A rose by any other name...

Ladies and gentlemen...

I have a question to ask you. I am thinking of going incognito. I am thinking of becoming anonymous. I know it's pretty hard from being nonymous to anonymous. (I am assuming that 'nonymous' must be the opposite of 'anonymous'.) However, I am wondering if it's time to lurk a little deeper on t'interweb.

Practically, this would involve removing my full name from the main page, plus changing the contact email address to something a bit more generic. It would mean going through old entries and amending anything that points specifically to my or my family's identity. It would mean no longer importing Plogs into my Facebook page.

Benefits of anonymity:

- I can talk more specifically about work/people/ real life situations without fear of reprisal. This should allow me more freedom in the topics I choose to discuss, and might give you guys a better quality Plog.
- Those of you who really know who I am can always sell your story to a top tabloid, thus making yourself millions of pounds. After all, up to one hundred people read this Plog every day. One hundred! That's almost the whole of the UK*.


Drawbacks of anonymity:

- Sheer hassle of going through old entries, relabelling Mrs Nunn and so on.
- No longer being able to link through to my Facebook / Twitter page
- About 30% of people finding this site find it through searching my full name.

So, I would appreciate your thoughts. Would you stop reading if I merely became Laurasplog? Do you only read these notes in Facebook? If so, do you think you'd be able to redirect yourself to www.laurasplog.blogspot.com, or is that all too much effort? Do you care at all?

Let me have your thoughts Ploggers.

* Post-swine flu.

Pizzaz

Complaining update:

- 2 free pizzas (Dominos)
- £375 refund and grovelling apology (Lombard)
- £30 refund and apology (British Gas)

Outstanding

- Tower Hamlets towing charge (£260)
- Tower Hamlets service charge (900)
- McDonalds complaint
- Thorpe Park complaint.

I now measure success in free pizzas. A Domino's pizza costs approximately £15. Therefore I have currently complained to the tune of 29 free pizzas, with a potential 82ish future pizzas in pipeline. Pizzatastic!

Polls apart

I have always taken a somewhat limited interest in British politics. It makes me feel a little bit guilty admitting it, when so many of my friends keep bang up to date with political affairs. I don't. I'll be totally honest with you, I don't think I could name the Deputy Prime Minister. (In fact I've just looked it up and it turns out there isn't one at the minute. Who knew?)

I struggle to choose between parties, as it seems no matter what one side says, the other says the opposite... but the minute they get into power, it's business as usual. So I kind of stopped noticing.

However, I have been following the news of the recent South African election, not because I'm so smug and superior and au fais with British politics that I can aford to start reading up on another hemisphere's, but because TheBloke (TM) was raised in South Africa and his family still lives there.

Here's a brief precis about Jacob Zuma, the newly elected leader of the ANC, and therefore South Africa. If you're as turned off by politics as I often am, please keep reading anyway - I promise this gets interesting.

In 2004 Zuma was accused of bribery and corruption - basically using political powers to do deals which lined his own pocket. Whilst his - alleged - corruption "partner" was put in prison for 15 years, and the judge described the deals as "mutually beneficial symbiosis" (i.e. "you embezzling scumbag"), Zuma walked free.

So far, so corrupt.

In 2007 various charges of money laundering, racketeering corruption and fraud were brought against him. Because of a courtroom error (or alleged bribery) the charges were declared unlawful and Zuma walked free.

"OK," you might say, "the guy sounds a bit of a wheeler dealer. But come on, UK politics is full of this stuff, of MPs claiming porn as part of their expenses, of claiming hundreds of thousands of pounds for homes they never live in. Power corrupts - this is really nothing new."

Keep reading.

In 2005, Zuma was accused of raping an HIV positive lady. He admitted during the trial that he did not use a condom, but took a shower to "minimise the risk of contracting the infection". Let's just say that again for a second. He took a fucking shower. South Africa has one of the highest rates of HIV infections in the world and a prominent politician is publicly stating that you should just take a shower, guys, you'll probably be fine. He went on to add that he felt it was unlikely that a strong man like himself would be infected by a woman.

Of course then rape crisis charities were inundated by telephone calls from women who'd been raped, had showered to "minimise the risk" and wanted to know if they'd be OK. No, of course they wouldn't, and what's more, they've just rinsed the evidence down the drain.

Never tiring of digging his own grave, Zuma, whilst denying rape, explained that the lady was wearing a short skirt when he met her, which was a sign she wanted sex. To the judge, to the fucking judge, he said, "In Zulu culture you cannot leave a woman if she is ready. To deny her sex, that would have been tantamount to rape.”

He walked free.

Zuma's party political song is "Bring me my machine gun". This is not a joke. That is actually their party's song.

This man is now in charge of South Africa.

At recent elections, the BBC reported (and please remember this is the BBC), "A Cope leader was shot dead but the elections appeared otherwise peaceful." That's it. A one sentence throwaway line in an article about the elections - an opposition candidate was killed. Now, Britain has its problems, but I'd like to think if David Cameron was gunned down at an election, it might get more than a one-liner.

So yes, I do largely ignore UK politics. Because for the most part it is safe to do so. And for that I am grateful.

We all live in a Karma Tangerine

Ah, the Karma Police. You have to respect their work, and, in this case,their patience.
Almost a year ago, I attended a school reunion. I'd got back from a holiday in Canada literally that morning, and driven a couple of hundred miles up the M1 to be there, so was a bit discombobulated. And I then had a frankly hilarious experience with Belinda McOrange, which can be re-read here:

http://laurasplog.blogspot.com/2008/06/orange-and-greene.html

Now, Belinda McOrange has many, many amusing faults, most of which I cruelly (but I like to think amusingly) chronicled at the time. But perhaps I was a bit too harsh on the orange front. Oh, orange she was, orange indeed. She could have advertised a cell phone company... The future is bright, the future is Belinda McOrange. Except she would have blinded small children with her orangeness.

But this is besides the point. I was perhaps too harsh to pick on her orangeness. Not because she wasn't orange. (She was very orange. See above paragraph) but because - as I think I noted at the time - we've all had our bad experiences with fake tan, and really, there are worse things in the world to criticise. Like her behaviour, personality, devotion to the "Daily Mail" and membership to the Young Conservatives.

And the Karma Police have struck and they've struck hard. And they are -as ever - utterly correct in their judgement. As a desperate attempt to cure my rubbish new allergy to water, one of the treatments recommended over and over again is UVB light therapy. At the minute, my doctor still thinks I'm a) mad b) making it up for attention or c) both of the above, so I'm struggling to get beyond the "here's some antihistamines and why don't you have a blood test?" stage at the moment. Health insurance should cover the necessary light therapy as and when I convince my doctor that aquagenic pruritus is real and we ascertain UVB therapy is a suitable treatment. But in the meantime?

In the meantime, it's sunbeds.

So for the next few weeks, please excuse me whilst I look like a wannabee WAG who couldn't be bothered to put her makeup on. Well, the second part of that is true at least.

And as I turn a delicious shade of tangerine, I will hear the irritating voice of Belinda McOrange cackling, "You are one of us now! The future is bright!"

Tourist trap

On Sunday I was a Very Productive Person (VPP).

In a vain attempt to find out what exactly is causing my water allergy, I spent a good hour scrubbing the bathroom ceiling for traces of mould, de-limescaling the shower and shaving the cat.

Well, I did the first two anyway. The cat is next on the hit-list. Insert your pussy-shaving joke here.

I have also decided to try and take greater advantage of my local amenities. Bethnal Green doesn't have that many famous places, and yet I've managed to visit practically none of them.

Here is Laura's visitors' guide to Bethnal Green:

- The Museum of Childhood - I have actually been there (and gave a tourist directions to it the other day, which made me feel very smug indeed). It's mostly toys behind glass cases, and a lovely display at the end about death in childhood. Take your kids. One particularly ugly doll looked like my headmistress from my high school.

- York Hall - famous for boxing and for hosting Bethnal Green's council-run"London Spa". I haven't been.

- Backyard / Fymfyg comedy club. I've been here. A lot. Don't go asoften as I used to, but still my favourite comedy club in London.

- Victoria Park - London's biggest park, I believe. I've been to most of it, but it apparently has a deer park and a boating lake that I've never yet found. I'm not sure why the average Londoner would want either deer or boats, but they're there for the taking, should you wish. And if you can find them.

- E. Pellicci cafe - famous Italian cafe, open since the war years. Italian owner was interned during the war. Famous for excellent greasy spoon breakfasts, and for a mixture of gangsters, Shoreditch media wannabees and East Enders. I've tried to go twice and it's always been so busy I've given up waiting. We tried to go on Saturday but it was a bit full of people trying too hard to be proper East End - standing outside,smoking and using rhyming slang. Clearly these are not proper East Enders.East Enders only speak Bengali these days.

- Beigel shop on Brick Lane. The spelling is correct - I assume it's a Yiddish thang. Apparently selling the best beigels in London, 24 hours a day. Never been. I have no idea what differentiates a bagel from a beigel. Dyslexia, maybe?

- Pie and mash shops. Never been. I did consider it until I found out that East Enders don't go for gravy with their pie and mash, but something called "liquor". Liquor, for the mercifully uninitiated, is made out of eel juice. You couldn't make this shit up.

Have I convinced you? Do you want to live here? Do you want to buy my flat? It's now 90% less mouldy!

She who is tired of London...

Dear London Borough of Tower Hamlets

I have - for the most part - enjoyed our six-year relationship. I am a big fan of your Columbia Road Flower Market, of your cherry-blossom lined streets, of Victoria Park and of the local arts scene.

However, recently I feel our relationship has turned somewhat sour:

- Your demands for £950 service charges left owing by the previous owner, four years ago, which you only decided to mention to me last week.

- The fact that whenever I turn my back on my car for more than five minutes, you tow it away and charge me £260 (which you'll only accept in cash) to get back. This happens immaterial of whether I'm parked in my own parking space outside my flat (which of course, you charge me for) or if I'm parked on one of the quiet residential streets in the neighbourhood on a Saturday afternoon. You then take 56 days to reply to my appeal.

- The speedbumps outside my property which are large enough to take out an average-sized tank.

- The decorators in our block who have been removing asbestos and redecorating for the best part of three months without seemingly achieving anything other than making the ceiling look a bit rustic.

- The fact I was offered drugs outside our flat last week (actually this was quite exciting and made me feel all urban and edgy, but I probably oughtn't to admit that. Nor the fact that I was on the way to book club at the time, which does make me sound a bit less urban and edgy).

- The fact that the entire Pakistani Under 18 community has decided that our estate is the best place to have their gang warfare. Whilst I appreciate, and am supportive of the borough's commitment to cultural inclusion, I'm not sure spray-tagging the walls with "Hoodyz rule innit" and lobbing bottles at each other is quite what you had in mind. Still, to be fair, this was all quite entertaining to watch, and better than anything Sky One had on on Easter Sunday. I was quite disappointed when someone more community-minded than me called the rozzers.

- The fact I had to phone six different numbers (and get cut off twice) before speaking to someone about the removal of the graffiti. Which still hasn't happened.

- The tramp that sleeps at the bottom of the stairs.

- The roof has started leaking. I would report this, but I'm not sure I have the mental energy to negotiate your Kafka-esque phone system, nor to speak to your half-wit employees, for whom Grunting (a little known dialect, involving noisy breathing and accidentally putting the phone down mid-sentence) appears to be the native language.

So it is with a heavy heart that I must inform you that I'm thinking of leaving you. We've had a good run - it's been my longest adult relationship with a borough council, and of course we've had some good times.

I hear the property market is pretty buoyant at the moment, so it should be pretty easy to sell up and move elsewhere, surely?

Scratching an itch

I have ceased to believe in evolution. I guess this makes me a creationist. This is difficult for me to accept as an atheist. Still, it's probably the only answer.

Evolution works on the premise of survival of the most fit for its environment. Over millions and millions of years, mutations to the gene pool occasionally offer improvements to a species' survival, these mutations are passed down and eventually become dominant.

This is crap.

Because I recently found out that not only am I allergic to my own suntan (melanin) in a brilliant-sounding allergy called polymorphic light eruption, but I am also allergic to water. Let me say that again. I am allergic to water. Whenever I take a shower, I go horribly, horribly itchy. It's got a proper name and everything - aquagenic pruritus.

So, to summarise, I am allergic to sunlight. And water.

And yet, here I am. I exist. And, if I desperately wanted to, I might even be able to pass these faulty genes down to a whole new generation of (let's face it) nerds.

In turn, these allergies, whilst irritating, are unlikely to either significantly help or hinder them in their reproductive abilities.

Unless, of course, the next mutated wave of humans is irresistibly attracted to itchy people furiously scratching themselves. In which case, I rock. Just a few million years too early. Don't you wish your girlfriend could scratch like me?

So, I must be a creationist. But what kind of warped weirdo god would create someone in his image to scratch all day? Does God have lice?

And on that blasphemous note, I'm off to take my antihistamines.

Status update

Complaint status update:

- McDonalds are investigating
- Sat nav people are refunding me £10
- Financial Ombudsman have send me a duplicate batch of forms as they reckon they've lost the first lot
- Service charge people have promised to get back to me by the end of the week

All others are still outstanding. I will let you know how I do. My grandma used to complain about everything, apparently. She once complained to Tate and Lyle that a tin of treacle exploded in her pantry. Having said that though, she did have a tub of gravy browning in her pantry which expired in 1947, so it's anyone's guess just how old the treacle was at the point of its explosion.

Still, complaining is good. I would say, "I shall do it more often," but I genuinely don't think that's possible.

The day before yesterday I accidentally squashed a Cadbury's Mini Creme Egg underneath my laptop and briefly wondered who I could complain to. If you have any ideas, please let me know.

Moaning makes the world go round...

I think I might have a problem. I have written eight letters of complaint today. OK, most of them were emails or phone calls, but I 100% believe I'm right in every case.

But eight letters of complaint in one day surely can't be normal, can it?

Here they are, for your delectation:

- Financial Ombudsman - ongoing dispute with Lombard who are claiming I had "poor repairs" done to the Corsa I returned, and would like to charge me £375 for the privilege. No repairs were ever done to said Corsa because it was never damaged.

- Tower Hamlets graffiti removal. Please remove graffiti. Thank you.

- Tower Hamlets service charge department. They have lost a whole year's service charge payments (about £700) from me. Again. Just like they did last year. And the year before. And are trying to take me to court for not paying it, despite me being able to show them bank statements with payments going out and into their accounts. I have escalated my complaint today as they appear to be ignoring it. Again. As if the two massive fights yesterday evening between warring factions of Pakistani kids outside my flat and the tramp that sometimes sleeps at the bottom of my stairs wasn't enough to make me want to leave the borough.

- Tower Hamlets service charge department: please clean our block. You're supposed to do it every week and you haven't been here for months. And there is a dirty tramp patch at the bottom of the stairs.

- McDonalds. This one was taking the piss really but TheBloke (TM) was laughing at my voluminous complaints and said I should complain to McDonalds that they put ice in my Coke when I specifically asked them not to. So I did.

- British Gas (who confusingly supply my electricity). When we moved from a prepayment meter to a billed service, we had £30 credit left on the meter which we were assured would be transferred. It wasn't, and we've now been told we were given wrong information. Complain, complain, complain! They have fallen off the list of good companies wot I like. Krispy Kreme are still there. Just.

- The sat nav supplier who supplied me a "newly overhauled" unit, without advertising it as such (result on this one: 10% refund!)

- Bank people. Why are you taking so long to open my account? OK, thanks, bye. (This one wasn't their fault - they're waiting on some info.)

Last month I got two free pizzas for complaining to Dominos. I will update you on my progress. I am sure that you are fascinated and will barely be able to sleep until you know if I'm successful in my quests. In the meantime, as I Plog, TheBloke (TM) is complaining to BT. I fear it might be catching.

If anyone would like some complainy letters written for them, I'm quite getting into it now.

Ducking it up

Mrs Nunn has many talents. She does. But telling jokes is not one of them.

One of my favourite jokes is:

A duck walks into a pub and asks the landlord for a pint. The barman is astounded.

"You're a duck," he says, "and you can talk! That's amazing."

The duck has his pint, and leaves the pub. The next day, the local circusmaster comes into the pub. "Here," says the barman, "we had a talking duck in here the other day. Aren't you on the lookout for something like that for your circus?"

"Definitely," says the circusmaster. "If he comes in here again, pass my number on."

A few days later, the talking duck is back in the pub.

"Mate," the barman says to the duck. "I've got a friend at the circus who might be able to offer you some work."

The duck thinks for a bit. "Circus?" he asks. "Big tent-type thing, made of cloth?"

"Yeah, that's right," the barman says.

"What would they want with a plasterer?"

See? I told you it was a funny joke. I think my friend Dean told it to me. Mrs Nunn decided she was going to tell this joke to the family.

This is Mrs Nunn's version of the joke:

So a duck walks into a bar, and the barman says, "Wow, a talking duck! What do you do?"

And the duck says, "I'm a plasterer."

And the barman says... oh no, hang on a minute, that's not right.

Mrs Nunn has many strengths. But telling jokes is not one of them.

Celebrity endorsement

I love my Plog. I love the fact that people occasionally read it. I even love the fact that it sometimes gets me into trouble (like when Belinda McOrange identified herself as Annabelle and decided to try and start a bitch fight at the school reunion. You wouldn't believe how many times I've dined out on that story, or how many people have asked me for Annabelle's real name so they can read her status updates on Facebook).

I also love the fact that sometimes it takes me down very random avenues. I'm not using the phrase "random" like a fourteen year-old. ("Last night was such a random night. We ended up at this really random club and Jessie was dancing to this random song and pulled this total random!") The Plog does actually take me down literally random avenues.

Like the time I got an angrily-worded email because I'd written a humorous Plog about my visit to the fortune teller Madam Tamar. Madam Tamar clearly has a lot of devotees, and I shouldn't seek to mess with them. Because they're loopy.

Or yesterday, which is definitely my favourite of 2009. A few days ago, a nice-sounding chap named Paul contacted me to say he enjoyed reading my Plog. This happens occasionally. (And by occasionally, I mean about once every year and a half.) I sent a thank-you email back and thought no more about it.

Until he replied a couple of days later, saying he'd forwarded the link to his mate Hattie Hayridge. For those of you who don't know, Hattie's a very good stand-up (whom coincidentally I saw perform in Bethnal Green at my first ever experience of live comedy back in about 1999), and was also in Red Dwarf back in the day.

Anyway, Hattie has reviewed my Plog. Are you ready for it?

"Cute".

Excellent. Do you think I ought to subtitle? "Laura's Plog. As deemed 'cute' by Hattie Hayridge".

It's official, folks.

My life is weird.

Friendly fire

Everyone has one. The friendship you hang onto more for sentimental reasons than actually enjoying spending time together. Whether it's a sense of duty from the fact your parents are friends, or you're friends from high school who no longer have anything in common, everyone has someone that they keep in touch with without really knowing why. Maybe it's someone who you send a birthday card to every year, and yet they never send one back to you.

I'm in this situation myself at the moment. And I've decided to be brave and just call it a day. I'm going to say, "Look, we've definitely had some good times. No-one's denying that, and no-one can take them away from us. But the thing is, we've grown apart. And recently, I feel things have got a little bit sour between us. Like yesterday when you tried to kill me in the Blackwall Tunnel."

Yes, dear Ploggers, it's time to say goodbye to Jessica the Sat Nav. Bought in 2005 and faithfully trekking me round London ever since, it's time to recognise that she's just a bit old and crap, and frankly, I deserve better.

Breaking up is so very hard to do. But to lessen the blow, a Garmin 350 has been ordered in her place.

TheBloke (TM) is already dancing on her grave. I just think it's weird he made me bury her in the first place.

Tune in tomorrow for exciting news about Hattie Hayridge.

Sugar and spice and all things nice

I have had my third curry of Lent! And lo, it was good.

Last night TheBloke (TM) and I went to our friend Yasmeen's for an authentic, homemade curry. I know it's authentic because Yasmeen is from Yorkshire, which, as we all know, is where curry was invented.

Yasmeen was worried that she might destroy my delicate palate as I sheepishly informed her that hot Doritos were "a bit much" for me, and TheBloke (TM) regaled her with an anecdote about how I'd found prawn crackers a bit too spicy earlier in the week.

But the curry was excellent and plenty of yummy yoghurt meant my face didn't explode. A good time was had by all. Well, TheBloke (TM) and I enjoyed it anyway, but we did spend most of the evening insulting Yasmeen, so perhaps it wasn't as much fun for her...

This morning the doorbell rang and the postman delivered a package to me. Not having ordered anything, this was very, very exciting. I opened it... and pulled out a knitted jelly baby. No letter, no indication who it was from, just a woolly jelly baby.

How cool is that? When was the last time you got a knitted jelly baby in the post? Never, I reckon. Because I am super-special. (Unless it's someone who hates me, in which case it's probably full of ricin.)

I suspect it may actually be from my friend Karen, who has more fun with wool than I thought was possible. Thanks Karen!

Fool me once...

TheBloke (TM) tells me that Mrs Nunn told him he's lost weight. "Oh," I said. "Have you?"

"No," said TheBloke. "Well, I think she meant I've lost weight. She said my breasts are smaller."

Oh dear.

No April 1st would be complete, however, without Mrs Nunn trying her hand at an April Fool's joke. These are generally not very successful. (Please see previous entries.)

Today's was a lovely example of her usual genius:

"Laura?"

"Yes Mum?"

"What's that furry thing there?" she asked, pointing to a corner of the room. "Is it one of Monty's cat toys?"

I turned to look.

"APRIL FOOL!" Mrs Nunn cried gleefully.

Words fail me.