Cock-eyed

What a lovely Christmas. Good company, good food, but most importantly, a fresh stack of Mrs Nunn anecdotes, with which to regale you. Here is Snippet #1.

Mrs Nunn giggled, "Tell your grandma about your friend whose boyfriend had a very big cock."

This was - sadly - a normal conversation in the Nunn household.

"Well," I said to my grandmother, "my friend Cookie dated a guy whose penis was so huge, she described it like a baby's arm holding an apple."

My grandma laughed.

"One thing I don't understand though," Mrs Nunn said. "Shouldn't it be a baby's arm holding two apples?"

I have not been able to look at Mr Nunn the same way since.

Nonsense Noel: Part III

And finally, the one you've all been waiting for - number one on the ridiculous carols list...

Away in a Manger!

"But Laura," you might say. "I can see your point with some of the other carols you've picked out. There are some odd lyrics there. But Away in a Manger at least kind of makes sense." Does it? I ask you. Does it?

Away in a manger,

Away where exactly? I think "In a manger" would have sufficed entirely. Except it doesn't scan so well.

No crib for His bed
The little Lord Jesus
Laid down His sweet head

We're talking about a - what - two-hour old baby here? Little Lord Jesus, at the grand old age of two hours, had the autonomy to lay down his own head? Unlikely. Babies can rarely support their own necks until at least a month old. But again, "The Little Lord Jesus was burped, spewed a bit and was eventually settled down by his postnatally-depressed mother, before cacking himself all over the hay" doesn't quite have the same ring to it.

The stars in the bright sky
Looked down where He lay
The little Lord Jesus
Asleep on the hay

Brilliant. We need more anthropomorphic stars, that's what I say.

The cattle are lowing
The Baby awakes
But little Lord Jesus
No crying He makes

Now, I'm no midwife, but I think it's a bit dangerous if the kid won't cry. In fact, I'm fairly certain it's a sign that there's something wrong with their breathing. Try slapping him on the arse and see if that helps.

I love Thee, Lord Jesus
Look down from the sky
And stay by my bedside,
'Til morning is nigh.

Ooh, weird. Who is the sudden "I" who has crept into this? This freaks me out a bit, because assuming the "I" is the person singing the song, they appear to have delusions of grandeur ("Yeah, Jesus, come and visit ME, I'm dead important. Not important enough to stay awake whilst you visit me though, obviously. Just sit by my bed until I wake up, K?"), but they also expect the invention of a time machine to be imminent.

Be near me, Lord Jesus,
I ask Thee to stay
Close by me forever
And love me I pray

"Stalk me, Jesus!"

Bless all the dear children
In Thy tender care
And take us to heaven
To live with Thee there

"Kill all the children and we can all be together for ever and ever and ever..."

I genuinely cannot believe they make children sing this sinister, sinister song, involving an inaccurate, if not traumatic birth with the child not breathing, and overtones of stalking and infanticide.

And on that note, Happy Christmas, Ploggers!

Nonsense Noel: Part II

Continuing the countdown of ridiculous festive lyrics. In at number two, it's that old favourite, Hark the Herald Angels Sing.

That said, the first verse isn't too bad. It mostly makes sense:

Hark the herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!
Peace on earth and mercy mild
God and sinners reconciled"
Joyful, all ye nations rise
Join the triumph of the skies
With the angelic host proclaim:
"Christ is born in Bethlehem"
Hark! The herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!"

It's verse two where things start getting a bit... funky.

Christ by highest heav'n adored
Christ the everlasting Lord!

OK, all making sense so far. Heaven adores Jesus (not that impressive if heaven created him. That's a bit like me making a mince pie and telling everyone how good my own mince pie is). Everlasting Lord sounds a bit like a battery that won't run out, but OK, at least it makes sense.

Late in time behold Him come
Offspring of a Virgin's womb

What does this mean? "Late in time..." is Jesus a bit on the tardy side? "Offspring of a Virgin's womb". This makes sense (well, of course it doesn't biologically, but we all know the story: "The angels done it, Mum, I swears I is a virgin...")

My main problem with this line is the terrible, unforgivable attempted rhyme of "come" with "womb". So much so that every time I sing it, I have to force myself to be grown up and not sing "Offspring of a Virgin's womm" just to make it rhyme.

Veiled in flesh the Godhead see
Hail the incarnate Deity

What's a Godhead? Anyone? I think this is about fleshy God again. "Incarnate", I think, literally from the Latin means "made of meat". So this couplet is all about saying hello to the meaty God. Hello meat God!

Pleased as man with man to dwell
Jesus, our Emmanuel

Jesus likes living with men? Or men like living with Jesus? No idea. Everyone seems quite smug though.

Hail the heav'n-born Prince of Peace!
Hail the Son of Righteousness!

More smugness here. He must be a pain in the arse at dinner parties. "Hello, I'm Meat God, Son of Righteousness. Nice to meet you, root of Jesse. How's that lion?"

Light and life to all he brings,
Ris’n with healing in his wings

Whoa. Whoa whoa whoa. Jesus can fly? THAT is news to me. To be fair, it doesn't specifically detail that he can fly, but it does say quite categorically that he has wings. So he could be like a flightless bird like a penguin or an emu. Jesus the emu. Jemu.

Mild He lays His glory by

Huh?

Born that man no more may die,
Born to raise the sons of earth
Born to give them second birth

Just to offend anyone I haven't yet managed to... I heard a Bible reading earlier this week that talked about Joseph finding out Mary was up the duff and intending to cast her aside until an angel appeared to him. They then went on to Bethlehem to be counted or something along those lines, and they still - at this stage - weren't married. Firstly, should they have been sharing that cattle shed at all, unchaperoned? Secondly, did they ever get married? I don't remember hearing anything about their wedding. I think we may have uncovered some sort of scandal here... Anyway, I digress. Second birth, off to heaven, we get it. I've always been a bit foggy about how Jesus' death actually meant my soul was saved (well, OK, not mine), but everyone else seems to understand, so perhaps that was an RE lesson I missed.

Tune in tomorrow for the number one, most ridiculous carol lyrics.

Nonsense Noel: Part I

As we're feeling festive, let's talk carols. I sing in a choir, and have done, on and off, since the age of 7. I reckon I've sung O Come All Ye Faithful at least 400 times in my life. I know all the words off by heart, including the verse which you're only supposed to sing on Christmas morning. I know the Alto part blindfolded. Admittedly, it's a fairly unusual carol service that insists on blindfolding its choristers, but I'm not here to judge.

So yes, cursed with something of a photographic memory when it comes to song lyrics, I know pretty much every word of every verse of every popular Christmas carol. And yet barely three of them make sense. I give you - as a countdown until Christmas, the worst offenders of festive nonsense.

In at number 3: O Come, O Come, Emmanuel

Verse One:

O come, O come, Emmanuel!
Redeem thy captive Israel
That into exile drear is gone,
Far from the face of God's dear Son.

OK, accepting that Emmanuel means God made flesh, or some such guff, the first sentence is OK. Basically "Hello fleshy God!".

"Redeem thy captive Israel"? Well, my knowledge of early Middle Eastern politics is about as strong as my grasp of current Middle Eastern politics, but let's make a basic guess that Israel is under rule by the heathens. Those pesky heathens. Never mind! God is on his way!

"That into exile drear is gone, Far from the face of God's dear son". Sorry? Let's unpick the crappy grammar and word order. Basically, I think it means "dreary stuff has gone into exile, miles away from Jesus." Essentially, Jesus has banished the drear. Jesus is bringing us a massive party. Great. Kind of makes sense so far. Roll on verse two.

O come, thou root of Jesse! draw
The quarry from the lion's claw;
From the dread caverns of the grave,
From nether hell, thy people save.

I have genuinely no idea what the "root of Jesse" is. It's either a person or a type of mathematical calculation. Let's go with a person. Jesse. Sounds American. No self-respecting Brit would be called Jesse. Anyway, Jesse's root (his or her son or daughter, perhaps?) is about to attempt something a bit dangerous - apparently stealing food from a lion. Not advised. Unless "draw" in this case means put pencil to paper and do a pretty sketch. But I don't think so.

"From the dread caverns of the grave, from nether hell, thy people save". Jesse's root, whoever he or she is, is going to raise the dead. Possibly in a zombie-esque way. I wonder how this will go down with Jesus and his big party. I'm sensing conflict. Stay tuned, this one's getting exciting. Actually, it isn't. There are about six hundred verses to this*, each one slightly duller than the last.

Translations welcome. Tune in tomorrow for more festive foolishness.

* slight exaggeration

Christmas Story

Ploggers, I have been absent, but I have returned. "What have you been doing?" you ask. Lots. Lots and lots and lots. Four choir concerts, three work dos, two turtle doves and one good friend to stay the weekend.

However, the Christmas spirit is in the air, there is snow on the ground and it is mere days until Father Christmas loads up his improbable method of transport with presents. Huddle close then, Ploggers, for I have a Christmassy tale to tell. It is a tale so special that Mrs Nunn threatened to visit violence upon me if I were to retell it, as she fears embarrassing the people in question. However, two years have passed since this time and I am hoping she has a) forgotten or b) will be overcome by the Christmas spirit and forget her threats of beating and instead buy me extra presents. More than my brother anyway.

A number of years ago, as is the tradition at Yuletide, my family and I attended the local church for a Midnight Mass service.

"Church, Laura?" I hear you say. "But you are a confirmed atheist!"

And you would be right. But everyone loves a good Christmas carol, so Midnight Mass it is each year to sing carols and giggle at the prayer where you're supposed to say you're unworthy to gather crumbs from under the table.

The vicar was apparently new and a bit nervous. The sermon started. I hate sermons. Even as a child in the church choir (my parents were trying to get me into a local Catholic school; I'm not sure how they thought singing in a Protestant church choir was going to help. It didn't.), I used to take a book to read, much to the disgust of most of my fellow choristers, who quite rightly surmised that I was not heaven-bound, even at the age of 10. So yes, I hate sermons. And I was beginning to wish I'd brought along my new Nintendo DS, but thought this might be even less acceptable for a 28 year-old than it was for a 10 year-old. So I twiddled my thumbs instead.

My old English teacher from my high school sat to my right. Mr Nunn sat to my left.

The sermon was patronising and pants:

"Once upon a time there was a residential centre for people with special needs. No-one was quite perfect - whatever perfect means. Gary lost his temper often. Sarah would scream if anybody used her mug and Daniel hated having his hair touched. One day they all went out on a lovely trip. Everything was going really well until Sarah accidentally touched Daniel's hair. He snatched her mug from her and threw it on the floor and she screamed. Gary started trying to punch the bus driver."

I wondered where this was going.

"Then suddenly, they came upon a church. 'Can we go in?' pleaded Sarah. In they all went. It was nearly Christmas, and the Christmas tree in the church left all three of them speechless. A hushed quiet came over the group. Near the altar stood a lady holding a baby. Gary bounded up to the woman, limping and twitching slightly, like he always did. 'Can I hold your baby?' Gary asked."

The vicar's voice went quiet and meaningful at this point.

"The lady looked at Gary. And she passed her baby to Gary. And Gary took the baby, and was holding him. Then Gary..."

(pause for meaning)

"Then Gary... lifted the baby up, and killed him. KISSED him. Sorry. KISSED."

I was helpless with laughter. My English teacher leaned over from the right and whispered, "Well, I didn't see that coming."

Mr Nunn leaned over and said, "I thought the slaughter of the innocents came later?"

We all shook with laughter for the next half an hour. Best. Sermon. Ever.

No energy

Ploggers, Ploggers, you thought my gas story ended there, didn't you? My naive little friends.

Two days later I was working from home. The doorbell rang. Ding dong! Actually, it doesn't go ding dong. It does a very naff impression of Big Ben, but we don't need to go into that now.

A man stood at the door with ID round his neck that a) didn't have a recognisable company name on and b) had no photographic ID. "I've come to read the meter," he said.

"Where are you from," I asked. He checked his PDA. This confused me. He didn't seem to know which company he worked for. "I am from Southern Electric," he decided. "Mrs Rogers?"

Mrs Rogers was the previous owner of our house. I said, "We don't have our power with Southern Electric, and I'm not Mrs Rogers."

He turned on his heel and stormed off. "Fine!" he said. "Fine! I'll just tell them you refused a meter reading and you'll get a letter!"

I am literally quaking in my boots.

Gassing away

Ding dong! The doorbell rang just a few minutes after I got home from work. I answered it. A bedraggled-looking Asian man stood on my doorstep, wielding ID.

"Scottish Power," he said, and looked at me expectantly as if I was supposed to know how the rest of the conversation went. We looked at each other blankly for a few seconds. Then I remembered I'd changed the energy suppliers to Scottish Power just a few weeks ago.

"Oh," said I, "have you come to read the meter?"

"No," asserted the man, in - let's be honest - not very good English. "Who you currently have power with?"

"Scottish Power," I replied.

"Yes, that is right," said the man. "Who is your current energy supplier?"

"Scottish Power," I repeated.

"Oh!" said the little man. "What tariff are you on?"

"I don't know," I said. "But look, handily, here is my latest bill."

"Can I come in?" asked the little man. I didn't really want him to but I felt I couldn't say no. He looked at my bill with the comprehension of someone not comprehending very much. A little bit how I look when I receive anything from the Inland Revenue. "How much is your monthly payment?" he asked.

I told him it was £46 and showed him the bill. I told him I thought this was quite expensive, particularly as this was only the standing charge and didn't include any electricity or gas actually used.

"No, is very cheap," he said. "Is definitely the best tariff."

We stood and looked at each other a bit more. He broke the awkwardness. "Can I have a glass of water?" I didn't want him to have a glass of water, but I got one for him anyway. He drank it. Whilst we looked at each other awkwardly. Monty cat ran past him and he tried to touch his tail.

"OK, I will go now," said the man. I think we were both a little bit relieved.

Ikea: The Cunt-clusion

Reader, I complained to Ikea. I detailed the fiasco with the out-of-date flyers, the slat-free bed and the Ikea-only sized bedframe. I relayed my experiences with their helpline (cut off - twice). I explained to them how the "contact us" link on their website didn't work. And finally, out of desperation, I found an email address for their CEO. Reader, complain I did. And this was the response I got.


Dear Laura

Thank you for your email.

I am sorry to hear about your bad experience with IKEA.

In regards to the bed slats they are sold separately which is indicated on the tags in store and also mentions this online.

The beds we sell are european sizes due to IKEA being Swedish hence you will need one of our mattresses to fit the bed.

I will feedback to the store regarding the pricelist but if you went to a member of staff they would of printed off a list with everything you require so no mistakes could be made.

In regards to returning the bedframe we have a 90 days returns policy and without the packaging you could incur a 30% reduction but the store will make that decision once they see the bed frame.

If you had delivery and decided you no longer want the bed then you would also incur a recharge as they would class this as change of mind.

If you still want to go ahead and have it collected then please reply with you full address, convenient contact number and the ST,RG, TR and the date and article number on the receipt.

Kind regards

Lee

They "would of", would they, Lee? Lee, whom I am guessing, is NOT the CEO of Ikea. So I am supposed to telepathically know that the information you're handing out in store is guff, and really I should be queueing to speak to your gormless colleagues? Additionally, if anyone knows what the ST,RG and TR are, I'd be delighted to know. I'm going for Stupid Tossers, Right Gits and Total Rejects.

OK, let's do the math, as they say in the States. I liked the idea of doing math rather than maths. Sounded like there was less of it for a start.

So, the Ikea bedframe cost £47. The slats cost £20. The non-refundable delivery cost £35. Total cost = £102.

They are suggesting I can have it collected (an additional £35), and then I would forfeit 30% of the product costs (£20.10). This would mean a total refund of £11.90. Genius.

In short, Ikea are a large bunch of illiterate, muddy gits, incapable of working a telephone, a pricelist or knowing the difference between "would have" and "would of". And also, if you want to buy a bed, there's a never-used one for sale on Ebay.

Ikea Part Three

So, off we went to Ikea to get some bed slats. They were put on the bed frame. The bed frame now looked something like a bed. The wardrobe doors fitted the wardrobe. The new handles even allowed us to open the wardrobe. I had even got the worst of the muddy Ikea footprints off the stair carpet. Everything was tickety boo.

Well, almost everything.

We ordered a double mattress from John Lewis to go on our new Ikea bed (now with new, improved slats!). "But Laura," I hear you cry, "I regularly read your Plog, and I heartily agree with almost everything you say. But John Lewis is a different supplier! You can't blame Ikea for another company's poor service."

I say hush. Hush, hush, hush. Listen up.

The John Lewis mattress was booked to arrive on a Thursday. Ten minutes before delivery, John Lewis called to make me aware. The delivery men wore "carpet protectors" on their shoes. My stairs remained unmuddied. They asked to use the toilet. The toilet seat was carefully left down after they finished.

I revelled in the knowledge that finally, FINALLY the bed was ready, and we would never never never never never never never never never never have to go to Ikea ever again.

Until TheBloke (TM) got home. And put the mattress on the bed. And we noticed that the mattress was about 20cm too small for the bed. I swore. I shouted. I stamped my little feet. Actually, they're fairly average-sized feet, but I stamped them anyway. I checked the John Lewis website. I'd definitely ordered a double. I checked the Ikea website...

It was at this point we realised that Ikea beds are totally different sizes to normal-sized beds. And - surprise surprise - the only place you can buy mattresses to fit is... wait for it... Ikea. And - surprise surprise - their mattresses are about three times the price of anywhere else. And then of course you have to buy special Ikea bedding, special Ikea duvet covers etc. etc.

Ploggers, this was enough. I wrote to Ikea. Tune in soon to find out just how brilliant their customer service is.

Ikea Part Two

You asked for it. Well, actually you didn't. But you're going to get it anyway.

So, a quick recap. We'd ordered wardrobe doors. They were the wrong size. We cunningly ordered the correct-sized doors and a double bed to arrive on a Friday that I was working from home. Genius that I was, I asked Ikea to pick the wrong-sized doors up at the same time they delivered the bed and the new doors.

That was obviously a ridiculous request. It was a different company who would be collecting the items. Even though it was all through Ikea. No worries. I carefully told both companies I was in all day from 7 a.m. until 5 p.m., but had to leave at 5. They said this wouldn't be a problem.

D-Day (Door Day) arrived. At midday there was a reassuring ding dong as the doorbell announced the arrival of our new wardrobe doors and our bed. The mattress was to be ordered at a later date from a company other than Ikea, as their mattresses were pretty expensive.

In came the doors. In came the bed. Off went the Ikea employees.

5 p.m. came. The old doors still hadn't been collected. I called the collection company, who informed me they'd been in Ipswich and should be with me by 7. I asked if we could reschedule. The guy didn't speak much English but told me we'd be charged £35 for rescheduling delivery. I reasoned with him (shouted at him) a little bit until he understood my point and agreed a free redelivery the next day (Saturday).

Saturday came. Ding dong went my doorbell. In trudged two surly-looking Polish chaps. I showed them where the wardrobe doors for collection were. They said, "Is only three items. I must collect six items." I showed him the bag of hinges that had come with it. "That is still only four items. I must collect six items, or nothing at all." I opened the bag of hinges, in which were four small bags of hinges. "No, that is now seven items. I must collect six." I hid one bag underneath another, presented it to him, and he went away happy.

After leaving muddy footprints up the freshly-carpet shampooed stairs. And the toilet seat up.

We then discovered the wardrobe doors don't come with handles. So the next weekend we went back to Ikea to buy some wardrobe handles.

A week later, TheBloke (TM) put together the new Ikea bed for the spare room. It was at this stage we found out it was just the frame. There were none of the wooden slats that you would need to put a mattress on. I called Ikea. I was told that it was their policy to sell beds like this, and we'd have to go and buy the slats if we wanted them. So, off to Ikea we went, for bed slats. Another £20 - not a fortune, more a frustration.

And, dear reader, this is just the start. Stay tuned for yet more stupidity. Ikea's. Not mine. Well, mostly Ikea's.

And the winner is...

I know, I know. You have all been on tenterhooks for days! Days! Whilst I steadfastly refuse to reveal to you whose customer service is the worst of all. What is a tenterhook anyway? Without Googling, a vague recollection tells me it's butchers' hooks for hanging meat on. But I might have just made that up. If you happen to be writing an exam today and the question "What is a tenterhook?" comes up, I have two pieces of advice:

1. Don't rely on me for an answer

2. Perhaps you should choose a more sensible qualification. What sort of fucking stupid exam has the question "What is a tenterhook?" for fuck's sake?

Anyway, I digress.

Without further ado... (even though half the senior management where I work insist on saying, "without further adieu" every time and it fucks me off to the extent I have to hold onto my chair to stop myself storming onto the stage and correcting their poor English)...

Sorry, digressing again.

The winner of the Worst Customer Service Award is....

IKEA!

What follows is a very long story that may cause you to lose the will to live. I take no responsibility for Ikea-induced death. Therefore, I shall break it up into manageable portions and spoon-feed it to you over the course of a next few days. As management clichés go, this is the best way to "eat the elephant". Don't ask.

OK. Ikea. Part one.

TheBloke (TM) and I had seen some wardrobes we liked in Ikea. However, at 2.5m tall, it was unlikely they would fit in the Mini. Therefore they needed to be ordered online for delivery. Ikea, unlike John Lewis, whose delivery is free, charge £35, but it could not be helped.

Using the special flyer we'd picked up in store, we input the product codes of both the wardrobe and the wardrobe doors into their online ordering system. The wardrobe base was ordered no problem but the codes for the wardrobe doors were void. So we put in the product name and selected the appropriate doors, using the price as a guide (i.e. the flyer we'd picked up said the door was £45, so we picked the door with that product name at that price). Done.

Fast forward ten days, and the wardrobe and the doors arrive. Within ten minutes of delivery we realise the doors are about half a metre smaller than the wardrobe. We check the order. We've ordered the wrong size doors. How did we manage this? Because apparently the flyer handed out at the Ikea store was out of date, and although we did match the product prices, all the prices had increased by £5, and in a spectacularly bad bit of pricing design, they had made the smaller doors the same price as the larger doors used to be, if that makes sense.

Still, technically our own fault for not checking the size of the doors and we took it on the chin. And Ikea did collect them for free, which is something (though this is an anecdote in itself). However, we still needed doors the right size. And of course, would have to pay another £35 to get them delivered. So we decided to order a bed for the spare room too, to lessen the frustration of paying £35 for something we'd already had delivered.

Tune in soon for Ikea, part two.

And the runners up are...

Moving house is always fraught with difficulties. And, being either the sort of person to whom difficulties happen more regularly than other people, or else being the sort of person who whinges about them more, I knew I was in for a doozy of a time with probably several suppliers. I was not wrong.

I promised you a winner for Worst Customer Service Award, and this will be officially presented in a later Plog. But, first, let's take a good look at the runners up.

In third place... SKY

Once we had exchanged contracts on our new house, I called Sky, asking them how much their home move service was, as we'd always been happy with their Sky Plus service (even if their customer service on occasion had been lacking). I was told that it was £60. This seemed a lot, when Virgin Media would install pretty much the same thing for a lot less. So we decided to cancel Sky. I called back to cancel the service, and was told I had already paid this month's bill (£30). Bizarrely, and I'm sure entirely against their corporate policy, the call was taken by someone astonishingly helpful. This man in the retentions team told me that they could normally move home for half price, but as I was an excellent customer, they would waive the fee completely. I clarified this, asking if it was true I'd have to pay nothing at all. He confirmed. I said, "Well, I can't ask for more than that." I asked about transferring the broadband, and he said he'd put me through to the broadband team... At which point I was accidentally cut off.

A bit frustrating, but I called back, and got through to a different person. I explained what had happened, and the offer that had been made to me. She said that, no, I had been offered half-price installation at £30. I explained the conversation again that I had had three minutes ago with her colleague. She accused me of not telling the truth. She put me on hold for ten minutes, then repeated herself. I asked to speak to her supervisor. She put me on hold for another ten minutes, and her supervisor reiterated what she had told me. The original offer did not stand. Angry as a boiled bee, I cancelled the service.

I intended to take out Sky again in TheBloke (TM)'s name and went onto their website to use the "refer a friend" service to get Mr and Mrs Nunn a free HD box. Their site kicked me out fourteen times in a row. It was at this point I registered with Virgin Media.

This, in retrospect, may have been a mistake. This brings us to:


Second place: VIRGIN ON THE RIDICULOUS

First impressions of Virgin Media were very good. I used their whizzy website tool to design the package of phone, TV and internet we wanted. It did a little calculation and told us we could have free HD. The cost was comparable to Sky. Brilliantly, it even told me when an engineer could come and install it - in two days' time! This was perfect. I eagerly clicked "purchase".

A day later, I got an email asking me to call Virgin to confirm my activation. This is where the trouble started. I was on hold for 20 minutes with (for some reason, excessively loud) hold music playing in my ear. I finally spoke to someone, who told me that actually they wouldn't be able to install it for a week because I wanted to keep my old phone number. This wasn't their fault, it was BT's service level agreement. I understood this, and we agreed they would install it on 1 October.

The next day I received another email from Virgin, confirming installation on 7 October - nearly two weeks after the first date they said they could install it. I called again, a bit narked. Especially as I had to spend another 20 minutes on hold, being shouted at chavvily by Girls Aloud, loudly. The operator explained to me (finally) that they didn't have any engineers in my area and it was a busy time with the students going back to university. I told him that that wasn't my fault - and actually I was off work when we'd originally agreed for it to be installed, but couldn't be around for the second date. I said I needed to think about it but was likely to cancel the Virgin package.

This, Ploggers, is the time when I used Twitter to vent my frustration about Virgin Media. Brilliantly (and it really was brilliant), someone from Virgin contacted me via Twitter in minutes, asking if they could help, and gave me an email address. I explained the problem to my new saviour (Billy) who promised to do what he could. And he did. Within a day, he'd set up an appointment for everything to be installed on 2 October. What an innovative use of Twitter. I was a happy bunny.

Until the installer arrived. During the course of the visit he:

- Couldn't test the phone line as he forgot to bring a spare phone with him (and ours was a digital one that wasn't charged)
- Forgot his cement (no, I'm not sure what the cement was for either) and had to go back to the depot
- Managed not to leave me an HD cable, resulting in lengthy further correspondence with Billy and leaving me to the joys of the Royal Mail strike
- Realised that after all the guff about BT needing to transfer the number over, they'd actually forgotten to complete this work and it would be another three days before we could make or receive phone calls.

He then looked at me shyly and said, "Can I ask why you VIP are?" (he was a bit Polish).

I said, "Sorry?"

"It say on job sheet that you are VIP customer. You get express installation."

So it turns out that moaning has actually made me a celebrity. Which would have been brilliant, except his installation wasn't exactly express; he was at the house for five hours (including his return trip back to the depot for cement). And he accidentally installed the wrong level of broadband. And no phone. And didn't leave an HD cable.

Then I was supposed to phone and activate my service. I held for twenty minutes again whilst Lily Allen bawled in my ear before giving up. Twice. I emailed Billy again and sorted it out that way. Without Billy I may well have committed homicide by now.

I ironed out the last of the kinks just yesterday when we got HD working for the first time. It looks exactly like normal-D. What a lot of fuss over nothing.

AND in first place... Stay tuned for your next exciting update. Which organisation has won the coveted first place?

RCIHHTDWWMH

Well, results are in. The shortlist of Rubbish Companies I Have Had To Deal With Whilst Moving house (RCIHHTDWWMH) has been compiled.

The nominees are.... (rustling of opening golden envelope):

1. Abbey

2. Ikea

3. Virgin Media

4. DVLA

5. Sky

Place your bets now, and tune in again soon for the surprising results.

Print preview

There are many irritants about most people's working day. From the guy with BO who sits next to you to the fact that the person who used the toilet cubicle before you seemed to have aimed at the seat, to the snacks machine that obstinately refuses to dispense the salt and vinegar crisps that you have already paid for.

Today's gripe. The printer. No, these aren't the usual gripes - takes ages to print, tears up the paper, always a queue. Actually, the office printer isn't too bad for the above. It's more what it says to me. Not speaks, not literally, but every time I finish printing something, a little message pops up on its LCD screen saying, "Goodbye. Print safely."

Let's just deconstruct that for the moment. "Goodbye". Hmm. Well, that's not terrible, I suppose. It recognises you've finished printing. That's acceptable.

"Print safely". Two things here. Firstly, I've just finished printing. Surely if I were going to suffer a nasty accident, this would have happened prior to walking away from the machine. Secondly, just how dangerous is it to print? Dangerous enough to need a safety warning? Exactly what is likely to happen to me? Will the printer cartridge leap out and attack me whilst I'm walking home? Will the paper feed grab hold of my jacket and suck me into the printer's mechanical bits? Will the reams of A4 paper launch simultaneously at my face to give me 500 synchronised paper cuts? I'm now paranoid.

Also, of course, this warning is futile, as you're walking away from the printer at this stage. So in actual fact, it's malevolent. Essentially it's saying, "I'm gonna getcha. You should have thought about safety and the dangers of reckless printing before you pressed print. But now it's too late to do anything about it."

Kind of puts that whole "goodbye" part of the message in a different light, doesn't it?

Lies, damned lies and food diaries

So, this week I am keeping a food diary, for an annual health assessment. I have never been particularly concerned about what I eat, and though I've put on a bit of weight in the last year, I'm still only around 8 stone, so I wasn't unduly concerned.

First stop, questionnaire from a multiple choice list:

Q: How often do you drink alcohol?

A: On special occasions

Q: When you make scrambled eggs or omlettes, how many eggs do you use?

A: I don't eat scrambled eggs or omlettes

Q: What type of salad dressing do you use?

A: I don't use salad dressing.

Witness, if you will, Friday's food diary:

Breakfast: bacon and scrambled eggs

Lunch: parma ham and avocado salad with dressing

Dinner: Chinese takeaway and vodka and coke. There was no special occasion.

I have to itemise all this on the food diary. BUPA are going to think I'm a pathological liar. With an alcohol problem.

I've also found myself lying about the number of Malteasers I've eaten. I know I'm only cheating myself, but it feels wrong to admit I ate an entire treat sized bag for lunch. As if, if I admit it, I'll immediately succumb to diabetes / heart disease / fatness. Lying about it, however, protects me from these things.

Also, does anyone know if the raisins in a scone balance out clotted cream and jam from a health perspective?

Five portions of fruit and veg a week is OK, isn't it?

Table for Nunn

My friend and I arrived at the restaurant bang on time. I gave my name and the time of booking. The restaurant lady looked down the list.

"6.30?" she verified.

"Yes," said I.

"Hmm. Are you sure it's 6.30?"

"Yes," said I.

Then came the best question of the night. Possibly the best question ever. This honestly, honestly happened.

"Can you remember your name?" she asked.

I was stunned. My friend laughed. I didn't mean to be rude, but all I said was, "Yes. Yes I can." There was an awkward pause until I remembered she probably wanted to know what my name was.

If I couldn't remember my own name, I'm guessing I might have bigger problems than a missed restaurant booking.

Industry idiots

OK, so last week I covered, Wankers I have Worked With. Nice Kate reminded me there were some that I'd missed. So the following list isn't so much wankers as tosspots. The irritating, rather than the evil.

Needy Nora - needed reassurance on everything. Despite being a grade higher than me. "Och, Laura, I'm sorry for texting you so late last night on your personal number. I'm so, so, so sorry. I'd had a bit to drink and I just didn't realise. I really hope you can forgive me." It had been about 10.30 p.m., and I'd replied straight away at the time. "That's fine," I would say. "It was nice to hear from you." "Och," she would say, because she was Scottish, "I'm really, really sorry... it's just..." this would go on for literally ten minutes. She is the only person I've ever been in a meeting with where I've thought to myself calmly and rationally, "I am going to have to throw my shoe at her. I cannot think of another way to stop her talking. I am actually going to have to throw my shoe."

Poverty Line Pauline - would spend half an hour every day telling me how poor she was, how hard it was juggling part-time work and a family, and how she wasn't fairly paid for her job. All things I would have a huge amount of sympathy for were it not for the fact that a) she bought a Starbucks and a muffin every morning b) she smoked like a chimney c) she said she drank half a bottle of wine every night and d) in the two and a half years I worked with her, I never saw her actually do any work whatsoever.

Gerald the Golfer - my manager for a short while. Spent at least 30% of his day browsing golf equipment on the internet. The other 70% was spent telling me how his latest game went. As if I gave a shit.

Incest Irene - not so much irritating as a bit... weird. Her husband died suddenly. We were all very sad for her. Three months later, she'd shacked up with his dad.

Suits you

I am an average human being. I have my failings. I can be too reserved, impatient, intolerant and sometimes a bit lazy. But one thing I am is organised. I am horribly punctual, ridiculously overprepared and revoltingly reliable.

Master Nunn however, my brother, is like a polar photo of me. Where I am reserved, Jack is the life and soul. Where I am organised and punctual, Jack is... not.

Hence the immortal sentences this weekend that literally greeted TheBloke (TM) and me when we all met up in Hammersmith on Friday.

"TheBloke (TM)," said Jack, "I've got a job interview on Tuesday and I've only just realised. All my clothes are in the Midlands. Can I borrow a jacket? What size trousers do you take?"

And, brilliantly, half an hour later, "Fuck. I haven't got any shoes. Can I have yours?"

I am led to believe that he has successfully assembled an entire interview outfit from various contacts. That alone should secure him some marks in the "innovation and enterprise" category.

Working 9 to 5

With so many historical secrets, deemed unreleaseable to the public at the time, the hour comes round when their need for secrecy expires and they can at last be revealed to the adoring public. Similarly, I am now able to Plog about things which, at the time, for work reasons or otherwise, wasn't appropriate. All anecdotes are at least two years old and most names have been changed. A bit.

We shall start with a list of Characters I have Worked With:

- Jurrassic Mark - a 60-something, massively overweight colleague who would regularly have two cans of Coke and two croissants for breakfast, whilst telling everyone he was on a diet. The monitors on the floor used to shake as he'd walk past.

- Tommy McFlop - the guy was as reasonably normal as someone who works in banking ever could be, but with just a very strange name. Whenever I had to write an email to him, in my head I'd be saying "Tommy McFlop has only one sock". I couldn't stop it. It was weird. I suppose, given the name, I could have chosen a worse rhyme.

- Picky Nose Percy - as you would expect. Had no shame about it. Did it in meetings. I suspect when he had his photo taken for the department website, his hand had to be forcibly removed from his nose.

- Arrogant Aaron - I'd crawled into work to deliver a training course, despite being on antibiotics for a severe kidney infection. At lunchtime, when I started passing blood, I decided it was time to confess all to my manager Aaron. His response, not, "What can I do to help?" or, "Do you need to go home?" but, "What's our business contingency if you have to go to hospital?"

- Terry Munbling - who talked very quietly, in a whisper, but had somehow been promoted to the head of a department. No-one could ever hear what he said. One unfortunate moment occurred when I sent an email out to the entire department regarding one of Terry Munbling's decisions, and I auto-spellchecked. The email went out to the department telling everyone who worked there about the decision of Terry Mumbling.

- Repeatedly Racist Kate. Was racist. Repeatedly. Was also called Kate.

- Billy the Cunt - the manager I had who was supposed to be responsible for my personal development whilst I was on a graduate scheme. At the end of my first review, he used the sentence, "I could tell you what you was doing wrong, yeah? But then you wouldn't learn nothing, yeah?"

- Berty's Botty - Berty had the lovely habit of standing with his hands down the back of his trousers, having a good old rummage. Every so often, he would extract his hands, inspect his fingernails (which were inevitably caked with - I hope - dirt), give them a good sniff, then put them back down his trousers again.

So these examples have passed through the annals of history and are now safe to reveal. I knew there were perks of working with absolute tossers. Who knows what future secrets will be revealed?

Eggscruciating

Oh dear. I have a confession to make. Today, dear Plogger, I ate eggs.

I can hear what you're thinking: "I didn't realise you were a vegan!" I'm not. In fact, the only people who will be saying, "Oh no!" currently are my parents, my brother, TheBloke (TM) and my friend Hazel if she has a very, very long memory.

You see, dear Plogger, I am allergic to eggs. Not in an anaphylactic shock, swelly face kind of way, more in a, "Jesus Christ, that's the worst fart I've ever smelled in my life" kind of way.

Sometimes when I'm writing my Plog, I hope no future employers read this. I certainly think I've just blown my chances with the Egg Board.

So, how did I discover this? Well, as I child, I never liked egg white. Egg yolk was yummy, but I never liked the white. As my parents were understandably unwilling to cook eggs for me where I didn't eat half of it, I tended not to eat that many eggs growing up.

Until one day, aged 13, I went round to my friend Hazel's house for dinner. Amongst the many delights laid on the table before me was a boiled egg salad. Yum yum. I wasn't a big fan of the egg white, but didn't want to seem rude, so I ate it all up.

Literally half an hour later, the problems started. Burp. Burp. Burp. "Oh yuck," said Hazel. "Have you just trumped?" ("Farted" was a bit vulgar for the 13 year-old Hazel).

"No," said the 13 year-old Laura, quite truthfully. "I just burped. But my burps taste like death and sting my throat like acid."

Then the farting started. Oh. My. God. Weapon of mass destruction. We were shut in her parents' computer study. Quite a little room, if memory serves, with not much (well, not enough) ventilation. I nearly killed the both of us. Embarrassment meant I phoned Mr Nunn to come and pick me up earlier than I'd originally intended.

We drove home with the windows open. I realised it was egg white that had caused the problem, and have successfully avoided it until this day.*

Which brings us to the present day, seventeen years later, and a Wetherspoon's breakfast bloomer this morning. I was, of course, conscious of the egg white situation, and TheBloke (TM) kindly agreed to eat my egg white. However, I may not have been fastidious enough in removing the albumen. Twenty minutes later in Tesco, there was very nearly a full-scale evacuation.

And back home half an hour later, I had to leave the room I was standing in. And then the same thing again. And again. Until we ran out of rooms. The cat threw me an evil stare.

Still, should I ever find myself the subject of torture and capital punishment and I am granted one last request, I shall go for a plate of egg white. And just before they do away with me, I shall let rip and destroy my captors. It's good to have a superpower.

* Bizarrely, I am absolutely fine with scrambled egg.

Age and wisdom

Well, goodness gracious me, what a lovely birthday I had.

There was a trip to Alton Towers, there was dinner with my lovely friends and family (and Katy who smells of wee). There was an embarrassment of lovely presents, all for me. There was even a birthday poem and a birthday cake with candles to blow out. My birthday rocked.

However, the fact remained. I had somehow, somehow turned 30. I am still not quite sure how this happened, but rest assured I will find out who is to blame and give them a stern piece of my mind. Thirty. Three decades. This is clearly a practical joke, as we all know I was only 17 three and a half weeks ago. The candles on my birthday cake alone represented the greatest fire risk Loughborough had ever known.

TheBloke (TM), ever mindful of the sensitive situation, bought me wrinkle cream and an adhesive support for drooping bosoms. Ha ha ha. He is so funny. Luckily he is far nearer the next milestone (I can't bring myself to write it yet) than I am, so I am still winning.

He made up for it though by taking me to afternoon tea at the Ritz on Monday. It was very civilised. We had tea, we had gorgeous little cakes and cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Then TheBloke (TM), again, ever mindful of the refined situation, decided to make Princess Leia ears out of scones. At the Ritz.

And I laughed so much a little bit of tea came out my nose.

We are SO not grown-ups.

Thirty therapy

Ploggers, this will be the last time you hear from me whilst I'm still in my twenties. Yes, the inevitable has happened, and tomorrow I shall be turning 30. This is quite patently ridiculous as I am absolutely certain I haven't changed at all since I was 17. Yet - technically - if you do the maths, indeed tomorrow, I shall be turning 30. Thirty. Old, old, old.

At my age, my parents had been married for about 8 years and had a fat, unprepossessing newborn (me). I - on the other hand - have joint ownership of a fat, unprepossessing cat.

So, what advice would I give myself for my twenties, looking back?

- Remember you're getting less gorgeous every day. Go out and shag as many people as you can while your looks last.

- Don't sign up to Tiscali broadband

Actually, that's about it.

So, this evening TheBloke (TM), Monty Cat and I are travelling up to see my parents and my brother in Loughborough. And then tomorrow there will be all manner of celebrations, including a trip to Alton Towers (to prove I'm not yet a grown up) and an evening meal with my friends and family.

It will be awesome.

Now, TheBloke (TM) is out for an hour, do you reckon I've got time to shag a few more people whilst I'm still in my twenties?

Par for the course

Ah, the joys of corporate life. Today I completed an "e-learning module" on Peak Performance.

My favourite part was a section called "Choose your attitude!" Despite making me want to vomit uncontrollably originally, it wasn't all that bad, and it was mostly NLP stuff - a welcome refresher on the course I did a year or so ago.

However, unfortunately, a part of it accidentally made me laugh out loud. There was a picture of a blue balloon on the page and the section was about making sure your "positive balloon" doesn't burst. The title? "Dealing with little pricks"

I thought this might be more useful in the workplace than I originally realised.

The next section asked me - and this is true - to make a list of "little pricks" that annoy me in the workplace. I duly followed the instructions and pressed submit.

It said,

"Some of our previous course attendees have listed the following as bursting their balloon of positivity:

- A rainy day

- Alarm clock not going off

- Being criticised

- Getting stuck in traffic"

Oops. My "little pricks" list incorporated exclusively names of people in the office.

The cat who cried "Wolf"

I know I have previously alluded to the fact that Monty Cat is a bit stupid. Evidence for the following includes:

- Pretending he's asleep and NOT trying to steal your food... only to actually fall asleep until well after you've finished the meal
- Falling asleep on the windowsill with all four legs stuck up in the air... and falling off the windowsill mid-snore
- Chasing his own tail
- Being scared of his own reflection. Every day.

However, I've recently found out that Monty Cat is a feline Lassie! Or maybe Flipper the Dolphin or Skippy the Bush Kangaroo. (I just mistyped that as Skippy the Busy Kangaroo. Can you imagine that TV series? Sonny: Skippy, Skippy, g'day mate! Skippy: Rack off, Sonny, I'm a bit tied up at the moment.)

Each morning at about 6.45, Monty Cat alerts me to the fact that an emergency is occurring - namely that Timmy has fallen down the well again, or the old barn is on fire. He does this by biting my toes incessantly until I get out of bed.

Once I am out of bed, he miaows at me and trots to the door, looking back over his feline shoulder with a look of dire consequence on his face. I follow him. He takes me to the stairs. If I stop following him, he comes back to where I am, and thoughtfully bites my ankles to remind me of the emergency in hand.

Down the stairs we go. Monty Cat stops at alternate stairs either to ensure I'm still behind him, or else in a cunning attempt to make me trip over him and fall to my untimely death. His little face seems to be saying, "Come on, come on! There's no time to lose! Timmy's this way!" He miaows plaintively. I follow him through the kitchen and into the utility room where Monty Cat seems to think the disaster is occurring.

It's at this point Monty Cat's expression changes to, "Oh, sorry, I was wrong. No emergency after all. But as it happens, you now appear to be standing next to the drawer where you keep the cat food, and since you're here anyway, you may as well feed me."

This happens every morning. The joke'll be on him though. One day little Timmy WILL be stuck down the well in our utility room, and I just won't believe him.

Shaken up

We pulled up outside our new house (house!) with boxes and boxes of stuff in the Mini. An elderly lady stood in the garden (garden!) of the house next door. She had a walking stick and looked a bit frail.

This was excellent news. We need a neighbour just like this to look after Monty Cat when we go on holidays.

"Hullo," she said. "I'm Juliet."

I said hello and introduced myself and TheBloke (TM). Being a friendly person, I shook her hand. This was a BIG MISTAKE.

Now, there is very little I like less than a floppy, wet fish handshake. And I am no stranger to the firm handshake, usually delivered by a manager who's trying to reprimand you for the crime of being female. But oh good God. This woman crushed my fingers as she shook my hand. I mean really crushed. Worse still, she was one of those people who favours the long handshake. We managed to get through, "I'm Laura," "I'm Juliet," "This is TheBloke (TM)", "Here is Monty Cat", "Yes, we're moving in today" before she let go of my hand.

It got to the stage where I was in so much pain, all I could think to do was punch her. And I wasn't sure that punching a woman in her 70s was the best way to recommend us to our new neighbours. Or to persuade her to look after our cat. I wondered if arthritis had perhaps kicked in and meant she was unable to let go. I wondered again if punching her would help. Instead I settled for saying, "Crikey, that's a firm handshake." I wasn't sure what I was hoping to achieve by this, but I felt I had to say something before I necessarily passed out.

It was TheBloke (TM)'s turn. I watched, gleefully as he took her hand. And joyed in the little beads of perspiration that appeared on his head as he tried to keep a manly face on. I swear I saw his eyes fill with girly tears.

Back inside, when Juliet finally let go of his hand and we retired to our new house, he was having none of it. "No, it didn't hurt at all. Not at all." But he was lying. Check out www.sadmuppets.blogspot.com to find out just how much.

Good fences make good neighbours...

We had cleared out the flat at Bethnal Green. In front of the door lay a big pile of stuff, most of it junk, that we didn't want anymore.

There were: cardboard boxes, old handbags, a broken jug, a broken Xbox, an old, slightly broken video recorder, a Roxette music video, some old socks, some more boxes, Groundhog Day on video and a whole load of polystyrene.

I just had to pop back over to the flat to pick up the last few items and do a meter reading. On my way in, a man who I swear I had never seen before in my life stopped me. "You're off, are you?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Oh, I'll miss you; you were good neighbours - I never heard a peep out of you."

I peered at him carefully. He appeared to have come from Parrot Man's flat next door, but this chap was a good twenty years younger than Parrot Man.

"I hope you don't mind," he continued, "but I took some of the stuff you put outside your door." It was like playing Kim's game. At a glance I could see that the video recorder and Xbox were gone. As was (inexplicably) the Roxette music video, two handbags and my socks.

"I don't mind at all," said I. "The Xbox doesn't work though."

"Oh, doesn't it? I did wonder why you were throwing it out. I took your plant too. I thought I'd look after it now you've gone. I water it when you're on holiday you know."

"Oh, erm... I do still want the plant. Can I have it back?" I managed to get this sentence out whilst thinking, "How the holy hell does he know when I go on holiday? Especially as I've never seen him before in my life!"

Luckily at that moment my mobile rang and saved me from further embarrassment. It was Virgin Media. That is another story in itself.

I excused myself and left Parrot Man's housemate to return my pot plant, and let myself into the flat.

Four years I've lived there and have never seen or spoken to whom is apparently my next door neighbour before in my life (though have noticed as I've disposed with broken furniture, lamps, once even an entire fitted kitchen, that they have disappeared into a neighbour's flat).

It made arriving in the 'burbs something of a shock. More tomorrow.