Knock knock

It was time for a visit to Mr and Mrs Nunn.  Mostly because I needed a new topic for a Plog.

I told Mrs Nunn that I was going to a hotel in a nearby village for a meal that night with my friends Erica and Dean.

"What's the name of the hotel?" Mrs Nunn asked.

I told her.  Let's say it was called The Fox and Hound.

"The Fox and Hound in Barrow?" Mrs Nunn asked.

"Yes," said I.

"I heard that was a knocking shop," said Mrs Nunn.

Oh.  Well, plans had been made, and my friends and I met for a dinner at aforementioned knocking shop.  It was all very nice.  We had three courses from an extensive menu and caught up on all the news.  It looked like a perfectly lovely country restaurant and hotel - no sign of any dodgy activity at all.  Certainly no hookers - unless middle-class Boden-dressed ladies with children and elderly ladies are the predilection of the general population in Barrow.

After a nice evening, I got back to my parents' house.

"Did you have a nice meal?" asked Mrs Nunn.

"Yes thanks," I said.  "And I've no idea why you said it was a knocking shop - it was perfectly nice.  Definitely not a brothel."

"I didn't say it was a brothel!" protested Mrs Nunn.  "I said it was a knocking shop."

Mr Nunn looked amused.

"What's a knocking shop then?" I asked.

"Well, you know," said Mrs Nunn, "a place people go to to stay overnight and have sex."

"What," I said, "you mean a hotel?"

"No!" insisted Mrs Nunn, "I mean where people go away for a dirty weekend!"

"You mean a romantic hotel where you go away with your partner?"

"Yes!" said Mrs Nunn, "But you also have sex!"

Mr Nunn looked even more amused.

"So let me get this straight," I clarified, "any hotel where you have sex is a knocking shop?"

"Shut up," said Mrs Nunn, thus winning the argument.

Medical wonder

I hate my doctor's.  Generally when I need to see a medical professional, I use my work's private doctor.  But I have wonky knees and my private health insurance won't pay out for a podiatrist, so I need an NHS referral, if I don't want to spend £700 of my own money (I don't).

The last few times I've been to the Chigwell Medical Centre, I've been kept waiting at least half an hour (for the first appointment in the morning - it's astonishing how they manage to be behind prior to actually seeing any patients) and then the doctor I've always seen there is a) totally ignorant b) Googles symptoms (this is honestly true - she doesn't use a medical site or anything, she literally puts the symptoms through Google) and c) last time - worryingly, I ended up telling HER which strains of the flu the latest vaccine prevented and how to use her computer system.  Suffice it to say, she is not a great doctor.

I called the centre.  They have helpfully installed an 0844 number to ensure it costs you the maximum amount when phoning.  They kept me on hold for 15 minutes.

Posh receptionist: Chigwell Medical Centre, how may I help you?

Me: I'd like to make an appointment please.

I gave the receptionist my details so she could identify me on the system.

Posh receptionist: I'm afraid your doctor, Dr Probablyquitegood isn't in next week.

Me: I've never actually met Dr Probablyquitegood - I'd be happy to see anyone.

Posh receptionist: The only doctor with any appointments left is a lady doctor.  Are you happy seeing a lady doctor?

My sense of feminism was outraged.

Me: What?

Posh receptionist: She's very good.  She's a very nice lady doctor.

Me: She's a doctor?  That's fine, of course!  Seriously, I don't think you should be differentiating her on her gender, unless someone particularly requests to see a female doctor.

Posh receptionist:  OK then, I've made you an appointment for Tuesday with Dr Theoneyoualwaysseeandwhoisacompletefuckingidiot

Me: (quietly) Fuck.  (voice inside head: Do you have a man doctor I could see instead?)

Misconception

My brother Jack is massively jealous of his friend who has not one but three nephews and nieces.  This means that whenever I see Jack, he drops massive hints about me getting up the duff.  Nunn family "hints" generally lack subtlety, so they tend to go something like this:

Jack: When are you having babies?

Me: Fuck off.

Still, I'm getting to that age where if I want children, I ought to start thinking about it within the next few years.  To help us with the decision-making process, TheBloke (TM) and I started thinking about the likely impact it might have on our lives.  The closest thing we have to a child is Monty Cat, so we decided on a points system out of 10.  It should be noted at this point that Jack hates cats.

Can we leave it by itself whilst we go away for a night?

Monty Cat - 8
Child - 2


Able to take care of its own toilet needs?

Monty Cat - 8
Child - 1


Cuteness

Monty Cat - 7
Child - 5 (the ginger gene is strong in our families)


Ability to generate money through commercials / look after us in later life


Monty Cat - 2
Child - 8


Likelihood of eating us if we die without feeding it


Monty Cat - 9
Child - 1




Totals: 


Monty Cat - 34
Child - 17


So looks like Jack will have to wait a bit longer.  Perhaps we should get another cat, as we have categorically proved that cats are twice as good as children.  Jack would like that.

Measured response

Ploggers, Ploggers, apologies for tardiness.  I have no real excuse, other than being at work during the day, being tired at night and being a pensioner at weekends (B&Q, gardening and a spot of baking).

However, there are always moments which I can stop and laugh.  Here is a transcript of a genuine telephone conversation with Mrs Nunn last week:

Me: So TheBloke (TM) and I are going to look at sofas tonight after work, but I totally forgot until I got into the office and I didn't bring a tape measure, and because we have narrow doors, I'm worried something we order might not fit through.

Mrs Nunn:  Oh.  Don't you have a tape measure in your desk drawer?

Me:  No.

Mrs Nunn:  Ask your colleagues.  I'm sure someone will have a tape measure.

Me:  I doubt it.  I can't think why they would.

Mrs Nunn:  Oh, I bet they will.  I always used to have a tape measure in my desk drawer.

Me:  Why?

Mrs Nunn: In case of... clothes and stuff.

Me:  Sorry, what?

Mrs Nunn: (clearly avoiding the fact that you would never need to measure clothes) Well, you know, in case you need to measure your head or something.

Me: What?

Mrs Nunn: You know!  When you're at work and you need to measure your head.

At which point I wondered whether I was actually hallucinating, so I made my excuses and said goodbye.

Just in case I ever go mental, at least we know it's genetic.