So, we had agreed on a God-free ceremony. We had told him eight or nine times that we wanted a civil ceremony.
"Yes, yes," Reverend Sillymoustache agreed. "I learned about all this when I did my exams. We learned all sorts of strange things like civil ceremonies, and Lobola."
TheBloke (TM) rolled his eyes. I had no idea what a Lobola is.
Reverend Sillymoustache was keen to fill me in, "It's a bit like a civil ceremony except your fiancé must agree how much to pay your father for you." (For dedicated enthusaists, more information can be found here.)
"Yes, yes, our wedding is very much like that. Except I'm not being bought by a man."
The irony was lost on Reverend Sillymoustache.
I continued, "Can I ask - out of interest - whether you've actually conducted a civil ceremony previously?"
"Oh yes," said Reverend Sillymoustache. "Just six months ago I married a Methodist to a Baptist."
Oh dear imaginary God.
The Reverend Sillymoustache continued, "Can I ask you a personal question; what do you believe?"
Before TheBloke (TM) replied, I butted in, trying to keep my tone light, "If we get into this discussion, are you going to refuse to marry us?"
"No, no", reassured Reverend Sillymoustache. "I'm just interested. I have never met an atheist before."
"Well," I said, "I believe that people are generally good, that the time we have here is all we're going to get, and so we should all make the most of it."
"So you don't believe in the reunion of family after you're dead?"
"No," I said. "In fact, if you remarried after your partner has passed away, wouldn't it all be a bit awkward when you met up in heaven?"
He ignored my question. "So where do you believe we came from?"
TheBloke (TM) said, "Well, we believe in evolution."
The Reverend Sillymoustache looked shocked. "What, like Darwin?"
"Yes."
"How do you know right from wrong?" he asked. "God's voice tells us this. "So," said the Reverend, "let me ask you this. When you see a vettie, sorry Laura, that is Afrikaans for a fat person..."
(No shit, Sherlock, it's pronounced "fattie".)
"... When you see a big vettie walking down the street, and you klap them round the head and shout 'hey vettie', what makes you feel bad about that?"
"Erm," I said, "I tend not to hit fat people in the street. Is the only reason you don't kick puppies in the street the fear of punishment, or because you know right from wrong?"
"OK, OK, let me run this by you. This is an example I use with the youth group, so hopefully it will be simple enough for you to grasp. When you walk into a shop and see some lovely chocolate fudge, and you think, 'Mmm, I would love some chocolate fudge,' what makes you feel bad about stealing that fudge?"
"Well," said TheBloke (TM), "we wouldn't steal the fudge. It's our upbringing, our parents, our friends, our school; we grow up and form our ethics."
"Yes," I added. "Also, it's not worth the risk. We're lucky that we could both afford 10 Rand for some fudge if we really wanted some. And if we couldn't, we wouldn't take it."
"Yes," agreed Reverend Sillymoustache. "And that's God's voice. I am happy to marry you, but you do know that marriage was created by God, and you're missing out on God's blessing."
"We're OK with that."
I'd like to think he prayed for us that night. After hitting fat people in the street, and stealing fudge, like every good Reverend does.
Sunday, April 03, 2011
Saturday, April 02, 2011
Conversion conversation
Ploggers, I have returned!
So, for those of you who were wondering / running sweepstakes, neither of us was jilted at the altar (or in this case, game lodge), and I have returned to sunny Essex with a brand new husband. I considered upgrading him in my Plog to TheHusband (TM), but I feel I've kind of already built a brand for him with TheBloke (TM), so let's leave it at that to avoid confusion. I wouldn't want to disorientate you like when Marathon became Snickers or Opal Fruits became Starburst.
So, there are many stories to tell, and I shall start with the week before the wedding. I have already regaled you with the tale of the racist beautician... gather close children, and I shall tell you my next tale.
One of the many things we had to do in the week before the wedding was to meet with the official who would be marrying us. With both of us committed atheists, it was extremely important to us to have a civil service; neither of us wanted to make vows to something we didn't believe in. TheBloke (TM)'s Very Helpful Sister Lorna (who basically organised the entire wedding) managed to sort someone out to officiate. She did warn us he was a religious minister, but she'd briefed him that we wanted a civil ceremony. He apparently said, "They're not... atheists are they?" She gently broke the news to him and apparently he was still OK to do the ceremony.
A few days before "I do", we had to go and see the minister, to sign the relevant paperwork and to discuss how we wanted the ceremony to run. We were ushered into his study, where a large figurine of a man being tortured stood. (I understand Christians enjoy artwork where their main man is being crucified. And people who like puppies also like... pictures of puppies being kicked to death.)
"So," said Reverend Sillymoustache (please imagine your best ridiculous Afrikaans accent, complete with yappy dog in the background - presumably waiting to be kicked to death), "I have the paperwork you need to complete."
"Can we talk about the ceremony first?" I asked, conscious that if he was going to crowbar Jesus into the ceremony, we'd need to find another official - and with only two days to spare, I didn't want to spend valuable minister-finding time filling out duplicate paperwork.
"Oh, it won't take long," said Reverend Sillymoustache. This would have been true, had Reverend Sillymoustache been of even near-normal intelligence levels. Unfortunately, the next ten minutes consisted entirely of him saying, "Let me see, I have this... and this... and, yes, this..." (at which point he would put paper in a pile, painfully slowly). "... But I do not have... oh wait, yes I have this," and so on, until my fingers dug fresh stigmata in my palms.
Finally, finally we finished the paperwork, and I asked about the wording of the ceremony he was planning to use. He opened up a big book which looked like a Bible, but of course couldn't have been because we'd asked for a civil ceremony.
"Well," said Reverend Sillymoustache, "I am going to use the Methodist Bible."
TheBloke (TM) and I exchanged a look. If I were to label the look, I'd put it somewhere between horror and hysteria.
"Right," I said. "We really don't want any religious content, so I'm afraid that's not going to work for us."
"Let me just read it through for you," said Reverend Sillymoustache, and we can talk about it then."
"Well..."
He interrupted me. "So... it will be 'Do you take TheBloke (TM) to be your husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, til death us do part, according to God's holy law...'"
TheBloke (TM) interrupted, "Yeah, that's the bit we don't want. The God bit."
Reverend Sillymoustache continued, "I really think it's better if I read through the whole service, so you can see it in context."
"No," I said and stood up, and went round to his side of the desk and looked at his Bible. I pointed out all the bits we didn't want, whilst trying to be diplomatic. I said, "I actually really like some of the poetry in the Bible, and I have no problem at all with the vows themselves. If you were happy to, you could just leave off the 'God's holy law' part - but I totally understand if you think it's disrespectful to change the words of the Bible. So if you'd prefer to use totally different vows, that's fine too."
To cut an extremely long story short, he eventually agreed to cut out the God part from the vows, after saying, worryingly, "I will play with the wording and come up with something romantic for the day." I suggested he ran it by TheBloke (TM) prior to the ceremony, as I'd be busy getting changed.
We'd finally hammered it home (so we thought) about wanting a religion-free ceremony. At which point, the not-terribly-bright chap said, "So, which Bible readings would you like? And have you had a thought about a sermon?" We thought he was joking, but no. So, we carefully explained (again) that yes, we were having two readings, but one of them was Shakespeare, and the other was Toni Morrison, and we didn't want a sermon at all. No God. Thank you.
He looked worried, as if something important had just occurred to him. "So, are you saying I mustn't start the ceremony with a prayer then?"
"That's right."
"But don't you have friends coming who are religious?"
"A couple of mine are," said TheBloke (TM), "but the point is the wedding day should be about what we want."
"Hmm," said Reverend Sillymoustache. Another worried thought crossed his mind. "I have just thought now," he said. "Must I come casual?"
I had no idea what he meant. "Well, smart casual will be fine," I said. "Probably not jeans and trainers, but no need to wear a suit."
"No," said Reverend Sillymoustache. "I mean, must I wear my dog collar and cassock?"
For Fuck's Sake.
Tomorrow: an existential argument with Reverend Sillymoustache over what a civil ceremony might actually be. Stay tuned!
So, for those of you who were wondering / running sweepstakes, neither of us was jilted at the altar (or in this case, game lodge), and I have returned to sunny Essex with a brand new husband. I considered upgrading him in my Plog to TheHusband (TM), but I feel I've kind of already built a brand for him with TheBloke (TM), so let's leave it at that to avoid confusion. I wouldn't want to disorientate you like when Marathon became Snickers or Opal Fruits became Starburst.
So, there are many stories to tell, and I shall start with the week before the wedding. I have already regaled you with the tale of the racist beautician... gather close children, and I shall tell you my next tale.
One of the many things we had to do in the week before the wedding was to meet with the official who would be marrying us. With both of us committed atheists, it was extremely important to us to have a civil service; neither of us wanted to make vows to something we didn't believe in. TheBloke (TM)'s Very Helpful Sister Lorna (who basically organised the entire wedding) managed to sort someone out to officiate. She did warn us he was a religious minister, but she'd briefed him that we wanted a civil ceremony. He apparently said, "They're not... atheists are they?" She gently broke the news to him and apparently he was still OK to do the ceremony.
A few days before "I do", we had to go and see the minister, to sign the relevant paperwork and to discuss how we wanted the ceremony to run. We were ushered into his study, where a large figurine of a man being tortured stood. (I understand Christians enjoy artwork where their main man is being crucified. And people who like puppies also like... pictures of puppies being kicked to death.)
"So," said Reverend Sillymoustache (please imagine your best ridiculous Afrikaans accent, complete with yappy dog in the background - presumably waiting to be kicked to death), "I have the paperwork you need to complete."
"Can we talk about the ceremony first?" I asked, conscious that if he was going to crowbar Jesus into the ceremony, we'd need to find another official - and with only two days to spare, I didn't want to spend valuable minister-finding time filling out duplicate paperwork.
"Oh, it won't take long," said Reverend Sillymoustache. This would have been true, had Reverend Sillymoustache been of even near-normal intelligence levels. Unfortunately, the next ten minutes consisted entirely of him saying, "Let me see, I have this... and this... and, yes, this..." (at which point he would put paper in a pile, painfully slowly). "... But I do not have... oh wait, yes I have this," and so on, until my fingers dug fresh stigmata in my palms.
Finally, finally we finished the paperwork, and I asked about the wording of the ceremony he was planning to use. He opened up a big book which looked like a Bible, but of course couldn't have been because we'd asked for a civil ceremony.
"Well," said Reverend Sillymoustache, "I am going to use the Methodist Bible."
TheBloke (TM) and I exchanged a look. If I were to label the look, I'd put it somewhere between horror and hysteria.
"Right," I said. "We really don't want any religious content, so I'm afraid that's not going to work for us."
"Let me just read it through for you," said Reverend Sillymoustache, and we can talk about it then."
"Well..."
He interrupted me. "So... it will be 'Do you take TheBloke (TM) to be your husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, til death us do part, according to God's holy law...'"
TheBloke (TM) interrupted, "Yeah, that's the bit we don't want. The God bit."
Reverend Sillymoustache continued, "I really think it's better if I read through the whole service, so you can see it in context."
"No," I said and stood up, and went round to his side of the desk and looked at his Bible. I pointed out all the bits we didn't want, whilst trying to be diplomatic. I said, "I actually really like some of the poetry in the Bible, and I have no problem at all with the vows themselves. If you were happy to, you could just leave off the 'God's holy law' part - but I totally understand if you think it's disrespectful to change the words of the Bible. So if you'd prefer to use totally different vows, that's fine too."
To cut an extremely long story short, he eventually agreed to cut out the God part from the vows, after saying, worryingly, "I will play with the wording and come up with something romantic for the day." I suggested he ran it by TheBloke (TM) prior to the ceremony, as I'd be busy getting changed.
We'd finally hammered it home (so we thought) about wanting a religion-free ceremony. At which point, the not-terribly-bright chap said, "So, which Bible readings would you like? And have you had a thought about a sermon?" We thought he was joking, but no. So, we carefully explained (again) that yes, we were having two readings, but one of them was Shakespeare, and the other was Toni Morrison, and we didn't want a sermon at all. No God. Thank you.
He looked worried, as if something important had just occurred to him. "So, are you saying I mustn't start the ceremony with a prayer then?"
"That's right."
"But don't you have friends coming who are religious?"
"A couple of mine are," said TheBloke (TM), "but the point is the wedding day should be about what we want."
"Hmm," said Reverend Sillymoustache. Another worried thought crossed his mind. "I have just thought now," he said. "Must I come casual?"
I had no idea what he meant. "Well, smart casual will be fine," I said. "Probably not jeans and trainers, but no need to wear a suit."
"No," said Reverend Sillymoustache. "I mean, must I wear my dog collar and cassock?"
For Fuck's Sake.
Tomorrow: an existential argument with Reverend Sillymoustache over what a civil ceremony might actually be. Stay tuned!
Friday, March 18, 2011
Waxing lyrical
After a whirlwind of appointments, from make-up trials to hairdressers, ministers, menu planning and flower-arranging, this day was supposed to be the relaxing day. A chance to have a paraffin manicure and pedicure, unwind and chill out.
I had already met the beautician earlier in the week for a waxing session (something I’m quite sure neither of us enjoyed – me because it was an hour and a half of continual torture, her because I kicked her in the head – meaning I can add Afrikaner to the list of nationalities I have kicked in the head). I was hoping the mani-pedi would be much less stressful.
It was two hours long and I generally get bored after about twenty minutes, so I was glad that she started making conversation. She talked about going to the farm at the weekend. “I hit a warthog at the weekend with my car,” she said with her Afrikaans accent, to my ears sounding like she was torturing every vowel.
"Oh dear,” said I. “Poor warthog.”
“Ney,” she said, “it was fahne. Ah ate them.”
“You hate them?” I asked, knowing Afrikaners sometimes drop their aitches.
“Ah ate them,” she said. “Tasted very wild. Very gamey.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Then we went out for a ‘obby, killing rabbits.”
“Rabbits?”
“Yis. We drahve up nixt to them in the car, and we ‘it them with golf clubs.”
“Why do you do that?” I asked, as cruelty to animals isn’t one of my main occupations (other than when Monty Cat wakes me at 2 a.m.).
She clearly misunderstood my question, “Because they is too fast to shoot,” she clarified.
This is a woman whom three days ago I had entrusted my nether regions. And that was a sentence I never thought I’d write.
Conversation moved on to cultural differences between South Africa and the UK (one of which, I would suggest, is the reluctance of Londoners to brain bunnies by the side of the road). We talked about crime levels and root causes.
“Ah ate black people,” she said.
“You... eat... black people?” I queried, surprised, but after the bunny rabbit torture, I was beginning to wonder.
“Ney. I ate them. They are ga-ga.” (Pronounced... actually I don’t think you can pronounce ga-ga in English. Try clearing your throat whilst making a “ha” sound. Twice.”
“Ga-ga?” I queried.
“Yis,” she clarified. “Disgusting. Ah mean, I wouldn’t refuse to work with them or anything if they came in for a treatment, but I wouldn’t go to their ‘ouse for a braai.”
I was guessing at this point, she probably wouldn’t be fucking invited.
By the end of the two hours I felt that I’d had a relaxing beauty treatment sponsored by the BNP. Perhaps Nick Griffin could branch out?
I had already met the beautician earlier in the week for a waxing session (something I’m quite sure neither of us enjoyed – me because it was an hour and a half of continual torture, her because I kicked her in the head – meaning I can add Afrikaner to the list of nationalities I have kicked in the head). I was hoping the mani-pedi would be much less stressful.
It was two hours long and I generally get bored after about twenty minutes, so I was glad that she started making conversation. She talked about going to the farm at the weekend. “I hit a warthog at the weekend with my car,” she said with her Afrikaans accent, to my ears sounding like she was torturing every vowel.
"Oh dear,” said I. “Poor warthog.”
“Ney,” she said, “it was fahne. Ah ate them.”
“You hate them?” I asked, knowing Afrikaners sometimes drop their aitches.
“Ah ate them,” she said. “Tasted very wild. Very gamey.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Then we went out for a ‘obby, killing rabbits.”
“Rabbits?”
“Yis. We drahve up nixt to them in the car, and we ‘it them with golf clubs.”
“Why do you do that?” I asked, as cruelty to animals isn’t one of my main occupations (other than when Monty Cat wakes me at 2 a.m.).
She clearly misunderstood my question, “Because they is too fast to shoot,” she clarified.
This is a woman whom three days ago I had entrusted my nether regions. And that was a sentence I never thought I’d write.
Conversation moved on to cultural differences between South Africa and the UK (one of which, I would suggest, is the reluctance of Londoners to brain bunnies by the side of the road). We talked about crime levels and root causes.
“Ah ate black people,” she said.
“You... eat... black people?” I queried, surprised, but after the bunny rabbit torture, I was beginning to wonder.
“Ney. I ate them. They are ga-ga.” (Pronounced... actually I don’t think you can pronounce ga-ga in English. Try clearing your throat whilst making a “ha” sound. Twice.”
“Ga-ga?” I queried.
“Yis,” she clarified. “Disgusting. Ah mean, I wouldn’t refuse to work with them or anything if they came in for a treatment, but I wouldn’t go to their ‘ouse for a braai.”
I was guessing at this point, she probably wouldn’t be fucking invited.
By the end of the two hours I felt that I’d had a relaxing beauty treatment sponsored by the BNP. Perhaps Nick Griffin could branch out?
Va-cat-ion
We were extremely lucky that Helen, our Kiwi friend, offered to housesit and look after Monty Cat whilst we were away for our wedding and honeymoon. Monty Cat got to stay in his own property, and we didn’t have to worry about the house whilst we were away. All was going swimmingly.
We had Helen over for dinner to show her the house a month or so prior to flying out. We gave her the tour. We showed her the conservatory. All was good.
One week before we flew out, someone was murdered in our street. The details were hazy, and the police were digging the drains up outside our house but someone was in custody, so we didn’t really worry about it too much.
“Best not mention it to Helen though,” I said to TheBloke (TM). “She comes from leafy South West London, and we don’t want to worry her needlessly about our wild East London streets.”
So we kept it hush-hush. It made a few local papers but nothing national. Nothing to worry about. All was fine.
On Saturday, at the duly appointed time, Helen arrived in the taxi. Whenever we go on holiday, Transport for London make it a special priority to close the Central Line, thus meaning we spend a good two hours and a chunk of holiday budget working out how to get to the airport.
Helen got out of the taxi and wheeled her large suitcase up our drive.
“The taxi driver has just asked me if I knew anything about your neighbour who was murdered,” she said.
Big mouthed taxi driver.
“Oh well,” said TheBloke (TM) to Helen. “We’re away for the next three weeks... so at least there won’t be any rapes,” he leered.
So if anyone’s passing our street, could you please pop in and check that Helen hasn’t yet fled the scene an d that Monty Cat isn’t wasting away? (To be fair, he’s got a fair amount of storage in his flabby folds of fur.)
We had Helen over for dinner to show her the house a month or so prior to flying out. We gave her the tour. We showed her the conservatory. All was good.
One week before we flew out, someone was murdered in our street. The details were hazy, and the police were digging the drains up outside our house but someone was in custody, so we didn’t really worry about it too much.
“Best not mention it to Helen though,” I said to TheBloke (TM). “She comes from leafy South West London, and we don’t want to worry her needlessly about our wild East London streets.”
So we kept it hush-hush. It made a few local papers but nothing national. Nothing to worry about. All was fine.
On Saturday, at the duly appointed time, Helen arrived in the taxi. Whenever we go on holiday, Transport for London make it a special priority to close the Central Line, thus meaning we spend a good two hours and a chunk of holiday budget working out how to get to the airport.
Helen got out of the taxi and wheeled her large suitcase up our drive.
“The taxi driver has just asked me if I knew anything about your neighbour who was murdered,” she said.
Big mouthed taxi driver.
“Oh well,” said TheBloke (TM) to Helen. “We’re away for the next three weeks... so at least there won’t be any rapes,” he leered.
So if anyone’s passing our street, could you please pop in and check that Helen hasn’t yet fled the scene an d that Monty Cat isn’t wasting away? (To be fair, he’s got a fair amount of storage in his flabby folds of fur.)
Monday, March 07, 2011
Trunk and disorderly
"You're so lucky, working from home," whinged TheBloke (TM). "I bet you'll have a really lazy day and do nothing at all."
"But," I countered, "someone has to stay in for the tree surgeon. And also I have piles of work today because - in case you've forgotten - we're off to get married at the end of the week, so I've got bags and bags of work to do."
"Harrumph", harrumphed TheBloke (TM).
Secretly I knew that despite having bags and bags of work to do, hopefully it would be quite a relaxing day. I could slob around in jeans, sort out all my office work without the phone ringing every three minutes and with no commuting, I had two extra hours of day!
The tree surgeon bit would be easy. The council had given us permission to cut back the protected council trees that were overhanging our property, and I had already been next door to clear it with Juliet as the workmen would need access to her garden, in order to bring the waste to the street. I would just let them in, curl up with my laptop and motor through my emails. Juliet knew the tree surgeon would be here at 10, and all she had to do was give them access to her property.
The rest of my day went something like this.
8.30 a.m. Get a head start on emails All is going swimmingly.
9.30 a.m. Pause to glance round the room and feel smug at how good I am at my job.
9.55 a.m. See Juliet driving off in her car... Huh? She needs to be there to let the tree people in. Oh well, maybe she'll be back in five minutes, or maybe she's left her gate unlocked for them.
10.00 a.m. Tree people arrive. Juliet has not left her gate unlocked. Tree man suggests taking gate off at hinges. I say that she gave me permission to access her garden... not to break and enter. I suggest he brings the waste through the house. He says, "Not ideal, it'll leave loads of mess on your floors." I said this wasn't a problem. I would clear it up. "Also," he adds, "we'll scratch up your walls." I suggest cutting the waste into smaller pieces, so this isn't a problem. He grunts. I let them get on with it.
10.15 a.m. I see tree waste at the front of the house, but I am 99% certain no-one has brought any through the house. Unless they have a magic catapult, they have somehow gained access to my neighbour's garden. I ask one of the tree guys what's going on. "Oh yes, we took her gate off at the hinges." Juliet is 85 years old and my tradespeople have just forced an entrance to her property.
10.45 a.m. "Sorry," says one of the tradespeople. "I've just stepped on one of your solar lights and broken it."
10.48 a.m. Local "artist" (read: jobless hippy) comes round to talk to workmen. I assume he wants the wood, as when we chopped down a rowan tree last year, he did the same. "Work is my medium," he said. This made me think he was almost certainly a tosser. I expect to see him with his wheelbarrow any minute. I ignore him.
11.15 a.m. The doorbell rings. It's a man from the council. Turns out local jobless hippy (sorry, "artist") has reported me for chopping down protected trees (or "pruning" as I believe it's sometimes called - at our expense rather than the council's). I open my folder, show him the paperwork (signed by him personally) that gives us permission to prune the trees. He says, "I probably should have checked that before coming out." He loses points on initiative, but gains some for a twenty-minute response rate. If we still lived in Tower Hamlets, you could raze an entire building to the ground before the council acted. And even then they'd probably just clamp your car by mistake.
11.19 a.m. I go outside to tell the tree people that it's all sorted with the council. I notice they're tramping through Juliet's garden, so ask them to leave it pristine (seeing as they've broken in). "Oh, she's here now," the men tell me. I have an awkward conversation with Juliet, in front of the workmen, where I try and apologise for their behaviour whilst they're standing there. She is very polite and says, "You've done me a favour because it shows me how easy my property is to break into." The only favour I have done today is vandalising an 85 year-old's property. I feel good about myself.
11.45 a.m. The men have finished their work. "Any chance of a cup of tea love?" They then go and do a bit of work for Juliet next door (which makes me feel a bit better about their trespassing)... and leave my mugs at her house. I can't bring myself to ask for them back.
12.00 The Met Police turn up. I hope and pray it's not because the tradesmen have been spotted forcing an entry. I pull the blinds and hope they go away. They do.
So, relaxing day working from home? Not exactly. It'll be a break to be back in the office tomorrow.
"But," I countered, "someone has to stay in for the tree surgeon. And also I have piles of work today because - in case you've forgotten - we're off to get married at the end of the week, so I've got bags and bags of work to do."
"Harrumph", harrumphed TheBloke (TM).
Secretly I knew that despite having bags and bags of work to do, hopefully it would be quite a relaxing day. I could slob around in jeans, sort out all my office work without the phone ringing every three minutes and with no commuting, I had two extra hours of day!
The tree surgeon bit would be easy. The council had given us permission to cut back the protected council trees that were overhanging our property, and I had already been next door to clear it with Juliet as the workmen would need access to her garden, in order to bring the waste to the street. I would just let them in, curl up with my laptop and motor through my emails. Juliet knew the tree surgeon would be here at 10, and all she had to do was give them access to her property.
The rest of my day went something like this.
8.30 a.m. Get a head start on emails All is going swimmingly.
9.30 a.m. Pause to glance round the room and feel smug at how good I am at my job.
9.55 a.m. See Juliet driving off in her car... Huh? She needs to be there to let the tree people in. Oh well, maybe she'll be back in five minutes, or maybe she's left her gate unlocked for them.
10.00 a.m. Tree people arrive. Juliet has not left her gate unlocked. Tree man suggests taking gate off at hinges. I say that she gave me permission to access her garden... not to break and enter. I suggest he brings the waste through the house. He says, "Not ideal, it'll leave loads of mess on your floors." I said this wasn't a problem. I would clear it up. "Also," he adds, "we'll scratch up your walls." I suggest cutting the waste into smaller pieces, so this isn't a problem. He grunts. I let them get on with it.
10.15 a.m. I see tree waste at the front of the house, but I am 99% certain no-one has brought any through the house. Unless they have a magic catapult, they have somehow gained access to my neighbour's garden. I ask one of the tree guys what's going on. "Oh yes, we took her gate off at the hinges." Juliet is 85 years old and my tradespeople have just forced an entrance to her property.
10.45 a.m. "Sorry," says one of the tradespeople. "I've just stepped on one of your solar lights and broken it."
10.48 a.m. Local "artist" (read: jobless hippy) comes round to talk to workmen. I assume he wants the wood, as when we chopped down a rowan tree last year, he did the same. "Work is my medium," he said. This made me think he was almost certainly a tosser. I expect to see him with his wheelbarrow any minute. I ignore him.
11.15 a.m. The doorbell rings. It's a man from the council. Turns out local jobless hippy (sorry, "artist") has reported me for chopping down protected trees (or "pruning" as I believe it's sometimes called - at our expense rather than the council's). I open my folder, show him the paperwork (signed by him personally) that gives us permission to prune the trees. He says, "I probably should have checked that before coming out." He loses points on initiative, but gains some for a twenty-minute response rate. If we still lived in Tower Hamlets, you could raze an entire building to the ground before the council acted. And even then they'd probably just clamp your car by mistake.
11.19 a.m. I go outside to tell the tree people that it's all sorted with the council. I notice they're tramping through Juliet's garden, so ask them to leave it pristine (seeing as they've broken in). "Oh, she's here now," the men tell me. I have an awkward conversation with Juliet, in front of the workmen, where I try and apologise for their behaviour whilst they're standing there. She is very polite and says, "You've done me a favour because it shows me how easy my property is to break into." The only favour I have done today is vandalising an 85 year-old's property. I feel good about myself.
11.45 a.m. The men have finished their work. "Any chance of a cup of tea love?" They then go and do a bit of work for Juliet next door (which makes me feel a bit better about their trespassing)... and leave my mugs at her house. I can't bring myself to ask for them back.
12.00 The Met Police turn up. I hope and pray it's not because the tradesmen have been spotted forcing an entry. I pull the blinds and hope they go away. They do.
So, relaxing day working from home? Not exactly. It'll be a break to be back in the office tomorrow.
Tuesday, March 01, 2011
Blushing bride
To most Ploggers, this is an average Tuesday. Perhaps you had a takeaway pizza tonight. Perhaps you phoned your mum. Maybe you watched Top Gear which you recorded at the weekend. For most of you it will have been an entirely average day.
I, on the other hand, exposed myself in public. Twice. Today.
It was 10.30 a.m.. I was busy at work, but like I always say, "Never too busy to have a poo. Good colon care is important." So off for a poo I went. Shutting myself into a cubicle and midway through said poo, I suddenly thought, "Did I lock the door properly?" I checked the door by unlocking it and re-locking it.
Or so I thought.
Two minutes later a colleague opened the door to my cubicle. There's nowhere you can really go when you're pooing. "Sorry!" we both said, and hoped we didn't bump into each other in the canteen in the near future.
"Well," thought I, "I have learned a solid lesson about making sure the door is locked, and I shall be sure not to have any more embarrassing moments like that."
Cut to 6.30 p.m. I was at my final wedding dress fitting. I have lost a tiny bit of weight since I had my last fitting (probably the massive poo at 10.30. I don't know.) and I was a bit worried about whether the back of the dress was tight enough. To test it, I jumped around in the dress. All seemed fine. I jumped around again, saying to the two assistants and three other customers, "Yes, this seems fine."
At that moment, I had a wardrobe malfunction. Out popped a nipple. In the middle of the shop. In front of two assistants and three other customers (and no doubt their security cameras and therefore their 2011 Christmas party attendees as part of a highlights reel).
So, in the space of eight hours, I exposed myself twice. Now, I don't know about you, but that is not an average Tuesday for me. Most Tuesdays I usually try to do it at least three times.
I, on the other hand, exposed myself in public. Twice. Today.
It was 10.30 a.m.. I was busy at work, but like I always say, "Never too busy to have a poo. Good colon care is important." So off for a poo I went. Shutting myself into a cubicle and midway through said poo, I suddenly thought, "Did I lock the door properly?" I checked the door by unlocking it and re-locking it.
Or so I thought.
Two minutes later a colleague opened the door to my cubicle. There's nowhere you can really go when you're pooing. "Sorry!" we both said, and hoped we didn't bump into each other in the canteen in the near future.
"Well," thought I, "I have learned a solid lesson about making sure the door is locked, and I shall be sure not to have any more embarrassing moments like that."
Cut to 6.30 p.m. I was at my final wedding dress fitting. I have lost a tiny bit of weight since I had my last fitting (probably the massive poo at 10.30. I don't know.) and I was a bit worried about whether the back of the dress was tight enough. To test it, I jumped around in the dress. All seemed fine. I jumped around again, saying to the two assistants and three other customers, "Yes, this seems fine."
At that moment, I had a wardrobe malfunction. Out popped a nipple. In the middle of the shop. In front of two assistants and three other customers (and no doubt their security cameras and therefore their 2011 Christmas party attendees as part of a highlights reel).
So, in the space of eight hours, I exposed myself twice. Now, I don't know about you, but that is not an average Tuesday for me. Most Tuesdays I usually try to do it at least three times.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Can't see the rainforest for the jungle
When I was at primary school we did a project on the jungle. We learned about sloths and ecosystems and tree canopies. We studied rainfall, and decked the entire classroom out to look like a jungle, complete with paper-chain creepers and vines.
There was only one thing about the jungle the teacher forgot to tell us. To this day, I have no idea where on planet earth the jungle is.
And is it the same thing as a rainforest? Or are rainforest and jungles different? What's the difference between Epping Forest and a rainforest? Is either a jungle?
So I asked TheBloke (TM). He laughed so much at me that he was unable to reply for a full five minutes. In case anyone like me is confused by the rainforest / jungle terminology and/or location, TheBloke (TM) says:
The jungle and the rainforest are the same thing. They are mostly found in South America and Africa, but essentially most places along the equator.
This seems to make sense. Tarzan lived in the jungle and I think he had a pet chimpanzee and they definitely come from Africa. Or maybe you do get them in South America too. I don't know. And "jungle tribes", well the documentaries often show them living in South America. So that makes sense.
I just have one more question. When did the rebrand from jungle to rainforest happen? It must have been some point after 1989 when Mrs Ruddy at Booth Wood Primary School taught us all about the jungle. But some point before 1993 when McDonalds produced literature saying they weren't chopping down the rainforests. They never claimed not to chop down the jungles, as far as I'm aware.
So why did they rebrand? Assuming the two terms are interchangeable, what is inherently better about a rainforest than a jungle? Living in England, I'm honestly a bit sick of rain, so maybe they did it to put off tourists. Maybe Um Bongo (the fruit-based, slightly racist drink that claims, "Um Bongo, Um Bongo, they drink it in the jungle") had to rewrite their entire marketing literature, as "Um Bongo, Um Bongo, they drink it in the rainforest" didn't sound quite so snappy.
I shall ponder upon this. Consider it being pondered.
There was only one thing about the jungle the teacher forgot to tell us. To this day, I have no idea where on planet earth the jungle is.
And is it the same thing as a rainforest? Or are rainforest and jungles different? What's the difference between Epping Forest and a rainforest? Is either a jungle?
So I asked TheBloke (TM). He laughed so much at me that he was unable to reply for a full five minutes. In case anyone like me is confused by the rainforest / jungle terminology and/or location, TheBloke (TM) says:
The jungle and the rainforest are the same thing. They are mostly found in South America and Africa, but essentially most places along the equator.
This seems to make sense. Tarzan lived in the jungle and I think he had a pet chimpanzee and they definitely come from Africa. Or maybe you do get them in South America too. I don't know. And "jungle tribes", well the documentaries often show them living in South America. So that makes sense.
I just have one more question. When did the rebrand from jungle to rainforest happen? It must have been some point after 1989 when Mrs Ruddy at Booth Wood Primary School taught us all about the jungle. But some point before 1993 when McDonalds produced literature saying they weren't chopping down the rainforests. They never claimed not to chop down the jungles, as far as I'm aware.
So why did they rebrand? Assuming the two terms are interchangeable, what is inherently better about a rainforest than a jungle? Living in England, I'm honestly a bit sick of rain, so maybe they did it to put off tourists. Maybe Um Bongo (the fruit-based, slightly racist drink that claims, "Um Bongo, Um Bongo, they drink it in the jungle") had to rewrite their entire marketing literature, as "Um Bongo, Um Bongo, they drink it in the rainforest" didn't sound quite so snappy.
I shall ponder upon this. Consider it being pondered.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Verbal diary-eah
Since the age of 8 or so I have always, to a greater or lesser extent, kept a diary. I'm not quite sure what spurred me on to do so, but from it being somewhat of a chore aged 9 or 10 ("Boring day. Me and Jennie played on the computer."), age 12 or so it became something of an obsession. My diary would be carried to school with me in the inner top pocket of my blazer, and at lunchbreaks, I would write my worldly observations, whilst looking condescendingly at the 12 year olds in the classroom who were - quite frankly - behaving like children.
(Side note, these diary entries mostly involved things like: "Have Maths next - BORING! I cannot see how calculating the hypotenuse is going to help me in later life. English was good today." and so on. Samuel Peyps I was not.)
I would write my diary every day, unless there was an extremely good reason not to, and in times of turbulence, would often write two and sometimes even three times a day. Of course the term "turbulence" is relevant, and usually meant we had a substitute teacher for English, or I was getting stressed about my music coursework. I would often scribble so hard and fast, I would end up with exam-hand pain - the diarist would have a dire wrist. Sorry.
Today I do still keep a diary - indeed, still carry it in my bag to work with me each day, always meaning to write it on the tube, or in a quiet lunchtime. Sadly, this almost never happens, and diary entries have been reduced to a quick scribble once or twice a month; I can't really regret this - I think it's symptomatic of the fact that my life as a grown up is more settled than that of a teenager. (Like I said though - it's still relative. Anyone who thinks I had a turbulent teenage-hood is sadly mistaken.) But hormones and emotions are running high at that age, and everything feels like a crisis.
But basically, I was a slightly swotty, very dull teenager. And to prove it (and because Hazel loves it when I share teenage diary entries with the world), here is an entry from when I was 17. Most 17 year-olds are drinking, shagging behind bus stops (I know this because Mrs Nunn regularly sends me Daily Mail articles telling me that's the case) and shoplifting. I was in a school play.
Here is a (rare) example of rebellion from me:
I'm sorry I didn't write yesterday but in a vain attempt to get some of my huge piles of schoolwork out of the way, I've been doing three hours plus of homework every evening, which is exhaustive.
I've been behaving out of character today. I had a double free (study) period this afternoon, and so after informing Mrs Young, my form teacher, of an imaginary dental appointment, I went home. Lots of people do it on a regular basis, without telling staff at all, so it's not like I'm the school rebel or anything, but it was out of character for me (though lovely to have the afternoon off!) I guess that's the nearest I'll come to truancy! Mum and Dad didn't care; it's not like I had any lessons.
Also I was "out of character" in English. Not exactly extrovert but definitely not introvert. For example, with the greatest of ease, without blushing or feeling even slightly awkward, I asked for an extension on my English essay, as I've a play rehearsal on Sunday. The extension, needless to say, was granted. Also I spoke out for the first time in ages with comments not entirely related to the text. Talking about Mansfield Park our teacher said, "I could summarise this chapter in one word." I joked, "What's that, boring?!" She laughed, after protesting that it wasn't boring, but everyone loathes and detests it. It really is boring.
***
Unlike your 17-year-old diary, Laura, which is scintillating in every possible way. You rock.
Friday, February 11, 2011
French kiss
There are certain responsibilities that come with being a sister. The main one is to wind your siblings up at every possible opportunity.
I was whizzing through some old files on my laptop recently, and I came across a file I had lovingly put together whilst I was at university. My brother - Jack - was off on a French exchange. He was an enthusiastic, albeit, inexperienced francophone, and I, with my superior A-level knowledge, was keen to help him out. Or destroy his life.
I'm afraid the below set of phrases won't be that interesting to anyone who doesn't speak French. For the rest of you, you might have a giggle. To this day, I bet Jack regrets asking to have his legs amputated. Oh, how we laughed.
For your exchange partner's father
Medical problems
Homesickness
French culture
Chatting up girls
I was whizzing through some old files on my laptop recently, and I came across a file I had lovingly put together whilst I was at university. My brother - Jack - was off on a French exchange. He was an enthusiastic, albeit, inexperienced francophone, and I, with my superior A-level knowledge, was keen to help him out. Or destroy his life.
I'm afraid the below set of phrases won't be that interesting to anyone who doesn't speak French. For the rest of you, you might have a giggle. To this day, I bet Jack regrets asking to have his legs amputated. Oh, how we laughed.
For your exchange partner's mother
Madame, vous sentez comme une vache.
I love your perfume
Madame, vous avez une belle maison – comment vous la payer? La prostitution?
Your house is beautiful. You must work really hard to keep it up.
Madame, ce repas goût du lapins morts.
Mmmm! This meal is lovely!
Madame, votre fils est vraiment laid
Your son is going to grow up to be a fine young man.
For your exchange partner's father
Monsieur, votre femme est une grosse slapper.
You have a very attractive wife.
Monsieur, je vous pariez que vous avez un pénis comme un hamster
Gosh, you are tall, sir.
Monsieur, vous roulez comme une vieille dame qui n’a aucun yeux. Aussi, votre voiture est comme une petite boîte française
Wow! You’re a great driver, and I love your French car!
General useful phrases
Puis-je avoir un bain? Oui, peut-être c’est pas normal en France, mais en Angleterre, nous nous lavons de temps en temps.
Can I have a bath, please? I like to keep myself clean.
Je suis desolée – je ne peux pas le manger. Non, je ne suis pas végétarian – simplement, je déteste votre cuisine
I’m sorry, I can’t eat meat – I’m vegetarian.
Votre maison est un peu comme une porcherie, et je déteste votre famille. J’espère que la famille est effacé par un météorite.
It’s been delightful staying with you and your family are great. And hasn’t the weather been lovely?
Non, j’ai détesté votre musée stupide, et le picnic était horrible. Demain puis-j’aller au cinéma? Au cinéma je ne dois pas vous parler.
The museum was really interesting and the picnic was lovely. Tomorrow could we go to the cinema? I’d love to soak up even more of your fab French culture.
Les français sont comme les grands oignons.
The French are such superior beings.
J’avais eu plus d’amusement a l’école, à Latin
Gosh, isn’t this fun?
Medical problems
Mon pénis est tombé au plancher
I have a sore throat.
Éteindrez mon ventilator, s’il vous plaît
I’m going to live, damn you!
Est-ce qu’il y a la posibilité d’une amputation des jambes?
I think I’ve sprained my ankle.
Homesickness
Je voudrais rester ici pour la reste de ma vie
I’d really like to go home now.
Je voudrais télephoner aux États-Unis, pour quelques heures – c’est bon?
Can I make a quick call home?
Votre maison – elle pue
Your house is lovely, but I’d like to phone home
Détruez tous mes lettres de l’Angleterre, s’il vous plaît.
Are there any English letters for me?
French culture
C’est vrai que seulment 2 personnes en France ont la capacité de lire et écrire?
Gosh, what a high level of literacy you have in France.
Tous vos “artistes” sont slips.
All your French artists are really good. Not pants at all.
Qu’est-ce que c’est pour dîner ce soir? Ca pu comme le cheval.
What’s for dinner tonight? It smells lovely.
Chatting up girls
Mon dieu! Tu est vraiment laide! Je n’ai jamais vu une fille si laide!
I’ve noticed you around, and I find you very attractive.
Veux-tu coucher avec moi? Maintenant? Dans une boîte de téléphone?
Would you like to come to the cinema?
J’ai déjà couché avec ta mère et ta soeur – et son père et le chien.
I’ve met your mother and father – they’re lovely. And your sister and your dog.
Monday, February 07, 2011
Working girl
I have been extremely busy at work recently. Not the sort of busy where you think, "Ho hum, I've barely had the time to do my internet banking today and I only got to take 40 minutes for lunch," but the sort of busy where not only is the idea of lunch entirely ridiculous (like some clichéd 80s' film about investment banking... oh wait a minute), but where you don't quite get round to getting yourself a glass of water. On Wednesday last week, I worked ten hours without getting up to go to the toilet. Mostly because I hadn't had enough time to get a glass of water, therefore didn't really have the need.
I know this isn't good, isn't healthy - hell, isn't even productive in the long term, but we all have weeks like this. But it does make me laugh, especially as I'm trying to plan a wedding. I say "plan a wedding" - I'm extremely fortunate that my sister-in-law-to-be is doing the vast majority of the logistics, and the very most I ever have to do is to reply to her emails with my choices. So she'll email me and ask me what time I want the hairdresser, and what sort of flowers I want and she does the rest. That is lovely. But the wedding magazines make me laugh.
I only bought one (and I shan't do it again - at least not until my next wedding), but here are a few top tips:
I know this isn't good, isn't healthy - hell, isn't even productive in the long term, but we all have weeks like this. But it does make me laugh, especially as I'm trying to plan a wedding. I say "plan a wedding" - I'm extremely fortunate that my sister-in-law-to-be is doing the vast majority of the logistics, and the very most I ever have to do is to reply to her emails with my choices. So she'll email me and ask me what time I want the hairdresser, and what sort of flowers I want and she does the rest. That is lovely. But the wedding magazines make me laugh.
I only bought one (and I shan't do it again - at least not until my next wedding), but here are a few top tips:
- Try to do one thing each day that isn't related to the wedding; take a walk or make a dentist appointment.
Really? Just one thing? OK. But I might lose my job, be unable to pay my part of the mortgage, and my relationship might break up as a result of the stress. But if you say so.
- Wear your wedding shoes every day for at least four hours, whilst you're walking round the house
This sounds like sensible advice. And fuck - they are certainly uncomfortable shoes. But I did ask the wedding assistants and they were quite adamant that Uggs aren't really appropriate bridal attire. But I don't get home from work until 7 p.m. at the earliest. This means I have to stay up until 11 p.m., walking round the house. This is what my schedule normally looks like on a weeknight: 7 p.m. get home. 7.30 p.m. cook dinner. 8 p.m. eat and watch TV until 9.30 p.m. when I get into bed. Perhaps I could see if my employers think it's OK for me to wear my wedding shoes in the office?
- Step up your skincare! From 12 months before the wedding you should be having regular monthly facials. Invest in some top-quality moisturiser.
12 months? Seriously? He only proposed in May. Regular facials? I was planning on maybe using some moisturiser a week or so before the wedding. Will that do?
- Diet! Eat healthily, exercise. You'll feel great, be healthy and look slimline on your big day!
Fuck off. I made pastry from scratch today. It has shitloads of butter in but it tastes great. Besides, now I've caught myself a man, I thought the whole point was I could now let myself go. Why else would I get married?
I might write an alternative wedding guide. Wedding guide for the lazy bride. Has a ring to it. Geddit? A ring? I'll go now.
Sunday, February 06, 2011
Revenge of the fat lollers
I like to think I'm a fairly stoic Londoner; I take the rough with the smooth, and generally have decided that the benefits outweigh the drawbacks. However, this last week has been particularly horrendous as far as commuting goes, with delays in either one or both directions on the daily work journey, with a grand finale on Friday. It took me a grand two and a half hours to get to work, including a delightful half-hour spent hemmed in at Bank Station, unable to exit or move left or right, owing to massive volumes of people. Bank Station isn't even on my route to work. Fuckers.
I have a sneaking suspicion that the staff on the Jubilee Line are intentionally fucking up the service, in reaction to job cuts. You heard it here first.
On the way home on Friday, I'd had enough. And whilst the transport that evening was running normally (probably because most of the usual commuters had committed suicide on their journey into work that day... knowing my luck, by throwing themselves under the nearest Central Line train), I still managed to have an irritating commute. I was sat next to a fat loller. See here for my thoughts on fat lollers from a few years ago.
This one was not a bus loller, but a tube loller. He lolled to the extent that his head lolled past my shoulders and towards my chest. He eventually lolled so much that I wondered if he was actually attempting to breast feed. I poked him with the pointy corner of my work bag. He didn't wake up. I poked him again, harder. He continued to sleep. I elbowed him in the head. He still didn't wake up.
It was at this point I realised he was dead.
No, of course he wasn't. But wouldn't that have been awful And also a little bit funny? Oh. Never mind.
But question: why do fat people fall asleep / loll more than thin people?
I have a sneaking suspicion that the staff on the Jubilee Line are intentionally fucking up the service, in reaction to job cuts. You heard it here first.
On the way home on Friday, I'd had enough. And whilst the transport that evening was running normally (probably because most of the usual commuters had committed suicide on their journey into work that day... knowing my luck, by throwing themselves under the nearest Central Line train), I still managed to have an irritating commute. I was sat next to a fat loller. See here for my thoughts on fat lollers from a few years ago.
This one was not a bus loller, but a tube loller. He lolled to the extent that his head lolled past my shoulders and towards my chest. He eventually lolled so much that I wondered if he was actually attempting to breast feed. I poked him with the pointy corner of my work bag. He didn't wake up. I poked him again, harder. He continued to sleep. I elbowed him in the head. He still didn't wake up.
It was at this point I realised he was dead.
No, of course he wasn't. But wouldn't that have been awful And also a little bit funny? Oh. Never mind.
But question: why do fat people fall asleep / loll more than thin people?
Wednesday, February 02, 2011
Mucus/Music
Ploggers, Ploggers, apologies for the extended absence. I have been super-super busy at work (which I have complained about, but apparently that's why they pay me - who knew?), plus TheBloke (TM) and I went away for the weekend to Amsterdam. He had a cold (sorry, was at death's door), and I was exhausted. So we mostly slept. But it was nice to sleep without a biting ginger bastard cat waking me at 6 a.m.
Now I'm at death's door (it's NOT a cold. I am SO much more ill than TheBloke (TM) and am proving it by complaining a lot more than he did). This seems massively unfair, seeing as I had proper swine flu just before Christmas. I am currently feeling like a giant snot-bag. Hmm, maybe I should incorporate that into my wedding vows.
So, wedding planning is going pretty well. We're compiling the iPod playlist at the moment for the disco as we're not having a DJ. My taste revolves around mostly 60s' music, with the occasional one-hit wonder thrown in. TheBloke (TM)'s taste is more rock-oriented. We have about three songs we actually both like. This could be interesting. The Venn diagram of our music tastes contains only REM and Alanis Morissette.
I will Plog properly about Amsterdam soon. In the meantime, I am trying not to drip snot on the keyboard. At least I'm using TheBloke (TM)'s computer. Teach him to give me his nasty germs.
Now I'm at death's door (it's NOT a cold. I am SO much more ill than TheBloke (TM) and am proving it by complaining a lot more than he did). This seems massively unfair, seeing as I had proper swine flu just before Christmas. I am currently feeling like a giant snot-bag. Hmm, maybe I should incorporate that into my wedding vows.
So, wedding planning is going pretty well. We're compiling the iPod playlist at the moment for the disco as we're not having a DJ. My taste revolves around mostly 60s' music, with the occasional one-hit wonder thrown in. TheBloke (TM)'s taste is more rock-oriented. We have about three songs we actually both like. This could be interesting. The Venn diagram of our music tastes contains only REM and Alanis Morissette.
I will Plog properly about Amsterdam soon. In the meantime, I am trying not to drip snot on the keyboard. At least I'm using TheBloke (TM)'s computer. Teach him to give me his nasty germs.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Doctor No
This is one of those Plogs that if you are a parent, sibling or a slightly squeamish friend, you may wish to look away now. I am going to discuss sex stuff, and if you're harbouring fantasies that I'm saving myself for marriage, further reading could leave you a little bit disappointed.
Last chance. Look away now.
Seriously. This Plog definitely falls into the "overshare" category. "Too much information!" you will squeal. And rightly so. But it's tough luck. You have been given your opportunity to flee. Flee!
OK. Staying? OK then.
So, a few weeks ago I went to the doctor. It was the time of year when I need to get my contraception reviewed - in my case the diaphragm. Yes, I know, that's very 1970s of me, but I'm not a massive fan of messing with my hormones, as I'm quite mardy enough already.
I hadn't been to this doctor before. I explained I just needed her to check the existing size still - ahem - fit OK and then prescribe a new one.
She looked perplexed. "I've never done that before," she said. "Not since my training."
"Oh," I said.
"We don't get many requests, you see."
"Right," I said.
"If you like, I could give it a go," she said.
Now, I try not to knock the NHS unnecessarily, but those aren't really the reassuring words you'd like to hear from your doctor. "No, you're all right," said I.
"You need to go to the Family Planning Clinic," said Doctor Give It A Go.
So I did. And to cut a long story short, they couldn't do it either because the NHS is shit. Anyone would think I had a toxic fanny.
Finally, the Family Planning Clinic managed to ascertain which size I needed (based on guesswork, mostly) and told me I had to go back to the doctor and tell her which size it was. Because they didn't have any in stock.
Cut to Friday. This Friday. And off I went to the doctor again. Lucky me, I got Doctor Give It A Go.
"Hi," I said, "I'm not sure if you remember me but we had a conversation about prescribing a diaphragm. I have the size you need to prescribe now if you could do that."
"Sure," she said. She asked me the size. I told her.
She then looked a bit panicked. "What make is it?" she asked.
"I don't know," I replied. "Honestly, I'm not sure branding is a large part of their strategy."
She flicked through a medical paperback on her desk. "It's just I need to prescribe a brand, you see."
"Well any will do. I don't have brand loyalty. So long as it keeps the babies away."
Ploggers, can you guess what she did next? This is totally true. She turned to her PC (which was totally visible to me), went to Internet Explorer, which had been minimised and Googled "diaphragm". She then read the Wikipedia entry, the Planned Parenthood (US) site and then said, "Sorry, I don't know."
She then hit back twice on her browser, which brought up the Google results of her previous search. I know know the patient before me had a haematoma. Which I'm not sure is a great advert for patient confidentiality. Though I have learned a lot about about the condition, so I guess that's good.
Then she gave me some great advice about putting olive oil in my ear which has now turned me completely deaf in my left ear.
I think I might leave that one for the private surgery near where I work to sort out.
Last chance. Look away now.
Seriously. This Plog definitely falls into the "overshare" category. "Too much information!" you will squeal. And rightly so. But it's tough luck. You have been given your opportunity to flee. Flee!
OK. Staying? OK then.
So, a few weeks ago I went to the doctor. It was the time of year when I need to get my contraception reviewed - in my case the diaphragm. Yes, I know, that's very 1970s of me, but I'm not a massive fan of messing with my hormones, as I'm quite mardy enough already.
I hadn't been to this doctor before. I explained I just needed her to check the existing size still - ahem - fit OK and then prescribe a new one.
She looked perplexed. "I've never done that before," she said. "Not since my training."
"Oh," I said.
"We don't get many requests, you see."
"Right," I said.
"If you like, I could give it a go," she said.
Now, I try not to knock the NHS unnecessarily, but those aren't really the reassuring words you'd like to hear from your doctor. "No, you're all right," said I.
"You need to go to the Family Planning Clinic," said Doctor Give It A Go.
So I did. And to cut a long story short, they couldn't do it either because the NHS is shit. Anyone would think I had a toxic fanny.
Finally, the Family Planning Clinic managed to ascertain which size I needed (based on guesswork, mostly) and told me I had to go back to the doctor and tell her which size it was. Because they didn't have any in stock.
Cut to Friday. This Friday. And off I went to the doctor again. Lucky me, I got Doctor Give It A Go.
"Hi," I said, "I'm not sure if you remember me but we had a conversation about prescribing a diaphragm. I have the size you need to prescribe now if you could do that."
"Sure," she said. She asked me the size. I told her.
She then looked a bit panicked. "What make is it?" she asked.
"I don't know," I replied. "Honestly, I'm not sure branding is a large part of their strategy."
She flicked through a medical paperback on her desk. "It's just I need to prescribe a brand, you see."
"Well any will do. I don't have brand loyalty. So long as it keeps the babies away."
Ploggers, can you guess what she did next? This is totally true. She turned to her PC (which was totally visible to me), went to Internet Explorer, which had been minimised and Googled "diaphragm". She then read the Wikipedia entry, the Planned Parenthood (US) site and then said, "Sorry, I don't know."
She then hit back twice on her browser, which brought up the Google results of her previous search. I know know the patient before me had a haematoma. Which I'm not sure is a great advert for patient confidentiality. Though I have learned a lot about about the condition, so I guess that's good.
Then she gave me some great advice about putting olive oil in my ear which has now turned me completely deaf in my left ear.
I think I might leave that one for the private surgery near where I work to sort out.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Catatonic sleep
TheBloke (TM) and I occasionally like to go away for the weekend. We're like that. Hedonistic. The problem with going away is we have a Monty Cat who demands feeding twice a day. More if he thinks he can get away with it.
For longer stays, we're lucky to have friends and family who'll look after the pesky ginger furball, but when you're just going away for a night it barely seems worth it. So we invested in an autofeeder. This thing is pretty clever; you pop in the food, set the timer, and it springs open at the allotted time. It can hold two meals, so would be OK for a 24 hour period.
We tested out the autofeeder, to great success. Monty Cat wasn't fussy about eating out of it (we weren't especially surprised by this; he eats off the floor regularly, so a different-shaped dish wasn't likely to be a barrier to the greedy feline.) Then a genius thought struck:
Every Saturday and Sunday morning, Monty Cat will enter our room at 7.00, the same as he does every week day. He will miaow. Then he will start digging his claws into the carpet. And finally he will start biting our toes. Just to remind us that he is there and he would quite like to be fed, if it's no trouble to us. So one of us will blearily descend the stairs, feed the cat and then try - vainly - to get back to sleep.
But now we had an autofeeder! All our problems would be solved. Excitedly on Friday night, I filled the feeder with Monty food for the morning, and set the timer for 7 a.m.. I was going to get a cat-free lie-in. I was as excited as a new parent with the promise of an unbroken 8 hours' sleep.
Roll on 7 a.m. yesterday. "Miaow." Scratch, scratch, scratch. "Miaow." Scratch. "Fuck!"
(The "fuck" wasn't Monty Cat, but was TheBloke (TM) being awoken by having his toes gently nibbled.)
I worried the autofeeder hadn't worked, so went downstairs, with a joyful ginger bastard bouncing gleefully behind me. The autofeeder had worked fine, but the cat hadn't bothered to come downstairs. The cat's flowchart looks like this:
Step 1 - Wake up the humans. Step 2 - Get fed.
In his little cat brain, he had to achieve Step 1 before Step 2 could be realised. So I showed him where the food was. He ate. I thought, at least he'll work it out tomorrow.
He didn't. So now at 7 a.m. every weekend morning, I now show the cat where his food is.
Anyone want a cat?
For longer stays, we're lucky to have friends and family who'll look after the pesky ginger furball, but when you're just going away for a night it barely seems worth it. So we invested in an autofeeder. This thing is pretty clever; you pop in the food, set the timer, and it springs open at the allotted time. It can hold two meals, so would be OK for a 24 hour period.
We tested out the autofeeder, to great success. Monty Cat wasn't fussy about eating out of it (we weren't especially surprised by this; he eats off the floor regularly, so a different-shaped dish wasn't likely to be a barrier to the greedy feline.) Then a genius thought struck:
Every Saturday and Sunday morning, Monty Cat will enter our room at 7.00, the same as he does every week day. He will miaow. Then he will start digging his claws into the carpet. And finally he will start biting our toes. Just to remind us that he is there and he would quite like to be fed, if it's no trouble to us. So one of us will blearily descend the stairs, feed the cat and then try - vainly - to get back to sleep.
But now we had an autofeeder! All our problems would be solved. Excitedly on Friday night, I filled the feeder with Monty food for the morning, and set the timer for 7 a.m.. I was going to get a cat-free lie-in. I was as excited as a new parent with the promise of an unbroken 8 hours' sleep.
Roll on 7 a.m. yesterday. "Miaow." Scratch, scratch, scratch. "Miaow." Scratch. "Fuck!"
(The "fuck" wasn't Monty Cat, but was TheBloke (TM) being awoken by having his toes gently nibbled.)
I worried the autofeeder hadn't worked, so went downstairs, with a joyful ginger bastard bouncing gleefully behind me. The autofeeder had worked fine, but the cat hadn't bothered to come downstairs. The cat's flowchart looks like this:
Step 1 - Wake up the humans. Step 2 - Get fed.
In his little cat brain, he had to achieve Step 1 before Step 2 could be realised. So I showed him where the food was. He ate. I thought, at least he'll work it out tomorrow.
He didn't. So now at 7 a.m. every weekend morning, I now show the cat where his food is.
Sunday, January 09, 2011
Crabby
"I don't like the cinema," asserted Mrs Nunn.
"I know," I said. "You don't like the fact that other people rustle their sweet papers and that you can't pause the film whilst you get a cup of tea and go for a wee."
"Also, you get fleas," said Mrs Nunn.
"Fleas?" I said. "No you don't."
"Yes you do," Mrs Nunn said. "And crabs."
"Crabs?" I queried. "Pubic lice?"
"Yep." Mrs Nunn sounded pleased with herself. For the knowledge, rather than the pubic lice themselves.
"You get pubic lice from the cinema? People are rubbing their genitals on the cinema seats?"
"Some of them, yes. The dirty beggars." Mrs Nunn wasn't budging from her opinion.
"And then - in order to catch the crabs... you must also rub your genitals on the cinema seats?"
"Shut up," said Mrs Nunn. Here endeth the conversation.
"I know," I said. "You don't like the fact that other people rustle their sweet papers and that you can't pause the film whilst you get a cup of tea and go for a wee."
"Also, you get fleas," said Mrs Nunn.
"Fleas?" I said. "No you don't."
"Yes you do," Mrs Nunn said. "And crabs."
"Crabs?" I queried. "Pubic lice?"
"Yep." Mrs Nunn sounded pleased with herself. For the knowledge, rather than the pubic lice themselves.
"You get pubic lice from the cinema? People are rubbing their genitals on the cinema seats?"
"Some of them, yes. The dirty beggars." Mrs Nunn wasn't budging from her opinion.
"And then - in order to catch the crabs... you must also rub your genitals on the cinema seats?"
"Shut up," said Mrs Nunn. Here endeth the conversation.
Sunday, January 02, 2011
Very personal shopper
Yesterday I had a personal shopping appointment at Debenhams. This was a very sneaky time of year to go as it turns out a) the sales are in full swing b) VAT hasn't gone up yet and c) the personal shopping service was really quiet so I could actually get an appointment. This was all very good.
However, despite being a veteran of the personal shopping experience, I have never yet had an appointment which has not proved Plog-worthy. Yesterday, dear Ploggers, was no exception.
I arrived bang on time and was greeted by Steven and an assistant, whom I think was probably in training as she asked quite strange questions like, "What would you say is your preference?"
"Of what?" I would ask, not unreasonably.
"You know, like romantic, classic, dramatic."
"Oh," I would say. "Obviously."
Anyway, I am not here to talk about the assistant. I am here to talk about Steven, whose name I have changed to protect his identity. We went through the usual questions about my height, dress size, budget and so on. He then asked me how old I was. I told him.
"I think you went to school with my brother," he said.
This surprised me, not least because I went to school 150 miles away. And it was a girls' school.
"Oh," said I.
"Yes," he said. "In Hainault."
This was clearly a case of mistaken identity. I do quite often get mistaken for other people - I think I have one of those faces. Many a time I've had to convince someone I didn't used to work with them in Southend, or sing a choir with them in Buckinghamshire. I must have looked a bit like someone he knew. But the Hainault thing was weird.
"I do live in Hainault," I said. "But I didn't go to school there." I explained the all-girlness and the distance of my school.
"I live round the corner from you," said Steven. And proceeded to tell me exactly where he lived. Which was - quite literally - just round the corner. It freaked me out a bit that he knew exactly where I lived, but I guess I must have given my details when I booked the appointment.
"Anyway," Steven continued, "my brother did go to school with a Laura Nunn. And she lives in Hainault. So you have a double."
This is a bit worrying. Another Laura Nunn in my neighbourhood. There are two of us. TheBloke (TM) asked me if it would be OK if he went round and had sex with her. I said not really. He got the hump because he said it's OK if she's called Laura Nunn. We then debated if there were more Laura Nunns than there were TheBloke (TM)s, so who would do better if we were allowed to shag anyone with the same name as each other.
I have high hopes for our marriage.
However, despite being a veteran of the personal shopping experience, I have never yet had an appointment which has not proved Plog-worthy. Yesterday, dear Ploggers, was no exception.
I arrived bang on time and was greeted by Steven and an assistant, whom I think was probably in training as she asked quite strange questions like, "What would you say is your preference?"
"Of what?" I would ask, not unreasonably.
"You know, like romantic, classic, dramatic."
"Oh," I would say. "Obviously."
Anyway, I am not here to talk about the assistant. I am here to talk about Steven, whose name I have changed to protect his identity. We went through the usual questions about my height, dress size, budget and so on. He then asked me how old I was. I told him.
"I think you went to school with my brother," he said.
This surprised me, not least because I went to school 150 miles away. And it was a girls' school.
"Oh," said I.
"Yes," he said. "In Hainault."
This was clearly a case of mistaken identity. I do quite often get mistaken for other people - I think I have one of those faces. Many a time I've had to convince someone I didn't used to work with them in Southend, or sing a choir with them in Buckinghamshire. I must have looked a bit like someone he knew. But the Hainault thing was weird.
"I do live in Hainault," I said. "But I didn't go to school there." I explained the all-girlness and the distance of my school.
"I live round the corner from you," said Steven. And proceeded to tell me exactly where he lived. Which was - quite literally - just round the corner. It freaked me out a bit that he knew exactly where I lived, but I guess I must have given my details when I booked the appointment.
"Anyway," Steven continued, "my brother did go to school with a Laura Nunn. And she lives in Hainault. So you have a double."
This is a bit worrying. Another Laura Nunn in my neighbourhood. There are two of us. TheBloke (TM) asked me if it would be OK if he went round and had sex with her. I said not really. He got the hump because he said it's OK if she's called Laura Nunn. We then debated if there were more Laura Nunns than there were TheBloke (TM)s, so who would do better if we were allowed to shag anyone with the same name as each other.
I have high hopes for our marriage.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Festive feast
Well, Happy belated Christmas to all Ploggers. As an atheist, it seems a bit strange to celebrate Christmas (particularly the Christ bit, though I'm OK with the mas part). But it seems churlish to wish people happy holidays or seasons greetings. So I'm re-Christening (or re-atheisting) Christmas. Well, re-designating its meaning anyway. From now on, Christmas shall mean "time of year when you get loads of time off work and decide - usually - to go and spend it with your family, until you can't take any more, then you go home and eat too much chocolate and are sometimes a bit sick".
Anyway, Christmas at the Nunn household was very nice. Mr Nunn and my grandma did the bulk of the yummy cooking. There was tobogganing, there was Monopoly (you are reading a Plog written by the 2010 reigning Monopoly champion, finally cracking Erica's winning streak), there were mince pies and there were hilarious Mrs Nunn moments. My favourite was when she was talking about going into a bar in Turkey because it "had free wiffy".
"Wiffy?"
"Yes, wiffy. I wanted to use the internet." Ah. Wi-fi. Or wiffy as it shall for evermore be known in our house.
Anyway, because I've barely left the house for the last week, I thought you might like to see some of my latest baking projects. You probably don't, but hey, my Plog, my content. Rasp.
Doughnuts. Pre-cooking
Bread and butter pudding
Chicken pie - with homemade pastry
Best brownies ever. A bit underdone in this photo, but much better once they'd been in the oven.
Anyway, Christmas at the Nunn household was very nice. Mr Nunn and my grandma did the bulk of the yummy cooking. There was tobogganing, there was Monopoly (you are reading a Plog written by the 2010 reigning Monopoly champion, finally cracking Erica's winning streak), there were mince pies and there were hilarious Mrs Nunn moments. My favourite was when she was talking about going into a bar in Turkey because it "had free wiffy".
"Wiffy?"
"Yes, wiffy. I wanted to use the internet." Ah. Wi-fi. Or wiffy as it shall for evermore be known in our house.
Anyway, because I've barely left the house for the last week, I thought you might like to see some of my latest baking projects. You probably don't, but hey, my Plog, my content. Rasp.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Delivering excellence
In my working life of ten years or so, I've had a variety of excellent managers and colleagues. People who have mentored and supported me, people who have challenged and pushed me, people whom - a decade later - I'm still in touch with. This mini-army of women and men have nurtured and shaped me. I am grateful.
And then there was Cedric. Now, don't get me wrong, amongst the talented bunch I just wrote about, there were of course a smattering of inepts and tossers. But not like Cedric. Cedric was special. He made twattish behaviour an art form. If there were BAFTAs for twattishness (TWAFTAs) then Cedric would have won his category every year. ("And the winner in the Short Fat Twat category is...")
Going back several years, I had been in my new job for two weeks. It was Cedric's first day. Although he wasn't my line manager, clearly someone had forgotten to tell him this. "Team! Meeting room! Now!", boomed Cedric's dulcit tones.
In we filed. He already had PowerPoint up on the screen. We took a seat. What followed was hilarious; a 45-minute presentation called Who is Cedric Brown? As the first slide came up, blank apart from the question "Who is Cedric Brown?", I already had my own answer prepared. It consisted of the indefinite article and a four letter word rhyming with "shunt".
The rest of the 45-minute presentation consisted of Cedric outlining his career to date (estate agent, university, twat) and me alternatively stifling vomit and uncontrollable giggles. It was at this point Cedric decided to outline his strategy for the year ahead. He picked up a red marker pen and strode purposefully towards the flipchart. Well, he tried to stride purposefully but he had fat little legs, so he looked more like a trotting Shetland pony. Cedric turned his back on the group and wrote up his three priorities for the year ahead. He turned back to face the group and what followed will stay with me forever.
"These are my three priorities for next year." He pointed at priority one: "Deliver." He then pointed at the next two priorities. "Deliver. Deliver." He paused and looked round. "Deliver, Deliver, Deliver." Anyone who disagrees with me..." he paused again dramatically, walked over to the meeting room door and opened it. "Anyone who disagrees with me can get out now. Go on. Get out. Get out of my team."
No-one moved, though my shoulders were shaking from the unintentional David Brent impression. "You're on my team, you're on my side, we're going to DELIVER, DELIVER, DELIVER!" He paused, looked smugly around the room and said, "Any questions?"
I looked around. I considered my ability to deliver. Three times. I raised my hand. "Are we going to be working for the Royal Mail?" The tension broke. Everyone laughed. Apart from Cedric.
And that was actually one of the more positive interactions I had with him within an 18-month period. Which is why he's secured my vote in this year's TWAFTAs - for the lifetime achievement award. I believe the prize is falling under a Jubilee Line train*. Fingers crossed he wins.
* In case you think I'm being harsh, his hobbies listed on his presentation to us included kicking puppies, misogyny and morris dancing. Probably.
And then there was Cedric. Now, don't get me wrong, amongst the talented bunch I just wrote about, there were of course a smattering of inepts and tossers. But not like Cedric. Cedric was special. He made twattish behaviour an art form. If there were BAFTAs for twattishness (TWAFTAs) then Cedric would have won his category every year. ("And the winner in the Short Fat Twat category is...")
Going back several years, I had been in my new job for two weeks. It was Cedric's first day. Although he wasn't my line manager, clearly someone had forgotten to tell him this. "Team! Meeting room! Now!", boomed Cedric's dulcit tones.
In we filed. He already had PowerPoint up on the screen. We took a seat. What followed was hilarious; a 45-minute presentation called Who is Cedric Brown? As the first slide came up, blank apart from the question "Who is Cedric Brown?", I already had my own answer prepared. It consisted of the indefinite article and a four letter word rhyming with "shunt".
The rest of the 45-minute presentation consisted of Cedric outlining his career to date (estate agent, university, twat) and me alternatively stifling vomit and uncontrollable giggles. It was at this point Cedric decided to outline his strategy for the year ahead. He picked up a red marker pen and strode purposefully towards the flipchart. Well, he tried to stride purposefully but he had fat little legs, so he looked more like a trotting Shetland pony. Cedric turned his back on the group and wrote up his three priorities for the year ahead. He turned back to face the group and what followed will stay with me forever.
"These are my three priorities for next year." He pointed at priority one: "Deliver." He then pointed at the next two priorities. "Deliver. Deliver." He paused and looked round. "Deliver, Deliver, Deliver." Anyone who disagrees with me..." he paused again dramatically, walked over to the meeting room door and opened it. "Anyone who disagrees with me can get out now. Go on. Get out. Get out of my team."
No-one moved, though my shoulders were shaking from the unintentional David Brent impression. "You're on my team, you're on my side, we're going to DELIVER, DELIVER, DELIVER!" He paused, looked smugly around the room and said, "Any questions?"
I looked around. I considered my ability to deliver. Three times. I raised my hand. "Are we going to be working for the Royal Mail?" The tension broke. Everyone laughed. Apart from Cedric.
And that was actually one of the more positive interactions I had with him within an 18-month period. Which is why he's secured my vote in this year's TWAFTAs - for the lifetime achievement award. I believe the prize is falling under a Jubilee Line train*. Fingers crossed he wins.
* In case you think I'm being harsh, his hobbies listed on his presentation to us included kicking puppies, misogyny and morris dancing. Probably.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Germ warfare
Ploggers, Ploggers, where have I been? I've been up to London to visit the Queen.
Well, not really. Actually I've been alternatively sweating, sneezing, vomiting and many other revolting bodily functions that all come with winter flu. It's been a few years since I've had "proper" flu, and God, it's rubbish. On the plus side, I've lost 7lb in four days. On the minus side, I now look so pale, I could use Tippex as concealer.
I had such plans for this weekend. I was going to make some homemade mince pies, wrap all my Christmas presents, meet a friend for a drink in town... but basically I was relegated to the sofa, wrapped in a Slanket and had a tissue shoved up each nostril. I made little snuffly noises whenever I needed TheBloke (TM) to bring me more liquids (mostly because I was expelling them pretty much constantly from all but one or two orifices).
TheBloke (TM) has been a fantastic nurse - has made me morsels of food when I've felt ready to eat something, has walked through a blizzard to get me Lucozade and ginger ale... and also has the cunning of a plague doctor, as he has somehow done all of this without coming into physical contact with me since I first said, "I feel a bit sniffly". We're still sleeping in separate rooms at the moment, but if his new pyjamas look something like this, I may get a bit suspicious.
Well, not really. Actually I've been alternatively sweating, sneezing, vomiting and many other revolting bodily functions that all come with winter flu. It's been a few years since I've had "proper" flu, and God, it's rubbish. On the plus side, I've lost 7lb in four days. On the minus side, I now look so pale, I could use Tippex as concealer.
I had such plans for this weekend. I was going to make some homemade mince pies, wrap all my Christmas presents, meet a friend for a drink in town... but basically I was relegated to the sofa, wrapped in a Slanket and had a tissue shoved up each nostril. I made little snuffly noises whenever I needed TheBloke (TM) to bring me more liquids (mostly because I was expelling them pretty much constantly from all but one or two orifices).
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Encyclopedic knowledge
"Well," Mrs Nunn declared confidently, "I'm boycotting Amazon."
She paused and looked round for our approval.
"I'm boycotting them because of the whole Wikipedia thing.'
Excellent.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
She paused and looked round for our approval.
"I'm boycotting them because of the whole Wikipedia thing.'
Excellent.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
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