50 Shades of Shit

One of the downsides of a long-ish commute to work is that when you're in pain from backache, and sitting hurts more than anything else, the journey feels hellish.

As a result, I've been trying extra-hard to find Kindle books that totally absorb me for the journey, as I find it's a kind of hypnosis.  Whilst it doesn't ease the pain completely, it stops me from focusing in on it.  Unfortunately "worthy" books rarely distract me as much as the trashy ones.  So for the last few weeks (with the exception of the fantastic Anne Tyler's new book The Beginner's Goodbye), I have been reading utter, utter guff on my journeys to and from work.  This guff has included The Hunger Games and most recently, though I'm ashamed to say it, Fifty Shades of Grey.

Fifty Shades of Grey was recommended to my by a colleague who told me a) not to read it on the tube (the joys of a Kindle means no-one knows what you're reading) and b) that it was really, really good.  Now, for those of you who have managed to avoid the hype so far, here is an outline of the book:

- University graduate meets hot multi-millionaire
- Multi-millionaire likes spanking university graduate
- His dark, tortured childhood is hinted at
- They go out in a private jet / helicopter / gilder a lot
- They do a bit more spanking, but nothing particularly shocking.  Unless I'm just perverse.

So far, so pedestrian.

The Amazon reviews are glowing.  Apparently it's a "deeply layered" story, which is "realistic" and "unputdownable".  Well, the last one has been disproved at least, as I've launched the Kindle across the room twice in disgust, not at the "erotic" scenes, but at at the truly terrible writing.

In addition to the bullet points above, as far as I can tell, the following happens at least 20 times.  Each.

• Ana says "Oh my".  This one actually happens about a million times
• She bites her bottom lip.  This girl is going to need surgery soon.
• She hears the tear of another foil packet.  Perhaps he's telling you he's putting a condom on.  If I know men, he's more likely to be opening a Pepperami.
• Ana speaks to her "inner goddess".  Ana's inner goddess is a cunt.  Fact.
• She rolls her eyes.  She does this so often, I expect she might be having petits mals.  She's probably epileptic.
• She is called "baby" by Christian.  If any man called me baby once, let alone 20 times, I would fucking shoot him in the face.  This might be why I'm not married to a multi-millionaire.

Anyway, give it a go.  It's great.  Anyone got any recommendations for a page-turner that isn't absolute shit?

Send in the muscle

Ploggers, Ploggers, Ploggers, I can only apologise for my tardiness in writing.  It's been a lovely but busy few weeks... which is no real excuse, as I actually managed to take a few days' annual leave.  My biggest problem at the moment is a massive backache, which makes sitting for any length of time (i.e. 5 minutes) really painful.  Until recently, I would balance the laptop on my tummy and tap away.  However, said tummy is now roughly the size of Mount Everest and the stupid laptop refuses to balance.

So I'm typing this as quickly as I can with a family-sized box of codeine next to me, just in case.  They don't really make family-sized boxes of codeine.  That wouldn't really be an appropriate marketing strategy.  They should though.  The first time I took it, I giggled at cheese in Tesco for approximately 15 minutes.

So I've been seeing a bunch of useless bastards healthcare professionals to try and sort the backache out, with somewhat limited success.  They're all lovely - just not terribly efficacious.  My physio in particular takes delight in hurting me.  It's a kind of deep tissue massage where she "releases pressure points" - this is technical terminology for getting her fingers or elbows or other evil pointy part of her body and jamming it into a part of my body which - until this point - wasn't hurting at all.  Apparently that's irrelevant, and it'll release pressure elsewhere.  I have pain in my spine and shoulder blades.  On Friday, she stuck her elbow into my arse.  Until I screamed.

Admittedly, at that point, I probably shouldn't have said, "Have you ever considered a career as a dominatrix?  I think they might earn more than physios."

Mental note: when someone has the wherewithal, the opportunity and quite literally the licence to cause you pain, perhaps suggesting they're a sex worker isn't the easiest route to a pain-free future.  You live, you learn.

Sick note

Pretty much the first question people ask you when you tell them you're pregnant is, "Ooh, have you been sick much?"  The answer to that for me was a resounding yes.  I mean, some poor bastards don't get to leave the toilet for the entire nine months.  I was "lucky" in that I was only chundering maybe twice a week, and thank Imaginary Sky Fairy, it stopped after about week 16 or 17.

That's not to say I got off lightly.  Work have been great about me working from home when I've needed to - particularly now I'm bigger and suffering a lot from sitting at a desk all day.  But this was in the early days before I'd told them I was pregnant.

"A day working from home," thought I.  "That'll be the ticket.  Ban that pesky nausea!"

This is what my lunch "break" looked like - do not read if of a sensitive disposition and / or are eating your dinner.

1.00 Decide to cook myself some spaghetti Bolognese.  The Bolognese is from last night.  All I need to do is heat it in the microwave and put some pasta on the stove.

1.05 Whilst past is boiling, decide to put some laundry in the washing machine.

1.07  As I'm putting clothes into the machine, suddenly the thought of dirty laundry makes me sick.  Very sick.  I get to the kitchen sink just in time and heave up the only thing I've swallowed that day: a glass of milk.  Not so bad, you think?  Well, chemistry is one of the many lessons I've taken since getting pregnant.  Basically milk mixed with stomach acid = large white lumps of cheese that I then have to poke down the sink with my finger.  My finger then smells of sick.  This makes me sick again.

1.10 Turn spaghetti off on gas hob and go and brush my teeth.  Wash my hands.

1.15 Finish making spaghetti.  Serve.  Start to eat.

1.25 Phone rings.  It's a work call.  I suddenly realise I need to get rid of them NOW.  I ask them to call back later.  I put the spaghetti down.

1.27  Make it upstairs just in time to have spectacular diarrhoea.  Mostly water, with strange yellow lumps that can only be sweetcorn.  I genuinely cannot remember the last time I've eaten sweetcorn.  I don't think I've had any for at least a month.

1.30 Realise excessive diarrhoea is covering back wall of toilet and will need to be wiped down.  Wipe down with wet wipe.

1.31 This makes me sick again.  Wash hands again.  Brush teeth again.

1.34  Come back downstairs to spaghetti Bolognese which is a) cold and b) has a Monty Cat buried up to his whiskers in it.

Treasure every minute of pregnancy, ladies.  It's almost all as much fun as this.  Next week - piles!

Brought to my knees

I would love to say I'm a big supporter of the NHS.  I absolutely like the idea of it.  And I wouldn't support any plans that saw it taken away.  However, pretty much every real life experience of the NHS has been a little bit shit.

At the moment (moan, moan, moan), I'm experiencing chronic back pain, probably something to do with the fact I'm now absolutely massive and my poor weedy joints don't know what's hit them.  I've been having private physio at work, but only ten sessions per condition are covered by my health insurance.  Hence the fact that it's time to turn to the NHS.  My doctor duly referred me (she didn't even use Google this time!).

About a week ago I got a call on my mobile.

Caller: Hello, is that Ms Nunn?

Me: Yes.

Caller: This is Rectory Lane Physiotherapy.  We're pleased we can now offer you an appointment.

Me: Great - that was much quicker than I expected.

Caller: Well, we do rush through urgent cases like yours.  So you're having physio because of your knee replacement?

Me: Sorry, what?

Caller:  Your knee replacement.  Do you remember?  You had your whole knee replaced?  Remember?

Me: Erm, I think you might have the wrong person.

Caller: Oh.  Are you sure?  I've got here that you had your whole knee replaced.  Your right knee.  No, sorry, your left.  That was you, wasn't it?

Me: Erm, no.  I think I would remember that.

Caller:  Hmm.  That's odd.  You definitely haven't had your knee replaced six weeks ago?

Me:  Not that I remember.

Caller: So you think you might have done?

Me: No.  I haven't had my knee replaced.

Caller:  I'll double-check and call you back.

They didn't.  But what I did get was a letter in the post asking me to call Rectory Lane to make a Physio appointment myself.  I needed to call between 9-4 p.m. Monday to Friday.  If I didn't call within two weeks, they would take me off their waiting list.

Reader, I called them.

The phone rang.  And rang.  And eventually an answer phone picked up.  "Oh well," I thought.  "They are probably busy at this time of day."

A lady's voice told me their opening hours again, and invited me to leave a message and my phone number, or to call back later.  I awaited the beep.  It didn't happen.  I waited a bit longer.  Still no beep.

What I heard instead was this recorded message, "Do you know how this works?"  "No".  Then the sound of someone pressing a lot of buttons.  Then "Oh dear."  "What does this button do?" Still no beep.

I gave up.  I'll call back later.

Is this a new NHS tactic for reducing waiting lists; refuse to take your call, and then claim you didn't contact them within two weeks?

In the meantime, if you want a laugh, give Rectory Lane Physiotherapy a call on 020 8272 4614 and have a listen to their answer phone message.  On the exceptionally slim off-chance you do get through, could you make an appointment for me?  Apparently I've had knee surgery and I'm an urgent case.

Ta.

Going for a song

It is a truth universally acknowledged that May heralds three guaranteed things: exams, hot weather and Eurovision.  The three are eternally entwined in my mind, perhaps owing to 1998.

1998 was a tough year for me, as it was the last year of high school and a lot of pressure with A-levels, compounded by a school that liked to crank up the pressure.  ("Eight hours of revision a day really isn't enough, girls.")  Additionally we had the Leavers' Musical to look forward to (a totally mad idea where the upper sixth put on a musical in - if memory is accurate - five days.  The cast almost always had a lot more fun than the audience.).  On top of all this, the UK exam system means there was the threat of university places being whisked away if we didn't meet our predicted grades.  It wasn't a lot of fun.

It was a Saturday.  My first A-level exam was on Monday.  Mr Nunn, clearly mindful of the pressures I was under, decided I needed to let my hair down a bit.  He invited over my friend Jennie for a stir-fry and an evening of Eurovision... and provided us with a beer from each country.  The idea was that we'd drink the beer of the corresponding country as they sang in Eurovision.  To this day I have no idea where he found Estonian beer.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, each Eurovision song is approximately two minutes long.  A swotty 18 year-old who had never really been drunk before, found herself trying to force down her bottle of Estonian Saku before her Spanish San Miguel and Italian Peroni.  All within about 12 minutes.  Even with Terry Wogan padding it out as much as possible, it went swiftly to my head.

Suffice it to say, I don't remember much of the contest.  I'm fairly sure I went to bed (passed out?) before the judging.  And over the next few days I developed pharyngitis and was pretty much unable to speak for my entire French Oral exam.  Not that I think I can blame that specifically on Mr Nunn, but it doesn't hurt to try.

I can't remember what questions I was asked in my French Oral exam, which topics came up in History, or which texts I answered on in English, but every year when Eurovision rolls round, despite not having watched it for over a decade, I remember our Eurovision Beer Contest, and it makes me smile a lot more than the memory of May exams ever does.

Plumb stupid

We are currently having a new bathroom installed.  This was possibly the worst false economy ever.  Essentially our shower had stopped running hot, and the only way to fix it was to take all the tiles off the wall... and then have to retile the whole bathroom.  This would have cost about £1000.  TheBloke (TM) and I decided that we'd bite the bullet and have the whole bathroom redone.  Surely better to put that £1000 towards something tangible.

What a stupid idea.

The last few days (it feels like months) have involved:

• Splinters in our feet from the floorboards where the bathroom floor used to be
• Our whole house - and our very souls - covered in dust
• The absolute joy which is attempting (and usually failing) to flush your own excrement down the toilet with a bucket of water.  Even more fun when you get splashback
• Finding out someone (not naming anyone, but I'm 92% sure it was the plasterer) has chipped the new bath
• Finding out B&Q are so inept that not only did they forget to order the pump, but ordered a bath panel and a toilet seat that don't fit the bath and toilet they also ordered.  Mike at Ilford is a particular fuckwit.   Avoid.
• Plaster that the plasterer told us was dry "immediately", according to the tilers is still not dry 72 hours later.  So there's no point them doing any work on Friday or Saturday.  Sunday morning at 8 a.m. is fine though.
• Did I mention my very soul is covered in dust?

The good news is that my work has really nice showers.  I mean really nice.  Massive shower heads, impressive water pressure, free fluffy white towels, free shower gel and shampoo, and even hairdryers.

Which makes me think that perhaps I should have just abandoned the idea of getting our own bathroom sorted out, and just moved into the office.  I mean, they've got a microwave, showers and water, what more do you need?  There's even a rest room with a little bed.  And a vending machine for snacks.  And think of the money we'd save on the mortgage.

So I'm going to ask my manager if we can all move in.  Me, TheBloke (TM) and Monty Cat.  Got to be easier than home improvements (unimprovements?).

Hair raising

Potentially alarmed by the lack of any maternal fibres in my body, Mrs Nunn decided she was going to kick-start the process by buying me a few mother and baby magazines.  One of them came with a free Gina Ford book, and the other came with a free car sunscreen, to protect the baby from the sun, on the offchance it ever stops raining.

There were a few interesting articles.  One about how babies seem to like bondage (it's supposed to stop them crying).  There was another about active buggies for active mums, which I dismissed immediately as for the last two weeks, every spare moment has been spent lying flat on my back*.  One of them had an agony aunt column.

"Dear Cynthia

Ever since I entered my second trimester, I've noticed my hair isn't as shiny as it used to be.  Can you recommend something?

From Jane in Dorset"


Yes, Jane, I can recommend something.  Fuck off.  Fuck right off.  Right off.  Off you fuck.

Seriously?  Lack of shiny hair?  That's your biggest problem?  You had to write to a magazine to get advice on it?  Fuck off.


I can't remember the last time I even bothered looking at my hair.  By the time I've managed to select clothes that almost fit, have noticed that my entire upper body is alternately covered in spots and hair (Timotei shiny though it may be), noticed that my tummy button has grown two more centimetres overnight, have limped downstairs because of the backache, and then suffered through an hour of heartburn and two packets of Gaviscon, what my barnet looks like is absolutely at the bottom of the list.  I'm lucky if I can be bothered to put a bra on most days.  For all I know I could be completely bald.

AND I DON'T CARE.

So Jane, do me a favour.  Fuck off.  Thank you.  And if the thought of sitting on a train for three hours with backache wasn't enough to put me off, I'd be over to Dorset straight away to twat you myself.

By the way, I think pregnancy makes me more bad tempered than usual.

*This is not just extreme laziness - it's helping with the back pain.  I have started to think about what sort of jobs I could hold down whilst prostate.  The only one I've come up with so far is prostitute.

Oh baby

Ploggers, I can only apologise for my extended absence.  I must try harder.

However, I have a reasonably reasonable excuse for recent tardiness / tiredness / grumpiness.  I have been busy manufacturing one of these:

Who knew?  Well, I did, obviously.  Mostly because I'm not one of those 17 year-olds you see on a cable channel who doesn't know they're pregnant until they're giving birth in the yoghurt aisle of Tesco.  Also TheBloke (TM) knew, because there's a reasonable chance he might be the father.  (But if the baby comes out black, I've already explained to him that it's because he grew up in Africa, and hasn't he ever heard of recessive genes?  So we should be fine.)

So has pregnancy changed me?  Undoubtedly:

• Nausea
• Vomiting
• Exhaustion
• Backache
• Massive norks
• Comedy tummy
• The invention of something called a snomit - half sneeze, half vomit.

The whole thing has left me feeling less earth mother, and more... vaguely resentful that men don't need to go through this.  Now, whilst my work's maternity policy is generous, I'm 90% sure that if men had to have babies, the following would be mandated by the government:

• Leave to commence immediately on finding out you're pregnant
• Full pay for 5 years' mandatory leave, half pay for a further 5 years
• A £50,000 bonus for having gone through it.

I also think medical care would be different if men had babies.  From what I've read, the best thing to hope for is a "natural" childbirth with no drugs at all.  Because that's how nature intended it.  

Bollocks to that.  Nature intended you to die from a nasty toothache if it meant you couldn't eat, but because men get toothache too, we've since overcome that problem with Novocaine and pliers.

Imagine a man going to the hospital because he needs his leg amputated.  The below is not far different from genuine conversations I've had about pain relief in labour:

Man:  So yeah, I guess I'm going to have to have my leg amputated.

Doctor: That's right.  Have you thought much about "natural amputation"?

Man: What do you mean?

Doctor: Well, we find drugs can have some nasty side effects.  Anaesthesia might make you a bit sleepy, and that's not - you know - natural - so, we've thought of a few different options.  How about HypnoAmputation?

Man: What's that?

Doctor:  Basically instead of injecting you with pain-killing chemicals, we just talk to you a bit.

Man: Oh.  I don't really think that's for me.

Doctor:  No problem, no problem.  Gas and air?

Man: Not sure that'll do either, honestly.

Doctor: Bouncing up and down on an inflatable ball?  Whilst doing some deep breathing?  We could even put some whale music on in the background?

Man: Nope - I was hoping for something more... pain-killy.

Doctor:  Hmm...  I've got it!  How about you get in our amputation pool, where some luke-warm water will allow you to have a peaceful amputation without the need for nasty drugs.

***

So yes, the labour part terrifies me.  It all seems so... farmyard.  Also, the baby bit terrifies me too, but people say that's normal.  We shall see.

Warning: irritant

Some things irritate me.  Some of them are understandable, like mosquito bites and the Essex accent.  Others are a bit more... weird.  But for some reason the "weird" ones irritate me a lot more than the normal ones.  Perhaps because I can't get anyone to agree with me.

Things that irritate me (and probably no-one else):

1.   Couples who call each other "babes".  "Babe" is bad enough and makes me want to vom.  TheBloke (TM) tried it once, and that's why he only has one testicle.  But "babes", especially in public or via Facebook makes me want to legalise handguns, buy said handgun and then shoot "babes" in the ear.

2.  People who squeeze toothpaste from the bottom of the tube.  Why?  You're going to have to use the bottom half of the toothpaste at some point.  Why make life harder for yourself (and for those who share a toothpaste tube with you).

3.  Anyone who reads chick lit shit in a public place.  Basically anything with a pastel-coloured cover, italic embossed writing in pink and featuring any of the following words: "shopping", "wedding", "kiss", "cupcake", "goodbye".

4.  Same goes for man shit.  Lee Child, Dean Koontz, anything where the hero can punch someone dead or stop a bullet with his rippling chest muscles.  It's just not enough for me to avoid these books myself.  I feel I have to kick anyone I see reading them.  Repeatedly.  Until they understand.

5.  Chigwell Medical Centre.  The only medical centre in the world with a premium-rate phone number, who refuse to take blood, and will only make an appointment grudgingly.  The doctors use Google to look up symptoms. It would be hilarious if they weren't the thing standing between you and potential death.

Discuss.  What irritates you but no-one else?

Rev-view

So, sadly the time has come to replace the Mini.  We have had some good times together, but its teeny tiny boot space (barely large enough for one weekend bag) is beginning to grate, and I think it's time for a Grown Up Car.

This has - of course - involved test driving.  So far we have test driven:

• Volkswagen Golf
• Ford Focus
• Vauxhall Astra
• Toyota Auris

For each of these appointments I have rung ahead - or where possible - booked online.  For every single one of these appointments, the car dealers have been in complete shock when we've turned up; literally none of them were expecting us.

That is the first thing I graded cars on.  How efficient their booking systems were.  So far, they're all level at a big fat 0, with the exception of Toyota who actually lost an additional point, when I said, "I booked with Jamie", I got the reply, "Oh yeah, he's a complete nightmare.  Never writes anything down."  So current scores, -1 for the Auris, and a fat zero for everything else.

Next up, quality of the toilets in each establishment.  All have been pretty poor, so again, awarding no points for this.  

Refreshments offered: the Volkswagen garage not only had tea and coffee, but also fridges full of Cokes.  However, they miss out on a potential high score here for keeping their Cokes from us and only offering the tea and coffee.  The Toyota garage had no Cokes, but did have a chill-out area with a Playstation.  Unfortunately the Playstation didn't work.  The Ford garage offered us tea or coffee, but "We ain't got no milk."

Scores so far:

Volkswagen: 1

Ford: 0

Vauxhall: 0

Toyota: 1

Last but not least, arguably the most important category - the dickishness of the car salesman.  I say "salesman" because the only woman we saw throughout the entire process was the receptionist at the Toyota garage.

Volkswagen: Surprised we'd turned up (despite me speaking to the very man we saw for the test drive).  Seemed somewhat stunned when I said I'd test drive first (before TheBloke (TM)) and never called back with a valuation for the Mini.  -3

Ford: Could not quite understand his accent.  Again seemed a) shocked to see us and this time b) shocked I was allowed to drive.  Insinuated that every car salesman apart from him was a charlatan.  Refused to answer any question straight.  Refused to give a warranty on any car he sold.  However, was surprisingly unbothered when it turned out I'd driven the Focus for three full miles with the handbrake on.  Perhaps he was right about me not being allowed to drive.  -5

Vauxhall:  Kept us waiting for ages to get a valuation, and then valued the Mini at about £4k under market value.  American.  Could not understand my pronunciation of the word "bear".  I had to do actions.  This doesn't normally come up in a test drive.  -3

Toyota:  Clearly a salesman, but didn't treat us as though we were quite as stupid as other salesmen had.  However, failed to phone back with a valuation for the Mini.  0

Total scores:

Volkswagen: -2

Ford: -5

Vauxhall: -3

Toyota: 1

In terms of driveability of the cars, meh, they're all much of a muchness.

I have no idea why Which haven't approached me to do reviews yet.

Charity case

I get rid of clothes fairly frequently.  Don't get me wrong, I'm no super shopper, but as soon as I realise I've not worn something for a year - perhaps it looks a bit old, or has a small fault, or - very often - (ahem) that it no longer fits me, I'm pretty good about filling one of the charity bags that comes through the door.

I mean, yes, I think everyone has a nightie left over from their university days, or a t-shirt bought when in the sixth form, but generally, I'd say the average age of an item in my wardrobe is about two years old.  Maybe three.  I think that sounds reasonable.

TheBloke (TM) on the other hand... well.  We've known each other for nearly five years... and in all that time I've never seen him throw away a single pair of pants.  Or socks.  He buys more, for sure, but I've never seen him throw away the old ones.  Worse still, he has hideous pairs of grey Woolworths boxers (he tells me Woolworths is upmarket in his native South Africa).  And he wears them.  I know for a fact these pants are getting on for ten years old.

Shoes, on the other hand, he goes through like nobody's business.  Find a cheap shoe shop, reeking of plastic and glue, and TheBloke (TM) will be in there, handing over his £10.  "But they're so cheap!" he says.  Fast forward to two weeks later and he's donating them to charity ("They hurt my feet" - who would have thought?  "I did wear them twice!" he adds.) and browsing yet more shoes on the Internet.  He's such a girl.

STOP PRESS: TheBloke (TM) has just come downstairs after rustling charity sacks conspicuously, and is reading over my shoulder.  "I just threw out some pants!" he says.  Too little, too late.

Coaching lesson

Ploggers, I have been on holiday.  But I have returned with tales of Ploggy goodness, with which to keep you entertained.

So Mr and Mrs Nunn, TheBloke (TM) and I went off to Portugal for a week.  It was lovely.  Sunny, good food, good company (apart from the people I travelled with), and generally nice to have a break away from work.

Now, many people seem to enjoy boasting about their holidays, but I find that rather dull.  Holidays are supposed to be good; that's why you go on them.  Surely it's much more interesting to hear about the bits that went wrong.  Like the time in Hong Kong where I had to do a mime for toilet roll, or the time in New Zealand where I was so spaced out on a sleeping pill I watched my own suitcase go round the carousel for about 20 minutes.  Or the time in Hong Kong where I accidentally spent an hour with a prostitute.

So...  introducing the Portugal half day tour from hell:

Now, I’m never a fan of organised tours at the best of times.  I don’t really like coach travel, I’m not (brace yourself) really that interested in history and I don’t like being frogmarched from “interesting” site to site.  To be honest, I’m happier in a nice restaurant or sitting in the sun with a book.

But, Mr and Mrs Nunn fancied doing a coach tour, and as they’d treated us to the holiday, we felt it was the least we could do.  So up we got at 8 am. and joined “Paradise Tours” for their half-day excursion to Crud-on-Mountain and Shitty-Old-Castle.  Still, only half a day, how bad could it be?

The first hour of the tour was probably the best.  This involved going to all the other hotels in the area to pick up more passengers.  I can honestly say this was the highlight of the tour.  And once this had finished, the tour guide got on board.

"Welcome to Purgatory - I mean Paradise Tours," he said.  We laughed politely, thinking it was a joke.  Little did we know.  "My name is JC.  Like Jesus but better.  Excuse me, madam, excuse me?"

A befuddled tourist looked up from a text message she was composing.  "Please to be turning off your mobile phone.  People have paid to listen to me, not to you.  And that goes for everybody.  Please to be turning off all of your mobile phones.  Not allowed today."

I thought he was joking.  He wasn't.

Our first stop was Shitty-Old-Castle.  He didn't tell us anything about the site, so I can't relay any historical nuggets.  We were allowed one hour at Shitty-Old-Castle, which did not include the entrance fee to the castle.  I spent twenty minutes of my hour's allowance queuing at Shitty-Old-Castle public toilets, which did not have toilet roll.  Here is a picture of me with Mr Nunn, enjoying the coach tour.

Back on the coach we got, for our onward journey to Crud-on-Mountain.  The next twenty minutes were taken up by JC explaining how lunch worked.

"You see, lunch is not included in tour price, but for very good price, I can get you meal in restaurant here."  He pointed at a shack, perched in the middle of nowhere.  "I need to know who want chicken and who want fish, and we go here at 1 p.m. after we have been up mountain."

"Isn't this supposed to be a half-day tour?" someone asked.

"Half day mean anytime so you back in hotel before dinner.  Who want chicken?  Those of you who aren't to be wanting lunch must wait for us outside for one hour."

We looked at the outside of the restaurant.  There was a petrol station and a goat.  This would keep TheBloke (TM) entertained for 30 minutes at the most.  But we had brought our own sandwiches so there was nothing we could do.

Onwards we went up the mountain.  We got to the top.  "OK, so we take hour for lunch but not yet.  Be back on coach in 20 minutes."

Unfortunately the non-English speakers didn't understand him, and some were still wandering around Crud-on-Mountain 30 minutes later (Christ only knows what they were doing, as the gift shop sold only things that a mental person would want, and it was cold as buggery outside).  As the straggling tourists were rounded up one by one, JC shouted at them, "You are disrespectful!  I don't give a crap!  I leave you behind!"

Finally, with everyone on board, we pulled away.  Or would have done if the coach hadn't chosen that exact moment to break down.

"New coach is on its way.  Nobody is allowed to get off coach!"

It was hot on the coach, and JC was eventually persuaded to open the doors.  "The doors are now open on the coach but you  may NOT get off!  Stay on coach!"

After an hour, he relented and allowed us to go to the snack bar.  After five minutes at the snack bar (which sold hot dogs, burgers, sandwiches, nothing you could call a meal), he came into said snack bar and started shouting at us again.  "Coach arriving in half an hour!  Do not order a meal!  You have enough time for a sandwich but no-one is allowed to order a meal."

We did make it back to the hotel, eventually.  I, for one, am not looking forward to any Second Coming by JC.

Orange you glad I met you?

As a non-traditional woman, working in a man's industry, and - to boot - as an atheist, people often ask me why I bothered getting married.  It was certainly never at the top of my to-do list, or of the things I desperately wanted to do with my life.

But I was asked, and, for better or for worse, I decided that yes, I guess I could do worse than spending the rest of my life with TheBloke (TM), besides which, he told me he had a diamond mine, and all South Africans do.  I haven't seen it yet, but I definitely believe him.  And so off to South Africa we toddled and had ourselves a wedding.

Lovely.

And sometimes, let's be honest, we all think, "Oh God, what have I done?"  These moments are usually limited to:

• Him kicking me in the night (he claims I'm on his side of the bed, and actually that I was kicking him, but he should have known my foot wanted to go there and got out of my way)
• Him stealing my shower gel, because he likes the way the tea tree and mint tingles his man parts
• Actually, that's about it.

And other moments, I just know I made the right decision.  Like today.  I got home from work.

"Guess what?" asked TheBloke (TM).

"What?" I - let's face it - predictably reply.

"At Liverpool Street today, I saw Belinda McOrange!"

"Hmm," I said.  I was fully aware that TheBloke (TM) had never met Belinda McOrange, so was unsure how he had identified her.  "How did you know it was her?"

"I recognised her from those school reunion photos," he said.  "I thought, 'Do I know that girl?' - then I realised I only knew her from those orange photos."

"Oh," I said.  "That's very impressive.  I find it hard even to recognise people I know quite well when I see them out of context.  Well done you.  How did she look?"

"Short," he said.  "Orange.  A bit chunky.  Not bad at blow jobs though."

I made the right decision.

Public Service Announcement

I probably shouldn't do this, as it runs the risk of sending my hit counter plummeting, and my little (OK, medium-sized) ego plummeting right along with it, but draw close and I'll share a secret with you...

If you click on "Follow" for this Plog, every time I write a new nugget of gold (or a wad of shit), it'll be emailed directly to your inbox, so you don't have to bother checking to see what's new.

Shhh... don't tell anyone.

Mind games

My friend Abi, clearly not satisfied with this character assassination a few years ago, has foolishly requested that she becomes the topic of another Plog.

Well, far be it from me to disappoint my readership.  In fact, if you would like a Plog about you in the near future, let me know.  Not that I'm suffering from writers' block or anything.  Oh no.  Of course, if I don't know you, it might make it trickier, but I'm willing to give it a go.

So, Abi and I have been friends since birth.  Well, since my birth; she's a few months older than me.  Despite the history of domestic violence that has dogged our friendship (see link above), we've remained friends for the last thirty-odd years.

When Abi and I were little, we'd often spend the night at each other's houses.  As a child, I thought this was tremendous fun.  As an adult, I realise it was probably because my parents couldn't stand me any longer.  We would do all manner of exciting things.  Well, it was generally limited to five exciting things, if I'm honest:

1. Swimming at Beaumont Leys leisure centre.  They had a water slide AND a wave machine.  It was practically Wet 'N' Wild.  But with more chlorine and kiddy piss.  They also had fake palm trees, planted in some sort of wood chip, which would inevitably find its way into the pool, and look like floating turds.  At least, that's what I liked to tell myself.
2. Off to Bosworth Battlefield.  Again.  I can trace my hatred of the War of the Roses through enforced visits to this local attraction what seemed like weekly.  For anyone thinking of going, it's basically a field.  There is a gift shop though, and if you're good, you might be allowed to get some Tic-Tacs.
3. Off to Beacon Hill.  A hill.  With a beacon.  Honestly, it's not as good as it sounds.
4. Midnight feasts.  This usually involved a Sherbet Dib-Dab eaten at about 8.30 p.m. before brushing our teeth and lights out.
5. Playing the Medallion Game.

Now, the medallion game was a game we kind of made up ourselves, and had the sort of mad narrative only eight year-olds can invent.  Basically it paid homage (some would say plagiarised) to Narnia, and a long (deservedly) forgotten Spanish cartoon called The Mysterious Cities of Gold.

The basic idea was that Abi and I were twins (or something) who'd managed to find each other, and both Abi and I had half a medallion.  We had to put both halves of the medallion together into a magic wardrobe and we'd go through the wardrobe to a magic land, which we may have got to by helter-skelter (please see Enid Blyton's The Magic Faraway Tree).  I have no idea what was in this magic land.  I'm not sure we ever got that far.  Most of it revolved around putting the (imaginary) medallions together into the (imaginary) wardrobe and going down the (imaginary) helter-skelter.

And this stunning imaginative example, dear readers, is why I have never written a novel: my ideas are generally derivative, plotless, characterless and without resolution.

Still, makes a Plog, eh?  Anyone want to buy a second-hand imaginary half-medallion?

Pet-ty

Some people believe their cats are psychic.  For example, if their cat gets shut in a shed, they believe that the cat projects mental images, telling their owners where they are.

I am not sure about this.  As an atheist / general sceptic about anything that science can't prove, I'm generally unwilling to abandon my logical decision-making process for the sake of telepathic felines.

However.  And I resent this "however".  Monty Cat knows something.  I'm not sure how, but he knows.

I am currently trying to clear out the wardrobe in our guest bedroom.  This is for several reasons:

• Ostensibly I want a digital piano.  The piano needs to go where the wardrobe currently is
• The wardrobe is hideous.  Hideous, hideous, hideous.  TheBloke (TM) bought it when he first moved into my flat in Bethnal Green, and it was too early in our relationship for me to say, "Yeah, that thing you just had delivered... from Argos?  Get rid of it."  Four years down the line, I think it's time to own up.  I hate it and it doesn't even shut properly.  Hate hate hate.

So, in order to get rid of the wardrobe, we have to get rid of all the crap in it.  I say "we", but if I'm honest, 89.6% of said crap is all mine.

This includes:

• Unwanted Christmas presents
• Pretty shoes that hurt my feet and so are never worn
• Cosmetics I either bought on sale or never used, or unwanted Christmas presents (see point 1)
• Ball dresses - I cannot remember the last time I went to a ball - or when I'm likely to go to a ball in the future
• Size 6 clothes that haven't fitted me for a very long while, and never, ever will again.  This is OK (the size thing), but the clothes are still pretty.

So it's up to me to declutter.  And much of it is saleable, so I decided to eBay it.  I carefully laid out all of my items, which are obviously advertised as from a smoke-free, pet-free home.  I figure 50% correct is fine, and it's not as if Monty Cat pisses all over my clothes.  Well, not every day.

As I went up to our guest room to get the next item for its photo shoot, I noticed a big, fat, ginger Monty Cat carefully stretched out along the full length of my Calvin Klein suit.  I swear he did a wiggly roll as I tried to scoop him out of the way.  HE KNEW.  He KNEW that was the next item I was photographing.  Until I got the camera out, he was peacefully curled up, fast asleep underneath the dressing table, out of harm's way.

I'm not sure I can advertise these as pet free.  Perhaps, "entirely made from natural (cat-based) fibres" would be more accurate.

Wired

"A couple of days of annual leave, sandwiching the weekend will be just the very thing," I thought.  "It will be splendid.  I shall have lie-ins a-plenty, I shall finally crack on with all that admin I've been ignoring, and I might even manage to pay a visit to Mr and Mrs Nunn."

And lo, it was so.  Up the M1 I toddled (to be fair, I'm not sure "toddled" is the right verb, but Mrs Nunn might be reading, so let's pretend I was driving at 64 mph all the way up the motorway).

And of course, Plogs pretty much wrote themselves whilst I was there.

"I was right," proclaimed Mrs Nunn.

"Sorry?"

"I was right," she asserted.  "Wi-fi does cure blindness."

This threw me.  I had been unaware that she was either a) an eye-surgeon or b) blind, let alone the more baffling questions of... actually I can barely articulate the tens of different questions that were buzzing round my head.

I thought I'd start with the obvious.  "How does wi-fi cure blindness?" I asked.

"I don't know, I'm not a doctor!" she replied, thus answering my point a) above.  But she continued, "The important thing is that scientists agree with me and wi-fi has been proven to improve people with eye conditions.  Do you remember at Christmas.."

She then launched into an anecdote about how my 88 year-old grandma beat us all at table tennis on the XBox Kinect several times over, despite having eye problems.  I was still unsure of the connection - unless doctors were now claiming that the very fact she'd visited my parents' house, with its fancy wi-fi had produced some miracle cure.

"She was saying her vision was better when she got home.  I knew it was the wi-fi."

Interesting.  I had to do some Sherlocking here.

"Mum," I asked, "do you definitely mean wi-fi?"

"Yes," she said.  "That table tennis game."

"You don't mean that Nintendo Wii has been proved to help hand-eye co-ordination, do you?"

"Yes!"

"OK.  We brought up an X-Box, not a Wii, but both of those things are different to wi-fi."

"Wii, wi-fi... what's the difference?"

I then teased her for a good five minutes, imagining all the wi-fi internets jumping into my eyes to cure them.

I'm not welcome back just yet.

Cat nap

Crikey, I have been an absent Plogger.  Must try harder.

So what's been keeping me so busy?  Well, if I'm totally, utterly honest, mostly afternoon naps.  You see, the temperature hasn't risen above freezing for about two weeks, and essentially, when this happens, my body goes into survival mode.  Here are the necessary ingredients for survival mode:

• Central heating turned up to the maximum setting
• Compulsory Slanket to be worn at all times
• Stash of chocolate to be no further than 6 inches from my face
• TV remote in graspy little hand
• Kindle at arm's reach
• Ideally, a purry Monty Cat to use as a pillow / hot water bottle.

Of course, I've had to drag myself away from the sofa FIVE horrid times this week, in order to go to work.  At work, the maximum temperature setting is 23 degrees, which kind of sounds OK (in Celcius), but when you're sitting on your arse all day, it gets pretty nippy pretty quickly.  And unfortunately for me, the financial sector is still very much "suited and booted" and less (more's the pity) Slanket attire.  And according to my most recent written warning, they're not a fan of the afternoon nap either.  Meanies.  One day, when I'm in charge, things will change.

I've always been very much a "get up and go" kind of person.  Not since I was a teenager have I enjoyed a long lie in at weekends, and I'm usually up and about by 8.30 a.m. on a Sunday.  Well, that I can cheerfully report is very much still the case.  What has changed however, is the fact that I'm now fast asleep by 9.30 p.m. on the Saturday night.  And by 2 p.m. I'm due an afternoon nap.  Or two.

Usually by February the weather is getting better and you're seeing the first cherry blossom buds, or tentative snowdrops peeking their little heads above the damp soil.  This year we've got a couple of inches of snow that JUST WON'T FUCK OFF.  And so I am boycotting the world until it's gone.

Wake me up when it's spring.

Career girl

I was never one of those people who always knew exactly what they wanted to be when they grew up.  My list of chosen careers morphed throughout the years (ooh, that rhymes!  I should have been a poet!).

It went something like this:

- Age 11 - Psychiatrist.  Swiftly kiboshed when i realised you needed to be a medical doctor first.  This in itself wasn't so bad, until at the age of 13 I realised I well and truly couldn't do chemistry.

- Age 13 - Lawyer.  Wasn't really sure why.  At this age, I think I was only aware of three careers - doctor, lawyer, teacher.  It seemed the best of a bad bunch.

- Age 14 - Actor.  Got the chance to play Anne Frank in a 45 minute school play, and it rather went to my head.  For about two weeks.

- Age 15 - Teacher.  Mr and Mrs Nunn (also teachers), threatened to disown me if I took this route.  This made it infinitely more appealing.  It was also around this time when I watched Dead Poets' Society.

- Age 16 - Psychologist.  Back to psychiatrist, but without the pesky medical degree.

Anyway, my school, being the pushy exam-factory hothouse centre of academic excellence, made us all see careers advisors in our GCSE year, when we were about 16.  Some of my friends' parents paid for them to have pricey aptitude / career tests where a computer programme told them what their ideal career was.  I was really, really jealous of this (I loved anything computer-based, because I was am a massive geek), until the results came out.  One of my friends who was literally almost blind without her glasses was told that her top choice should be "Airline Pilot".  At which point I realised it was all guff.

Anyway, off to the careers advisor I toddled, for my 30 minute interview.

It started well.  He asked me my favourite subject (English).  He asked me what I was taking for A-levels (English, French and History).  He asked me what I wanted to be.  I said I didn't really know, and may have questioned whether that might have been his job to come up with suggestions.  He looked thoughtful.  He ummed.  He aaahed.

He looked at his feet.  Finally he spoke.  "Have you ever considered becoming... a careers advisor?"

This seemed a coincidence.  But I put it out of my mind.  Until a schoolfriend came out of his office an hour later.  This particular friend had wanted to be a doctor all of her life.  She was gifted at science and was well on the path to her medical degree.  It was likely to be a short interview she had with him.

"That was rubbish.  He told me I should be a careers advisor."

Worst careers advisor ever.  Only knew one job.  His own.  I could have done a better job than that.  I could have been a better careers advisor.  Oh.  Hang on a minute...

Brush with disaster

I have been a slack Plogger.  Apologies.  We have been experiencing the joy of having a new kitchen fitted.  This was a task that was supposed to take two days, but actually took about a week, and involved a kitchen fitter who "didn't like" following the plan we'd carefully agreed on, and decided to fit the sink where he thought it looked best.  It was joyous.

Last weekend was lovely.  My university friends came to visit en masse (to help us test out our new kitchen).  TheBloke (TM) and I had a good clear up of the house before they came over.

"TheBloke (TM)?" I called out.

"Yes," he said.

"Why have you left a paintbrush in the middle of our lawn?"

"I haven't," he asserted.  This was clearly a lie.  Because there was a big old paintbrush in the middle of our lawn.  I decided I'd go back to worrying about why the sink was in the wrong place.

A day later we heard a loud thunk.  "What was that?" TheBloke (TM) wondered, as the cat thundered through his cat flap.

We didn't have to wait long to find out.  We are clearly the owners of the most stupid cat in the world.  Despite never yet having killed anything larger than a small spider (and if we're being truly honest about that one spider incident - he stepped on it accidentally and then looked as mortified as a big ginger kitten can), he appears to think he's Paintbrush Hunter Supreme.

Not only had he gone in to a neighbour's garden to steal the paintbrush (indeed, the paintbrush wasn't ours), but had managed to jump up onto a fence, jump up from the fence to our conservatory, and then through the upstairs window, all carrying a paintbrush.  Which he then proudly deposited at TheBloke (TM)'s feet.  And this is a big old paintbrush.

Idiot cat.  He's clearly hinting that the new kitchen could do with some redecoration.