The birds

Sing a song of sixpence

A pocket full of rye

Four and twenty blackbirds

Baked in a pie

Blah blah blah until this slightly disturbing verse:

The maid was in the garden

Hanging out the clothes

When down came a blackbird

And pecked off her nose.

She made such a commotion

That little jenny wren

Flew into the garden

And put it back again

Now, I'm no expert in medical matters, but I have to say I feel some sympathy for the poor maid here. She was going about her own business, hanging out the clothes. Just an average day at work.

Then, out of nowhere, a fucking blackbird comes and takes her nose right off. I mean talk about a case for Claims Direct ("Have you been injured at work?). But here's where the sympathy kicks in. "She made such a commotion". Like she's milking it a bit. I mean really, the poor fucker's just had her nose ripped off by a bird whilst hanging out the washing.

A bit of a commotion is the least I could understand. Picture yourself hanging up your washing, and suddenly, a bird flies into your garden, and attacks your face. Now, as I said, I am no medical expert, but I bet to take an entire nose off, that's going to take quite a lot of pecking. Noses don't come off that easily (unless you're Michael Jackson).

So the maid is lying on her back in the garden whilst a turdus merula is repeatedly stabbing her face with its sharp little beak.

Like I said, picture yourself in that situation. "A commotion" doesn't do justice to the amount of horrified screaming I, and likely any witnesses, would be doing. But no. She's just causing a scene. Typical woman.

Good job jenny wren is there with her surgical knowhow and rhinoplasty kit. Which is of course ridiculous. Birds can't do complex surgery. They don't have opposable thumbs for starters. So really when jenny wren "put it back again", really she just dropped the bloodied lump of gristle back on the traumatised maid.

I love kids' rhymes.

At it like a rabbit

So, a few weeks ago, TheBloke (TM) and I were on holiday in Turkey with Mr and Mrs Nunn. It was the last day of the trip; we'd had a lovely time looking at sea turtles, rock tombs, mud baths and all-you-can-eat hummus. This was our last day, and TheBloke (TM) and I decided to go on a trip to mark the end of the lovely holiday.

So off we went on a little boat operated by the hotel, to explore some uninhabited islands. Ideas of sandy oases floated in my head as we lazed on the deck of the little boat. In no time at all we arrived at the first island. Well, I say "at", near would be a better preposition. There was no harbour. There was no docking. Merely a desultory lowering of the anchor, and a 25 metre swim / wade to shore.

As for sandy beaches, you can forget them. There was some sort of scrubby shingle, upon which - a bit bizarrely - bunny rabbits were frolicking. Out of the shingle, a large pine-covered hill loomed. We knew one of the local islands was called Rabbit Island, so we assumed this was it.

We waded to the shore, me holding a beach towel and my sandals above my head, TheBloke (TM) choosing to take his whole rucksack, which I thought at the time was a bit excessive for a twenty-minute stop-off.

On shore, I wrapped the scratty hotel beach towel around my bikini-clad person. TheBloke (TM) started trudging up the fucking hill. Of course he would. Call me old fashioned, but a bikini and Crocs are not usually the attire I choose for mountaineering. (Who am I kidding? The thought of mountaineering is so alien to me that there's practically UFOs hovering round the very idea.)

We tramped cheerlessly up the mountain (OK, gentle incline) until the path became impassable. Then, we turned 180 degrees and tramped down again. "Laura, I have something to ask you," said TheBloke (TM).

("Oh God, he's going to want to knob me in the forest," was my first thought. Ratified by the fact that he had the video camera pointed at me.)

"Will you marry me?"

Obviously he was taking the piss. "Are you taking the piss?" I asked.

"No," said TheBloke (TM). He held up a ring, which looked suspiciously like it had come from Argos, but you're not supposed to say that, are you?

("Did he just find that on the ground?" I wondered.)

"This is a temporary ring," said TheBloke (TM). "I thought we could pick out one we liked together. This one's from Argos."

It was at that moment I knew he wasn't joking.

Reader, I married him. Well, I didn't there and then, obviously, but I just couldn't resist quoting pretentiously from Jane Eyre. I expressed my intention to marry him.

So, after removing the newly-presented ring (TheBloke (TM): "Don't go in the water with it - your finger might turn green."), we got back on the boat.

We thought it would be nice to know the name of the island upon which we'd got engaged. I said to the captain, "Is this Rabbit Island?"

"No," said the captain (please put on your best Turkish accent), "we go Rabbit Island next."

"Oh," I said, "are there rabbits there too?"

"No," said the captain, emphatically.

"So why is it called Rabbit Island then?" I asked, not unreasonably.

The captain gave a shrug, which, in a different location, I would describe as Gallic.

Not to be deterred, TheBloke (TM) asked, "So what's this island called then?"

"This island?" The captain cleared his throat. "This island is Rat Island."

Rat Island. The romance. And for further romantic viewpoints on the same story, check out http://sadmuppets.blogspot.com/

The whole tooth

Overheard on a Central Line tube towards London. A girl in her early twenties, talking on her mobile. Please put on your best Geordie accent for full effect.

"Haway, man, I applied for a job as a trainee dental technician. And they got back to me dead quick like, in a couple of days, which was dead good because I've been applying for loads of stuff, and most of them never get back to me at all. So they asked me what my expectations of the role was."

There is a pause here whilst the person at the end of the line speaks.

"I know man. And I telled them like, I know it's not just like counting teeth and that because me mam used to be a dental technician, so I know what it involves and that. No, listen Mam," (it becomes apparent that she is speaking to her ex-dental technician mother.

"Mam, listen, Mam! Nooo. I just want to know. If it says 'trainee dental technician', will I be expected to pay for training?"

Her mother clearly reassures her on this point as she appears mollified.

"One more thing, Mam... I won't actually have to touch people's mouths will I? That's just too gross for me. I canna bring meself to do it."

I wish her well. And would advise she probably keeps that last point to herself in the interview. Though I have a sneaky suspicion it might become apparent over time.

Underground resistance

When the London Underground works, it's pretty damn good. Down you pop, down the stairs and onto a train, which, like something out of Alice in Wonderland, will pop you up in a new and surprising part of London, with practically no effort. It's almost magical.

When it doesn't work, however, it's cock-dribble of the highest cock-dribble order.

On Tuesday night, after work I wanted to come home. I did not think this was unreasonable. But noooo. Someone had lobbed themselves under a train at Kilburn (miles and miles and miles from where I work), and so I had to find an alternate route home.

No worries. I am a savvy Londoner, and jumped on the DLR to Bank. Except one stop before Bank, the announcer decided that it was a bit too busy at Bank Station and we were off to Tower Gateway instead. In case of confusion, that's Tower Gateway in the middle of fucking nowhere.

It took me an hour and a half to get home, and I was not a happy bunny.

Then on Wednesday, the same thing happened again. Some twat decided to make a meat pie of themselves at Waterloo. At rush hour.

So, if you're thinking of committing suicide by jumping under a tube, please consider the following:

1. Have a look at this. I might not care that much, but someone does.
2. There are less selfish ways of doing away with yourself. If you really want to make a statement that you hate the world and the world hates you, and you intend to punish them by inconveniencing them on their way home, this is good. It means you care enough about what other people think. So stop trying to kill yourself and go back to point one.
3. If on the other hand, you don't want to cause disruption to people, consider a different method of offing yourself that won't cause trauma and irritation to hundreds of thousands of people. But I'd still recommend point one first.
4. Only 40% of tube suicide attempts actually work. So if you think life sucks now, imagine how much more it will suck when you're still here, but now you have no arms or legs to scratch your itchy bollocks, or to jump off Archway bridge.

So those are my thoughts on the subject. I apologise if you're offended by them. But please, don't jump under a train. At least not whilst I'm commuting. (Please avoid the Central and Jubilee lines at the very least. Thanks.)

PS Please see my new exciting poll on the left-hand side of the screen. Vote, vote, vote!

Got, got, need, swap

As many of you know, I work in finance. I have no desire to be more specific than that, other than to say that - despite almost ten years in the industry - I would be hard pushed to describe a single technical aspect of banking. I seem to have forged a career that nicely avoids all the mathsy stuff. Which, as my high school maths teacher, Mr Mercer, will attest, can only be a good thing.

Anyway, a lot of people at the place I work are fairly well compensated for the crazy hours and stressful lives they lead. And we have on our firm's intranet a site where people can post classified ads. Let's call it, for the sake of argument, Sell Stuff, Buy Stuff.

This site is hilarious. The most common postings are:

1. Nanny required in Canary Wharf. Ability to teach Cantonese as a fourth language to tri-lingual children an advantage
2. Porsche 911 for sale. Hardly used as wife's runaround.
3. iPad for sale. Bought last week and want upgrade.
4. Flatmate wanted for spacious loft conversion in SW1. Rent £3000 per week excluding bills.
5. 2 x Ascot Enclosure tickets for sale. £400 each ono.

Hilarious. I have yet to Sell Stuff or Buy Stuff, but should I ever want shot of Monty Cat or TheBloke (TM), I know where to start.

However, last week I saw my favourite ever advert. Nestling amongst Nespresso machines and mingling with Mazdas, was the following advert:

"Pannini stickers swaps wanted. Have double Drogba, will swapsie for Kaka. Contact Pravi Patel."

Brilliant.

Faking it

Going on holiday takes a lot of preparation. Firstly there is the fun stuff - reading the reviews online of the hotel you're going to, buying cheap tops from Primark and fantasising about a week in the sun.

Then there is the admin stuff - the "where have I put my passport", "bugger, I forgot to order currency", "who's going to look after the cat?" (Thank you surrogate parents Mel and Andy!)

And finally there's the, "Crap, I'm pasty as fuck" part. This usually happens about a fortnight before the holiday, and - if you're anything like as naturally pale as I am - leaves you heading straight for the supermarket's fake tan aisle.

Now, we've all had fake tan disasters, some more memorable than others. In fact, I have yet to find a fake tan product that doesn't leave me patchy in parts, and hilariously dark-skinned in others. It's all part of the fun though. This year, I started early. A good month before the holiday, I stocked up on some of the moisturiser that promises to gradually turn your skin into "holiday skin". I applied it faithfully after every shower, despite the fact that (as my friend Erica noted) it makes you smell like pork all day.

I then "topped" up with a L'Oreal (because I'm worth it) spray can thingy, which was a bit like doing graffiti on my own legs. The legs were still - let's be honest - patchy, but I'd actually, for once, achieved a decent result on my tummy, which was looking bronzed, if not toned.

Smug, would be the best word to describe me on our first morning in Turkey when I put on my new bikini and swanned to the poolside. Smuggy smuggy smug.

And later that day, when we went for a Turkish bath, I was happy to parade around (so long as no-one was looking at my legs) because I had a tanned, tanned tummy.

Then the exfoliation started. After about five minutes of brisk scrubbing, my exfoliator (I wonder if that is her job title) took great pains to point out to me what a good job she was doing. In broken English, she said, "Here, look. Look at all dirty skin I have removed."

And she moved her hand to show me the remnants of my last month's hard work. Icky bits of my skin, in a subtle bronzed tone, were on her exfoliation equipment.

And the worst part? By the time she finished, my tummy was patchy. I looked a little bit like I had a pigmentation problem. I later tried to rectify this with emergency fake tan which I'd brought on holiday with me. This merely made matters worse.

I spent most of the rest of the holiday resembling an unimaginative patchwork quilt in various shades of beige. Until the sunrash broke out and I added a nice dash of bumpy red to accessorise.

I rock.

Racial abuse

I can add Turkish to the list of nationalities that I have kicked in the head.

No-one should have to compile such a list, but sadly, I do. It just so happens I have extremely ticklish feet. (Please see http://laurasplog.blogspot.com/2007/04/international-relations.html for more information.) I am now sensible enough to avoid pedicures, but this one snuck up on me.

It was our first full day in Turkey. Mr and Mrs Nunn and TheBloke (TM) and myself were all chilling out around the pool, marvelling at the sunny sunshine and the mountainy mountains. All was excellent.

"Shall we go for a Turkish bath?" I pondered aloud to Mrs Nunn. She thought this would be a very good idea (£20 for an hour and a half's exfoliation and massage can't be bad), and so off we trundled.

And my, it was pleasant. We were ushered into a heated marble palace and instructed to relax. As we relaxed, warm water was poured over us. We were then exfoliated within an inch of our lives. Well, within an inch of Mrs Nunn's life, and within 2.2 centimetres of my life. My generation prefers the metric system.

Next came the covering with soapy bubbles from a bizarre pillowcase bubble maker. It's hard to explain. Here is a picture.

Please note that this is neither Mrs Nunn nor myself. Neither of us current resembles a fat, bald, middle-aged man. Yet. The masseur is holding something that looks like a bedsheet, but is actually a pillow case with holes in that creates the suds. Lovely.

Anyway, I digress. It was time for the massage. And, inevitably, the lady touched my feet. I flinched, giggled and got away with it. She then started working on my shoulders. I relaxed. She then did a sneak attack on my left foot. And that, dear Plogger, is when I kicked a Turkish woman in the head.

Even bearing this head-kicking in mind, the experience was still less embarrassing than my Hong Kong massage experience. Which I don't want to talk about.