Old Bill

Three fuck-wanky bills I've had in the last three days:

Fuck-wanky bill no. 1

RBS. The company I used to work for. I had some shares and - obviously - they're not what they were. In fact, they're now so worthless, that if I want to hang onto them (rather than write off £3000 of what was once cash) I have to pay RBS £375 to cover national insurance and tax. Gotta love the credit crunch.


Fuck-wanky bill no. 2

Lombard. RBS again, by another name. Apparently my company car when it was returned had £400 worth of "unsatisfactory repairs" done to it. Which is amusing a) because 7 out of the 8 repairs they mentioned never happened because the car never needed repairing and b) because the one repair that was done was done by a Vauxhall garage under warranty as the boot stopped working. And the garage used was recommended by Lombard. I am disputing the bill and will keep you posted.


Fuck-wanky bill no. 3

Congestion Zone. Fair cop, they got my car at 9.26 a.m. on Thursday driving through the Congestion Zone. A nice picture of my car's numberplates was attached to the letter. £60. You've got me. Oh, but hang on a minute, I was at work on Thursday. And the car hasn't been stolen. So looks like my numberplates have been cloned. Quick work; I've had the car for less than a month. Disputing this one too, with the help of the Metropolitan or City Police, whenever they can decide whose problem it is.

Still, British Gas sent me a cheque for £15 last week for no discernible reason, so that should see me through, shouldn't it?

Pet topic

A while back I wrote about the thorny issue of ferret moisturising. You can see the history here. http://laurasplog.blogspot.com/2006/07/flaky-ferrets.html I recommend you read this before proceeding.

Anyway, I was running a Google search at work for totally un-ferret related reasons (my job, whilst varied, has yet to include the moisturising of ferrets. Perhaps I shall bring this up at my next development chat), when the third or fourth hit returned pointed me to this site:

http://www.modernferret.com/

Modern Ferret Magazine. Let me just say that again. Modern. Ferret. Magazine. This, I imagine, has an entirely different readership to Traditional Ferret Mazagine and Historic Ferret Quarterly.

Modern Ferret is mostly concerned with issues facing today's ferrets. Namely (and these are genuinely covered by past issues): A Day of Ferrets and Fashion, Ferret Medical Topics with Dr. Bruce Williams, Hershey's Orthopedic Ordeal: Helping a Ferret With a Broken Leg and many, many more.

In teeny tiny print at the bottom of the Modern Ferret homepage, there is a slightly worrying statement. "Modern Ferret supports the legalization of ferrets in New York City."

What the fuck? Ferrets are illegal in New York City? How on earth do they enforce this? And why? I can't imagine a bunch of ferrets - whether moisturised or no - terrorising tourists on Broadway or bringing traffic to a screeching halt on Lexington. And I can't believe they're a threat to indigenous wildlife. If an officer suspects you of harbouring a ferret, does he need a ferret warrant before he searches your apartment for discarded bottles of ferret moisturiser?

The Internet is sometimes a scary place.

Crushed

Scene set: 1994, Loughborough High School car park. After school. Summer term. A fourteen year-old Laura waits for her lift home. Her Big Crush is also there, waiting for his bus. Normally she is totally tongue-tied around him. Today, however, there is a sparkle in the air and conversation begins to flow.

Big Crush (BC): Hey Laura. How are you doing?

Laura: I'm good thanks. Good. How are you?

BC: Not too bad. Looking forward to the weekend.

Laura: Me too. Do you have anything nice planned?

BC: Not really. I'm going go-karting with a friend on Sunday, but other than that, just coursework. You?

(Oh God, this is it. We're actually having a proper conversation. Soon he will ask me out and we will live happily ever after. Probably too soon to plan a summer wedding this year, as it's already May... and also I'm still fourteen.)

Laura: Yeah, I know what you mean. I've got stacks of English essays to do this weekend.

(I omitted the fact that I was probably quite pleased.)

BC: I hate Wednesdays. My afternoon ends with triple Physics!

Laura: Triple?! Wow. We don't get triple lessons. The most we get is doubles. But then again...

(Pause for dramatic effect, make eye contact)

Laura: Then again... How long are your periods?

BC tries not to laugh, fails. I then laugh too and turn bright red. Brilliantly at that moment, a gust of wind blows my summer uniform up in the air and I expose my knickers to the entire car park.

We never did hook up.

Lying low

I want to talk to you today about lying. As it happens, I'm one of those too-honest-for-my-own-good people most of the time. A sample conversation might run thusly:

Laura's colleague: What do you think about our new customer-driven, future-proofed, best-in-class proposal?

Laura: I think you're talking bollocks. Try again. Less wanky.

Tact and subtlety may never have been my strong points, but honesty I'll rate up there as something that comes naturally to me.

However, I think we all appreciate the times when we need the little white lies. When someone's holding a dull-dull-dull Christening ceremony for their pet dog in Scarborough, or a massive clubbing night in Manchester on a Friday and you just don't want to go. But even I have enough social skills to realise you're not supposed to say, "I'm terribly sorry. I just don't want to go."

So you come up with some guff. Admit it, we all do it. "Oh, I'd have loved to have come to your niece's school's teddy bears' picnic in Darlington. Loved to! But unfortunately that weekend I'm visiting my parents / have theatre tickets / need to stay in for a delivery."

No harm done. I get out of the crapfest, and the friend remains a friend because of the little white lie. Our lives go on as normal.

Except the Plog. Oh, the Plog. Let's imagine I've been invited to a naming ceremony for a new pet goldfish in Northampton, and I've used the reasonable - if not terribly true - excuse that unfortunately that weekend I have to drive to Liverpool for a relative's birthday party. Fine. Except helpful friend has given me at least a month's notice of the naming ceremony, and by the time the day has rolled round, I've successfully deleted the ridiculous event from my mind.

And that weekend I write a Plog. And perhaps the Plog might say what a boring weekend I've had and I've not even left the flat. Or perhaps it might say that I went and did something that blatantly wasn't going to Liverpool.

The friend reads the Plog. The friend knows I have lied.

Oops.

Luckily, my friends are blessed with tact and subtlety, and have never (yet) mentioned it to me. Leaving me to pootle onwards with honesty.

I also realise I've just made a rod for my own back; if I ever turn down a friend's request again - even if it's with a true date clash - no-one will ever believe me. Oh well, perhaps I should just get used to saying, "I really don't want to go. Sorry." Then scowl and walk off. I will keep you posted.

Double booked

I love book club. I love it. I love the fact that I get the chance to read and enjoy novels I'd never normally pick off the shelf. I love the fact that I've discovered some fantastic gems - The Time Traveler's Wife, Cloud Atlas, Rebecca, Midnight's Children and many, many more.

But most of all, I like to win.

That's right. I like to win book club. Because, you see, whilst it's primarily a social, fun night out for most people - a chance to catch up with ex-colleagues and discuss industry (yawn) news, for me it is a competition. You see, I did an English degree. For me, book club is a chance to win.

Co-members might say, "Henry and Clare's story was really interesting and the characterisation was good."

I might top that with, "Ah, but could we say either of them truly has Free Will? Indeed, can any literary character, controlled - of course - by the author - ever possess Free Will?"

And my co-members will look at me with a mixture of awe, wonder and - what looks like (but surely can't be) abject hatred.

This month's book was Idlewild. I finished Nick Sagan's novel (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Idlewild_(book)) on the tube on the way to book club earlier today. I felt smug. I had at least three Very Clever Things to say about the novel. Very Clever Indeed. I arrived at book club pretty early, and confidently slapped down my novel on the table.

My friend Fran arrived. "Hello Laura," she said.

"Hiya."

"Oh," Fran said, glancing at my copy of the novel. "You've got a different edition to me."

"Have I?" I said, not paying much attention.

"Oh," she said again. "Erm, one of us is wrong."

"What do you mean?"

Fran got out her copy of Idlewild. This one. http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/l/mark-lawson/idlewild.htm By Mark Lawson.

Turns out I read the wrong book. The rest of book club discussed American culture and politics. I tried to chip in with comments about virtual reality and identity. They mostly ignored me. I think - for the first time - I may have properly lost at book club.

Photo opportunity

Oh dear. I have lost another appliance in the household war. Whist Jessica remains a faithful companion (and I think the electric whisk is on my side), the new Epson printer has already showed a preference for TheBloke (TM).

Whilst I spent most of the afternoon yesterday cursing at the latest gadget and trawling internet forums for advice, TheBloke (TM) repaired to the bedroom to watch rugby and nonchalantly fiddle with his laptop. So to speak.

So, quietly in the living room I minded my own business. Suddenly I heard a popping noise. I reassured myself it was the fireworks outside the window. Then suddenly, without any warning at all, the printer burst into life - totally by itself and printed a test page. My PC wasn't even turned on.

TheBloke (TM) apparently pressed "connect printer wirelessly" on his PC in the bedroom and it did the rest for him. I had been trying that for approximately six hours. Then I stepped out the room and TheBloke (TM) configured my laptop in about twelve seconds. I think it's clear that the printer already has favourites.

Also, when I printed a test photo of TheBloke (TM) and me in Rome, the printer replaced the photo of my face with a picture of itself. Weird.

Print preview

Ah, Epson, you did not fail me.

Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time there was a girl called Laura who went to university. Before she went to university she used her hard-earned savings to buy herself a spangly, spangly PC with all the bells and whistles. Despite it only being 1999, and therefore technologically a bit shit, her spangly, spangly PC had a CD rewriter! And a DVD drive! And a 17 inch Belinia monitor. Which burst into flames - twice! But that is perhaps a story for another time.

It also had an Epson Stylus 660 printer. Colour. For Laura was the dog's bollocks.

To cut a long story short, I fucking hated that fucking printer. It took about half an hour to turn on. Once it had finished printing (usually with a white line printed thoughtfully through the middle of each text, so you'd spend half your life cleaning the already sparkling printer heads), if you left the printer on standby it would make little pleading chirpy noises at you until you paid it some attention. And the printing noise! It was like a dozen mice being fed through a paper shredder.

Essentially it was an attention whore of a printer. And when we parted ways I vowed never Epson. Never again.

And I have done without a printer very nicely thank you for the last three years or so. Until this week. When I caved. Mr Nunn must take some blame here, as he recommended a super-looking three-in-one wireless printer for under £100. Made by... Epson. Enough time had passed. Forgiveness was in the air. Reader, I bought it.

TheBloke (TM) and I have spent much of the last two days on our knees on the living room floor. And not in the good way.

It is a wireless printer, but apparently you need to cable it up for the first time you set it going. Fine. That's fair enough. It comes with an ethernet cable. As far as I can tell, this is a networky thing. Stop me if I'm getting too technical. Other than that, the only cable other than the mains one provided was a phone line cable, as it's also a fax machine.

Will it connect by ethernet? Does the Pope shit in the woods? No. Not normally. Someone Internetty suggested that I need to use a USB cable to connect it. Nothing in the instructions mentions this and there's no USB cable supplied.

I logged onto the Epson website. They invited me to a "live chat". I waited ten minutes for an advisor and gave up. I phoned the Epson helpline. I waited ten minutes on hold and gave up.

Every few minutes the printer chirps at me. It is gloating.

I hate Epson. Epson hates me. In the meantime, the living room is entirely taken up with giant boxes and a lot of swearing.

Anyone techy, feel free to chip in. Or buy a printer from me. Whichever is easier.

Still - wish fulfilment - at least I've had an excuse not to work on the novel today.

Booked

Here are the most recent excuses I've given myself for not writing my novel:

1. I'm tired
2. I'll have more time if I do it tomorrow
3. I'm not in the right mood
4. I haven't seen this episode of The Simpsons... for a few months
5. I have a slightly sore throat
6. I need to update my Facebook status
7. I ought to write a blog
8. Oooh, look at the shiny shiny thing
9. I don't have a printer and I need to do some editing before I can move forward with the plot in any meaningful way
10. That shiny shiny thing is back

But the printer has arrived and has even been taken out of the box by TheBloke (TM). Not plugged in, obviously, but de-boxed. TheBloke (TM) will be watching five hours of blokey blokey rugby this weekend - apparently a gift to me so I can do some writing. He's so thoughtful. So I have a printer. And the TV will be otherwise engaged. There is no excuse not to churn out at least five thousand words tomorrow.

I have stolen some of the novel from the Plog. If you have a favourite Plog entry, let me know and if I can include it, I will. Cuts down the number of new words I have to write anyway.

Cold case

When you live in fear of something, you worry that voicing it might make it come true. That has been the case for me today. (Whispers...) I think I might have man flu.

I will be fair to myself - I've actually avoided any type of cold for pretty much exactly a year. As I normally get a cold every six months or so, I'm quite proud of my Vicks First Defence and echinacea combo to date. But I have a scratch sore-ish throat, and a teensy headache. If I were a man, I'd be curled up in bed by now, demanding food and a tummy rub. Or maybe that's golden retrievers. I get them mixed up.

I am SO ill (well, considering the possibility of a mild cold) that although an exciting new printer arrived for me today (big fan of the gadgets), I haven't even bothered opening the box. That is super-super-super ill. It is a very big box. The sort of box small children like to play games in. I hope when I open it that it doesn't contain small children. That would be frightening. Particularly as I'm unlikely to open the box until Saturday. I wouldn't want to be responsible for a child trapped in a box for a few days.

I think I might be rambling. It's probably the man flu fever. These things happen.

Alphabet female

Laura's Pet Peeves - No. 4673

People who say "haitch"

Let's rationalise this one. It doesn't matter. Not in the grand scheme of things. In fact, it almost makes sense if the letter "h" is pronounced with the "huh" sound in front of it. But the point is, it's wrong. It's "aitch". Aitch aitch aitch aitch aitch. That is the truth.

And so many people say "haitch" and it makes me want to throw a book at their fat stupid heads. Illogical. It doesn't really matter.

And it's never bothered me all that much before. Except I now work for a company where the letter "H" figures quite prominently in the company's name. So I hear it a lot. And it seems I missed the memo circulated to every other member of staff where they redefined the pronounciation as "haitch".

Hated hogs of hell. Humph.

Career driven

March 2000. The second semester of my first year at Bristol University. Or the University of Bristol as it prefers to call itself.

Anyway, floating around the English department were a bunch of flyers about careers in IT and the Media. I'm not sure why they were floating. Maybe something they were doing at the Physics department down the road. I was a fairly conscientious student... in terms of getting myself a job at the end of my degree anyway. And with a background in website design (well, as much of a background as you can have at age 20) I thought I'd poddle along to the Careers department to check out what they had to offer.

Now, people who know me - and even those who don't - are often impressed by the severity of my directional inability. I get lost in: shopping centres, my home town, the local park... Bizarrely New York City is the only place where I never seem to get disoriented. And Australia. Go figure. So it won't surprise you to know that in the six months or so I'd been at uni by that time, I didn't really know where the street with the Careers department in Bristol was. (For future reference, it's about a hundred yards from the English department.)

I wandered lost-ish in the right sort of area for a while. At this stage, totally co-incidentally - I bumped into a girl who I'd been at school with. We'd been in the same year, but never friendly - she was very stand-offish and a bit up herself... Let's face it, she was an Annabelle. Not the Annabelle, but an Annabelle. But I thought she might know where the Careers department was. We made politer conversation than we'd ever done at school and she pointed at the building across the road. "That's it there," she Annabelled at me.

In I trotted and up the stairs I went. A cheerful reception desk greeted me. "Hello, can I help you?" the receptionist asked.

"Erm, yes, I was wondering if I could talk to someone about my career. I saw some flyers in the English department..."

"Well, we normally ask that you make an appointment in advance..."

I interrupted a bit, "Oh, I don't need an appointment - just any info you have to hand will be fine..."

"No, no, I was going to say that actually there's been a cancellation, and Pat should be able to see you in a minute. Is there anything in particular you want to discuss?"

"Well, it was specifically around IT careers in the media."

"OK, and your name please?"

We did the necessary, and she showed me through into the room to wait for Pat. The room wasn't quite what I'd expected - pretty large, two comfy chairs, and a beanbag. And, bizarrely, a box of tissues.

I perched myself on a comfy chair and waited. And waited.

Eventually the door creaked open, and the oldest person I have ever seen in my life creaked into the room, walking stick ahead of her.

"Hello, I'm Pat," she said.

"Hello, I'm Laura." I stood up and shook her papery frail hand. I didn't want to be ageist but I did wonder how much she was likely to know about the latest media IT developments.

She sat down. On a beanbag. Jesus Christ, this 90 year-old woman was never going to be able to stand again.

"So, Laura," Pat said, soothingly, "I hear you're worried about your career."

"Well, not really worried, no... just kind of considering my options."

"Would you say you worry about a lot of things? Would you describe yourself as a worrier?"

"Well, I suppose I am a bit of a worrier... but..."

"Hmm, that's interesting. So you're worried about your career - where would you say that pressure came from? Your school? Your parents? Yourself?"

"Erm... Well, I was really just hoping to get a bit more information on next steps really."

"Oh there are lots of next steps Laura, don't worry about that. Plenty of time, and plenty of options to explore. Medication works wonders these days you know."

"Sorry?" I wondered if she meant her own medication. Of which she clearly wasn't on enough.

"Absolutely - and there really isn't a stigma attached anymore. So, back to this worry. Tell me about your mother."

At this point the penny dropped. The tissues, the beanbags, the ancient do-gooder... "Pat, is this the Careers department?"

"No - it's Student Counselling."

"Ah. I think I'm in the wrong place. Sorry."

"Freud said there are no mistakes Laura. And I think we've got a lot to explore. I would like you to come back every week for - shall we say four weeks, and see how we're getting on then?"

Fucking Annabelles. Can't trust them.

Let there be light

Last night TheBloke (TM) and I went to the cinema to see Burn After Reading and then went for a meal at a favourite Turkish restaurant in Islington.

The only memorable thing about the meal (other than the excellent food) was that the lamppost outside the restaurant was number 0047. Like it was the James Bond of lampposts. But with a number four. We discussed tippexing out the offending digit, but realised there would be a space, so it would be 00 space 7, which doesn't sound nearly so good. Not that I've ever seen a James Bond film, but everyone else talks about them quite a lot.

Anyway, that's the only memorable thing about the evening. Certainly not the fact that I (normally teetotal) was celebrating the weekend with a Long Island Iced Tea and may possibly have knocked it over in a spectacular, possibly tipsy fashion that may or may not have entirely covered the couple sitting on the table next to us. To the extent that the guy turned round and asked TheBloke (TM), "What did you do to upset her?"

That definitely didn't happen. Because if it did, that would have been a bit on the embarrassing side. And could possibly be put down to me being a lightweight. Which totally isn't true. If it had happened. Which it didn't.

Just remember the lamppost. That's all that matters.

Oop North

I'm a regional reject. Londoners say I sound northern, with my flat "u" sound when I say words like "stuff", and the fact I use expressions like "at the minute", which are apparently unknown down South, where they prefer the slushier "at the moment".

Northerners say I sound posh and a bit southern.

I can't even imitate the East Midlands accent where I grew up.

My accent has been a bit of a mish-mash for the last twenty years or so: Loughborough, Bristol, London have all had their input. But until I was six I lived near Sheffield and had - I am told - a fairly strong Yorkshire accent. I really, really like the Yorkshire accent - perhaps because I associate it with my childhood.

Here's the weird thing... despite losing the accent totally once we moved to Loughborough, it sometimes switches itself back on again. I'm away with work on a course this week, and the lady sitting next to me is from Leeds. The more I talk to her, the more I find my speech patterns slow down, and this evening I even caught myself saying, "We've worked a right long day today, 'ant weh? I've not worked eight while eight ferrah long time."

Eight while eight? Really? Really, really? (Translation for Southerners: Yorkshire folk will say "while" to mean "until" - i.e. "I can't leave tonight while six 'o clock" means "I'm leaving at 6").

I'm sure the Leeds lady thought I was deliberately taking the piss. But I wasn't.

By the time I get home on Friday, I bet you anything, anything I've grown a flat cap and a whippet.

Friends like these

I hate my friends.

Saturday saw Karen's wedding. A delightful opportunity for the schoolfriends (minus lazy Hazel who couldn't be arsed to pop over from New Zealand) to get together.

I'd forgotten how much I hated them.

I should qualify: Erica and Kath were very well behaved. They are still my friends. Karen looked lovely and she too is still my friend.

However.

Katy Who Smells of Wee and Helen Who Doesn't Have a Nickname Yet, but may soon become Helen the Arseface, were big nasty bullies to me all night.

Helen the Arseface and Katy Who Smells of Wee are rowers. I know this because they talk about it. A lot. They are both at least six foot four and weigh at least twenty stones each. I can say this because they can't hurt me over the internet.

I am five foot two and a half. I weigh very slightly over seven stones.

And so, at three separate opportunities during the evening, Helen the Arseface and Katy Who Smells of Wee ambushed me, physically picked me up - one of them taking my head, and the other taking my legs... and threw me on the floor in the gents toilets. Onto all the boy wee. Three times. Once, they even picked up the chair I was sitting on and took me and the chair into the gents.

TheBloke (TM) did nothing to defend my honour. To be fair, I think he was laughing too hard.

Perhaps this is all a desperate attempt on their behalf to get a mention in the Plog. They are bastards. Here is proof.

My biggest issue is that with all the time that I spent on the floor of the gents, it may very well now be me who smells of wee. Typical.