The phone rang. It was Mr Nunn.
"I've read your Plog," he said, "about Mrs Nunn and the Vintage Vamps."
"Oh," said I, half expecting a telling-off.
"Have you seen their prices?" he said in a shocked tone of voice. "I've told your mum to sign up now and I'll take a cut. I'm going to put her out to work!"
"Dad, erm... wouldn't that make you a pimp?"
"Well, I prefer the term 'manager'..."
"You're putting your ho out to work for you, and taking a cut. That makes you a pimp."
"Oh well," he said cheerfully. "I'm in London tomorrow so I might check them out. Though you'd have to be interested in archaeology to give some of those girls a go. Byeee!"
Shudder.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Mum's the word
Some emails make you smile. Some make you laugh out loud. Sometimes it's a nice surprise to hear from an old friend. Sometimes (quite often this week) it's a confirmation from Amazon that you're well on your way to completing your Christmas shopping. And then there are the emails that simultaneously make you feel a little bit sick and strike fear into your heart.
I received one of these emails earlier this week. It was from Mrs Nunn and was entitled, "Wey hey! Time to register!" I opened up the email. It was just a link. There was no context, no explanation, just the link. Which I will now share with you. Look away now if you're of queasy disposition:
Now, I'm not sure if Mrs Nunn is considering a new hobby, or if she's bored of retirement already, but please, please, if you ever see her photo on this site, do me a favour: don't tell me.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Devon knows
So last weekend, I went to Devon for a friend's wedding, as I mentioned previously. I arrived very late at night, with the wind howling and the fog swirling, and I fancied I could hear the sea crashing against the rocks. I felt like I was in a Daphne du Maurier novel, and that any moment, a creepy housekeeper would sidle up to me saying, "You'll never take her place you know."
Thankfully, there was no creepy housekeeper, and the weekend went without a hitch. Actually, that's probably not the ideal phraseology for a wedding. A wedding without anyone getting hitched would not be a very good wedding at all. You know what I mean.
So, I left TheBloke (TM) at home in the London Borough of Redbridge, and put him in charge of Monty Cat. He assures me he mostly did dull things like buy a new mirror, put some laundry on and feed the cat. Yet, when I got home on Sunday, his mobile rang. His mobile never rings. Unless it's me.
I only heard TheBloke (TM)'s side of the conversation at first. "Hello? Sorry? What do you mean? You called me! I think you have the wrong number. Nikki? I didn't! Who?" At this point I motioned for him to put the mystery caller on speakerphone. A girl with a Scouse accent that could strip paint was on the other end of the phone. Hilariously, TheBloke (TM)'s South African upbringing (versus my misspent youth in front of Brookside) meant he could only understand one in three words she said.
"Yer did!" she insisted.
"When did I give you my number?" he asked.
"Last night," she asserted. "Yer passed me on the street."
TheBloke (TM) was genuinely flummoxed, "We were packing sweets?" he queried.
"Are you black?" (or in Scouse: "Are youse blachhh?") Nikki queried abruptly.
"Erm, no."
"How auld are youse?"
TheBloke (TM) lied and said he was 20. She said she was 17. Then hung up. Ten minutes later the phone rang again.
"So, do you want to go out for a drink then?" Nikki asked.
"Erm, not really. I'm watching a film," replied TheBloke (TM) truthfully. Though he accidentally omitted to mention he was sitting with his fiancée at the time.
"Go on," Nikki wheedled, "I'll meet you in town."
"Which town?" asked TheBloke (TM).
"Liverpool!" said Nikki like TheBloke (TM) was a bit thick.
"For a drink?" he asked.
"For a spliff," said Nikki, who, though tender of age, was clearly a bit of a stoner. "What do you do?" she asked him.
"I'm a gay model," lied (I hope) TheBloke (TM). Why this is the first thing that came to his mind is anyone's guess.
"Eww! You're a Quagmire!" said Nikki. She hung up and hasn't called since. Neither of us knows what a Quagmire is.
So... answers on a postcard. Did TheBloke (TM) stay in and feed the cat whilst I was in Devon? Or did he go out on the pull in Liverpool? And is he a part-time (or indeed full-time) gay model? And what on earth is a Quagmire?
Thankfully, there was no creepy housekeeper, and the weekend went without a hitch. Actually, that's probably not the ideal phraseology for a wedding. A wedding without anyone getting hitched would not be a very good wedding at all. You know what I mean.
So, I left TheBloke (TM) at home in the London Borough of Redbridge, and put him in charge of Monty Cat. He assures me he mostly did dull things like buy a new mirror, put some laundry on and feed the cat. Yet, when I got home on Sunday, his mobile rang. His mobile never rings. Unless it's me.
I only heard TheBloke (TM)'s side of the conversation at first. "Hello? Sorry? What do you mean? You called me! I think you have the wrong number. Nikki? I didn't! Who?" At this point I motioned for him to put the mystery caller on speakerphone. A girl with a Scouse accent that could strip paint was on the other end of the phone. Hilariously, TheBloke (TM)'s South African upbringing (versus my misspent youth in front of Brookside) meant he could only understand one in three words she said.
"Yer did!" she insisted.
"When did I give you my number?" he asked.
"Last night," she asserted. "Yer passed me on the street."
TheBloke (TM) was genuinely flummoxed, "We were packing sweets?" he queried.
"Are you black?" (or in Scouse: "Are youse blachhh?") Nikki queried abruptly.
"Erm, no."
"How auld are youse?"
TheBloke (TM) lied and said he was 20. She said she was 17. Then hung up. Ten minutes later the phone rang again.
"So, do you want to go out for a drink then?" Nikki asked.
"Erm, not really. I'm watching a film," replied TheBloke (TM) truthfully. Though he accidentally omitted to mention he was sitting with his fiancée at the time.
"Go on," Nikki wheedled, "I'll meet you in town."
"Which town?" asked TheBloke (TM).
"Liverpool!" said Nikki like TheBloke (TM) was a bit thick.
"For a drink?" he asked.
"For a spliff," said Nikki, who, though tender of age, was clearly a bit of a stoner. "What do you do?" she asked him.
"I'm a gay model," lied (I hope) TheBloke (TM). Why this is the first thing that came to his mind is anyone's guess.
"Eww! You're a Quagmire!" said Nikki. She hung up and hasn't called since. Neither of us knows what a Quagmire is.
So... answers on a postcard. Did TheBloke (TM) stay in and feed the cat whilst I was in Devon? Or did he go out on the pull in Liverpool? And is he a part-time (or indeed full-time) gay model? And what on earth is a Quagmire?
Sunday, November 21, 2010
First class service
This weekend I took a trip to Devon (the county in the South West that isn't currently underwater) for a friend's wedding. Not fancying rush hour Friday traffic, I took the train down on Friday evening, and, as it was only £5 extra, treated myself to a first class ticket. This apparently gave me a wider seat, a selection of newspapers, snacks and complimentary hot and cold beverages.
However, when I got to the buffet bar, I was told, "We've only got tea and coffee."
"Do you have any snacks?" I enquired.
"Biscuits," the fine First Great Western employee retorted, slapping down a packet of Walker's shortbread.
I took my cup of tea and retired to my wider seat. Opposite me, an ugly man sniffed and chomped his way through an M&S savoury wrap, whilst slowly encroaching on my table space. The journey dragged.
The wedding was lovely, and it was much fun to see old schoolfriends again. There was much naughtiness and misbehaving.
I took a train back to London this morning at the frighteningly early time of 9.07 - this time I was in standard class. This was a wise financial decision. A voice came over the tannoy:
"Ladies and gentlemen, our hot drinks boiler has broken down, so we only have black Americano available. First class customers will not be able to have complimentary drinks, but you can buy a black coffee for £1.85."
This seemed a) weird and b) a bit unfair to First Class customers - the very least they could do was to give them their Americano for free. But this wasn't my battle. So I just sat back.
The voice came over the tannoy again, "As before, ladies and gentlemen, we only have black coffee available. But we do have milk if you would like milk with your coffee."
Brilliant. Only black coffee available. Unless you prefer it white. First Great Western - rubbish. And a bit weird.
However, when I got to the buffet bar, I was told, "We've only got tea and coffee."
"Do you have any snacks?" I enquired.
"Biscuits," the fine First Great Western employee retorted, slapping down a packet of Walker's shortbread.
I took my cup of tea and retired to my wider seat. Opposite me, an ugly man sniffed and chomped his way through an M&S savoury wrap, whilst slowly encroaching on my table space. The journey dragged.
The wedding was lovely, and it was much fun to see old schoolfriends again. There was much naughtiness and misbehaving.
I took a train back to London this morning at the frighteningly early time of 9.07 - this time I was in standard class. This was a wise financial decision. A voice came over the tannoy:
"Ladies and gentlemen, our hot drinks boiler has broken down, so we only have black Americano available. First class customers will not be able to have complimentary drinks, but you can buy a black coffee for £1.85."
This seemed a) weird and b) a bit unfair to First Class customers - the very least they could do was to give them their Americano for free. But this wasn't my battle. So I just sat back.
The voice came over the tannoy again, "As before, ladies and gentlemen, we only have black coffee available. But we do have milk if you would like milk with your coffee."
Brilliant. Only black coffee available. Unless you prefer it white. First Great Western - rubbish. And a bit weird.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Why I don't wear a poppy
Remembrance Sunday. Let's talk about Remembrance Sunday. And let's be honest.
I do not like Remembrance Sunday. I am willing to go further than that. I dislike the Poppy Appeal. Most of all, I detest the two minutes' silence.
This - I am aware - is an unpopular view - Jon Snow, the journalist, a few years back caused a furore over refusing to wear a poppy on air - citing "poppy fascism" - the pressure to be seen to be wearing a poppy on air. Yet he stopped short of criticising the appeal per se, insisting in fact, he did have his poppy at home.
I don't.
Here are my reasons why. Firstly, I find it surreal that we commemorate war dead above any other type of dead. Yes, of course charities exist to find cures for cancer, to support disabled children, to rescue abandoned donkeys... but those who have died in a war are exulted beyond those who fell out of windows, got squashed on the M1 or died from TB caught from a passing tramp.
This - in some small but significant way - raises the profile of war. I'll stop short of saying it's glamorised exactly, but it validates war's place in our culture - past and present. It reminds us that actually, it's OK to solve any problems we have by hitting each other with a stick (or whatever the military are using these days), rather than approaching things from a non-violent perspective.
"But Laura," you may say, "the Poppy Appeal does loads of good work helping injured soldiers". I wouldn't deny that. But I would query if it's a charity's responsibility to put right the things that government policy has made go wrong, and - by virtue of their very existence - in some small way again, makes it a little bit more OK to have soldiers injured in the first place - there's a system in place to support them.
"What about the Second World War, Laura? What about Hitler? Would you like to be speaking German and burning Jews?" No, to both of those. And this is probably the hardest part of the argument - if someone else is fighting you - do you have to fight back? I'm going with no. Because yes, the ideology was horrendous - but the world has a way of balancing itself - through resistance, through education, through dialogue, and I don't feel bombs are the best way to do that.
I have friends in the military; friends who have gone out to Afghanistan and Iraq. Friends not all of whom have come home again. Do I feel proud of their sacrifice? No I fucking don't. I feel angry at the waste, and that's pretty much it. For WW1 and WW2 you can multiply that waste by hundreds of thousands. These deaths were not an accident - were not ill luck or fate like cancer or a car crash; groups of men led other men (and these days women) to death.
Finally the two minutes' silence. God, I hate that. Enforced reflection time. A time when we switch our emotions to "a bit sad" but only for a couple of minutes, before we get on with our day jobs again. Enforced reflection is a bit like the compulsory "fun" of a work Christmas party.
Every place I've ever worked, a voice comes over the tannoy, inviting those who'd like to to observe the two minutes' silence. Of course everyone does; you don't want to intrude on someone else's silence. But it's just awkward. Torn between terror at giggling inappropriately, or worrying your office phone is about to ring, no time at all is spent reflecting on the war dead (or any other dead, come to that; see earlier resentment that war dead are somehow more important than other dead). Every single one of the 120 seconds collectively spent by 50 million people is spent feeling slightly socially awkward. Is that a good use of anyone's time? I usually hide in the toilet. The toilets are always full, so I expect I'm not the only one who adopts this strategy.
So I don't wear a poppy, and I won't take part in Remembrance Day services. Because remembering the dead is something we need to do all of the time, not for two minutes on a rainy November morning. And because war is ultimately a choice. One which we all know is the dangerous option. Yes, conscription took that choice away from many - but fundamentally - at some point a choice was made. People chose to fight each other, aware of the consequences. I do not wish to remember that.
I do not like Remembrance Sunday. I am willing to go further than that. I dislike the Poppy Appeal. Most of all, I detest the two minutes' silence.
This - I am aware - is an unpopular view - Jon Snow, the journalist, a few years back caused a furore over refusing to wear a poppy on air - citing "poppy fascism" - the pressure to be seen to be wearing a poppy on air. Yet he stopped short of criticising the appeal per se, insisting in fact, he did have his poppy at home.
I don't.
Here are my reasons why. Firstly, I find it surreal that we commemorate war dead above any other type of dead. Yes, of course charities exist to find cures for cancer, to support disabled children, to rescue abandoned donkeys... but those who have died in a war are exulted beyond those who fell out of windows, got squashed on the M1 or died from TB caught from a passing tramp.
This - in some small but significant way - raises the profile of war. I'll stop short of saying it's glamorised exactly, but it validates war's place in our culture - past and present. It reminds us that actually, it's OK to solve any problems we have by hitting each other with a stick (or whatever the military are using these days), rather than approaching things from a non-violent perspective.
"But Laura," you may say, "the Poppy Appeal does loads of good work helping injured soldiers". I wouldn't deny that. But I would query if it's a charity's responsibility to put right the things that government policy has made go wrong, and - by virtue of their very existence - in some small way again, makes it a little bit more OK to have soldiers injured in the first place - there's a system in place to support them.
"What about the Second World War, Laura? What about Hitler? Would you like to be speaking German and burning Jews?" No, to both of those. And this is probably the hardest part of the argument - if someone else is fighting you - do you have to fight back? I'm going with no. Because yes, the ideology was horrendous - but the world has a way of balancing itself - through resistance, through education, through dialogue, and I don't feel bombs are the best way to do that.
I have friends in the military; friends who have gone out to Afghanistan and Iraq. Friends not all of whom have come home again. Do I feel proud of their sacrifice? No I fucking don't. I feel angry at the waste, and that's pretty much it. For WW1 and WW2 you can multiply that waste by hundreds of thousands. These deaths were not an accident - were not ill luck or fate like cancer or a car crash; groups of men led other men (and these days women) to death.
Finally the two minutes' silence. God, I hate that. Enforced reflection time. A time when we switch our emotions to "a bit sad" but only for a couple of minutes, before we get on with our day jobs again. Enforced reflection is a bit like the compulsory "fun" of a work Christmas party.
Every place I've ever worked, a voice comes over the tannoy, inviting those who'd like to to observe the two minutes' silence. Of course everyone does; you don't want to intrude on someone else's silence. But it's just awkward. Torn between terror at giggling inappropriately, or worrying your office phone is about to ring, no time at all is spent reflecting on the war dead (or any other dead, come to that; see earlier resentment that war dead are somehow more important than other dead). Every single one of the 120 seconds collectively spent by 50 million people is spent feeling slightly socially awkward. Is that a good use of anyone's time? I usually hide in the toilet. The toilets are always full, so I expect I'm not the only one who adopts this strategy.
So I don't wear a poppy, and I won't take part in Remembrance Day services. Because remembering the dead is something we need to do all of the time, not for two minutes on a rainy November morning. And because war is ultimately a choice. One which we all know is the dangerous option. Yes, conscription took that choice away from many - but fundamentally - at some point a choice was made. People chose to fight each other, aware of the consequences. I do not wish to remember that.
Tuesday, November 02, 2010
Words on the Wharf
There are many things I dislike about working at Canary Wharf. The vast steel and glass palaces, each more faceless than the last, the dead, soulless eyes of commuters, none of whose childhood dreams were to become a junior member of a derivatives salesforce or a senior project manager in IT. Also the fact that even in mid-August, the chill wind off the Thames means the Wharf is plunged into an eternal winter. These things I dislike.
Additionally, it's pretty much impossible to find lunch for under a fiver, and as a former resident of Tower Hamlets (in which borough Canary Wharf sits), it's astonishing to see the vast wealth on display - when barely a mile away, one of the most deprived areas in the country has seemingly no money spent on it - whilst the Wharf gets another three security guards in case a junior derivatives salesforce member gets his bike stolen. Additionally the Jubilee Line is about as effective as hopping to work on a rollerskate, and they seem to strike more often than they work, meaning an hour's leisurely commute is usually turned into an hour and a half of snarling at the chav who's standing on my foot or reeking into my personal space.
But sometimes - just sometimes - it's all worthwhile. They seem to have some interesting art projects going on at the Wharf. Over the summer (well, what passes for summer at Canary Wharf), they had a project called Streetpianos which was lovely; they basically put rickety old pianos all around the wharf, and chained a songbook to the piano - anyone could sit down and play. This being Tower Hamlets, however, the "junior entrepreneurs" weren't slow; an exceptionally talented young black teenager I saw four or five times in one week, hogging the piano, and having improvised a busking bowl he'd chained to the leg of the piano stool. I'm not sure that was the intention of the project, but everyone was enjoying his music, so why not?
Today though, I think I saw my favourite art project ever. Those of you who know me know I'm not a massive fan of art in general. Given the choice, I give art galleries a wide berth (and of course I'm given the choice; what sort of bizarre society would force you at gunpoint to the Louvre?). I have been known to trek round the Tate Modern (which I fucking hate) saying, "I could have done that. I could have done that. I could have done that. That's shit. I could have done that," and so on, until whoever I'm with tries to stab me in the face. Unfortunately this is often seen as an avant garde performance and we normally get a round of appreciative applause and an encore.
But today I saw this. It's an art project that fuses technology and nature, or some such bollocks. But basically it takes a real-time feed from the Times website, and somehow, magically, makes words appear out of water. I loved it. Loved it, loved it, loved it.
It almost made up for the fact I watched a man in a large (life-size) paper boat almost sink into the Thames earlier today before he was rescued by Canary Wharf staff. I bet he got fucking arts funding. Sadly no pictures of that.
Hope you enjoy the video. With luck the exhibition will be there for a few days, so why not pop down to the Wharf and have a look. But not tomorrow. There's a tube strike. Of course there is.
Additionally, it's pretty much impossible to find lunch for under a fiver, and as a former resident of Tower Hamlets (in which borough Canary Wharf sits), it's astonishing to see the vast wealth on display - when barely a mile away, one of the most deprived areas in the country has seemingly no money spent on it - whilst the Wharf gets another three security guards in case a junior derivatives salesforce member gets his bike stolen. Additionally the Jubilee Line is about as effective as hopping to work on a rollerskate, and they seem to strike more often than they work, meaning an hour's leisurely commute is usually turned into an hour and a half of snarling at the chav who's standing on my foot or reeking into my personal space.
But sometimes - just sometimes - it's all worthwhile. They seem to have some interesting art projects going on at the Wharf. Over the summer (well, what passes for summer at Canary Wharf), they had a project called Streetpianos which was lovely; they basically put rickety old pianos all around the wharf, and chained a songbook to the piano - anyone could sit down and play. This being Tower Hamlets, however, the "junior entrepreneurs" weren't slow; an exceptionally talented young black teenager I saw four or five times in one week, hogging the piano, and having improvised a busking bowl he'd chained to the leg of the piano stool. I'm not sure that was the intention of the project, but everyone was enjoying his music, so why not?
Today though, I think I saw my favourite art project ever. Those of you who know me know I'm not a massive fan of art in general. Given the choice, I give art galleries a wide berth (and of course I'm given the choice; what sort of bizarre society would force you at gunpoint to the Louvre?). I have been known to trek round the Tate Modern (which I fucking hate) saying, "I could have done that. I could have done that. I could have done that. That's shit. I could have done that," and so on, until whoever I'm with tries to stab me in the face. Unfortunately this is often seen as an avant garde performance and we normally get a round of appreciative applause and an encore.
But today I saw this. It's an art project that fuses technology and nature, or some such bollocks. But basically it takes a real-time feed from the Times website, and somehow, magically, makes words appear out of water. I loved it. Loved it, loved it, loved it.
Hope you enjoy the video. With luck the exhibition will be there for a few days, so why not pop down to the Wharf and have a look. But not tomorrow. There's a tube strike. Of course there is.
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