I promise I will stop the cat posts soon. I realise I may start coming across as a crazy cat lady. And eighty years from now (optimism) you'll find my skeleton, flesh chewed off by the beasts I've fed for the best part of the last century.
But for now, things I have learned in the last 48 hours of being a cat owner:
1. There is nothing, nothing in the world more fun for her than a rolled up ball of silver paper.
2. Curtains were meant to be climbed. Deal with it.
3. Any attempts to nurse a rose plant to health will be fruitless because the cat will eat it.
4. Human food is yummier than cat food. This is still the case if you're a cat. She has a weird fondness for Cheesy Wotsits (who wouldn't?) which I'm not entirely sure I should be feeding her.
5. Cuddles are emotional blackmail for food. All cuddles are withdrawn once food is provided. This works for TheBloke (TM) too.
6. The toys bought for the cat are boring. BORING! However, clawing the cardboard box the toys came in is more fun than you can shake a stick at.
7. Cats are deaf when you call them. Unless you happen to be holding food at the time.
8. When she falls off the sofa or windowsill (regularly), that was meant to happen.
9. Cat claws are sharp.
10. There is nothing, nothing more fun for me than dangling a rolled up ball of silver paper over TheBloke (TM)'s private parts. See number 9.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Cat-chy
Christmas at the Nunn household. Mrs Nunn consented to play card games. This is very, very rare. Mrs Nunn does not like games. Of any kind. We played Cheat. For those of you unfamiliar with Cheat, the aim is to get rid of all your cards, by lying (as necessary) to say you're putting down cards "legally" even if you don't have said card.
The cards are played face down, because if they were face up, probably even Mrs Nunn might have been able to tell when someone was lying. However, this is doubtful.
It was Jack's turn. "Four threes," he said, putting down four cards face down. It was Mrs Nunn's turn next. "One three," she said. We all laughed and said, "Cheat!"
She couldn't understand how we knew. We explained to her for the third time that every deck of cards has four suits, so there were four of each number. Every time.
A bit later the same evening, Mrs Nunn said, unbelievingly, "You hardly ever see a five, do you? They're quite rare."
Believe it or not, she won twice. I am not sure if this is luck, if the rest of us are truly terrible at cards, or perhaps this was all part of her master plan, and really she's an evil genius.
However, her total lack of ability to grasp Wii Bowling would fly in the face of this final theory.
In other news, we're not sure the name Pickles suits the new cat. We've had a few suggestions, including Phoebe (she is quite a smelly cat and farts a lot. Unless this is TheBloke (TM) passing them off when really they're his own rancid works of fart), Charley or Tango (she's orange). We're still open to suggestions. She's ginger, she's a bit mad and she's eaten a bit of my skin. I'm not sure if this is a good thing. Suggestions please.
The cards are played face down, because if they were face up, probably even Mrs Nunn might have been able to tell when someone was lying. However, this is doubtful.
It was Jack's turn. "Four threes," he said, putting down four cards face down. It was Mrs Nunn's turn next. "One three," she said. We all laughed and said, "Cheat!"
She couldn't understand how we knew. We explained to her for the third time that every deck of cards has four suits, so there were four of each number. Every time.
A bit later the same evening, Mrs Nunn said, unbelievingly, "You hardly ever see a five, do you? They're quite rare."
Believe it or not, she won twice. I am not sure if this is luck, if the rest of us are truly terrible at cards, or perhaps this was all part of her master plan, and really she's an evil genius.
However, her total lack of ability to grasp Wii Bowling would fly in the face of this final theory.
In other news, we're not sure the name Pickles suits the new cat. We've had a few suggestions, including Phoebe (she is quite a smelly cat and farts a lot. Unless this is TheBloke (TM) passing them off when really they're his own rancid works of fart), Charley or Tango (she's orange). We're still open to suggestions. She's ginger, she's a bit mad and she's eaten a bit of my skin. I'm not sure if this is a good thing. Suggestions please.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Pickles
Ploggers! Hello! Well, today marks an exciting event. TheBloke (TM) and I have a new kitten. She's called Pickles.We have had her for two hours. I already have one broken lamp, TheBloke (TM) is wheezing from allergies, I nearly threw up when she did her first poo, and TheBloke (TM) is bleeding from her first claw attack.
Still, she is very sweet, and her fur matches TheBloke (TM)'s ginger eyebrows. We will be bored with her by New Year and probably drown her*.
* This is a joke. Please do not call the RSPCA.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Christmas visitations
TheBloke (TM) and I are visiting Mr and Mrs Nunn. There have been many and varied hilarious incidents so far, including:
- the dog I thought (briefly) was a reindeer
- Mrs Nunn's brilliance at card games*
- watching Mrs Nunn and my 85 year-old grandmother battle it out on the Wii. Hint: Mrs Nunn was not victorious
- watching TheBloke (TM) flick my brother's nipples, which then lit up. This is not an image I want to retain but fear it has burned itself onto the inside of my eyelids and will follow me to the grave.
I shall write about this and much more soon, my pretties. But for now there is driving to be done and Xbox to be played. Happy Boxing Day!
* this is sarcasm
- the dog I thought (briefly) was a reindeer
- Mrs Nunn's brilliance at card games*
- watching Mrs Nunn and my 85 year-old grandmother battle it out on the Wii. Hint: Mrs Nunn was not victorious
- watching TheBloke (TM) flick my brother's nipples, which then lit up. This is not an image I want to retain but fear it has burned itself onto the inside of my eyelids and will follow me to the grave.
I shall write about this and much more soon, my pretties. But for now there is driving to be done and Xbox to be played. Happy Boxing Day!
* this is sarcasm
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Joining the 21st century
I used to be an early adopter. Used to be. And still am with things like sat nav and sparkly new phones, the functionality of which I rarely use. But I get it. I was the first friend in my age group on Facebook. I have a blog. I'm not a tech-tard.
But I've resisted Twitter for months now, though others have extolled its virtues. So I've finally caved. I do not understand it. Nor how it works. But if Stephen Fry can do it, I'm game*.
But if you would like to Twitter me, or whatever it's called, I'm Laurasplog. I have no idea if that's enough info to find me. Would some kindly Twitterer please hold my hand through this scary process?
* This does not apply to other activities that Mr Fry may or may not to choose to indulge in.
But I've resisted Twitter for months now, though others have extolled its virtues. So I've finally caved. I do not understand it. Nor how it works. But if Stephen Fry can do it, I'm game*.
But if you would like to Twitter me, or whatever it's called, I'm Laurasplog. I have no idea if that's enough info to find me. Would some kindly Twitterer please hold my hand through this scary process?
* This does not apply to other activities that Mr Fry may or may not to choose to indulge in.
Friday, December 19, 2008
What the Dickens
I was asked for a pound yesterday to contribute towards "office decorations". I do not bother decorating my own flat, mostly because once you've put the bastards up, you've got to take them down again. I did not wish to donate. This did not deter my colleagues.
By 3 p.m. yesterday, it looked like Santa had vomited on our desk bank.
I am not a fan of Christmas, but I have recently read A Christmas Carol and, whilst I continue to shun:
- tinsel
- decorations
- dancing Santa figurines
I shall try to keep Christmas without Humbugging too much. And today was my last day of work until 2009. Hilarious tales of Mr and Mrs Nunn may soon follow. I still haven't dared speak to them about the kitten.
By 3 p.m. yesterday, it looked like Santa had vomited on our desk bank.
I am not a fan of Christmas, but I have recently read A Christmas Carol and, whilst I continue to shun:
- tinsel
- decorations
- dancing Santa figurines
I shall try to keep Christmas without Humbugging too much. And today was my last day of work until 2009. Hilarious tales of Mr and Mrs Nunn may soon follow. I still haven't dared speak to them about the kitten.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
The pussy
This is a very chicken way of confessing to something I daren't do face to face:
Mr and Mrs Nunn, this message is for you.
I think I'm going to get a kitten. Sorry.
(Mr and Mrs Nunn don't like cats. But I am a grown up now, and I can do what I want and go out and play without tidying my room or doing my violin practice so there.)
Now I just have to convince TheBloke (TM). I mean, how serious can "cat-induced asthma" really be?
Mr and Mrs Nunn, this message is for you.
I think I'm going to get a kitten. Sorry.
(Mr and Mrs Nunn don't like cats. But I am a grown up now, and I can do what I want and go out and play without tidying my room or doing my violin practice so there.)
Now I just have to convince TheBloke (TM). I mean, how serious can "cat-induced asthma" really be?
Monday, December 15, 2008
Green fingers and thumbs
About a year ago, TheBloke (TM) bought me a Christmas rose plant. I fully expected it to die after it had blossomed, as was suggested by the instructions that came with it. However, with my usual winning combo of weeks of neglect followed by total overwatering combo, somehow it managed to survive, and even blossomed again a couple of months later. I think it's bloomed three times so far.
However, about a month ago, the plant started looking a bit sickly. Its leaves turned from a deep green colour to an almost translucent white. I put it in the sunshine. The leaves went limp. I watered it. The leaves dropped off. I fed it. New leaf shoots sprouted... then turned brown and dropped off. I repotted it. Essentially at this point it looked like a dead twig. All was lost. TheBloke (TM) bought me a new rose plant. I didn't want to give up.
So I left it. Total neglect. Stuck it on the windowsill and forgot all about it, lavishing attentions instead on the new plant.
I looked at it properly for the first time yesterday. It has sprouted new leaves and is looking decidedly healthy. Also, the pot which had been littered with rose food and dead leaves looked really clear. I said to TheBloke (TM), "Look at this. Have you repotted the rose or something?"
"No," said TheBloke (TM). "But I did drop it on the floor last week. Sorry. I bought you a new one."
Gardeners, listen up. Rose problems? Knock it off the windowsill. Guaranteed. I'll take a picture if it blooms again.
In other news, I think my orchid is dead.
However, about a month ago, the plant started looking a bit sickly. Its leaves turned from a deep green colour to an almost translucent white. I put it in the sunshine. The leaves went limp. I watered it. The leaves dropped off. I fed it. New leaf shoots sprouted... then turned brown and dropped off. I repotted it. Essentially at this point it looked like a dead twig. All was lost. TheBloke (TM) bought me a new rose plant. I didn't want to give up.
So I left it. Total neglect. Stuck it on the windowsill and forgot all about it, lavishing attentions instead on the new plant.
I looked at it properly for the first time yesterday. It has sprouted new leaves and is looking decidedly healthy. Also, the pot which had been littered with rose food and dead leaves looked really clear. I said to TheBloke (TM), "Look at this. Have you repotted the rose or something?"
"No," said TheBloke (TM). "But I did drop it on the floor last week. Sorry. I bought you a new one."
Gardeners, listen up. Rose problems? Knock it off the windowsill. Guaranteed. I'll take a picture if it blooms again.
In other news, I think my orchid is dead.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Iron will
I rarely see my cleaner. I'm usually at work when she comes to do the housework and my ironing, and the communication we have is usually by text message or notes left at the flat. My cleaner is Polish. When she first came for an interview, she looked at the flat, wandered round and said (best Eastern European accent please), "Ees very dirty. Very dirty. Eet need four hour this week, then two every week. Ees dirty. You give keys now." It wasn't so much as an interview as a lecture.
Anyway, other than occasionally being chastised for dirtiness, she's lovely, though I really don't see her very often at all. However, TheBloke (TM) was home this week whilst she was cleaning.
"I have something you must to tell Laura," said Katrina the Cleaner.
"OK," said TheBloke (TM), assuming she wanted to discuss Christmas dates.
"You know Laura white shirt?" she pointed at the offending article. "I no iron this again. Ees too old. You tell Laura this is last time I iron white shirt."
Fashion advice from my cleaner. And a great excuse to go shopping.
Anyway, other than occasionally being chastised for dirtiness, she's lovely, though I really don't see her very often at all. However, TheBloke (TM) was home this week whilst she was cleaning.
"I have something you must to tell Laura," said Katrina the Cleaner.
"OK," said TheBloke (TM), assuming she wanted to discuss Christmas dates.
"You know Laura white shirt?" she pointed at the offending article. "I no iron this again. Ees too old. You tell Laura this is last time I iron white shirt."
Fashion advice from my cleaner. And a great excuse to go shopping.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
The whole tooth
I read in the news earlier this week that some supply teacher (no doubt overworked and underpaid) snapped at her class of seven year-olds and told them that Santa doesn't exist. The article can be found here:
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/education/article5326005.ece
Two things here spring to mind:
- Seven year olds still believe in Santa? The big pussies. I don't know a single seven year-old who believed in Santa when I was at school. Apart from my little brother, who believed until he was about fourteen. In fact, every year Mr and Mrs Nunn would get the video camera out and "interview" him about whether he was looking forward to Santa's visit, as every year they said to each other and to me, "This'll be the last year he believes." This went on until he was twelve, when it just became a bit creepy.
My younger brother now maintains he was "pretending" to believe in order to spare their feelings. This seems unlikely.
- The second thing is a story it puts me in mind of from when I was little. Whilst my younger brother was sweet, naive and - some might say - credulous, I was always a bit cynical. I remember when I was five telling my mum if I could be any age at all, I'd be four again - "those were the days". Five was too weighted down with responsibilities.
Anyway, I was in my first year at primary school, so would have been four or five years old, and I'd just lost my first tooth. As in milk tooth - it fell out. Wasn't punched out or anything, though that might have made a better story.
As was the custom, I put my milk tooth under my pillow, and the Tooth Fairy came in the night and left a ten pence piece for the tooth. Very exciting indeed. Though she didn't take the tooth away. So, I hatched a plan - I would leave the same tooth again the next night under the pillow and see if I could con another ten pence from the gullible hag. I announced this plan to Mr and Mrs Nunn with glee.
The next morning I woke up. My tooth was still there, but no money. Instead was a note from the Tooth Fairy in teeny tiny handwriting saying that she was sorry but she wasn't rich enough to pay me for the same tooth twice. Thrilling. But I was suspicious. Surely one tooth looks pretty much like another, and she wasn't taking the teeth away in any case. What sort of business model was she operating here? A flawed one, clearly. Besides which, Mr and Mrs Nunn were the only people who knew about the plan. I smelled a rat. I suspected they might be in on it. I could no longer trust them.
Instead I went to my primary school teacher the next day. She would help me clear this up. But I had to be cunning. So I announced in a very loud voice, "Mrs Burgin, my mummy and daddy say there's no such thing as the tooth fairy!"
"Shh," she said. "Don't spoil it for the other children."
My suspicions were confirmed. I had tricked a teacher and proved my own parents were liars in one morning's work. And I was still only five years old. Genius.
As a slightly unsavoury side note, about a year ago I found a matchbox full of my old baby teeth at my parents' house. It rattles disturbingly. I am not sure what they expect to do with this. I hope they're not planning on cloning me. The world can only take so much brilliance.
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/education/article5326005.ece
Two things here spring to mind:
- Seven year olds still believe in Santa? The big pussies. I don't know a single seven year-old who believed in Santa when I was at school. Apart from my little brother, who believed until he was about fourteen. In fact, every year Mr and Mrs Nunn would get the video camera out and "interview" him about whether he was looking forward to Santa's visit, as every year they said to each other and to me, "This'll be the last year he believes." This went on until he was twelve, when it just became a bit creepy.
My younger brother now maintains he was "pretending" to believe in order to spare their feelings. This seems unlikely.
- The second thing is a story it puts me in mind of from when I was little. Whilst my younger brother was sweet, naive and - some might say - credulous, I was always a bit cynical. I remember when I was five telling my mum if I could be any age at all, I'd be four again - "those were the days". Five was too weighted down with responsibilities.
Anyway, I was in my first year at primary school, so would have been four or five years old, and I'd just lost my first tooth. As in milk tooth - it fell out. Wasn't punched out or anything, though that might have made a better story.
As was the custom, I put my milk tooth under my pillow, and the Tooth Fairy came in the night and left a ten pence piece for the tooth. Very exciting indeed. Though she didn't take the tooth away. So, I hatched a plan - I would leave the same tooth again the next night under the pillow and see if I could con another ten pence from the gullible hag. I announced this plan to Mr and Mrs Nunn with glee.
The next morning I woke up. My tooth was still there, but no money. Instead was a note from the Tooth Fairy in teeny tiny handwriting saying that she was sorry but she wasn't rich enough to pay me for the same tooth twice. Thrilling. But I was suspicious. Surely one tooth looks pretty much like another, and she wasn't taking the teeth away in any case. What sort of business model was she operating here? A flawed one, clearly. Besides which, Mr and Mrs Nunn were the only people who knew about the plan. I smelled a rat. I suspected they might be in on it. I could no longer trust them.
Instead I went to my primary school teacher the next day. She would help me clear this up. But I had to be cunning. So I announced in a very loud voice, "Mrs Burgin, my mummy and daddy say there's no such thing as the tooth fairy!"
"Shh," she said. "Don't spoil it for the other children."
My suspicions were confirmed. I had tricked a teacher and proved my own parents were liars in one morning's work. And I was still only five years old. Genius.
As a slightly unsavoury side note, about a year ago I found a matchbox full of my old baby teeth at my parents' house. It rattles disturbingly. I am not sure what they expect to do with this. I hope they're not planning on cloning me. The world can only take so much brilliance.
Monday, December 08, 2008
Sex-ism
Apparently the average person in their lifetime will have sex with 10.5 people. I'm resisting the obvious joke about the 0.5 (lots of dwarves getting action etc. etc.).
I found this information at http://www.durex.com/cm/gss2004Content.asp?intQid=401
There are a few things that interest me about this. Firstly, the Chinese seem quite a lot more slutty than the rest of the world - and the Japanese, despite that coy thing they do so well, are also far more promiscuous than even Americans.
What interests me most is this. Worldwide, men report having 12.4 partners. Women report having 7.2. Now, Maths was always one of my weaker subjects at school and I certainly wouldn't claim to be a statistician, but how on earth does this work? Surely, making the (reasonable) assumption we're talking exclusively about male/female sex, the numbers must match up. Because even if there's just one really whorey woman doing every single bloke in the world, her average would bring up the men's average too.
Someone, clearly, is lying.
But why? I can understand a certain amount of reluctance to divulge this sort of personal information, but if you're willing to be interviewed for such a survey, one assumes you'd be fairly honest. And I imagine the people conducting the survey didn't insist that you answered the question in front of all your mates in your workplace whilst people pointed and laughed at your genitals. Though I'll admit I haven't researched this facet that thoroughly.
So, is it the men, or is it the women? Are the men including any contact they've ever had with a woman in order to bolster their numbers (i.e. "I SO could have touched her breast if I'd wanted to - so she counts") or is it the women editing out the mingers? (i.e. "He was ugly and I was drunk so that totally doesn't count at all.")
Or are the definitions of sex different for men and women? For men, if she brushes past his penis on the tube, does that count?
Something isn't adding up. So I'm going to conduct my own survey. Well, I'm going to try. Sexual partners. Tell me how many. Totally anonymous. Use the comments box. Say if you're male or female. Try to remember not to sign in, or we'll all know how studly you are. I'll might even add my own once there are enough comments to be able to hide in the mix. BE HONEST. Go.
Oh, and as this is a "lifetime" survey of partners, it would really help if you're never going to have sex again, just so I can be sure the data is correct. Oh all right then, vote anyway.
I found this information at http://www.durex.com/cm/gss2004Content.asp?intQid=401
There are a few things that interest me about this. Firstly, the Chinese seem quite a lot more slutty than the rest of the world - and the Japanese, despite that coy thing they do so well, are also far more promiscuous than even Americans.
What interests me most is this. Worldwide, men report having 12.4 partners. Women report having 7.2. Now, Maths was always one of my weaker subjects at school and I certainly wouldn't claim to be a statistician, but how on earth does this work? Surely, making the (reasonable) assumption we're talking exclusively about male/female sex, the numbers must match up. Because even if there's just one really whorey woman doing every single bloke in the world, her average would bring up the men's average too.
Someone, clearly, is lying.
But why? I can understand a certain amount of reluctance to divulge this sort of personal information, but if you're willing to be interviewed for such a survey, one assumes you'd be fairly honest. And I imagine the people conducting the survey didn't insist that you answered the question in front of all your mates in your workplace whilst people pointed and laughed at your genitals. Though I'll admit I haven't researched this facet that thoroughly.
So, is it the men, or is it the women? Are the men including any contact they've ever had with a woman in order to bolster their numbers (i.e. "I SO could have touched her breast if I'd wanted to - so she counts") or is it the women editing out the mingers? (i.e. "He was ugly and I was drunk so that totally doesn't count at all.")
Or are the definitions of sex different for men and women? For men, if she brushes past his penis on the tube, does that count?
Something isn't adding up. So I'm going to conduct my own survey. Well, I'm going to try. Sexual partners. Tell me how many. Totally anonymous. Use the comments box. Say if you're male or female. Try to remember not to sign in, or we'll all know how studly you are. I'll might even add my own once there are enough comments to be able to hide in the mix. BE HONEST. Go.
Oh, and as this is a "lifetime" survey of partners, it would really help if you're never going to have sex again, just so I can be sure the data is correct. Oh all right then, vote anyway.
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Shopped
Someone had the stupid idea today to go to Argos. Argos. Two weeks before Christmas. Only an insane person would do this. Stupid, stupid, stupid person. Unfortunately that stupid person was me.
It wasn't even as if I was buying anything seasonal. Whilst standing next to people purchasing naff Christmas trees, games consoles, dolls and Elizabeth Duke jewellery, I patiently queued for (wait for the hedonism) a new clothes horse.
This is a lie, obviously. Not the clothes horse. That part is true. A new clothes horse is currently standing proudly in the living room, laden with clothes. Why would I lie about that? What a pathologically boring thing to lie about. You should be ashamed of yourselves for even suspecting it.
The bit that was a lie was when I said I queued "patiently". I have never knowingly done anything patiently in my life. I used the whizzy machines to pay for the clothes horse. Then I got quite overexcited when they called out the order number just a few minutes later. And even more so another five minutes or so later when I could see the clothes horse on the rack, awaiting its imminent dispatch. And then it just sat there. For ages. And ages. I started tapping my foot. I started not moving out of the way when people tried to get past. I gripped my receipt so hard that I think I made a bit of a hole in it. Then TheBloke (TM) started singing Jingle Bells and I'm afraid that's where I realised the entire trip was a bit of a mistake.
TheBloke (TM) loves Argos. Apparently they have nothing like it in South Africa, and he thinks it's amazing that they manage to have so much stuff in one little shop. He has bought everything he owns from Argos. On the other hand, I think it's amazing that everything I've ever bought from Argos has fallen to pieces or broken almost directly afterwards. I have a lot of venom towards Argos. But today was mostly my own fault.
I'm going away to think about what I've done.
It wasn't even as if I was buying anything seasonal. Whilst standing next to people purchasing naff Christmas trees, games consoles, dolls and Elizabeth Duke jewellery, I patiently queued for (wait for the hedonism) a new clothes horse.
This is a lie, obviously. Not the clothes horse. That part is true. A new clothes horse is currently standing proudly in the living room, laden with clothes. Why would I lie about that? What a pathologically boring thing to lie about. You should be ashamed of yourselves for even suspecting it.
The bit that was a lie was when I said I queued "patiently". I have never knowingly done anything patiently in my life. I used the whizzy machines to pay for the clothes horse. Then I got quite overexcited when they called out the order number just a few minutes later. And even more so another five minutes or so later when I could see the clothes horse on the rack, awaiting its imminent dispatch. And then it just sat there. For ages. And ages. I started tapping my foot. I started not moving out of the way when people tried to get past. I gripped my receipt so hard that I think I made a bit of a hole in it. Then TheBloke (TM) started singing Jingle Bells and I'm afraid that's where I realised the entire trip was a bit of a mistake.
TheBloke (TM) loves Argos. Apparently they have nothing like it in South Africa, and he thinks it's amazing that they manage to have so much stuff in one little shop. He has bought everything he owns from Argos. On the other hand, I think it's amazing that everything I've ever bought from Argos has fallen to pieces or broken almost directly afterwards. I have a lot of venom towards Argos. But today was mostly my own fault.
I'm going away to think about what I've done.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
Nutty
I will come right out and say it. I like pistachio nuts. I like them very much. I would even go so far as to say that they are a near-perfect snack, what with not only being tasty salty little morsels of goodness, but also providing a something to do with your hands whilst you snack. They are extremely good to eat in front of the television, or in the pub, or whilst chatting to friends.They are not - as I discovered this evening - a particularly good to eat whilst you're trying to read a book. You see, pistachios are very much a two-handed snack. Hold pistachio between two hands, de-shell, eat, discard shell, repeat. Now try this with an Anne Tyler novel between your paws. It's hard - nay - impossible. I covered the sofa in pistachio shell. I covered myself in pistachio skin. It was not an entire success.
I'm also concerned that the politically-correct brigade are not properly doing their job. What about disabled people, people with one arm? How can they be expected to accurately operate this nut which has clearly - flouting all DDA regulations - been designed exclusively for able-bodied people?
It disgusts me. Boycott the pistachio. Send any unused ones to me. Usual address.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Pup fiction
It isn't often a book makes me angry. If I'm not enjoying a book, I tend to dismiss it as trashy or unreadable and then decide whether to soldier onwards, realising it's trash and enjoying in as much as I can in its newly-defined genre, or else abandon it altogether. It's rare I abandon. I'm a finisher-completer, after all.
An unforeseen side-effect of the new job is the commute. By London standards, it's hardly horrific - about 40 minutes door-to-door, but as my previous commute was about ten minutes, it's a noticeable difference. The biggest impact has been on my paperback consumption. I used to get through a novel a fortnight - now it's nearer two per week. Luckily, I work close to a library (sorry, Idea Store. Don't ask.) so I can be all credit crunchy and economical and manage to spend as little as possible on my paperback habit.
But sometimes I get caught short.
Last week my latest Book Club book (A Christmas Carol) still hadn't arrived from the mail order company, and my library books were finished. I had nothing to read and two lots of 40 minutes ahead of me. Of course, I could have read the Metro or the London Lite, but my brain hasn't yet atrophied sufficiently. I will keep you posted. I ransacked the bookshelf for TheBloke (TM)'s books. I'd read all his Stephen King. I'd read anything that looked readable. All that was left was a novel by Dean Koontz. I'd read one of his previously and it had been OK. Not great, very much trash, but OK. I took the plunge. This one was called The Darkest Evening of the Year.
Ooh. Spooky.
Now, I don't want to spoil it for Dean Koontz fans (who really should be ashamed of themselves), or for TheBloke (TM) who hasn't yet read this book. Its good points:
a) I finished it in about three days
b) It remained finished.
But what I will say is this: I never again want to read a grown-ups' novel where:
a) there is a magic dog
b) the denouement involes angels.
The angels done it. With the help of a magic dog. Great. This is my angry face. See it and fear me.
An unforeseen side-effect of the new job is the commute. By London standards, it's hardly horrific - about 40 minutes door-to-door, but as my previous commute was about ten minutes, it's a noticeable difference. The biggest impact has been on my paperback consumption. I used to get through a novel a fortnight - now it's nearer two per week. Luckily, I work close to a library (sorry, Idea Store. Don't ask.) so I can be all credit crunchy and economical and manage to spend as little as possible on my paperback habit.
But sometimes I get caught short.
Last week my latest Book Club book (A Christmas Carol) still hadn't arrived from the mail order company, and my library books were finished. I had nothing to read and two lots of 40 minutes ahead of me. Of course, I could have read the Metro or the London Lite, but my brain hasn't yet atrophied sufficiently. I will keep you posted. I ransacked the bookshelf for TheBloke (TM)'s books. I'd read all his Stephen King. I'd read anything that looked readable. All that was left was a novel by Dean Koontz. I'd read one of his previously and it had been OK. Not great, very much trash, but OK. I took the plunge. This one was called The Darkest Evening of the Year.
Ooh. Spooky.
Now, I don't want to spoil it for Dean Koontz fans (who really should be ashamed of themselves), or for TheBloke (TM) who hasn't yet read this book. Its good points:
a) I finished it in about three days
b) It remained finished.
But what I will say is this: I never again want to read a grown-ups' novel where:
a) there is a magic dog
b) the denouement involes angels.
The angels done it. With the help of a magic dog. Great. This is my angry face. See it and fear me.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Number 600
Welcome Ploggers to my 600th post! Yay! 600 mini essays about absolutely nothing. Surely this is some sort of clever clever record. No? Oh well.
So, what is new in the land of Laura? Well, as ever, Laura Land is an exciting place. Here are some exciting things that have recently occurred in Laura Land:
So, what is new in the land of Laura? Well, as ever, Laura Land is an exciting place. Here are some exciting things that have recently occurred in Laura Land:
- An argument with Debenhams who appear to be misselling their store card. This is good though as it means I can report them to Trading Standards. I like to cause trouble.
- A chocolate making workshop. Let me reiterate. A workshop. Where I made chocolate. What is not to like?
- Yet another penalty notice from the Congestion Zone. Whoever has cloned my car's identity needs to get a job rather than cruising round the Congestion Zone when I'm at work.
- A rare mid-week glass of wine for me last night. And anyone who says I accidentally walked into the door frame quite hard straight after is lying. LYING!
- Watching the episode of Spooks Mr Nunn had already spoiled for me in his trademark way. (i.e. "You know American Beauty - it's the one where his neighbour shoots him in the head", "Have you got to the part of the book yet where it turns out his girlfriend is the murderer?" This week it was, "I'm up to date with Spooks now," (this is a spoiler warning for those who've not yet seen it). "I've seen the one where Connie slits that young man's throat." "I've not seen that yet, Dad." "Yes you have, it was on last week." "Yes, on BBC3." "Oh.") To be honest though, I actually appreciate being able to follow the plot a bit better when he's pre-warned me what's going to happen.
So that was my 600th post. Hope you enjoyed it.
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