South Africans take their security seriously. Very seriously. Every house has an electric gate and barbed wire around the perimeter. Crime is high, life is cheap. Most houses have armed response units and a panic button to summon them. Anything not chained down will be stolen.
This morning TheBloke (TM) got up early to drive his mum to work, so we could have the car for the day. "Relax," he said to me. "Have a lie-in, take a nice long bath. I'll be a while."
A minute or two later I got out of bed and ran the taps for a nice bubble bath. The plumbing made a banging noise which made me jump. "Chill out, Laura," I thought. "Just the plumbing." Whilst the bath was running, I brushed my teeth.
BANG! Again. The family's dogs started barking. I thought I heard shouting. "You're being paranoid," I told myself. I continued to brush my teeth, looking up at the barred window, a foot or so above my head.
SMACK! A fist came into sight and smacked hard against the window. Shit. I really couldn't ignore that. "What?" I shouted. No reply. Completely naked, I put a towel around me and went into the hall. "Who's there?" I shouted. I tried to feel brave, though I wasn't sure how useful I'd be in a fight against armed robbers with only a towel to defend myself. Perhaps my tits might destract them for a second or two, but let's face it, that was a short-term strategy.
I had no idea where the panic button was. Moment of truth. I went to the door where the latest set of banging was coming from. "WHO IS IT?" I shouted.
"Laura, it's me," called TheBloke (TM). "Can you open the door?"
Turns out he'd forgotten his keys to the electric gate and were locked... well, in actually, locked in the garden. Africa. Dangerous place.
In other news, I stroked a lion today. I'm super brave.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Pride and sensibility
It is a truth universally acknowledged that new clothes plus exciting holiday plus digital camera must be in want of a spot. To be recorded for posterity. It happens every single time I go away. It's like a never-ending and fairly gruesome version of pin the tail on the donkey: spot the spot.
On the rare occasion that the pustule fairy doesn't pay me a visit on the eve of a holiday, it's a dead cert I'll get a mosquito bite. On the face. And then when I go through my holiday snaps to my - obviously enthralled - audience, I feel the need to tell them, "That's not a spot - it's a mosquito bite." Like somehow a spot is something to be ashamed of, but a mosquito bite just isn't your fault.
So yes, I'm on holiday, and yes, the pustule fairy paid me a visit. And I have a complaint about this. I'm 29 now and beginning to show some subtle signs of ageing. I have a few tiny wrinkles round my eyes, and two weeks ago I discovered my first grey hair. I would be OK with this - all natural. But spots too? Spots and wrinkles? Surely it's only fair to grow out of one before the other starts making your life miserable. Surely I was owed at least a couple of years of unbridled spot-free, wrinkle-free joy?
In the meantime I have a three-headed spot. Like the dog who guards the gates of Hell. Cerebus? Ceres? Cervix? Life is harder without Internet. I had to handwrite this Plog. I hope you're grateful.
On the rare occasion that the pustule fairy doesn't pay me a visit on the eve of a holiday, it's a dead cert I'll get a mosquito bite. On the face. And then when I go through my holiday snaps to my - obviously enthralled - audience, I feel the need to tell them, "That's not a spot - it's a mosquito bite." Like somehow a spot is something to be ashamed of, but a mosquito bite just isn't your fault.
So yes, I'm on holiday, and yes, the pustule fairy paid me a visit. And I have a complaint about this. I'm 29 now and beginning to show some subtle signs of ageing. I have a few tiny wrinkles round my eyes, and two weeks ago I discovered my first grey hair. I would be OK with this - all natural. But spots too? Spots and wrinkles? Surely it's only fair to grow out of one before the other starts making your life miserable. Surely I was owed at least a couple of years of unbridled spot-free, wrinkle-free joy?
In the meantime I have a three-headed spot. Like the dog who guards the gates of Hell. Cerebus? Ceres? Cervix? Life is harder without Internet. I had to handwrite this Plog. I hope you're grateful.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Time flies
So, it's off to South Africa, which promises to be a sunny 30ish degrees Centigrade. If it isn't, I shall kick and scream and demand my airfare back.
Years of holidays with my parents have ingrained me with airport issues... Mrs Nunn likes to be early for flights. I can understand that. Nothing worse than missing your flight. But Mrs Nunn likes to be really early for flights. Case in point:
I was eleven years old and flying - all by myself because I was a big girl - to the States to visit some family. The flight left from Heathrow at 3 p.m. Because it was an international flight, I was supposed to check in at 1 p.m. All good so far. And, to give Mrs Nunn her due, we did have to drive from Loughborough to Heathrow, which is a good couple of hours. So what time, dear reader, did we leave? About 11 a.m.? Maybe 9 a.m. to be on the extra safe side? No.
We left at 5 a.m. The reason? "This way we should miss rush hour." Fair enough. Except it was a Sunday.
We arrived, predictably, at Heathrow at 7 in the morning, before any of the little shops had even opened. And we sat there for eight hours until my flight took off. I have never eye-spied so many things in my life. These days I'd probably be arrested on a terrorist recon charge, I was looking at the place so closely.
Now, as everyone knows, I too am usually very, very early for things. But I'm wary about forcing my earliness on other people. So our flight today is at 6 p.m., and we need to drop our bags off at 5 p.m. (as we've already checked in online). Heathrow is probably an hour and a half from here by tube... so we should leave at 3, right? Maybe 2 to be on the extra safe side? Let's just put it this way... I've been packed since Tuesday evening, and at time of writing (1 p.m.) I'm beginning to tap my foot up and down a bit whilst TheBloke (TM) is still in the shower.
I will likely be an absent Plogger for the next couple of weeks - Internet access will be infrequent. But I will be thinking of you all and promise to write about elephants and dung beetles when I get back, if not before.
Years of holidays with my parents have ingrained me with airport issues... Mrs Nunn likes to be early for flights. I can understand that. Nothing worse than missing your flight. But Mrs Nunn likes to be really early for flights. Case in point:
I was eleven years old and flying - all by myself because I was a big girl - to the States to visit some family. The flight left from Heathrow at 3 p.m. Because it was an international flight, I was supposed to check in at 1 p.m. All good so far. And, to give Mrs Nunn her due, we did have to drive from Loughborough to Heathrow, which is a good couple of hours. So what time, dear reader, did we leave? About 11 a.m.? Maybe 9 a.m. to be on the extra safe side? No.
We left at 5 a.m. The reason? "This way we should miss rush hour." Fair enough. Except it was a Sunday.
We arrived, predictably, at Heathrow at 7 in the morning, before any of the little shops had even opened. And we sat there for eight hours until my flight took off. I have never eye-spied so many things in my life. These days I'd probably be arrested on a terrorist recon charge, I was looking at the place so closely.
Now, as everyone knows, I too am usually very, very early for things. But I'm wary about forcing my earliness on other people. So our flight today is at 6 p.m., and we need to drop our bags off at 5 p.m. (as we've already checked in online). Heathrow is probably an hour and a half from here by tube... so we should leave at 3, right? Maybe 2 to be on the extra safe side? Let's just put it this way... I've been packed since Tuesday evening, and at time of writing (1 p.m.) I'm beginning to tap my foot up and down a bit whilst TheBloke (TM) is still in the shower.
I will likely be an absent Plogger for the next couple of weeks - Internet access will be infrequent. But I will be thinking of you all and promise to write about elephants and dung beetles when I get back, if not before.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Va-cat-ion
The Creme Eggs are back. TheBloke (TM) clearly knows what's good for him. Well, three are missing, but we shall have words about that later. What I'm most concerned about is that he successfully managed to find a hiding place in the one-bedroomed flat that I couldn't discover. He could have dead bodies there and everything. He probably does, for all I know. To be honest, I'm not that bothered. So long as I get my eggs.
Today was my last day in the office for just over two weeks... On Sunday we have a holi-holiday! (I keep saying it like that. I'm beginning to irritate myself.) We're off to South Africa to visit TheBloke's family and some elephants. We are leaving the cat (hence "va-cat-ion") and the flat in capable hands. I hope to come back with:
- Suntan but no sunburn
- A relaxed attitude... but not unconscious from malaria / spider bites
- A smattering of Afrikaans. Currently all I can say is "Jou ma se pous", which I've been advised isn't the best conversation opener.
- Some Oakley sunglasses. Because I'm worth it.
- Photographs of baby elephants
- And a baby elephant. If it'll fit in the case. If it doesn't, I'd be willing to sacrifice the sunglasses to make room.
Holi-holiday!
Today was my last day in the office for just over two weeks... On Sunday we have a holi-holiday! (I keep saying it like that. I'm beginning to irritate myself.) We're off to South Africa to visit TheBloke's family and some elephants. We are leaving the cat (hence "va-cat-ion") and the flat in capable hands. I hope to come back with:
- Suntan but no sunburn
- A relaxed attitude... but not unconscious from malaria / spider bites
- A smattering of Afrikaans. Currently all I can say is "Jou ma se pous", which I've been advised isn't the best conversation opener.
- Some Oakley sunglasses. Because I'm worth it.
- Photographs of baby elephants
- And a baby elephant. If it'll fit in the case. If it doesn't, I'd be willing to sacrifice the sunglasses to make room.
Holi-holiday!
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Egg-sasperating
TheBloke (TM) has now hidden the remaining - ahem - eight Cadbury's Creme Eggs. The fucker.
What I want you to take from this is not the fact that somehow four Creme Eggs were eaten within a day, but the unrelenting domestic - should I call it abuse? Yes, I think I should. The unrelenting domestic abuse I put up with day after day.
His inhaler remains hidden. I'm hiding his passport next. We're off on hols on Sunday. Well, I am.
What I want you to take from this is not the fact that somehow four Creme Eggs were eaten within a day, but the unrelenting domestic - should I call it abuse? Yes, I think I should. The unrelenting domestic abuse I put up with day after day.
His inhaler remains hidden. I'm hiding his passport next. We're off on hols on Sunday. Well, I am.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Easter egg hunt
TheBloke (TM) has hidden my Cadbury's Creme Eggs. This is not funny. He doesn't understand. He thinks it is funny. It is not, not, not funny.
To prove my point, I have hidden his asthma inhaler. He is off for a run soon. When he comes back, gasping and at death's door, I will play the "warmer... colder..." game with him.
It is exactly the same thing, and I am making a fair point.
WHERE ARE MY CREME EGGS?
Luckily, I bought another 12 today from Waitrose in case of such an emergency. Watch this space.
To prove my point, I have hidden his asthma inhaler. He is off for a run soon. When he comes back, gasping and at death's door, I will play the "warmer... colder..." game with him.
It is exactly the same thing, and I am making a fair point.
WHERE ARE MY CREME EGGS?
Luckily, I bought another 12 today from Waitrose in case of such an emergency. Watch this space.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
LBLOPASTAAG
Now I'm not one to shamelessly promote a product. I'm definitely one to whinge about poor customer service as and when I get it, but I rarely sing praises to the sky. However, it's time for Laura's Big List of Products and Services That Are Actually Good (LBLOPASTAAG).
- Vicks First Defence. At first I thought it was luck that the cold I knew I was getting never developed. Perhaps I'd been mistaken. Eighteen months later and pretty much totally cold-free, barring two sniffly days mid-November, I think we have to say, buy it buy it buy it!
- Sky Plus. Sky are bastards. Their customer service is shit. But let's be honest, once you've got Sky Plus in your life, you're never going back.
- Wii Sports. Nothing like your 85 year-old grandma beating you at bowling.
- Minis. Overpriced but cute and for some reason, people let you out in traffic jams far more than they ever did in the Corsa.
- Krispy Kreme donuts. Mmmm.
- British Gas Customer Services. I know. I'm nearly dead from the shock too.
That is enough for now. Back to the cynicism soon.
- Vicks First Defence. At first I thought it was luck that the cold I knew I was getting never developed. Perhaps I'd been mistaken. Eighteen months later and pretty much totally cold-free, barring two sniffly days mid-November, I think we have to say, buy it buy it buy it!
- Sky Plus. Sky are bastards. Their customer service is shit. But let's be honest, once you've got Sky Plus in your life, you're never going back.
- Wii Sports. Nothing like your 85 year-old grandma beating you at bowling.
- Minis. Overpriced but cute and for some reason, people let you out in traffic jams far more than they ever did in the Corsa.
- Krispy Kreme donuts. Mmmm.
- British Gas Customer Services. I know. I'm nearly dead from the shock too.
That is enough for now. Back to the cynicism soon.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Suits me
Some days I am very, very good at my job.
Today was one of those days. I carefully chose my second favourite Calvin Klein suit (not my favourite - this wasn't a job interview after all) and a neatly-ironed shirt which went well with it. I took high heels to change into once I'd shed my snow boots. I even bothered applying make-up this morning. That's how good an employee I am. I even shaved my legs, but to be honest, that's not something my employers check regularly.
I ran a workshop. I used a brilliant ice-breaker. I got people laughing. I was authoritative but not too bossy. I tied up the workshop half an hour earlier than people were expecting after achieving the desired outcome much earlier than planned, and sent them on their way. I was thanked profusely for running such a good session. I am so great.
And about five minutes before I left the office to go home, I took my first well-deserved toilet break of the day. And discovered that all day I have had my suit jacket (very obviously) done up on the wrong buttons like a five year-old who can't button their duffle coat by themselves.
It's a good job I wear slip-on shoes.
Today was one of those days. I carefully chose my second favourite Calvin Klein suit (not my favourite - this wasn't a job interview after all) and a neatly-ironed shirt which went well with it. I took high heels to change into once I'd shed my snow boots. I even bothered applying make-up this morning. That's how good an employee I am. I even shaved my legs, but to be honest, that's not something my employers check regularly.
I ran a workshop. I used a brilliant ice-breaker. I got people laughing. I was authoritative but not too bossy. I tied up the workshop half an hour earlier than people were expecting after achieving the desired outcome much earlier than planned, and sent them on their way. I was thanked profusely for running such a good session. I am so great.
And about five minutes before I left the office to go home, I took my first well-deserved toilet break of the day. And discovered that all day I have had my suit jacket (very obviously) done up on the wrong buttons like a five year-old who can't button their duffle coat by themselves.
It's a good job I wear slip-on shoes.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Power mad
When I was a child, my parents took me on plenty of exciting holidays. Bythe time I was 13 I'd been to Rhodes, Majorica, Minorca, Corfu, Portugal, Morocco, to Disney World twice, and all over the USA. Very exciting indeed. Lucky, spoiled Laura.
But, more clearly than any of these culturally-enhancing and - no doubt - expensive holidays, I remember December 8, 1990 far more clearly than any family trip.
It was the day the snow came. And not just the snow, the Great Power Cut of 1990. Yes, yes, yes, London has been "at a standstill" for the last couple of days, but this was proper, proper snow.
Let's set the scene. I was eleven years old, and my brother was not quite five. It was a Saturday morning and I was as excited as it was possible for an eleven year-old to be. Not only was there a good foot of snow, but Going Live was presenting a special 3D TV programme that morning. I had bought some red and green 3D glasses from Sainsbury's especially. I have a feeling Jack had some too, otherwise we would have been on course for bloodshed.
Sarah Greene and Philip Schofield came on TV. They said, "Put your 3Dglasses on now". I did. I'd actually been wearing them for the best part of an hour, just in case I missed anything or in case it made normal TV 3D. It didn't - just made it a bit greener and redder. Finally, finally Sarah Greene sat on a swing and prepared to project herself right out into myliving room... then CLICK. The TV turned itself off. I knew the technology was too good to be true. I tried to turn the TV on again - no joy. Power cut. Great.
Luckily Mr and Mrs Nunn had a Plan B. It was the Christmas Fayre of my primary school. The school spelled "Fayre" with a "y" not to be olde worlde and charming but because the level of illiteracy in Loughborough is outstanding. With the snow over a foot deep, driving was out of the question, besides which, it was only a ten-minute walk.
Wellington boots were put on and immediately sprung a leak or were two sizes too small since the last time they were worn. Off to Booth Wood Primary School we trudged. Little Jack, not much taller than the snow, and each step equivalent to ascending a staircase, started to whinge that he was cold.
We finally reached the school, to be greeted by a notice: "Fayre cancelled due to snow". Yes, I know. It should have read, "owing to snow", but I've already told you about Loughburians' illiteracy.
Jack started crying, and I, with my cramped toes and soggy feet took over the whingeing role. I asked if we could take a bus home. There were, unsurprisingly, no buses. Mr and Mrs Nunn kept us walking on the promise of a mug of hot chocolate when we got home and choosing a film we wanted to watch. We finally made it home. There was still no electricity. The film was cancelled. The hot chocolate was made in a saucepan on the gas hob.
Four hours later, the electricity still wasn't on. We went sledging with the family next door. Well, everyone else went sledging, and I stood at the top of the hill, crying because I was too scared to shoot down the hill on a little plastic tray and too cold to move my fingers. And my wellies were still too small and still leaked.
Three hours later, still no electricity. We had a gas fire in the living room, and a gas cooker, but no central heating. Next door were in an even worse position. They didn't even have a gas cooker. So, they came over for dinner, which we ate at about 5 p.m. by candlelight. It was like a party.
At 8 p.m. with still no electricity, next door went back home and it was bedtime. We couldn't see a thing. And with no central heating and a foot of snow outside, it was cold in the house. We all slept in the same bed to keep warm... until 3 a.m. when Jack decided his meaningful contribution to the emergency would be to vomit profusely all over the bed. With no hot water to clean up, I decided that I'd brave the cold in my own room.
The power cut lasted an amazing two nights and three days. Every day next door's kids would come and play board games at our house - hours and hours of them. And every evening their parents would come over for a warm meal and we'd play charades by candlelight. We listened to a battery-operated radio which seemed to play "Ice Ice Baby" constantly and told us reassuringly that school was cancelled. We put up the Christmas tree. Mr and Mrs Nunn decanted the contents of the freezer into the snow in the garden to keep it cold.
On the evening of the 10th December, a day before Jack's fifth birthday,the Christmas tree lights suddenly came on. The TV sprung to life, with a BBC Narnia adventure and the streetlights lit up.
I'm one of those people who's always, always cold, but other than the times we were outside, I don't actually remember being freezing for those days. I remember the board games, and the charades and accidentally spreading fish pate on my hand because I couldn't see it wasn't a piece of toast. It was brilliant. And apologies to Mr and Mrs Nunn because all those expensive holidays and the thing I remember most is when the power went off.
That and the caravan holiday when Jack got listeria and the doctor shoved a suppository up his bottom.
But, more clearly than any of these culturally-enhancing and - no doubt - expensive holidays, I remember December 8, 1990 far more clearly than any family trip.
It was the day the snow came. And not just the snow, the Great Power Cut of 1990. Yes, yes, yes, London has been "at a standstill" for the last couple of days, but this was proper, proper snow.
Let's set the scene. I was eleven years old, and my brother was not quite five. It was a Saturday morning and I was as excited as it was possible for an eleven year-old to be. Not only was there a good foot of snow, but Going Live was presenting a special 3D TV programme that morning. I had bought some red and green 3D glasses from Sainsbury's especially. I have a feeling Jack had some too, otherwise we would have been on course for bloodshed.
Sarah Greene and Philip Schofield came on TV. They said, "Put your 3Dglasses on now". I did. I'd actually been wearing them for the best part of an hour, just in case I missed anything or in case it made normal TV 3D. It didn't - just made it a bit greener and redder. Finally, finally Sarah Greene sat on a swing and prepared to project herself right out into myliving room... then CLICK. The TV turned itself off. I knew the technology was too good to be true. I tried to turn the TV on again - no joy. Power cut. Great.
Luckily Mr and Mrs Nunn had a Plan B. It was the Christmas Fayre of my primary school. The school spelled "Fayre" with a "y" not to be olde worlde and charming but because the level of illiteracy in Loughborough is outstanding. With the snow over a foot deep, driving was out of the question, besides which, it was only a ten-minute walk.
Wellington boots were put on and immediately sprung a leak or were two sizes too small since the last time they were worn. Off to Booth Wood Primary School we trudged. Little Jack, not much taller than the snow, and each step equivalent to ascending a staircase, started to whinge that he was cold.
We finally reached the school, to be greeted by a notice: "Fayre cancelled due to snow". Yes, I know. It should have read, "owing to snow", but I've already told you about Loughburians' illiteracy.
Jack started crying, and I, with my cramped toes and soggy feet took over the whingeing role. I asked if we could take a bus home. There were, unsurprisingly, no buses. Mr and Mrs Nunn kept us walking on the promise of a mug of hot chocolate when we got home and choosing a film we wanted to watch. We finally made it home. There was still no electricity. The film was cancelled. The hot chocolate was made in a saucepan on the gas hob.
Four hours later, the electricity still wasn't on. We went sledging with the family next door. Well, everyone else went sledging, and I stood at the top of the hill, crying because I was too scared to shoot down the hill on a little plastic tray and too cold to move my fingers. And my wellies were still too small and still leaked.
Three hours later, still no electricity. We had a gas fire in the living room, and a gas cooker, but no central heating. Next door were in an even worse position. They didn't even have a gas cooker. So, they came over for dinner, which we ate at about 5 p.m. by candlelight. It was like a party.
At 8 p.m. with still no electricity, next door went back home and it was bedtime. We couldn't see a thing. And with no central heating and a foot of snow outside, it was cold in the house. We all slept in the same bed to keep warm... until 3 a.m. when Jack decided his meaningful contribution to the emergency would be to vomit profusely all over the bed. With no hot water to clean up, I decided that I'd brave the cold in my own room.
The power cut lasted an amazing two nights and three days. Every day next door's kids would come and play board games at our house - hours and hours of them. And every evening their parents would come over for a warm meal and we'd play charades by candlelight. We listened to a battery-operated radio which seemed to play "Ice Ice Baby" constantly and told us reassuringly that school was cancelled. We put up the Christmas tree. Mr and Mrs Nunn decanted the contents of the freezer into the snow in the garden to keep it cold.
On the evening of the 10th December, a day before Jack's fifth birthday,the Christmas tree lights suddenly came on. The TV sprung to life, with a BBC Narnia adventure and the streetlights lit up.
I'm one of those people who's always, always cold, but other than the times we were outside, I don't actually remember being freezing for those days. I remember the board games, and the charades and accidentally spreading fish pate on my hand because I couldn't see it wasn't a piece of toast. It was brilliant. And apologies to Mr and Mrs Nunn because all those expensive holidays and the thing I remember most is when the power went off.
That and the caravan holiday when Jack got listeria and the doctor shoved a suppository up his bottom.
Monday, February 02, 2009
Amsterdam, m'kay?
Let's talk about the weekend in Amsterdam.
I had been to Amsterdam once before, when I was about fifteen. My parents took me as I was very interested in Anne Frank, having studied her diaries at school and been in a school play about her. We went to some bulb fields, went to the house and pottered around the Red Light District, which perhaps wasn't entirely appropriate for my brother, who was only about nine years old at the time. Still, he grew up to be a very normal, balanced transvestite, so perhaps everything worked out for the best.
This was the first time I'd been to Amsterdam as a grown up.
And before I start this tale, for anyone unfamiliar with my world, let's face it, I'm square. I'm squarer than a rectangle with four equal sides. I didn't get drunk for the first time until after the age of 18. I gave up alcohol about three years ago, and very rarely drink these days. I never had a teenage rebellion.
So Amsterdam was something of a revelation.
I don't need to spell it out for you, but let's just say that I had a couple of very yummy and perfectly legal brownies from a cafe in Amsterdam. Perhaps it was a mistake to have two brownies. But they were yummy. And I got very hungry you see. Very, very hungry. So hungry that two bumper packs of crisps (I'm talking the ones that are too big to hold in one hand) and three packets of biscuits could not satiate.
Anyway, after I had the brownies, TheBloke (TM) and I had some genius, genius ideas about projects. They were so genius that at the time, we literally couldn't stop laughing about how funny they were. However, the next day, we couldn't remember any of them. Luckily, I planned for this eventuality and wrote down the brilliant ideas. Which don't seem quite so brilliant in the cold light of day.
For your delectation, the brilliant ideas from our Amsterdam minds:
Children's Book: Wobster the Lobster
Stage Show: The Beatles on Ice (surviving members)
Sitcom: The Sinister Plate
Children's Book: The Very Promiscuous Hedgehog
Restaurant Idea: McDonald's Drive-Thru Shooting
Evolution Idea: Fish need more eyebrows (especially sinister fish)
If you can spot any genius in those ideas, I'd love to hear from you. Because at the time they were the cleverest and funniest thing anyone had ever thought of. And now, it's hard to capture just why they were so brilliant. Any help appreciated.
I had been to Amsterdam once before, when I was about fifteen. My parents took me as I was very interested in Anne Frank, having studied her diaries at school and been in a school play about her. We went to some bulb fields, went to the house and pottered around the Red Light District, which perhaps wasn't entirely appropriate for my brother, who was only about nine years old at the time. Still, he grew up to be a very normal, balanced transvestite, so perhaps everything worked out for the best.
This was the first time I'd been to Amsterdam as a grown up.
And before I start this tale, for anyone unfamiliar with my world, let's face it, I'm square. I'm squarer than a rectangle with four equal sides. I didn't get drunk for the first time until after the age of 18. I gave up alcohol about three years ago, and very rarely drink these days. I never had a teenage rebellion.
So Amsterdam was something of a revelation.
I don't need to spell it out for you, but let's just say that I had a couple of very yummy and perfectly legal brownies from a cafe in Amsterdam. Perhaps it was a mistake to have two brownies. But they were yummy. And I got very hungry you see. Very, very hungry. So hungry that two bumper packs of crisps (I'm talking the ones that are too big to hold in one hand) and three packets of biscuits could not satiate.
Anyway, after I had the brownies, TheBloke (TM) and I had some genius, genius ideas about projects. They were so genius that at the time, we literally couldn't stop laughing about how funny they were. However, the next day, we couldn't remember any of them. Luckily, I planned for this eventuality and wrote down the brilliant ideas. Which don't seem quite so brilliant in the cold light of day.
For your delectation, the brilliant ideas from our Amsterdam minds:
Children's Book: Wobster the Lobster
Stage Show: The Beatles on Ice (surviving members)
Sitcom: The Sinister Plate
Children's Book: The Very Promiscuous Hedgehog
Restaurant Idea: McDonald's Drive-Thru Shooting
Evolution Idea: Fish need more eyebrows (especially sinister fish)
If you can spot any genius in those ideas, I'd love to hear from you. Because at the time they were the cleverest and funniest thing anyone had ever thought of. And now, it's hard to capture just why they were so brilliant. Any help appreciated.
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