Sat on the Jubilee Line last night, and having accidentally left my novel at home, I was forced to read pretty much anything that came to hand. I can't bring myself to read London Lite or any of that shit, so I went for the most literary thing available... the man next to me's text messages.
He was in his mid-twenties, dressed quite smartly and, like me, got on the tube at Canary Wharf where there was standing room only. He was smartly dressed and gentlemanly, allowing me to sit down when a seat became available where he was standing. I always accept when someone offers me their seat. Especially if the person offering the seat is pregnant. They're fat and can do with the exercise.
So he started typing a text message. He took some time over it, keen to get the phrasing exactly right:
"Hi Rob. If u get chance, cld u brng 3 large pork pies in 2mo? I accidentally left the old 1s in and they will moan if I give them them again. If not dnt worry. Peter"
You have to wonder, don't you? Three large pork pies? Isn't that a lot of pork? How many times has Peter given "them" old pork pies in the past? Where did he leave the old ones? And how old were they? And lastly, clearly this is quite important, but not so important that Rob should worry if he can't get the pies. If he can't get the pies, will "they" be fed the old ones after all?
I'm assuming they're eating them, but actually the text didn't mention consumption of the pies.
I almost wanted to ask him, but felt he might consider me intrusive.
I don't like pork pies. It's the jelly. If they could make jelly-free pork pies, I would probably buy one. Also egg-free Scotch eggs. Allergic to egg. But like the rest of it. It is tough being me.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
Black and white
I was brought up to be extremely politically correct. With two teachers as parents (as in my parents were teachers, not that I was adopted by staff at the school), I was brought up knowing all the latest politically-correct (and often bollocks) jargon. It was not a blackboard, it was a chalkboard. It was not a black coffee, it was a coffee without milk. Mrs Nunn made me wear a sari to school for Diwali and made me go to Asian silk painting workshops to embrace our wider cultural heritage. To this day, Mrs Nunn's greatest hope is that I will cop off with an Indian doctor.
She got quite excited when she heard I was dating an African... less so when she found out he was white.
And like every Londoner, of course I have black friends, Asian friends, skilled colleagues from all races and religions and a Polish cleaner. OK, maybe that last one doesn't count. The world has embraced Obama as the USA's leader; surely we're moving towards a more accepting world? Surely? However, I've always worried that deep down, maybe there is a tiny bit of racism lurking within me.
I have been brought up to be sensitive of other people's cultures and religions, and even have successfully made friends with people who hold beliefs I find ridiculous (mostly Christians).
But this week for the first time I genuinely realised that I'm honestly not at all racist. For the first time ever, I've finally met a black person that I just don't like. Yes, I am non-racist enough to judge this person for the tosspot wanker they actually are, rather than the colour of their skin.
I hate a black person! Go me!
She got quite excited when she heard I was dating an African... less so when she found out he was white.
And like every Londoner, of course I have black friends, Asian friends, skilled colleagues from all races and religions and a Polish cleaner. OK, maybe that last one doesn't count. The world has embraced Obama as the USA's leader; surely we're moving towards a more accepting world? Surely? However, I've always worried that deep down, maybe there is a tiny bit of racism lurking within me.
I have been brought up to be sensitive of other people's cultures and religions, and even have successfully made friends with people who hold beliefs I find ridiculous (mostly Christians).
But this week for the first time I genuinely realised that I'm honestly not at all racist. For the first time ever, I've finally met a black person that I just don't like. Yes, I am non-racist enough to judge this person for the tosspot wanker they actually are, rather than the colour of their skin.
I hate a black person! Go me!
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Bloody mess
Today I went to see My Bloody Valentine in 3D. It's shit. I should have guessed it would be shit. I kind of did guess, but went to see it anyway. More fool me.
Laura's Big List of Things to Remember When She is a Baddie in a Bad Teenage Horror:
- Think about your killing costume carefully; a ski mask is fairly easy to take on and off to disguise your murderous pastime and pretend you're one of the gang. A full miner's outfit, or a white mask with a cape that restricts movement is going to seriously interfere with your evil plans.
- Consider your killing implement carefully: a gun will do the job quite quickly and efficiently. A fish hook or a pick axe might get stuck in stuff and again impede your killing progress.
- Don't worry about trying to run away. Regardless of whether or not you are in the worst film ever made, you will be kept alive in case there is a chance of a sequel. You are immortal. Enjoy it.
Right, off slashing. See you later.
Laura's Big List of Things to Remember When She is a Baddie in a Bad Teenage Horror:
- Think about your killing costume carefully; a ski mask is fairly easy to take on and off to disguise your murderous pastime and pretend you're one of the gang. A full miner's outfit, or a white mask with a cape that restricts movement is going to seriously interfere with your evil plans.
- Consider your killing implement carefully: a gun will do the job quite quickly and efficiently. A fish hook or a pick axe might get stuck in stuff and again impede your killing progress.
- Don't worry about trying to run away. Regardless of whether or not you are in the worst film ever made, you will be kept alive in case there is a chance of a sequel. You are immortal. Enjoy it.
Right, off slashing. See you later.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
In the swim
When you book a holiday there is one thing every woman knows it's imperative to do... Is it to turn the heating off? Or find a cat sitter? Or make sure all bills are in order? No. Obviously, it's to buy a new bikini. This is extremely important as it allows you to focus on the visualisation of the holiday, thus bringing it closer in a very real sense.
Of course, what with my new, exciting bra size and all, I decided to order a new bikini online from Bravissimo, as per recommended by a friend. Today it arrived. I tried it on. It fitted. Lovely. Holiday sorted. Though I thought I probably ought to try on my other bikini as well, to see if it did still fit. I did. It fitted. And as I rootled through my little-used bottom drawer, something suddenly became abundantly clear.
I actually own seven bikinis.
This is quite a lot of swimwear for someone who doesn't really like swimming, and for someone who hasn't been on a beach holiday for three years.
Still, I've heard that the temperature in Amsterdam next weekend should be a higher-than-average 5 degrees Celsius, and we are there for the entire weekend, so I think it was a worthwhile investment.
Not really. I'm not that stupid. Yes, we are off to Amsterdam next weekend... but we're also off to South Africa in February! Yay!
Anyone want to cat-sit a girl kitten with bollocks? Or buy a bikini?
Of course, what with my new, exciting bra size and all, I decided to order a new bikini online from Bravissimo, as per recommended by a friend. Today it arrived. I tried it on. It fitted. Lovely. Holiday sorted. Though I thought I probably ought to try on my other bikini as well, to see if it did still fit. I did. It fitted. And as I rootled through my little-used bottom drawer, something suddenly became abundantly clear.
I actually own seven bikinis.
This is quite a lot of swimwear for someone who doesn't really like swimming, and for someone who hasn't been on a beach holiday for three years.
Still, I've heard that the temperature in Amsterdam next weekend should be a higher-than-average 5 degrees Celsius, and we are there for the entire weekend, so I think it was a worthwhile investment.
Not really. I'm not that stupid. Yes, we are off to Amsterdam next weekend... but we're also off to South Africa in February! Yay!
Anyone want to cat-sit a girl kitten with bollocks? Or buy a bikini?
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Cat sex scandal
Today TheBloke (TM) had to take Phoebe McCat to the vet for her kitten innoculations.
"A couple of things," said the vet. "Firstly, do not buy worming or flea medications from the supermarket - always get them from the vet."
"OK," said TheBloke (TM).
"Secondly, here is a goodie bag with some free food for your kitten."
"Excellent," said TheBloke (TM).
"And finally," continued the vet, "Phoebe is a boy."
"What?" said TheBloke (TM).
"Yes," said the vet. "Phoebe is a boy. Look. Here are his testicles." He pointed at some tiny furry mounds.
Wow. We have a boy called Phoebe. The fact its a male does at least explain the rancidness of the cat farts. So, name suggestions please? So far we have Phoebo, Phebus, The Feebster, or The Phoebinator. I think they are rubbish. It's so hard to get used to saying "he" instead of "she".
We're trying not to treat the cat any differently now we know its sex, as we don't want to reinforce gender stereotypes, though TheBloke (TM) did insist that we gave him some Action Men and guns rather than the Barbies I'd bought. He now refers to the cute kitten no longer as "sweetie pie" but "dude". He doesn't want a gay cat. Though worries that this might already be the case...
He said, "I feel so stupid. I can't believe I've been fucking a boy for the last month."
"A couple of things," said the vet. "Firstly, do not buy worming or flea medications from the supermarket - always get them from the vet."
"OK," said TheBloke (TM).
"Secondly, here is a goodie bag with some free food for your kitten."
"Excellent," said TheBloke (TM).
"And finally," continued the vet, "Phoebe is a boy."
"What?" said TheBloke (TM).
"Yes," said the vet. "Phoebe is a boy. Look. Here are his testicles." He pointed at some tiny furry mounds.
Wow. We have a boy called Phoebe. The fact its a male does at least explain the rancidness of the cat farts. So, name suggestions please? So far we have Phoebo, Phebus, The Feebster, or The Phoebinator. I think they are rubbish. It's so hard to get used to saying "he" instead of "she".
We're trying not to treat the cat any differently now we know its sex, as we don't want to reinforce gender stereotypes, though TheBloke (TM) did insist that we gave him some Action Men and guns rather than the Barbies I'd bought. He now refers to the cute kitten no longer as "sweetie pie" but "dude". He doesn't want a gay cat. Though worries that this might already be the case...
He said, "I feel so stupid. I can't believe I've been fucking a boy for the last month."
Monday, January 19, 2009
What a tit
Female Ploggers... this will probably be the last Plog you ever read from me. No, I'm not planning on giving up the Plogging. "So what is it then?" you ask. "Why will this be our final Plog?"
Well Ploggers of the female persuasion, I will tell you. After today's Plog I pretty much guarantee you will loathe me so much that you will abjectly refuse to read any future Plogs, no matter how bursting at the seams with genius they are. (And of course, they usually are.) I understand this, I understand your hatred. And I would like to say, thanks for supporting me this far. It's been fun.
So yesterday I was in Marks and Spencers, killing some time whilst TheBloke (TM) wandered. I toddled over to the lingerie section and noticed they were doing a £5 discount if you had a bra fitting. Now my bra fitting days ended sometime around age 18 when Mrs Nunn herded me into a tiny lingerie shop in Loughborough, in which (unbeknownst to Mrs Nunn) the only other customer was the most evil teacher at my high school. I was then molested for a good fifteen minutes by a barrage (bra-age?) of middle-aged ladies who would between bras shout inappropriate things to Mrs Nunn and the evil teacher, who was listening in by default. "Oh, doesn't that feel better around the nipple area?", "Jump up and down for us," and so on. Every so often they would whip the little changing room curtain back, and invite me to stand in the middle of the shop and parade up and down in a bra for the benefit of - well - no-one. It scarred me for life. Luckily, I stopped growing around the age of 16, so 32D, or sometimes 32C has seen me pretty well ever since. I never felt the need to repeat the groping experience, regardless of attendance - or otherwise - by staff at my high school.
Still, a £5 discount is a £5 discount, I did need a new bra, and I had a bit of time to kill, so in I popped for the bra fitting. Hate me yet Ploggers? No, of course you don't. So far you have read my escapades with a mild amusement, and, because you're all lovely people, with a soupcon of sympathy. This is all about to change.
So, it turns out I've been wearing the wrong sized bra for a while. Before I progress, I do feel I ought to warn you that I've been eating quite a lot recently. And am not adverse to the odd bit of chocolate every twenty or thirty minutes. Despite this, my weight has remained pretty constant at just over 7 stones. In fact, I'm a few pounds lighter than this time last year. Could this subtle weight loss have changed my bra size?
Possibly, yes.
Because despite eating my heart out in Krispy Kreme donuts and all-you-can-eat tapas and - amazingly actually losing weight - I appear to have gone from a 32 to a 30... which means that my cup size is now DD. Yes, I am a 30DD. And when she put me in the correct size bra, suddenly I looked like the sort of model you see on those late night programmes inviting you to ring them whilst they jiggle a bit. Except I was less orange.
So, female readers, poor me... I can't seem to put weight on on my stomach, bum and thighs... But everything I eat goes straight to my breasts.
You may send your hate mail now.
Well Ploggers of the female persuasion, I will tell you. After today's Plog I pretty much guarantee you will loathe me so much that you will abjectly refuse to read any future Plogs, no matter how bursting at the seams with genius they are. (And of course, they usually are.) I understand this, I understand your hatred. And I would like to say, thanks for supporting me this far. It's been fun.
So yesterday I was in Marks and Spencers, killing some time whilst TheBloke (TM) wandered. I toddled over to the lingerie section and noticed they were doing a £5 discount if you had a bra fitting. Now my bra fitting days ended sometime around age 18 when Mrs Nunn herded me into a tiny lingerie shop in Loughborough, in which (unbeknownst to Mrs Nunn) the only other customer was the most evil teacher at my high school. I was then molested for a good fifteen minutes by a barrage (bra-age?) of middle-aged ladies who would between bras shout inappropriate things to Mrs Nunn and the evil teacher, who was listening in by default. "Oh, doesn't that feel better around the nipple area?", "Jump up and down for us," and so on. Every so often they would whip the little changing room curtain back, and invite me to stand in the middle of the shop and parade up and down in a bra for the benefit of - well - no-one. It scarred me for life. Luckily, I stopped growing around the age of 16, so 32D, or sometimes 32C has seen me pretty well ever since. I never felt the need to repeat the groping experience, regardless of attendance - or otherwise - by staff at my high school.
Still, a £5 discount is a £5 discount, I did need a new bra, and I had a bit of time to kill, so in I popped for the bra fitting. Hate me yet Ploggers? No, of course you don't. So far you have read my escapades with a mild amusement, and, because you're all lovely people, with a soupcon of sympathy. This is all about to change.
So, it turns out I've been wearing the wrong sized bra for a while. Before I progress, I do feel I ought to warn you that I've been eating quite a lot recently. And am not adverse to the odd bit of chocolate every twenty or thirty minutes. Despite this, my weight has remained pretty constant at just over 7 stones. In fact, I'm a few pounds lighter than this time last year. Could this subtle weight loss have changed my bra size?
Possibly, yes.
Because despite eating my heart out in Krispy Kreme donuts and all-you-can-eat tapas and - amazingly actually losing weight - I appear to have gone from a 32 to a 30... which means that my cup size is now DD. Yes, I am a 30DD. And when she put me in the correct size bra, suddenly I looked like the sort of model you see on those late night programmes inviting you to ring them whilst they jiggle a bit. Except I was less orange.
So, female readers, poor me... I can't seem to put weight on on my stomach, bum and thighs... But everything I eat goes straight to my breasts.
You may send your hate mail now.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Sore point
I just saw an advert for Zovirax. Anyone unfamiliar with the product - essentially it's for people with coldsores. I'm lucky enough never to have suffered with a coldsore in my life, but I know that for a lot of people, they're a miserable end to any cold, or even just feeling a bit run down. Surely any product that can reduce suffering must be worth the extortionate fee they slap on it.
Now, my knowledge of Zovirax comes a) mostly from their marketing and b) from my little brother reading the instructions on his tube when he was about seven and asking in a really loud voice, "Mummy, what's oral sex?" He's 23 now, so let's hope he's found out. Not that I want to think about it too much.
That's besides the point. I thought the point of Zovirax was that you applied it when you felt the tingle - to coldsore sufferers, generally the first stage of a coldsore developing. I thought the idea was that, if you caught it early enough, the product could prevent a coldsore. Genius.
But this advert confused me. Apparently yes, you're supposed to apply it as soon as you feel the tingle. Then apply it again when you get the blister. And then keep applying it when you get the scab... what the fuck is this product actually doing? It doesn't prevent the coldsore. It doesn't stop it from blistering. It doesn't stop the scab. It probably does exactly as much use as finding a small twig and poking it repeatedly.
I could do that. This is just one of my credit crunch ideas. Instead of investing in a pricey tube of Zovirax, you could pay me £2 to come to your house and poke you in the face (or elsewhere as necessary for extra charges) with a small twig. I am such a great entrepreneur. If only the banks would realise this and give me the small business startup loan I keep asking for.
Now, my knowledge of Zovirax comes a) mostly from their marketing and b) from my little brother reading the instructions on his tube when he was about seven and asking in a really loud voice, "Mummy, what's oral sex?" He's 23 now, so let's hope he's found out. Not that I want to think about it too much.
That's besides the point. I thought the point of Zovirax was that you applied it when you felt the tingle - to coldsore sufferers, generally the first stage of a coldsore developing. I thought the idea was that, if you caught it early enough, the product could prevent a coldsore. Genius.
But this advert confused me. Apparently yes, you're supposed to apply it as soon as you feel the tingle. Then apply it again when you get the blister. And then keep applying it when you get the scab... what the fuck is this product actually doing? It doesn't prevent the coldsore. It doesn't stop it from blistering. It doesn't stop the scab. It probably does exactly as much use as finding a small twig and poking it repeatedly.
I could do that. This is just one of my credit crunch ideas. Instead of investing in a pricey tube of Zovirax, you could pay me £2 to come to your house and poke you in the face (or elsewhere as necessary for extra charges) with a small twig. I am such a great entrepreneur. If only the banks would realise this and give me the small business startup loan I keep asking for.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Cat-trina
Katrina the Cleaner is brilliant. A brilliant, brilliant cleaner. But a little bit mad. For those of you who have seen Jack Dee's fab sitcom Lead Balloon, the following Plog might seem a bit of Magda plagiarism, but I swear this is all absolutely true.
Yesterday was Katrina's first visit since we've had Phoebe the kitten. With this in mind, TheBloke (TM) stayed in for Katrina's arrival, just to make sure she knew not to open the windows too wide in case the cat jumped out, and to make sure Katrina was OK with the cat.
"Katrina, this is Phoebe. Phoebe, this is Katrina."
"Oh," said Katrina. "Your cat, she is very..." she paused whilst searching for the correct word. You might expect "cute", "sweet", "small", as befits a little ginger cat. "Your cat, she is very... white." White? White? No she isn't. She's a bit white, but mostly ginger.
Katrina shrugged. "I am allergic to cat."
And went about her business.
Yesterday was Katrina's first visit since we've had Phoebe the kitten. With this in mind, TheBloke (TM) stayed in for Katrina's arrival, just to make sure she knew not to open the windows too wide in case the cat jumped out, and to make sure Katrina was OK with the cat.
"Katrina, this is Phoebe. Phoebe, this is Katrina."
"Oh," said Katrina. "Your cat, she is very..." she paused whilst searching for the correct word. You might expect "cute", "sweet", "small", as befits a little ginger cat. "Your cat, she is very... white." White? White? No she isn't. She's a bit white, but mostly ginger.
Katrina shrugged. "I am allergic to cat."
And went about her business.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Money, money, money
If you had £20 million or equivalent, what would you do with it? Really and honestly? And I don't believe anyone who says, "It wouldn't change my life - I'd still go to work". Bollocks would you. I wouldn't. That's not to say I don't enjoy my job, but given a choice between dragging my arse out of bed every morning at 7 and, well, not... I think I know which I'd go for.
I wouldn't want to be entirely idle. I like to think I'd write. But let's be honest, I probably wouldn't. I'd probably keep Plogging. Travel? A bit maybe, but my five week trip a few years ago taught me that you can only be away from home so long before... well, you want to go home.
Flashy house? Well, I suppose I might move from the one-bedroom council flat in Bethnal Green... but I couldn't be doing with a massive mansion... maybe a two-bedroomed flat. Possibly even push the boat out and go for three. Wouldn't buy a house though. The cat would trip me up on the stairs.
Flash cars? No. Love the Mini. Don't need a new one.
Investments? What's the point? More money (or less) which - apparently I seem to be loath to spend.
I might go to the theatre a bit more... but not when it's cold outside. Besides which, if I went too often, it would seem less of a treat.
Luckily, I don't have £20 million, so this is unlikely to be a problem for me in the near future. However, if the pound keeps going the way it has done, it'll probably only buy me a Big Mac anyway. I still have a 20 Euro note left in my wallet from when we went to Rome in October; this turns out to be the best investment I've made all year.
£20 million or USD$35 million... what would you do?
I wouldn't want to be entirely idle. I like to think I'd write. But let's be honest, I probably wouldn't. I'd probably keep Plogging. Travel? A bit maybe, but my five week trip a few years ago taught me that you can only be away from home so long before... well, you want to go home.
Flashy house? Well, I suppose I might move from the one-bedroom council flat in Bethnal Green... but I couldn't be doing with a massive mansion... maybe a two-bedroomed flat. Possibly even push the boat out and go for three. Wouldn't buy a house though. The cat would trip me up on the stairs.
Flash cars? No. Love the Mini. Don't need a new one.
Investments? What's the point? More money (or less) which - apparently I seem to be loath to spend.
I might go to the theatre a bit more... but not when it's cold outside. Besides which, if I went too often, it would seem less of a treat.
Luckily, I don't have £20 million, so this is unlikely to be a problem for me in the near future. However, if the pound keeps going the way it has done, it'll probably only buy me a Big Mac anyway. I still have a 20 Euro note left in my wallet from when we went to Rome in October; this turns out to be the best investment I've made all year.
£20 million or USD$35 million... what would you do?
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
A quickie
Wii Fit says I weigh less when I'm holding the cat than when I'm standing on the board cat-less.
This means either:
1. The Wii Fit board is a bit inaccurate (unlikely)
2. The naughty kitten is made of anti-matter (this explains a lot)
This means either:
1. The Wii Fit board is a bit inaccurate (unlikely)
2. The naughty kitten is made of anti-matter (this explains a lot)
Monday, January 12, 2009
I'm well fit
Things I have learned from the Wii Fit:
- I apparently need to put on two stones to reach my target weight*. Two stones! 12.7 kilograms! That's just silly. Yes, I'm a bit underweight, but I'm also quite slightly built.
- I can only hula hoop in one direction (clockwise). This is weird and a bit disconcerting.
- TheBloke (TM) should not be allowed to be better at me at every single fucking exercise. I think I might be better at yoga, but whenever I have a go (mostly it involves measuring how still you stand), he makes me laugh or pushes me over so that I can't reach his top score.
Taking point number one, the Wii has decided I need to put on three pounds by the end of this month. The programme has a really good exercise plan for anyone wanting to lose weight - and suggests a range of appropriate exercises and diet tips. However, it's strangely silent on the topic of how to gain weight. I suppose there's not much of a market for a computer program that once you step on the balance board, says in its cutesy voice, "Don't do exercise! Sit on the sofa and eat a KitKat Chunky". Which, actually, is exactly what I'm doing at the moment.
Having said that, I've reconsidered and think there might be quite a big market for such a thing. Hmm.
* I do realise that this will mean that most of my female readers will hate me. I'm OK with that because I still sometimes fit into clothes from Gap Kids and I don't have to pay tax.
Also, welcome to my first official Plog Follower. I would make you a badge but I can't be bothered. Sorry. More followers obviously welcome.
- I apparently need to put on two stones to reach my target weight*. Two stones! 12.7 kilograms! That's just silly. Yes, I'm a bit underweight, but I'm also quite slightly built.
- I can only hula hoop in one direction (clockwise). This is weird and a bit disconcerting.
- TheBloke (TM) should not be allowed to be better at me at every single fucking exercise. I think I might be better at yoga, but whenever I have a go (mostly it involves measuring how still you stand), he makes me laugh or pushes me over so that I can't reach his top score.
Taking point number one, the Wii has decided I need to put on three pounds by the end of this month. The programme has a really good exercise plan for anyone wanting to lose weight - and suggests a range of appropriate exercises and diet tips. However, it's strangely silent on the topic of how to gain weight. I suppose there's not much of a market for a computer program that once you step on the balance board, says in its cutesy voice, "Don't do exercise! Sit on the sofa and eat a KitKat Chunky". Which, actually, is exactly what I'm doing at the moment.
Having said that, I've reconsidered and think there might be quite a big market for such a thing. Hmm.
* I do realise that this will mean that most of my female readers will hate me. I'm OK with that because I still sometimes fit into clothes from Gap Kids and I don't have to pay tax.
Also, welcome to my first official Plog Follower. I would make you a badge but I can't be bothered. Sorry. More followers obviously welcome.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Taking the Mick
Before I (re)start this Plog, I feel I need to assert my credentials. I read widely - everything from 18th century fiction to each year's Booker Prize list to the occasional non-fiction book about World War II. I don't generally watch trash TV. I am not a fan of America's Next Disabled Wife Swap or Celebrity Farm Factor.
Until now. I have been conned, conned and tricked into watching this series of Celebrity Big Brother. You may leave at this point. I won't judge you. I am too busy judging myself for having graduated to chav scum. But I also have a confession. I am loving it. Loving it, loving it, loving it. But I hate myself for loving the stupid rows and ridiculous situation. It is a kind of self-directed schadenfreude (see?). And surely anyone who can use the word "schadenfreude" should be exempt from your loathing?
My favourite character (because none of them are real) is La Toya Jackson. She is brilliant and seems really sweet. Really sweet in the kind of "make sure you give her the blunt scissors and the non-toxic crayons" kind of way. I'm not sure if she's a compulsive liar or living la-la land, but so far she's claimed that she was forced to get married (she told the official she didn't want to, but she was made to go through with it. Uh-huh). However my all time favourite claim is this one. I'm paraphrasing, but not much:
"So yeah, me and Michael were Jehovah's Witnesses, and we'd go around, you know, like knockin' on doors and stuff, and Michael would be all like, 'Hi, can I talk to you about God?'"
Wow. Hold on a minute. Michael Jackson has been superstar famous for pretty much all of his life. Are we really supposed to believe he could trot door to door trying to pass off a copy of The Watchtower to unsuspecting punters?
I had my first Jehovah's Witness last week. So to speak. I was home from work sick, sick, sick and I answered the door because I thought it might be my Wii Fit arriving. It wasn't. It was a very friendly lady who handed me a copy of her magazine and asked me if I thought Gordon Brown could solve the economic crisis. I wasn't sure what this had to do with God, but didn't ask her why, as I had no desire to prolong the conversation.
But I can definitely picture Michael Jackson doorstepping for Jehovah:
Child answers door.
Michael: Hi honey, is your mommy home?
Child: Not right now, no.
Michael: See, I'm here to talk to you about God and stuff, but - hey - you know what'd be fun? Real fun? We could go back to my house and play on the funfair! Wouldn't that be fun? I have a chimp! We can play all day!
Jehovah's Witness: Michael, Michael! We've talked about this before. Put the child down. Don't touch him there. You know how difficult you find it to get those marks out of your white gloves.
Michael: You're ignorant. Ignorant!
I won't write any more about the TV programme. I promise. Probably.
Until now. I have been conned, conned and tricked into watching this series of Celebrity Big Brother. You may leave at this point. I won't judge you. I am too busy judging myself for having graduated to chav scum. But I also have a confession. I am loving it. Loving it, loving it, loving it. But I hate myself for loving the stupid rows and ridiculous situation. It is a kind of self-directed schadenfreude (see?). And surely anyone who can use the word "schadenfreude" should be exempt from your loathing?
My favourite character (because none of them are real) is La Toya Jackson. She is brilliant and seems really sweet. Really sweet in the kind of "make sure you give her the blunt scissors and the non-toxic crayons" kind of way. I'm not sure if she's a compulsive liar or living la-la land, but so far she's claimed that she was forced to get married (she told the official she didn't want to, but she was made to go through with it. Uh-huh). However my all time favourite claim is this one. I'm paraphrasing, but not much:
"So yeah, me and Michael were Jehovah's Witnesses, and we'd go around, you know, like knockin' on doors and stuff, and Michael would be all like, 'Hi, can I talk to you about God?'"
Wow. Hold on a minute. Michael Jackson has been superstar famous for pretty much all of his life. Are we really supposed to believe he could trot door to door trying to pass off a copy of The Watchtower to unsuspecting punters?
I had my first Jehovah's Witness last week. So to speak. I was home from work sick, sick, sick and I answered the door because I thought it might be my Wii Fit arriving. It wasn't. It was a very friendly lady who handed me a copy of her magazine and asked me if I thought Gordon Brown could solve the economic crisis. I wasn't sure what this had to do with God, but didn't ask her why, as I had no desire to prolong the conversation.
But I can definitely picture Michael Jackson doorstepping for Jehovah:
Child answers door.
Michael: Hi honey, is your mommy home?
Child: Not right now, no.
Michael: See, I'm here to talk to you about God and stuff, but - hey - you know what'd be fun? Real fun? We could go back to my house and play on the funfair! Wouldn't that be fun? I have a chimp! We can play all day!
Jehovah's Witness: Michael, Michael! We've talked about this before. Put the child down. Don't touch him there. You know how difficult you find it to get those marks out of your white gloves.
Michael: You're ignorant. Ignorant!
I won't write any more about the TV programme. I promise. Probably.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Write to be angry
You know what? I just did a brilliant Plog and the fucking Internet fucking ate it.
Fuck.
It took me ages. I wrote it. I rewrote it. I edited it. I put in bits of witty dialogue. I even used the word "schadenfreude" twice. I pressed send. It disappeared. And fucking Blogger didn't even save a fucking draft. Fuck.
I could rewrite it, but I'm too angry. So instead, I will just tell you that my physiotherapist yesterday said she went to school with a Laura Nunn. She said she had both a Laura Nunn and a Laura Dunn in her class. Beware Ploggers. I fear imposters are at work.
In the meantime I'm going to cook spaghetti bolognaise. Angry. This is never a good time to cook. Smoke alarms on standby.
Fuck.
It took me ages. I wrote it. I rewrote it. I edited it. I put in bits of witty dialogue. I even used the word "schadenfreude" twice. I pressed send. It disappeared. And fucking Blogger didn't even save a fucking draft. Fuck.
I could rewrite it, but I'm too angry. So instead, I will just tell you that my physiotherapist yesterday said she went to school with a Laura Nunn. She said she had both a Laura Nunn and a Laura Dunn in her class. Beware Ploggers. I fear imposters are at work.
In the meantime I'm going to cook spaghetti bolognaise. Angry. This is never a good time to cook. Smoke alarms on standby.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Physicality
The company I work for is very big. Well, less big than before the credit crunch, but big nonetheless. I work in the headquarters which is a massive, massive building with about 45 floors. One floor is entirely devoted to a staff gym, which despite pretty miniscule monthly fees, I have no desire whatsoever to join. The gym is state of the art. Even I can tell that.
The gym also runs classes. And today on the Intranet, I saw this message:
Pregnancy Yogalates, specifically aimed at mothers-to-be, is an eight-week course which begins on Monday 19 January. The course is open to members (cost GBP40.00) and non-members (GBP50.00) Yogalates combines yoga stretches to lengthen the body and relax the mind along with Pilates matwork to strengthen your core muscles and help ease back pain. Please note attendees must have participated in physical activity prior to pregnancy.
Call me naive, but doesn't pregnancy usually start with some sort of physical activity?
The gym also runs classes. And today on the Intranet, I saw this message:
Pregnancy Yogalates, specifically aimed at mothers-to-be, is an eight-week course which begins on Monday 19 January. The course is open to members (cost GBP40.00) and non-members (GBP50.00) Yogalates combines yoga stretches to lengthen the body and relax the mind along with Pilates matwork to strengthen your core muscles and help ease back pain. Please note attendees must have participated in physical activity prior to pregnancy.
Call me naive, but doesn't pregnancy usually start with some sort of physical activity?
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Economies of scale
People often say to me, admiringly, I like to think, "Laura, we can't believe you work in finance. You were really, really bad at maths at school. Tell us lesser mortals how you manage it!"
Well, Ploggers, listen to the following conversation so I can give you a quick lesson in economics.
Me: I saved £35 today!
TheBloke (TM): Oh, how? Because I can't help but notice you're carrying a bag with new shoes in.
Me: Exactly. I saw these shoes for £70, reduced to £35. So I bought them, thus saving £35. Which meant I could then spend the £35 I saved on something else. But I didn't. So I have saved £35.
TheBloke (TM): That's not right! That's not how it works.
Me: Of course it is, fool.
Two weeks later...
Me: I saved £180 today.
TheBloke (TM): Oh God, here we go again. I don't want to talk about it.
Me: Listen... there was a lovely silk dress in Whistles reduced from - you won't believe this - reduced from £155 to £25. What a bargain!
TheBloke (TM): Did you buy it?
Me: Well this is the genius part. I tried it on, but it was a bit big and didn't really suit me, so I didn't buy it.
TheBloke (TM): So what saving did you make then? I don't understand.
TheBloke (TM) is a bit simple, despite "technically" being qualified in accountancy, so I had to explain things clearly for him.
Me: The dress originally cost £155. I didn't buy it at that price. Therefore I save £155. Then, I also didn't spend £25 on it when it was reduced. This equals £180. And as I saved so much, I've just bought a Wii Fit and a few other bits and pieces and still have £50 left over. I am great.
TheBloke (TM): (Couldn't really hear what he said, but it sounded like "clucking cupid ditch" maybe. Not sure.)
This, Ploggers, is why I am better at finance than most people.
Well, Ploggers, listen to the following conversation so I can give you a quick lesson in economics.
Me: I saved £35 today!
TheBloke (TM): Oh, how? Because I can't help but notice you're carrying a bag with new shoes in.
Me: Exactly. I saw these shoes for £70, reduced to £35. So I bought them, thus saving £35. Which meant I could then spend the £35 I saved on something else. But I didn't. So I have saved £35.
TheBloke (TM): That's not right! That's not how it works.
Me: Of course it is, fool.
Two weeks later...
Me: I saved £180 today.
TheBloke (TM): Oh God, here we go again. I don't want to talk about it.
Me: Listen... there was a lovely silk dress in Whistles reduced from - you won't believe this - reduced from £155 to £25. What a bargain!
TheBloke (TM): Did you buy it?
Me: Well this is the genius part. I tried it on, but it was a bit big and didn't really suit me, so I didn't buy it.
TheBloke (TM): So what saving did you make then? I don't understand.
TheBloke (TM) is a bit simple, despite "technically" being qualified in accountancy, so I had to explain things clearly for him.
Me: The dress originally cost £155. I didn't buy it at that price. Therefore I save £155. Then, I also didn't spend £25 on it when it was reduced. This equals £180. And as I saved so much, I've just bought a Wii Fit and a few other bits and pieces and still have £50 left over. I am great.
TheBloke (TM): (Couldn't really hear what he said, but it sounded like "clucking cupid ditch" maybe. Not sure.)
This, Ploggers, is why I am better at finance than most people.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
2009
Happy New Year to all Ploggers! I realise this is statistically unlikely. Whilst I can sincerely hope all readers have a fantastic new year, it's improbable that all of you do. For some of you, maybe for me, this might be the best year ever, the year in which all dreams come true. For some of us though, some of us will have a shockingly awful year. Most of us will probably have a middling year. But "Middling New Year" doesn't have the ring to it that the traditional greeting does. So I wish that 2009 is happy for you, but understand fully if it's only just OK.
Well, party animal that I am, I had a small glass of chocolate orange liqueur last night and stayed up past midnight, watching the TV fireworks that we could sort of see in the distance anyway. We also had to keep the cat calm. The cat, by the way, is definitely called Phoebe now. Except for when she steals my earplugs, drinks from my glass or trips me up. Then she's called, "You bastard ball of fluff!"
After almost two weeks off work, it's back to the office for me tomorrow. I can't remember when I last went outside, but I'm not entirely sure I'll like it. It looks a bit nippy out there.
Well, party animal that I am, I had a small glass of chocolate orange liqueur last night and stayed up past midnight, watching the TV fireworks that we could sort of see in the distance anyway. We also had to keep the cat calm. The cat, by the way, is definitely called Phoebe now. Except for when she steals my earplugs, drinks from my glass or trips me up. Then she's called, "You bastard ball of fluff!"
After almost two weeks off work, it's back to the office for me tomorrow. I can't remember when I last went outside, but I'm not entirely sure I'll like it. It looks a bit nippy out there.
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