Clubbed over the head

This time last Saturday, TheBloke (TM) and I headed out for a date night. And - I have to break the news to you gently... I was mugged.

Not in a traditional, "Give me your stupid-doggy Radley wallet and any piece of jewellery that isn't made by Claire's Accessories" way (besides which, they would be going away with very little jewellery...), but in a slightly more genteel way.

TheBloke (TM) and I had paid £20 between us to get into a West End club. More about this later, for those of you who know me well enough to know that the last time I went to a nightclub was on my 22nd birthday to go to School Disco. (After which a strange story involving the clocks going back, an illegal, farting minicab driver and an ill-advised kebab featured. But that's perhaps a story for another time.) So we'd paid up our £20 and went to take a seat at the bar. TheBloke (TM) having paid for entry, it was the least I could do to buy a round of drinks.

"What are you having?" I asked TheBloke (TM).

"A manly, manly beer, please," he replied. He only ever drinks manly beer when we're out. At home it's mostly cider or girly cocktails, ideally from a martini glass with a pink umbrella.

I ordered myself a single vodka and coke. Why not? This was a night out at a West End club. Knowing London drinks were on the pricey side, I got myself a tenner ready, not expecting a huge amount of change.

It was at this point, dear Ploggers, I was mugged.

"That'll be £14.50," the barmaid said. Stupefied, I handed over £15. She kept the change, but did present me with a receipt. The receipt showed my vodka and coke cost... wait for it... £9.50. Nine pounds and fifty earth pence for a fricking vodka and coke? Not knowing much about London's drug scene, but I wouldn't mind betting you could buy actual coke, as in cocaine for less.

Staying a little bit later, we thought we'd economise on the drinks and conservatively ordered a coke each. At £4.50 per coke, after we drunk up, we decided it was time to leave. Mostly because if we'd wanted another drink, we'd have had to have remortgaged Monty Cat.

And the name of the club? Stringfellows. The strip bar. Well, why not? We didn't get to see any clunge but there were plenty of boobs on show. I wouldn't recommend it though. With the amount of cash they squeezed out of us (even without the legendary private dances), I felt like I'd been repeatedly raped by Peter Stringfellow himself.

Braaaaiiins

Let's talk about the big ashy cloud of doom which is currently preventing UK flights and may continue to do so for a while to come. The big volcanic ashy blackness which is blighting our very skies as we speak. The thing is, the sky here today looks a little bit like this. No ash. No cloud. Definitely no ashy cloud. Weird, huh?

"Oh well," the experts say, "that's to be expected. The ashy doom is high, high above you. Far too high for you to see it."

But I can see the sun. And I'm guessing the ashy cloud is not higher than the sun. So I reject their hypothesis. There we go. It has been rejected.

So what's my theory? It's a conspiracy theory. I believe there's another reason all UK airports have been closed down. It's one of two things.

1. Heathrow estate agents. They can't shift any of the properties near the runways, so they've agreed a one-week amnesty in which they're going to try to flog as many of the properties as possible whilst there is no air-traffic noise.

2. (And this one's the more likely) Zombies. The UK has had a zombie outbreak, and rather than panic the population, the government has decided to seal the borders. The Eurostar doesn't count because let's face it, it breaks down more often than it goes.

So zombies it is. Luckily, TheBloke (TM) and I are almost certain to be OK, because a) we have not one but two tins of Tesco Value chopped tomatoes, and everyone knows you need tinned food in an emergency and b) we bought a hoe today in B&Q so are fully armed against a zombie invasion. Also c) we can eat Monty Cat if things get really bad. The little bastard just threw up on my new hosepipe, so I'm already considering it just out of spite.

Zombies. You heard it here first...

Luck of the draw

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Playing with fire

As I may have mentioned before, TheBloke (TM) is not allowed to do unsupervised Argos shopping. Having grown up in South Africa, despite living in the UK for over five years now, he still regards Argos as some kind of fairie magic - "They sell everything! In a tiny little space! It's witchcraft!". This can lead to over-excitement and purchasing of absolute rubbish. Mainly because this is all that Argos actually sells.

But on Saturday, we had a legitimate reason to go Argos shopping. And as he is not allowed to go unsupervised, I had to go too. As mentioned, the South African-ness of TheBloke (TM) means that as soon as the weather turns anything warmer than Arctic, he is genetically programmed to need to braai. For the uninitiated, or for those who prefer a greater number of consonants in their words (such as the Welsh), that would be a barbecue. Or for those who really can't get enough consonants, a BBQ.

Well, we always managed to rein this in previously, what with living in a one-bedroom flat with no garden. He was satisfied by the annual barbecue extravaganza, which takes place each summer with Erica and Dean, and we left it at that. But now we have a garden.

So off to Argos we went. A giant, expensive barbecue was bought. I suggested if we were spending that much on a barbecue, we could consider getting one with gas burners. He looked at me with derision and stated simply, "That's cheating."

Now, for me, and very likely you if you're British, a barbecue goes like this: spend an hour or so faffing with the thing trying to get it lit. Make lots of smoke, and ruin your neighbour's laundry. Slap on a couple of still-slightly-frozen burgers and a few sausages. Wait until it's charred on the outside and still raw inside. Eat quickly because it's just started to rain. Go inside again and wonder why there's more washing up than when you cook a normal meal. Take the next three days off with food poisoning.

Not for South Africans. Oh no. Meat had already been purchased and had been marinating since the evening before. "Could you get up at 2 a.m. and turn it over in the marinade?" TheBloke (TM) half joked to me. I didn't. But it was the first thing he did prior to the Argos visit. There was steak, there was chicken, there was marinade, there were curly sausages that looked a bit like dog poo. There may have been Pimms and lemonade, I can't possibly comment.

And you know what? It was pretty good. In fact, the steak was the best I've ever had in the UK. In fact, the cooking was such a success, we had a second one today. Well, we have to get our money's worth out of the braai, don't we?

As Mrs Nunn said to us yesterday, "Enjoy your brie!" Mmm. Cheesy.

Let's do the time warp...

Six months ago we moved from a central London flat to the suburbs. Don't get me wrong, we're still firmly in civilisation (we even have a tube station and everything) but the longer we have been here, the more I'm beginning to think we've been conned.

At first I thought we'd just been conned into thinking we'd moved to a London suburb. Sure, approach our house from the tube station and it's a built-up, suburban, terraced-house row of streets. Nothing unusual there. But turn the other way (as we only did - crucially once we'd moved in) and we're in the middle of Epping Forest. We accidentally moved to the country! A fox sleeps on the top of our shed and there's a sign for deer crossing at the bottom of the road. Conned!

But hey ho, a little bit of countryside never killed anyone. But a few things have been clicking into place recently and I've realised something. It's not the country we've moved to, but the 1920s.

"Now Laura," I can hear you say, "that doesn't make sense. We understand you're under a lot of stress what with the stupid cat and everything, and that you're watching Dr Who avidly since they put God* in charge but surely you don't believe in time travel."

Let me tell you this. For the last few Sunday mornings at about 10 a.m. I've heard a bell ringing outside the door. It goes up and down the street like a shit ice cream van where the chimes have been replaced by a hand bell. Today I finally got round to investigate it. It's a rag and bone man. Let me just say that again. On Sundays our street is visited by a rag and bone man. OK, he has a van rather than a horse-drawn carriage, but really. Rag and bone? Weird.

"OK Laura," you say, "we'll give you that it's a bit strange and definitely old fashioned. But one weirdy thing on a street does not a wibbly wobbly timey wimey thing make. Try again."

Fine. So today, being a Bank Holiday meant that at 10 a.m. I was cooking a health-giving breakfast of sausages, bacon and scrambled eggs. At which point the doorbell rang. I unlocked the door and a twelve year-old boy was standing there looking sheepish. I half-suspected he was playing a practical joke and had forgotten to run away quickly enough.

"Sharpening?" he asked.

"Sorry?" my befuddled morning brain replied.

An older man on the other side of the street, meanwhile, wielded a leather strop and a small grinder. "Sharpening!" he bellowed.

So there you have it Ploggers. I am residing in the 1920s when a rag and bone man calls weekly and the knife sharpener calls door to door. I was half expecting a chorus of "Who Will Buy" to break out. The other possibility is we've moved slap bang into a musical of "Oliver!". If anyone comes to the door selling sweet red roses, two blooms for a penny, I'll let you know.

* Steven Moffat

Medium at large

Ploggers, I am disappointed in you. For several years now, I have been Plogging away, hoping to bring a smile to your sad old faces from time to time. Feeling that maybe, just maybe, I was beginning to build a bit of a brand for myself.

Today I looked at the statistics on how people are accessing the site. Look at this. Just look at it.

I hope you can read that. If not, it shows quite clearly that "Monty Cat Nunn" is the top- by far - search term in Google to find my page. "Laura's Plog" gets fewer than half as many hits. So not only do I have a stupid, ginger, expensive cat who's too thick to learn the use of a cat flap (hint Monty: the clue's in the word "flap"), but he's now taking credit for my Plog. Well, someone isn't getting his meaty nibbles tomorrow. (I've just told TheBloke (TM) this and he's now upset and worried I'll take his meaty nibbles away. That's South Africans for you.)

You'll be pleased to know that people are still looking forward to seeing Tamsin Greig naked on this Plog. I'm beginning to wonder what the fuss is about and beginning to think I'd quite like to see her naked too, so I'll keep you posted on that. Also an honourable mention for Erica, whose Wanking Club, apparently is still - erm - up and coming?

Bizarrely, the most emails I get from fans (oh, OK, people who ended up on the wrong website accidentally) are about Madam Tamar, a medium I went to see when I was about 17. I say a medium, in so much as she was a fortune teller, not just a lady who was of average size. I remain a healthy sceptic (as healthy as I can be with the amount of chocolate I pour down my throat on a daily basis) about all things otherworldly... and generally prefer my life without a spoiler alert. However, my cousin Nicky does regular medium work. As in spiritual stuff, not as in she works moderately hard. I think I already did that joke.

So... (clears throat). Once and for all. Everyone looking for Madam Tamar of Weston Super Mare (or Weston Super Mud as we always called it). We are fairly sure that the lady in question has - in spiritual language, "passed" or in Laura language, "kicked the bucket". She was at least 312 so I guess that's a good innings.

So, why not give my cousin Nicky a try? Her website is at http://www.nicolajefferies.co.uk/ and I can vouch for her being a lovely human being and a good laugh. She lives in Bristol, so I reckon she's probably got Madam Tamar's patch covered. (I wonder if I've accidentally started some sort of spiritualist war where each medium owns a patch like a drug dealer. That would be very funny. But of course they'd see it coming.)

Peeping Tom

Monty Cat is not God's gift to feline intellect. He's not even a moderately bright cat. At this stage, we don't see him going to university. When he was little, he would repeatedly jump up onto the counter by the sink, obsessed with running water. He would then stick his head under the tap to get closer to the water... but could never work out how or why he was getting wet.

Here is Monty Cat at Mr and Mrs Nunn's house, being filmed: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GJn9eDtBEbQ Apologies for the title of the clip. Believe it or not, that is Mr Nunn's doing.

Still, it wasn't until last weekend we genuinely started to wonder if he had learning difficulties, that he might have been dropped on his head as a kitten. Repeatedly.

We have been unable to fit a proper cat flap to the house as we have a conservatory at the back, and it's really difficult to fit a flap into glass. Monty Cat does enjoy going outside whilst we're at work, so we decided in order for him to have shelter if it starts raining, we'd put a cat flap on the shed. Last weekend TheBloke (TM) diligently beavered away, like a diligent beaver and fitted a Monty Cat flap to the shed.

Monty Cat was not interested. We sat on one side and tempted him through with treats. He didn't understand. We posted him through physically a few times, to help him get the hang of it. We shut him in the shed and called him encouragingly from the other side. No joy. Eventually, out of desperation, we removed the flap part of the cat flap so it was just a hole in the shed.

The neighbourhood cats came to play. In and out of the shed they went. In and out and out and in. Monty Cat would look at them with wonderment. You could see on his little cat face, as they disappeared into the shed, the question, "Well where did that cat go? What witchcraft is this?"

"Never mind," we thought. As soon as it rains, instinct will take over and he'll head for the shelter. I came home on Thursday after work. It had been raining. I went to let Monty Cat in for his dinner, and in sprinted a soggy, soggy moggy.

Next door's cat )Monty Cat's girlfriend) popped her head out of our shed to see what was going on.

Monty Cat is stupid. Luckily we have a special needs school at the top of the road.

Thick ear

I know, I know, I haven't Plogged for ages, and this - I fear - will be of small consolation for those of you who are on tenterhooks, unable to fully enjoy their life until the next Plog comes along. For those people, I say, "Get a life." Harsh, but true. Seriously, it's spring. Go and look at the daffodils or something.

For the rest of you, it's just a photo, I'm afraid. Yesterday TheBloke (TM) and I went to Beckton Triangle. For the uninitiated, this is a retail park. Oh yes, we're glamorous. There are all manner of upmarket stores here, from the Argos to DFS, to a B&Q and - excitingly - a Pets At Home store. Where of course we had to stop off to buy presents and treats for an increasingly naughty Monty Cat. I am not entirely sure Monty Cat is deserving of either presents or treats. I suspect he has been fighting with neighbourhood cats. I suspect this because he appears to have a cut on his furry little lip and no longer seems to want to go outside. Remind me to Plog sometime about trying to teach our learning difficulties cat (unsuccessfully) to use a cat flap.

Anyway, Monty Cat treats were bought and were paid for at the checkout, where I also saw these.

Pigs' ears. For feeding to your dog. Not just any pigs' ears though. Diet pigs' ears. Which made me wonder two things:

Thing 1: How do you take the fat out of a pig's ear, in order to create a diet product?

Thing 2: If you don't do Thing 1, do you just hack the ears off the pigs which are less obese, that is to say, the thinner pigs, and put them in the packet?

The mind boggles.

Journal-ist

Reading really old diaries is weird. I've always been pretty much of the belief that fundamentally you don't change as a person, that your character is fairly fixed from a young age. Yet reading diaries from my childhood, I seem like a totally different person.

As an adult, I actively avoid conflict. I think the last proper row I had was when I was about 17, and even then, I remember just storming out the sixth form common room and walking it off around the quad. Not exactly violent or over-emotional. I am pretty difficult to rile, and even when I'm really upset about something, anger is rare. Unless I'm on a customer services call to Tiscali or Tower Hamlets Council. And I did once call Billy from the Carphone Warehouse a fuckwit. But, to be fair, he was being a fuckwit.

But reading old diaries from when I was a kid, I was an angry, angry child. I wonder if I perhaps wrote down the anger rather than venting it? I'm sure my parents will chip in and let me know whether or not I did have screaming tantrums and shout all the things I used to write. I have no memory of it. I remember storming up to my room a lot and writing furiously, but I don't remember screaming and shouting. Memory is unreliable though. For example, I have no recollection of this (apologies to all involved - though 20 years later it feels a bit redundant!):

19 November 1990

School was OK. I am upstairs. It is 6.27 p.m. Mum has told me I have to be in bed for 8. Because I said she was a fart. She isn't a fart. She's a fucking stinking smelly toad brain farting goose pimply zit brained butt headed, greasy skinned wombat with a stinking arse. I wish I was dead. I wish she was dead and I wish Jack was dead. Chris is going out with Susan again.

***

Got to love that juxtaposition at the end there. Made even better by the very next entry. For reference, Matthew was my boyfriend at the time. This mostly involved just telling people you were going out with each other and very little else:

22 November 1990

A lot of news today. At lunch time Susan asked Matthew if he fancied anyone else. He said yes but wouldn't say who so Liz asked him and she got it out of him. He fancied Susan. So I packed him in once and for all and now Susan is going out with him. I will never go out with him again. Here is a list of boys I would go out with:

John

Chris

Matthew (yes, the one my eleven-year-old self just dumped)

Alan

Paul

I am still Susan's friend but I HATE Matthew. I am going to kill him (I hope!). Had piano lesson today. It is cold outside. Also had violin lesson.

I hate Matthew. If he asked me out I might go out with him but probably not.

***

I wonder what a greasy-skinned wombat actually looks like. Pictures please.

Taking the biscuit

I wish I'd had my camera with me today. At lunchtime I wandered over to the library* at Canary Wharf, as I've got a nasty three-a-week paperback habit.

Before I complete this Plog in my usual sarcastic, belittling style, I would like to say that I think the library here is fantastic. The staff are knowledgeable*, their computer system is amazing (you just have to pop a pile of books next to a computer monitor and it automatically knows all of the ones you want to take out) and they even email you a few days before your book becomes overdue, so you don't even have to pay any fines.

A couple of weeks, despite their advanced warning system, I returned a paperback a day late, and the automated system told me I had to pay a 10p fine. So I took the book to the front desk and told the lady that the system had charged me. She said, "Well that's very rude of it, isn't it?"

I said, "Well, I think it's my fault rather than its, for bringing the book back late."

I proffered my 10p, which she refused "in the interests of customer service". Bless her. I don't know if it occurred to her that really, even if I had taken umbrage at my 10p fine and refused to patronise the library in the future, exactly what the library would lose from that. It's kind of a topsy-turvy business model; in a way, the fewer customers they have, the cheaper the place is to run.

Anyway, I digress. Today I went into the library and walked past a colourful sign stating, "Slimming World here today! 12 noon! No joining fee!" It was exactly 12 noon as I entered the place.

The library also appeared to be celebrating its birthday. Its fourth birthday to be precise. This was a bit odd, but there were balloons and they were offering four free DVD rentals. Then I noticed it. Right by the entrance to the Slimming World room was a giant birthday cake. I'd been in the library for approximately two minutes when an announcement came over the tannoy:

"Ladies and gentlemen, to celebrate our fourth birthday we would like to share cake with all our customers. Please go to the front of the library for a slice of cake."

There was one fatty (sorry, Slimming World customer) who I swear dithered for a full 30 seconds, as if pulled by opposing magnetic forces between the cake and the weight loss group. The cake inevitably won. It would have made a perfect photo. The massive cake, the Slimming World sign and the dithering fatty.

It was good cake.

* Actually, Tower Hamlets, in its infinite dickdom, has renamed all of its libraries "Idea Stores". Because a brainstorming session run by council morons have clearly decided the youff don't know what a library is, and so have simplified the concept. Were the staff not quite so lovely, I would be tempted to amuse myself by going to the front desk on a weekly basis and asking to purchase one of their finest ideas. And when they said that they didn't sell them, I would cite the Trades Description Act. "You clearly state this is a store. A store for ideas. If I set up an egg shop and refuse to sell you eggs, you'd think I was quite, quite mad. Now sell me an idea or I'll sue you!"

* The staff are knowledgeable generally, apart from the lady today, when I took out Gone with the Wind on DVD, who said to me, "Heathcliff!" I said, "I hope Heathcliff isn't in it. I bloody hate Wuthering Heights." She said, "Oh, it's similar though, isn't it?" I said, "Well, um, Gone with the Wind is set during the American Civil War and Wuthering Heights is set in... um... Yorkshire, so..." But then she started whistling a Kate Bush song, so I left it at that.

PS Hazel informs me she's now opened up the group to public membership, so if you want to join: http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=402667614464&ref=ts, my extra special friends get a free badge.

Blast from the past

Ploggers, it may shock you to know that the Plog is not my first foray into the written word. I've kept a diary regularly from the age of 12 up to the present day, which makes for hilariously excellent reading from time to time... but most of the time is quite dull and generally full of worries about French tests and still not understanding the subjunctive. A bit swotty and dull.

But Ploggers, home with Mr and Mrs Nunn this weekend, I came across a treasure chest. My diary from when I was ten years old. In fact, two diaries from this period. The first is the Judy Blume Diary and the second is the Judy Blume Memory Book. The latter is a series of questionnaires you're supposed to fill in to build up a picture of your life.

Ploggers, it is by far the funniest thing I have read all weekend. I have some choice excerpts for you and - depending on demand and how lazy I'm feeling - there may be more at a later date. For now:

19th March 1990

Most awful day in school ever. Nobody knows about this but I had to write out 20 times, "I must remember to do my homework." I had to do it through breaktime.. I finished before the end of break and Miss Schenk said, "Now get on with something you want to do." I felt like saying I wanted to blow her up with a bomb!

13 April 1990

Today I came back from my friend Abi's. She gave me a Kylie Minogue tape. It is brill!

17 April 1990

I am 10 and a half exactly today. I came back from Grandma's today. I was really worried about the rabbit because we went away for 3 1/2 days. Luckily my friend Jennie looked after him and managed okay. I had five Easter eggs. My brother Jack had six. He would have had two more than me because he got one from his childminder AND his playgroup leader as well but on Mothers' Day, me and Jennie gave the old lady down the road a posy, so I got an Easter egg from them and Jack didn't. Jack keeps using my video tapes to record Sesame Street on.

** I think the next one is my absolute favourite **

16 May 1990

In 25 minutes I will be going to my piano exam Grade II. I am really really really nervous. Penny is taking me and bringing me back. I have had the day off school for practice. I also have diarrhoea.

Eggs-tremely egg-cellent

I have always maintained I have fantastic friends. If you're going to be jealous of me, my friends are definitely the thing you'll be wanting to envy me for. (Though some of you may covet my Tesco jumper, as per below, which perhaps says more about you than it does about me.)

Let's start the story at the beginning. I was leaving my last place of employment, and had about £10 left on my staff canteen card. I couldn't find a way of refunding this back into my bank account or exchanging it for cash, so the only thing to do was to spend it. Under normal circumstances I'd have treated the team to a round of coffees, but as per http://laurasplog.blogspot.com/2010/02/how-to-win-friends.html, I decided not to. I had a bacon sandwich and a coffee, but this still left about £7 on my card.

Luckily, the staff shop was doing three Cadbury's Creme Eggs for £1. You can't say fairer than that, nor find a better deal on the high street (believe me, I've tried). Those of you who've Plogged with me for a while will know I am a fan of Cadbury's Creme Eggs. Quite a big fan. I don't think we need to talk about it further (though rest assured, I have not joined any crappy Facebook groups proclaiming the fact)*. Reader, in short, I purchased 21 Cadbury's Creme Eggs.

"Never mind," I lied to myself, "they will see me through to the summer." I neglected to remind myself we already had a handful in the cupboard at home. "It's a bargain!" I told myself.

That evening, our lovely friend Brickwork came for dinner... bringing some Cadbury's Creme Egg Easter eggs. I was so excited, I did a little dance. Even more so when she told me they were both for me and TheBloke (TM) couldn't have any.

The next day, Erica and Dean came to stay for the weekend... bringing with them what is probably the best cake I have ever seen. Here it is!

This - for the uninitiated - is a chocolate orange cake decorated with Cadbury's Creme Eggs. You cannot have any. It is mine. Also, it is all gone now, as are all but three of its Creme Eggs. I don't want to talk about it. I've been in the house by myself a lot this week. Accidents happen.

So, last night, yet more friends came for dinner - cue Sarah and Martin, and another lovely box of Cadbury's Creme Eggs! I must be the luckiest Laura in the whole of Ilford (and possibly the whole of East London).

So anyway, TheBloke (TM) insisted I understood the magnitude of my greedy, greedy Creme Egg habit, and took photos of me with said eggs (please bear in mind I've eaten at least four this week...). Did it make me feel remorseful? Did it bollocks. My friends rock!

* Proving my point about my friends' loveliness - and sense of humour - my lovely friend Hazel has created the following group with a sense of irony and the requisite number of exclamation marks. Much like cultured guardsman Michael of Bethnal Green might say, "Go on, you know you want to!!": http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=402667614464&ref=ts

Fan-tastic

Ploggers, dear Ploggers. I know you have previously put up with my musings on Facebook, specifically status updates (see here: http://laurasplog.blogspot.com/2010/01/de-friended.html) but with some time on my hands this week, I've probably been spending more time on the site than I should have.

And I have noticed something new - the Facebook "groups" people join and the things they "become a fan of". As no stranger to (or critique of) fans with a genuine shared passion in something, I can totally understand groups dedicated to TV shows, music, celebrities even - I get it. And as for groups, well, I'm a happy member of the Facebook group which exists entirely to compare my high school headmistress with Andrew Lloyd Webber: http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=2265646064&ref=ts It's funny. Seems pointless to start with, but really it's a forum for people with a shared experience of the school to catalogue their memories. (i.e. bitch about teachers.)

I have no problem with any of this. However (there's always a "however" with me, isn't there), in my week off work here are some of the genuine Facebook groups that friends, relatives, casual acquaintances have joined:

• I want to go on the rollercoaster on the Barclays advert!!!!!
• Ever looked at your ex now and thought what the FUCK was I thinking?
• I hate it when the snow turns to ice!!! (multiple exclamation marks seem a regular feature)
• Keep all the Pontins staff the way they are now!!!!!!!
• Join if you've seen SNOW this week!!!!

And here are some things my friends have "become a fan of"

• Listening to that certain song over and over again
• Oh just stop breathing, you vile little slag
• If its got TITS or WHEELS its TROUBLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (again, good grammar not a priority. Unlike the capitalised tits)
• I'm dying to talk to you but I'm not gonna text first
• Bring back LUCKY CHARMS cereal to the UK
• I love Christmas!!!

I apologise to anyone who may recognise their own group there, but seriously, seriously did you need to join people who love Christmas or have seen snow? Why would you want to associate with people who listen to the same song over and over again? It's almost certainly not going to be the same song as you listen to. The only thing you've got in common with these people is an obsessive-compulsive disorder and a nasty Facebook habit.

And the rollercoaster on the Barclays advert isn't real. It'll be CGI'd. It would be very, very prohibitively expensive to build it. Honest. I've worked in marketing so I know what I'm talking about. And I would also be more interested to know if there are people who LOVE it (with many exclamations) when snow turns to ice.

Fuckwits.

Oh, hang on a minute, why do I have no Facebook contacts left? Anyone want to become a fan of "Laura has no friends"?

Regression therapy

I'm currently in the middle of a week's annual leave, so I'm getting lots of little jobs done. So far I have achieved an almost unfeasible amount of Very Good Things Indeed. I am very proud of myself and have awarded myself a gold star for good behaviour.

Yesterday I returned to my old stomping ground in Bethnal Green. Well, you've got to do a bit of stomping, haven't you? I met a friend for a walk in Victoria Park and popped in to see my tenants. A few things had changed in the area in the six months since I was last there. The lesbian cafe* had closed down and a new handrail had been put up in the block where I used to live. Beyond that, it was much of a muchness.

I was delighted to see that my favourite notice was still up at the newsagents. In the five years I lived in Bethnal Green, this notice always took pride of place in the front window of the little Asian newsagents.

I love everything about this notice, from the fact that he is a cultured ex-guardsman, to the fact that - God knows how many years ago - he was 73, to the fact that in case there were any ladies dithering, he persuades them at the end with "Go on, you know you want to!!". Those cheeky two exclamation marks at the end, I imagine, make ladies swoon all over the country. Well, all over Bethnal Green anyway.

As I was trying to take a photo of it, as surreptitiously as possible (which wasn't that surreptitious as my phone is quite new and I'm still getting to grips with the photo function), a guy stopped and said to me, "That card has been there for about 20 years. And he was 73 then!" I quickly interjected with, "I'm taking a photo because it's funny, not because I'm going to call him!" I'm not sure if I was entirely believed.

Also, and on a slightly different tack, I'm not entirely sure that corrective discipline and "colonic therapy" go that nicely together. The mind boggles, and the buttocks clench.

So, anyone want to be brave and make Michael's day? Let me know how you get on. And whether he was firm but fair, dominant but cultured, and, of course, exactly what colonic therapy is. I look forward to hearing from you.

* I have no evidence that this was a lesbian cafe other than it only ever had women in it, and they only served organic, vegetarian food and a few of them had short hair. And it was called Wild Cherry. Which sounded vaguely suggestive at the very least.

How to win friends...

I've started this sentence three times. It's a tricky one. I'm trying to find a subtle, nice way of saying, "I'm fucking glad to be leaving my job." Hmm, I guess that will do. It is difficult though; whilst there are always some people I like more than others, generally I get on with people really well and have almost always enjoyed the vast majority of any job I've had. With this one - honestly - I never really clicked.

The good news is I've found somewhere to move to where the people seem friendly, the work seems interesting and relevant, and where I don't have to work with someone whose personal motto is borrowed from Machiavelli. (More about this particular character, no doubt, in future Plogs.)

It's been a bumpy ride, to put it mildly. There have been difficult colleagues and challenging stakeholders*. Still, this was a situation I had fixed - admittedly by handing my notice in. Anyway, this was my leaving lunch with a handpicked crew of people I got on with OK. It was actually really nice. We had a laugh, and at the end of the meal my manager (actually a decent guy) made a short speech, and handed me a card, saying there were some book tokens within and he hoped I'd get something to remember them all by.

I was touched by the gesture and went to Krispy Kreme and to Waitrose and bought £30 of cakes for them all.

When I got home, I opened the Waterstones giftcard, and read the message my manager had written. The leaving card had been round the department of about 70 people, many of whom had signed with nice messages. My manager had written on the little card that came with the giftcard, "Laura, good luck for the future, and I hope you will buy something to cherish and remember us by. From your friends and colleagues."

I noticed there was a receipt in with the giftcard indicating the amount on the card - the only way to find out how many cherishable books I could purchase. How sweet of them, and how nice that these 70 friends and colleagues had a whip-round. The total value of the giftcard?

£12.

I think I was right. I think it is time to move on. At least I've chosen the book I want to buy, to remember them:

* This is business speak for "tosser bastards".

Toads

"Why should I let the toad work squat on my life?" asked Philip Larkin. Often, when you're completing the same meaningless spreadsheet for the 19th time, fully aware that no-one is ever going to look at it, it's tempting to see his point.

I used to have a mini routine in my stand up which went, "Would anyone really notice if you didn't complete that spreadsheet? Would it really matter if you didn't go into the office tomorrow? Would anyone even care if you fell off the face of the earth? (pause) My line manager said to me this morning. Well, that gets my annual review out of the way."

But the question remains: why should I let the toad work squat on my life? For me the answer is actually pretty simple: shiny things. I like shiny things. In order to procure shiny things, I generally have to exchange magic beans. Or money, as it's sometimes called. I've found that the toad work is reasonably efficacious in producing magic beans. And magic beans produce shiny things.

It's my last day at the current toad pond, and with five days off before commencing work with my new employers and experiencing the next round of amphibious delights, I suppose I'm technically unemployed, or toad-free for the next few days. And, owing a spectacular cock-up with my final pay packet, I'm also going to be reasonably magic-bean free for the next month. Hey ho.

What I really need to do is find a way of producing magic beans without the involvement of toads. Or fairy godmothers or the lottery. Suggestions on a postcard, please.

Latin is a language, as dead as dead can be. First it killed the Romans, now it's killing me.

Ladies and gentlemen, I can only apologise for my absence. I have no real excuse. Work has not been manic, my social life has not been hectic, I have not been ill. Just lazy.

So I shall try to make it up to you with a Plog so splendiferous it will set your very eyes on fire. In a good way.

Many, many moons ago when I was at school, Latin was a compulsory subject. Ploggers, I went to the sort of school that had a Flower Monitress (responsible for ensuring the classroom had fresh flowers), where you had to stand up when the teacher came in the room, and where it was pretty much expected that you would be bullied by staff and pupils alike if you didn't get all "A" grades at GCSE. If you chose not to go to university, there was a mandatory 60-minute interview with our headmistress (a formidable lady) where I am told you were browbeaten into completing your UCAS form "just in case" whilst being shown photos of unemployed women with fourteen children, with your face Photoshopped into it. That last bit might be an exaggeration.

Needless to say, my parents chose the school for me because it reminded them of their own school days. In the fifties. 'Nuff said.

Anyway, Latin was a compulsory subject in the Lower Fourth (or 2nd year, or year 8, whatever you want to call it). If you did badly enough at it, they let you drop it by the Upper Fourth (or 3rd year, or year 9 or whatever). Our Lower Fourth Latin teacher was a lady nearing her retirement, whom - if memory serves - we nicknamed Pussyfoot for her habit of creeping up on us whilst we were (feloniously) eating our lunch in the classroom (rather than walking the five minutes to the dinner hall) and telling us off. Yes, we were bad through and through.

Astonishingly, I did not do badly enough at Latin to be allowed to drop it the following year, despite - to this day - never having got my head around the difference between declensions and conjugations - or indeed, why we had to study it. Pussyfoot having retired, we were given a new teacher, brand new to the school, to drill Latin into our stupid little heads.

Her name was... well, I won't tell you, but I'll give her a pseudonym. Let's call her Miss Roberts. Now, I will not deny that 14 year-old girls can be a bit cruel. An extract from my diary on an "own clothes" day reads, "Teachers are so sad. Mrs McDonald was wearing spray-on jeans and Miss Andrews was wearing baggy leggings - they always get it so wrong!" This from the girl who seemed to spend most of her teenage years in a checked shirt from the local factory shop, and an ethnic skirt with bells sewn into it.

So yes, girls can be cruel. But straight away it became apparent that Miss Roberts looked much less like a Latin teacher... and much more like an air hostess. Including the brightly-coloured suit, with a very short skirt, a matching neck tie, high heels and more make up than the Oxford Street John Lewis Clinique counter normally sells in a week.

At parents' evening, most parents had a system - the mums would speak to half the teachers, the dads to the other half - covering everything they needed to in half the time. Both of my parents will swear that the queue of dads to see Miss Roberts was not entirely gender balanced.

Little wits that we were, it wasn't long before we thought up the endlessly amusing catch-phrase, based on the premise of Miss Roberts being a frustrated air hostess: "Tea? Coffee? Latin lesson?" I had still learned no Latin and regularly used to get Katy Who Smells of Wee to do my rough work for me*.

Anyway, the next year I dropped Latin, Miss Roberts left a couple of years later ("to teach boys; I prefer boys" - a great statement to make in an all-girls' high school) and the world went on.

Until last week. When I received a friend suggestion on Facebook to add Miss Roberts. Out of curiosity, I clicked through to her page. She only had two other friends. I checked out the info on her profile. She now appears to be a travel agent.

So what I'm saying is - cruel as 14 year-old girls can be - we saw it coming.

* This backfired in May 1994 when I was chosen to read out my translation of Quintus' latest dull adventures in culina with Scintilla. I looked down at my rough work (in Katy's handwriting) and confidently asserted to the class, "Quintus was jay-walking down the high street, wearing pants made of jelly."

Eastenders

There are a few things I miss about living in Bethnal Green: the short journey into the city, a relatively modern flat that didn't seem to need as much maintenance as our 1930s' house does, proximity to restaurants, a nice big Sainsbury's. Nothing insurmountable.

There are many things I do not miss about living in Bethnal Green: the tramp who used to sleep in the communal entrance to our flat, the fact that my car was towed approximately every seven minutes and Tower Hamlets council who - given an appropriate budget and a venue - would still be utterly unable to organise a drinking session in a place that brewed beer.

And then there's stuff that was just always there. Like the Tower Hamlets' free local paper eastendlife (all one word, no capitals, clearly a tribute to e e cummings).

Luckily (or unluckily, I haven't decided yet), I have discovered I can pick up a free copy of said newspaper from the library next door to where I work. I say "newspaper" - to be fair, there is very rarely any actual news contained within. It's normally a couple of articles about a new school crossing (with a picture of appropriately grinning Asian kids and a token white child to reflect Tower Hamlet's diverse population.) and a call to old people to tell them they should join a social club. The three articles are then replicated in Urdu and Bengali so you get to see the same leering buffoons and dribbly oldsters several times over. As far as I am aware, it hasn't yet won any journalism prizes.

However, eastendlife has surpassed itself this week. The front page headline reads: "There's no excuse for domestic abuse". Excellent! A rhyme!

But then they take excellence to a new level with their subheading: "Don't suffer in silence, says victim of violence". Oh. My. God. A rhyming couplet about wife-beating. This is genius.
I understand exactly what they've done here and on an intellectual level, it's simply supreme.

As we all know from our studies of literature, the couplet is often used to denote (particularly in Shakespeare) the end or "rounding off" of an act. So by using the couplets as an expression of finishing, of finality, we are being encouraged to stop, to finish - if you like - violence. Very, very clever.

Additionally, it's a handy rhyme to remember. Picture the scene. You're a big, angry (or a little, angry) eastendman (all one word, no capitals). You have been stereotypically in the pub all day and then off to the dogs that night. Your dog lost. You are angrier than a wasp in a tumble drier. You come home and your wife starts nagging you because you've been having an affair with her sister. What a cow. She's clearly got it coming. She deserves it, and you know it. It's time to give her the slapping she expects.

But wait a second! What's this? There's a handy rhyme stuck in your head for such an occasion: "There's no excuse for domestic abuse". You remember it just in time. The wife remains unslapped and you don't have to go to prison (until a week later when you get done for that burglary and the guys inside beat you up because your slapping arm is out of practice).

Thank you eastendlife!

Pro-nunn-ciation

Well, Mr and Mrs Nunn have been to stay, and were reasonable well behaved. For once. However, Mrs Nunn has a unique way of speaking. And if you wish to speak Mrs Nunn-ese, then please find below a Mrs Nunn dictionary and pronunciation guide:

Bedroom = bear-drum

Buffet = boofay

Chihuahua = shi-wow-wow

Obama - oh-bam-ah

Posthumously - pos-thumb-osly

Rabid = ray-bid

Repeat (as in a TV repeat) = Ree-peat

There are more which escape my mind currently but I will add them as they occur to me.

So a sentence from Mrs Nunn might sound, "Someone call Oh-bam-ah! There's a ray-bid shi-wow-wow in the bear-drum eating the boofay! And the CD player is stuck on ree-peat. At this rate I'll be hearing it pos-thumb-osly!"

Of course, this would depend on several things:

- Mrs Nunn knowing Obama's phone number

- Having a buffet set up in the bedroom

- A rabid dog somehow making it to the UK and somehow getting to Loughborough, and into my parents' bedroom

- Mrs Nunn even attempting to operate the CD player.

And the least likely of all of those? The idea that she could operate the CD player. The others all sound par for the course in the Nunn household.

Most moist

You could knock me down with a feather. I would really rather you didn't though. Seriously. Apart from anything else, it's quite an undignified way to fall over. "How did you fall over, Laura?"

"Some cunt knocked me down with a feather."

I digress. Yesterday, in honour of TheBloke (TM)'s birthday (happy birthday, TheBloke (TM)!), I made Esme's Secret Recipe Chocolate Orange Drizzle Cake. Esme is my grandma and makes the best cakes... anywhere. She's also (in true Nunn tradition) an old slapper. Luckily she doesn't read my Plog so I can get away with it.

Anyway, I Tweeted about Esme's Secret Recipe Chocolate Orange Drizzle Cake and I was overwhelmed with recipe requests.

Never one to disappoint my Ploggers, I requested permission to publish from Esme herself, and here - in full - is the secret recipe. One condition. Let me know when you've made it - I promise it's the best, most moist cake I've ever eaten. All measurements are in old money. And I'm not going to spell out how you mix a cake. You read my Plog so you must be clever. You can work it out.

Cake

Greased 2lb loaf tin

6 oz caster sugar

6 oz butter or marge

3 eggs

6 oz self-raising flour

Grated rind of 2 oranges

2 tablespoons of cold milk

Cook for 1 hour on gas mark 4 and turn out onto cooling rack.

Drizzle

2 oz caster sugar

Juice of 2 oranges

When cake is still a little warm, make small cuts on top then drizzle orange over the top. Stand on a plate so cake can soak up excess drizzle.

Chocolate topping

4 oz block of plain chocolate

½ oz butter

Bain marie or microwave on low heat and mix. Use palette knife to cover top and sides of cake.

Enjoy - and tell me what you think!