you're clearly not supposed to.
Naughty, naughty nuns.
I think I need more sleep.
We decided to fit one more attraction in before heading back to our hotel for a rest prior to dinner. We decided this attraction should be the church Santa Maria del Popolo. We had a wander down an expensive street, where TheBloke (TM) helpfully pushed me quite hard in the direction we were travelling as I stopped to look in any appealing-looking windows.
And into Santa Maria del Popolo we went. Firstly I was struck by how many skulls were decorating the place. You have to wonder just how holy a place is if they use human skulls as decoration. And whilst one or two of them looked like plaster casts of some description, a fair few of them looked pretty authentic to me. Not that I've got a lot of experience in human skull identification. I wonder if whoever's skull it was had any say in whether their noggin got used to decorate an ornate marble entrance. I wonder if I'd like my skull to do the same one day. It's an interesting way of gaining immortality. The weird thing is that I will never, ever see my own skull. That bothers me slightly. I'm not sure why.
I digress.
So, the church was impressive on the inside, and one of the big attractions appeared to be this picture here:
Clearly this was a big pull for the nuns, as a bus load of them were in the church, gathered round this chapel. It made me giggle a bit that they all had digital cameras. I don't tend to think of nuns being particularly into digital photography, or uploading their shots onto Facebook, but perhaps that's my own narrow-mindedness coming out. I imagined the nuns' Facebook status: "Sister Mary Mark is... reading psalms". What I did notice was that this chapel very clearly had a sign stating "No flash photography" - presumably so as not to fade the important work of art. The nuns were blithely ignoring this. If a nun can be blithe. They were snapping away, flashes flashing, and then giggling over the photos they'd taken with each other. Troublemakers.
I noticed the nuns were all wearing wedding rings, which confused me for a second, and then I remember that they use it as a sign to show that they're married to Jesus, or God, or the Tooth Fairy or something. Now I've never been to a nun's wedding - I'm assuming they have one when they get the ring, and I'll be honest, I'm not that fussed about attending one. I don't know any nuns, so it would probably be a bit inappropriate for me to just turn up on their big day.
I would however, be interested at the bit where the vicar says, "If anyone knows of any just law or impediment why this nun and this God cannot be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace..."
I would be tempted to pipe up on two accounts. Firstly, God is already married to all the other nuns (bigamist), plus he's knocked up a married woman and has a child from a previous relationship, whom he let die. Now, it's none of my business, love is blind, and all that, but the nuns at the very least ought to be made aware of this information before committing to a bloke who doesn't sound like he's a safe bet to be a good father. Social services should definitely be involved.
Secondly, I'm not sure God ever speaks to say, "I do" - therefore is it even legally binding?
I digress again. Really what I'd like to do is skip the wedding entirely. But I would very much like to go to a nun's hen night. I imagine the need for veils might be superfluous as they can wear their little headdress thingies. But I would love to see a group of nuns on a night out round the Vatican, pissed out of their habits, with L-plates attached. Halfway through the evening, the chief hen will have organised a sexy vicar to come over and do some Gregorian chants, whilst the other nuns crow raucously in the background.
And then take flash photographs of holy relics when you're clearly not supposed to.
Naughty, naughty nuns.
I think I need more sleep.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Bone to pick
I will tell you about Rome, of course I will. But at the moment I'm exhausted from a day's work and probably won't do the subject justice.
So in the meantime I will tell you something I saw at work today. Two asian guys, possibly Chinese standing chatting by the lift. Nothing unusual so far. Except they each had a broken arm.
This intrigued me. Did they get chatting because they each had a broken arm, or were they part of some secret society that involved arm breaking as part of its initiation?
Now the building is big, I'll give you that. There are approximately 8000 people working there. At any one time it makes sense that there would be a few broken bones. But two broken arms? Both Chinese guys? And standing together and chatting?
Something fishy is going on.
So in the meantime I will tell you something I saw at work today. Two asian guys, possibly Chinese standing chatting by the lift. Nothing unusual so far. Except they each had a broken arm.
This intrigued me. Did they get chatting because they each had a broken arm, or were they part of some secret society that involved arm breaking as part of its initiation?
Now the building is big, I'll give you that. There are approximately 8000 people working there. At any one time it makes sense that there would be a few broken bones. But two broken arms? Both Chinese guys? And standing together and chatting?
Something fishy is going on.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Italian job
I was whisked to Rome for my birthday. How glamorous does that sound? I knew I was going away for the weekend, but "Europe somewhere" was as much as I was getting out of TheBloke (TM), despite my wily and cunning ways of finding out information.
He eventually told me at midnight on the night of my birthday. So Rome it was, and I have much, much, much to tell you. However, at the moment, I am more tired than a tired person after a lovely but tiring weekend. Similes might not be my forte.
So... I will tell you about:
- Naughty nuns
- Tiny lifts
- Thieving Americans
- The mad portrait artist
- Insistent restaurateurs
and maybe more. But not tonight. Tonight you will have to sing a little song to yourself to keep yourself busy. Sorry.
I have been spoiled. I like it. More please.
He eventually told me at midnight on the night of my birthday. So Rome it was, and I have much, much, much to tell you. However, at the moment, I am more tired than a tired person after a lovely but tiring weekend. Similes might not be my forte.
So... I will tell you about:
- Naughty nuns
- Tiny lifts
- Thieving Americans
- The mad portrait artist
- Insistent restaurateurs
and maybe more. But not tonight. Tonight you will have to sing a little song to yourself to keep yourself busy. Sorry.
I have been spoiled. I like it. More please.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Getting to know all about you...
"So, tell me about Laura Nunn," said my new boss' boss' boss at a "getting to know you" session.
"What would you like to know?" I asked.
"Well, imagine we're speed dating. What's the first thing you'd say to me?"
"Back off, sonny, I've got a boyfriend."
His face dropped in panic. Shit, shit, shit, I'm doing this wrong. Again.
"I've got a wife," he quickly added.
"Then you shouldn't be at a speed dating event," I asserted. Bollocks. This wasn't going well.
I changed the subject. Talked about my career history, talked about theatre, book clubs, and then added, "I'm not very sporty. I'd like to say I kept fit, but I really, really don't."
"Oh, but you're really slim, you look like you work out."
"Are you hitting on me again?" Fuck. I'm actually getting worse at this. I backtracked. "Don't be fooled by the slimness. It's a cunning combination of anorexia and bulimia. And the heroin addiction doesn't hurt."
A flicker of worry crossed his face. Not for the first time.
Later we talked about socialising. I mentioned I didn't drink. "What? Not at all?" he asked.
"Not really. I find that alcohol gives me terrible hangovers, and I just find heroin a better lifestyle choice for me."
In summary, in a thirty minute conversation I managed to convince the head of department that I have a drug problem, two eating disorders and am likely to accuse him of sexual harrassment any minute.
I have a feeling the new job is going to go very well indeed.
"What would you like to know?" I asked.
"Well, imagine we're speed dating. What's the first thing you'd say to me?"
"Back off, sonny, I've got a boyfriend."
His face dropped in panic. Shit, shit, shit, I'm doing this wrong. Again.
"I've got a wife," he quickly added.
"Then you shouldn't be at a speed dating event," I asserted. Bollocks. This wasn't going well.
I changed the subject. Talked about my career history, talked about theatre, book clubs, and then added, "I'm not very sporty. I'd like to say I kept fit, but I really, really don't."
"Oh, but you're really slim, you look like you work out."
"Are you hitting on me again?" Fuck. I'm actually getting worse at this. I backtracked. "Don't be fooled by the slimness. It's a cunning combination of anorexia and bulimia. And the heroin addiction doesn't hurt."
A flicker of worry crossed his face. Not for the first time.
Later we talked about socialising. I mentioned I didn't drink. "What? Not at all?" he asked.
"Not really. I find that alcohol gives me terrible hangovers, and I just find heroin a better lifestyle choice for me."
In summary, in a thirty minute conversation I managed to convince the head of department that I have a drug problem, two eating disorders and am likely to accuse him of sexual harrassment any minute.
I have a feeling the new job is going to go very well indeed.
Monday, October 13, 2008
No smoke without fire
I got back to my flat today to see smoke billowing out from the downstairs neighbour's flat. As I was about to enter, another neighbour said to me, "I wouldn't go in the block if I were you, Laura. He's set his flat on fire again."
This happens with reasonable regularity.
In the hallway, the one-legged, sweary arsonist neighbour refused to leave the block. (Well, as much as you can when you're in a wheelchair and pretty much at the mercy of anyone who can operate a wheel.) He had a cigarette in one hand and was swearing about needing his bag. He shouted, "Wanker" indiscriminately. Though to be honest, I'm not sure you can discriminately shout, "Wanker".
The fire engines arrived (this time it wasn't me who called them, honest). One-legged man called the firemen wankers as they wheeled him against his will out of the block into the entrance. Whilst blocking the exit, he lit a fag. I used my mobile to call upstairs to the flat and suggested that TheBloke (TM) might want to consider exiting. He said he'd be down. He took ages. I thought he'd probably inhaled smoke and collapsed on the stairs. Turns out he was putting some trousers on for the first time that day.
The block of flats smoked. The one-legged, sweary neighbour blocked the exit with his wheelchair and smoked. The firemen had big hoses. TheBloke (TM) and I tried to find a coffee shop, but cafe culture has yet to hit Bethnal Green. After ten minutes of fruitless wandering, we returned to the flat and ate dinner.
Life has gone on pretty much as before.
This happens with reasonable regularity.
In the hallway, the one-legged, sweary arsonist neighbour refused to leave the block. (Well, as much as you can when you're in a wheelchair and pretty much at the mercy of anyone who can operate a wheel.) He had a cigarette in one hand and was swearing about needing his bag. He shouted, "Wanker" indiscriminately. Though to be honest, I'm not sure you can discriminately shout, "Wanker".
The fire engines arrived (this time it wasn't me who called them, honest). One-legged man called the firemen wankers as they wheeled him against his will out of the block into the entrance. Whilst blocking the exit, he lit a fag. I used my mobile to call upstairs to the flat and suggested that TheBloke (TM) might want to consider exiting. He said he'd be down. He took ages. I thought he'd probably inhaled smoke and collapsed on the stairs. Turns out he was putting some trousers on for the first time that day.
The block of flats smoked. The one-legged, sweary neighbour blocked the exit with his wheelchair and smoked. The firemen had big hoses. TheBloke (TM) and I tried to find a coffee shop, but cafe culture has yet to hit Bethnal Green. After ten minutes of fruitless wandering, we returned to the flat and ate dinner.
Life has gone on pretty much as before.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Award winning
So last night saw TheBloke (TM)'s annual cricket dinner. Smart clothes were worn, toenails were painted (mine, mostly) and all was looking good for a splendid evening of good food and good company.
Until the award section.
Last year TheBloke (TM) received the coveted Golden Duck Award for fewest runs scored in a season, so this year my hopes were high for a similar piss-taking session. Things started going badly when the captain singled TheBloke (TM) out at the very start of his speech, saying how much he'd improved. It got worse. Not only did he scoop the award for best bowler, he also won the popularity contest of "Players' Player". And two trophies. This represented about a fifth of the entire trophies awarded. This has made him insufferable. Beyond insufferable.
Then he won the fucking raffle.
If he makes a cup of tea now, he expects to be given a trophy. If he carries a bag successfully up the stairs, he expects a trophy. If he does a particularly loud fart, he expects a trophy and the opportunity to make a speech.
So... It is time to equal the score a little. Nice Kate has nominated my Plog for some blogging awards. I believe there are only about five days until they close, so I'm not expecting miracles, but if you would like to vote for the Plog, here's the link: http://bloggerschoiceawards.com/blogs/show/59154
You do need to register, but it's pretty quick and painless.
TheBloke (TM) now fully expects to win this too, even though he's only blogged twice in the last six months, and it's usually about masturbation. For which he also expects a trophy.
Until the award section.
Last year TheBloke (TM) received the coveted Golden Duck Award for fewest runs scored in a season, so this year my hopes were high for a similar piss-taking session. Things started going badly when the captain singled TheBloke (TM) out at the very start of his speech, saying how much he'd improved. It got worse. Not only did he scoop the award for best bowler, he also won the popularity contest of "Players' Player". And two trophies. This represented about a fifth of the entire trophies awarded. This has made him insufferable. Beyond insufferable.
Then he won the fucking raffle.
If he makes a cup of tea now, he expects to be given a trophy. If he carries a bag successfully up the stairs, he expects a trophy. If he does a particularly loud fart, he expects a trophy and the opportunity to make a speech.
So... It is time to equal the score a little. Nice Kate has nominated my Plog for some blogging awards. I believe there are only about five days until they close, so I'm not expecting miracles, but if you would like to vote for the Plog, here's the link: http://bloggerschoiceawards.com/blogs/show/59154
You do need to register, but it's pretty quick and painless.
TheBloke (TM) now fully expects to win this too, even though he's only blogged twice in the last six months, and it's usually about masturbation. For which he also expects a trophy.
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Smokin'
Last week there was one - just one - incident where I sort of set off the smoke alarm whilst I was cooking. And in fact, it's a good job I did because it led me to realise that the battery in the smoke alarm was flat. And actually I didn't set the smoke alarm off because the battery was flat.
And it wasn't my fault anyway - it was a baking tray with some stuff stuck to it that started burning whilst the meal was cooking, so it wasn't like I set anything on fire or anything.
So all in all, there's really nothing to talk about.
Except TheBloke (TM) now won't let me grate cheese unsupervised "in case you burn it".
I have just cooked chicken in a barbecue sauce, jacket potato and Caesar salad. And didn't burn anything. Well, maybe the salad. A bit.
Where are those piss-easy Jamie Oliver recipes?
And it wasn't my fault anyway - it was a baking tray with some stuff stuck to it that started burning whilst the meal was cooking, so it wasn't like I set anything on fire or anything.
So all in all, there's really nothing to talk about.
Except TheBloke (TM) now won't let me grate cheese unsupervised "in case you burn it".
I have just cooked chicken in a barbecue sauce, jacket potato and Caesar salad. And didn't burn anything. Well, maybe the salad. A bit.
Where are those piss-easy Jamie Oliver recipes?
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Northern nosh
I am watching Jamie Oliver's programme about how kids in Rotherham are eating so poorly that it beggars belief. In a typically middle-class way I am tutting appropriately as I learn that little Kylie has never eaten anything other than a kebab, that Donna spends all her benefits money on ciggies and chocolate and that Chardonnay can't recognise boiling water.
And then I realise that for the last three evenings this has been my evening meal:
Sunday - takeaway pizza
Monday - reheated takeaway pizza, followed by chocolate hobnobs
Tuesday - microwaved pasta
Hmm. Probably ought to put that middle-class smugness on hold for the time being. Though I went to playgroup in Rotherham, so perhaps it's just my genes reverting to type.
And then I realise that for the last three evenings this has been my evening meal:
Sunday - takeaway pizza
Monday - reheated takeaway pizza, followed by chocolate hobnobs
Tuesday - microwaved pasta
Hmm. Probably ought to put that middle-class smugness on hold for the time being. Though I went to playgroup in Rotherham, so perhaps it's just my genes reverting to type.
Monday, October 06, 2008
Decisions
If you had to live without cheese or chocolate for the rest of your life, what would it be? It's a difficult one, I'll give you that, but I found it easy enough to come to my decision. Whilst giving up chocolate would be a massive sacrifice, a life without cheese is no life at all.
Choose cheese, choose life.
Through this game (give up spring or give up autumn? Give up shoes or give up your eyebrows?) I have discovered - finally - my favourite thing in the world.
I gave up cheese, spring, chocolate, shoes, eyebrows, cuddles, reading, cinema, orgasms, television, Shakespeare, Sunday mornings for... wait for it... cherry blossom.
Something tells me my priorities might be a bit fucked.
I do like cherry blossom though.
Choose cheese, choose life.
Through this game (give up spring or give up autumn? Give up shoes or give up your eyebrows?) I have discovered - finally - my favourite thing in the world.
I gave up cheese, spring, chocolate, shoes, eyebrows, cuddles, reading, cinema, orgasms, television, Shakespeare, Sunday mornings for... wait for it... cherry blossom.
Something tells me my priorities might be a bit fucked.
I do like cherry blossom though.
Saturday, October 04, 2008
Novel idea
I am trying to write a novel. Not because I'm particularly creative or talented, but mostly because I quite fancy a day job where I don't have to get out of bed or on the tube.
So I am trying to write a novel. And I want it to be good. And I am shamelessly stealing bits of Plogs to go into it. Mostly because this increases my word count and makes me feel as though I've done more work than I actually have.
Apparently the average novel is about 100,000 words. I have written 6,000. So I'm nearly there, right?
Can I have a multi-million pound book deal now please?
So I am trying to write a novel. And I want it to be good. And I am shamelessly stealing bits of Plogs to go into it. Mostly because this increases my word count and makes me feel as though I've done more work than I actually have.
Apparently the average novel is about 100,000 words. I have written 6,000. So I'm nearly there, right?
Can I have a multi-million pound book deal now please?
Thursday, October 02, 2008
Rusty roof, smelly cellar
So the hair is showing some signs of changing colour...
... it appears to be going slightly ginger.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
... it appears to be going slightly ginger.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Hairy scary
I've noticed that I've tended to mark important moments in my life with a new hairstyle. I'm not talking about popping to the hairdresser's for a bit of a trim or a couple of highlights - I'm talking major image change.
When I was 18, on the day of my last-but-one high school exam, I had my hair cropped very short. This was a mistake as during my last exam I spent the entire three hours trying to push the fringe out of my eyes. Also, it looked shit.
After my year out, before I went to uni, I went blonde. Properly blonde. This was a mistake as I was too poor to get my highlights re-done every six weeks, so looked two-tonal for most of my first year.
At the end of my three years at uni, before I started my new job, once again I went for an inadvisedly short hairstyle. I was even conned into buying "hair gum". Which I never used.
And, Ploggers, I've done it again. After six years with the same company and not too many utterly disastrous hairstyles, I rashly decided to go back to being my natural brunette. It would save me cash and time on the highlights, and my hair's always much shinier when it's brown. Brunette I went. Except it would seem that I judged my "natural" colour to be three shades darker than it actually is. Meaning my hair is very very very very dark brown.
And, as TheBloke (TM) so sympathetically put it on seeing the result, "Jesus Christ, you look like a witch." Later on, when I talked about getting a kitten, he suggested I might want to go for a black cat. And asked if I wanted a pointy hat to go with my new hair colour. I said I would be car shopping at the weekend. He suggested a broomstick. The humour is overwhelming.
And of course, with a new job comes the inevitable time-capsule that is your security pass. However you look on your first day at work is captured by a poorly-positioned webcam and printed off for you to carry round your neck for time immemorial. You'd have thought I'd have considered this prior to any major hair decisions.
You see, starting a new job is a bit like starting at a new school. You hope you get on with the other kids, that the food isn't too bad and that you keep out of the way of bullies. Except it's different this time. With the amount of dye I'd like to get rid of from my hair, this time I'll be begging them to flush my head down the toilet. Repeatedly.
I'll keep you posted.
When I was 18, on the day of my last-but-one high school exam, I had my hair cropped very short. This was a mistake as during my last exam I spent the entire three hours trying to push the fringe out of my eyes. Also, it looked shit.
After my year out, before I went to uni, I went blonde. Properly blonde. This was a mistake as I was too poor to get my highlights re-done every six weeks, so looked two-tonal for most of my first year.
At the end of my three years at uni, before I started my new job, once again I went for an inadvisedly short hairstyle. I was even conned into buying "hair gum". Which I never used.
And, Ploggers, I've done it again. After six years with the same company and not too many utterly disastrous hairstyles, I rashly decided to go back to being my natural brunette. It would save me cash and time on the highlights, and my hair's always much shinier when it's brown. Brunette I went. Except it would seem that I judged my "natural" colour to be three shades darker than it actually is. Meaning my hair is very very very very dark brown.
And, as TheBloke (TM) so sympathetically put it on seeing the result, "Jesus Christ, you look like a witch." Later on, when I talked about getting a kitten, he suggested I might want to go for a black cat. And asked if I wanted a pointy hat to go with my new hair colour. I said I would be car shopping at the weekend. He suggested a broomstick. The humour is overwhelming.
And of course, with a new job comes the inevitable time-capsule that is your security pass. However you look on your first day at work is captured by a poorly-positioned webcam and printed off for you to carry round your neck for time immemorial. You'd have thought I'd have considered this prior to any major hair decisions.
You see, starting a new job is a bit like starting at a new school. You hope you get on with the other kids, that the food isn't too bad and that you keep out of the way of bullies. Except it's different this time. With the amount of dye I'd like to get rid of from my hair, this time I'll be begging them to flush my head down the toilet. Repeatedly.
I'll keep you posted.
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