Postcard

Turkey. Wish you were here. Unless I haven't met you or don't like you. That would be weird.


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Fast food

OK guys, I don't normally do this, and I promise this isn't an advert but...

I've noticed I eat a lot of crap at work. This is mostly owing to the fact that the people I work with are a bit too lovely and bring in cakes and chocolates all day. And I have the willpower of one of those obese Americans they have to take to hospital on a crane. Basically the bikini project isn't going too well (can you lose a stone in a day without liposuction or chopping off a limb? Neither of which - for the record - I'm particularly keen on...)

So, someone told me about Graze.com. For £2.99 they deliver a box of four yummy treats to your desk. I now get a box twice a week. Treats have so far included pistachio nuts, sunflower seeds, chocolate buttons and raisins, marinated olives... they've been lovely. And on the off-chance you get something you're not that keen on (I don't like the wasabi peas), you just log onto the website, it shows you what they sent you, and you click on "bin it" and they never send it to you again! It's super cool.

The idea is it's supposed to stop me eating crap at my desk. And it's kind of working. Apart from the Krispy Kreme on Monday. And the flapjack on Tuesday. And the bacon sandwich on Wednesday. Anyway, that's not the point!

The point is, I've been given a code for you - my lovely Ploggers - to have your very own free first Graze box, and then one more half price. You can cancel at any time and you don't need to pay a penny upfront. I can highly recommend it. Even if it's just to make your colleagues jealous when they deliver an exciting-looking package to your desk.

So, go to Graze.com and enter the code: DGPM11WT, and if you take them up on your offer, I get £1 off each box you lovely people order too. So it's win-win. And munch munch.

See you when I get back from hols, Ploggers!

The view from my chair

I'm not going to pretend I find cricket fascinating, but really, sitting in the sun in my favourite month with a pot of houmous and a good novel by my side and a holiday abroad starting tomorrow... Well, that's pretty good, isn't it?

Erupting temper

I want to go on holiday. I don't think that is unreasonable. It's been almost a year since I was abroad last, and even that was a long weekend rather than a proper long break. It's been nearly eighteen months since my last "proper" break.

So, excitingly, the holiday is booked. The hotel is waiting. Monty Cat-sitter has been booked. The passport has been renewed with the world's dodgiest photo. This week is my last week at work. I have bought an unfeasibly large amount of suncream and several tops from Primark which will undoubtedly fall apart as soon as I put them on. That's what holidays are for.

Except, the cloud of ashy doom is threatening and as I type this, all UK flights are cancelled. We all thought it had gone away but oh no. It sensed Laura wanted a holiday, and is deliberately spiting me. Now, I don't know about you, Ploggers, but I hate to be intimidated by a volcano that appears to be named by someone leaning too heavily on the middle row of the keyboard. Efullfallajjkfdid or something.

Volcanologist: What shall we call the latest volcano?

Junior Volcanologist: Etna? That's a good name.

Volcanologist: Nah - we've already got an Etna I think.

Junior Volcanologist: What about Edna? My gran was called Edna.

Volcanologist: I don't think so.

Junior Volcanologist: What's wrong with the name Edna? She was a lovely lady!

Volcanologist: I'm sure she was, but, really, for fuck's sake! (Leans heavily on middle row of keyboard) Bollocks. I've just typed 'Eyjafjallajoekull'. Fuck it, I can't be arsed to find the delete key. That'll have to do. I'm bored now. I'm going home. Why did I choose this stupid career? I could have been an accountant you know.

Wheely sexy

Ploggers, a few months ago, I Plogged about a worrying notice in my old neighbourhood of Bethnal Green. Those of you who are new to the Plog or have severe memory problems, may want to check here for information on a dominant ex-guardsman offering colonic therapy to ladies.

Well, as my regular Ploggers (or "stalkers" as I like to call them) will know, a few months ago we moved to the burbs. Well, that's not quite true. We thought we'd moved to the burbs - still fairly built up, a decent tube station on the Central Line but a bit more space. Turns out we actually moved to the middle of the forest and didn't realise until we'd already completed on the house. A fox sleeps on the top of our shed.

I have wandered off the topic. Basically, five minutes down the road is what is known as the technical demographic of "a bit posh". Each house has at least four cars (one of which is a bit crap and scruffy - like last year's Audi A3 - which is obviously the runaround for the cleaner or nanny). What I'm trying to say is we've moved up in the world. We is well posh, innit?

So I was a bit surprised yesterday. I went to Costcutter (OK, we're not that posh) for a few bits and pieces and saw the following advertisement in the window.

Hopefully you can see that and it's not too blurry. Basically Rosie (who doesn't even live in our neighbourhood, I would like to point out, from her postcode), is offering warm and womanly soft kisses and happy chat. She is also keen to let potential punters know that she is fully independent. Because no man gets turned off faster than when he knobs a prostitute who's part of a large corporation's franchising system.

Weird as that is, there's another part of this that disturbs me. The wheelchair access. Now, don't get me wrong, I am fully supportive of disabled rights (not to the point though where their toilets are labelled "differently abled", I mean really, fuck off) and if someone who's physically impaired chooses to shoot their wad in a prossie, far be it from me to tut disapprovingly. It's just... I'm assuming (perhaps wrongly) that this would be something of a niche market. Prostitution itself is fairly niche. Let's take a generous estimate and say 1 in 100 men visits a prostitute at some point in their life. Now let's estimate the percentage of wheelchair users. Now I live in London, so appreciate I may see fewer wheelchair users than actually represent the average (apparently tube station steps are a fucker when you're just pushed down them in a chair. And I definitely shouldn't do it again, or I'll definitely get the ASBO). But I'm guessing no more than 1 in 500 people is wheelchair bound.

I've just asked TheBloke (TM) to help me with the above probability, and he says, using the figures above (and assuming wheelchair users are no more likely to shag a prossie than their able-bodied counterparts), Rosie is aiming at a 1 in 50,000 chance.

Which seems a bit optimistic for a card placed in the window of a suburban Costcutter. She'd be better popping inside for the lottery and buying a Lucky Dip.

Which, ironically, is the name of her prossie franchise. (Not really, but it'd be great if it was, wouldn't it?)

Stand up and deliver

I often get asked, "Do you miss doing stand-up comedy, Laura?"

And mostly, honestly, it's not something I have to think too hard about.

"Not really," I reply. "It's a lot of late nights when you're working full time. And for every lovely gig I'd do at the Comedy Café or Downstairs at the King's Head, there were twenty crappy gigs above tiny pubs in Soho somewhere, where there are only seven audience members and four of them don't really speak English. And often I'd have to hand out flyers beforehand, sometimes in Leicester Square, wearing a giant sandwich board proclaiming 'Comedy Tonight!' and sometimes my colleagues would walk past and I'd have to avoid them. Which is harder than it sounds when wearing a sandwich board. And sometimes hoodies would come up behind you and slap your sandwich board. And sometimes strange French men would hit on you. Also," I say, putting my best grown-up voice on, "you kind of have to choose between a normal lifestyle with a mortgage and taking a massive gamble on something that you may never make a living from."

Then people ask, "Do you miss the buzz?"

And I reply again, "Not really. I was never one of those comics that really suffers the highs and lows. I loved writing a perfect line, but for me the joy was more in the writing than the delivery."

"You never miss it at all?" my friends ask.

"Well," I might say, "actually, this week..."

"Yes," they might cajole, leaning forward. "Go on."

"Well, last week I was out with some friends and - of all things - we were talking about stand-up. People were listing their favourite comics, and - shockingly - Lenny Henry's name came up. I try to nod and smile mostly when people list the terrible comics that they love, but the two exceptions for me that I just can't let pass are Peter Kay (make a joke for once you lazy fat bastard. "Do you remember biscuits?" Yes I fucking do, now make a joke about them!) and Lenny Henry. So, like I said, I couldn't let this pass...

"So I said, 'Lenny Henry? Lenny Henry? I have never found anything he's done funny... apart from Dawn French.'"

It took my friends a second or two to let my (frankly genius) adlib sink in. Then of course, they fell around laughing. Why wouldn't they?

But that was it. In days of yore I'd have written it down for future use. But here the joke lived - briefly - then died. And that's what I miss about stand-up - giving jokes the gift of eternal life. Or milking, as it's sometimes called. Welcome to my Plog.

Cat burglar

In some ways, Monty Cat has been a very good cat lately. Whilst he still wakes us up at 5 each morning, to play "Please Chase Me Out of the Bedroom", once chased, he seems to settle down.

A couple of days ago though, Monty Cat had a bit of an upset stomach. Nothing massively to worry about, and we just kept an eye on him for a couple of days. But then he became really lethargic, sleeping even more than usual, and even allowing me to cuddle up to him on the sofa. This was not normal Monty Cat behaviour.

Then, disaster struck. Monty Cat went off his food. This never happens. You can feed him three cats' worth of dinner, a dish of milk and he'll still pester you for meaty treats. Just last week he stole pineapple out of my Chinese takeaway, off my very plate, and scampered away with it. (When he realised it was pineapple he'd stolen, he looked at me disgustedly, as if to say, "What the fuck did you give me that for?")

So Monty Cat off his food was definitely a cause for concern. I mollied him. I coddled him. I tempted him with bits of beef and chicken and infinite saucers of milk. He really wasn't hungry. At dinner time, I mixed together his usual wet food with some of his usual dry food, and he did eat a little bit, but he picked all the dry food out. Again, this is not normal Monty Cat. A fussy cat he is not.

The same thing happened at breakfast this morning, but as he was at least eating his wet food, I didn't worry too much, thinking that the worst that had happened was he had, for whatever feline reason, gone off that particular brand of dry food.

Until two minutes ago. Two minutes ago I was in the utility room, putting away some shopping from earlier. Suddenly I saw movement. I jumped. Oh. It was only Monty Cat. Monty Cat with his head in the massive spare bag of dry cat food we keep in the utility room, carefully sealed with a clothes peg. The bag had a massive rip in the side of it, and hundreds of teeth and claw marks all down the side.

Sometimes I swear that cat just pretends to be stupid. No wonder the little fucker isn't hungry.

Over-share

I'll admit it, I still have shares in RBS. I have no idea how many or what they're worth (other than I know they're worth 90% less than they were when I got them), but I do. I have shares in RBS.

Yesterday I received, forwarded from my old address, a letter from the share company - Computershare - wanting me to update my email address. And rightly so, as the one they've got is an old work one, two companies out of date. I couldn't remember my login details as it's been so long since I've dared look at my shares. So I thought I'd call them.

I had to press the requisite 19 buttons before I could connect to an operator. The operator then took me through security, asking me my name, my middle name, my old address, my old staff ID (which astonishingly I still remembered), my National Insurance number and my favourite type of cheese (mature cheddar). That last one is a lie. But by the end of those questions, you could be damn sure I was who I said I was.

"Can I change my address please?" I said to the lady.

"You have to write in for that," she said to me.

"Really? I've just identified myself through your systems, do I really have to write?"

"You can do it online..." It felt weird hearing someone with such a strong Bristol accent say "online". I don't really think of that part of the world having electricity, let alone eBay.

"I can't remember my login details, and if you email me a reminder, it'll go to my old email address," I reasoned.

"Then you'll have to write in," she said

"That seems a bit archaic," I said. "Could I email with the change of address?"

"In many ways," she stalled, "it's quicker if you write in to us."

Now, I know the Cotswolds may not be at the forefront of computer technology, but I wasn't going to let that pass. "Sorry," I said, riled now, "how is it quicker if I write? If I write, I have to type a letter, print it out, fold it, put it in an envelope, put a stamp on the envelope and put it in the post. The Royal Mail then have to pick it up, transport it to Bristol and you have to open the letter. If I email it to you, you'll have it now. So how, exactly, is it quicker 'in many ways' if I write to you?"

"I'll just put you on hold while I check you can't email," she said. I am certain she used this opportunity to call me a bitch. I would have done in her position.

"You have to write in," she confirmed. So I did. Please see below.

***

Dear Sir or Madam

Change of Address

After speaking to your spectacularly unhelpful staff recently, I understand that despite passing through all your security measures to identify myself, I am unable to change my address over the telephone, or by email. Clearly “Computershare” is using Commodore 64s.

Whilst it may be true that my shares are probably worth slightly less than the stamp on the envelope, would you please change my address (Shareholder reference no: XXXXXX) to the address above.

Also my email address has changed to laura.nunn@gmail.com. Your unhelpful staff said I had to request a PIN to be able to change this email address, but I reckon you’re bright enough to sort it out yourself. Go on, have a go.

Yours faithfully

Laurasplog