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!

Bunch of bankers

Every so often at work we get a little motivational speech. An uplifting re-asserting of our corporate values and a gentle reminder about our financial targets for the year.

Today 200 of us gathered in an overly warm room, with video links to India, Leeds, Birmingham and Edinburgh. All the glamorous places. The head of department took to the stage and shared with us his goals for 2010. We clapped, ovinely.

Then he told us that he wanted to make our company (a large banking corporation) the best place to work and the best place to bank in 2010. He had clearly learned about the power of three in rhetoric as he repeated it. "We need to be the best place to work and the best place to bank."

One more time for luck. This was, in retrospect, a mistake on his part. As our esteemed leader proclaimed to 200 managers and 10 senior managers: "I want to make our office, the very place you're sitting now, the best place to wank."

There was a horrified pause. Then a lot of laughter.

But I remained confused. He says he wants to make the office the best place to wank, and yet, when I did exactly that back in October, I got a written warning and a permanent note on my staff file.

Hypocrite.

Breakfast banter

We park the car at the Wetherspoons pub on the way to Tesco. I wait in the car whilst TheBloke (TM) puts loose parking change in the ticket machine.

We enter the pub and sit at our usual table. We both glance cursorily at the menu.

"Usual?" asks TheBloke (TM). I nod. This is the only conversation needed so far. He goes to order.

After five minutes or so, our food arrives. A traditional breakfast for him, a breakfast bloomer for me (fried egg, bacon and sausage sandwich) and some tea and toast.

Then the silent ballet begins. We identify who has the runniest egg. If he does, we swap. I then carefully cut the yolk out of the egg and spread it on my bloomer. I place the egg white on TheBloke (TM)'s plate. He hands his hash browns to me. I give him my toast.

We chomp contentedly.

"Ready?" asks TheBloke (TM) after we have disposed of our breakfast. I nod.

We get back into the car and go to Tesco.

Most Saturdays the only two words we say before midday are "Usual?" and "Ready?"

It works.

Baby steps

I'm not one of those people who frequently gets asked to babysit. I'm not particularly maternal. I'm not entirely sure if this is because the thought of squeezing something melon-sized out my foo-foo seems desperately unnatural, or because I view children as small versions of stupid adults. Either way, I don't get asked to babysit often*.

I'm getting to the age where probably about 50% of my friends have children. This is OK. I heartily approve of the repopulation of the UK - so long as they don't have to come out of my foo-foo, as previously mentioned. This weekend saw the chance to go over to Bristol to meet up with my old university friends - and my friend Jo's two children.

The children are very, very cute, in a kind of Anne Geddes' way (http://www.annegeddes.com/Default.aspx). You almost expect them to be routinely peeking out of a tulip or balancing a flower pot on their heads, cutely.

It is known amongst my friends that until their child can laugh at my jokes, discuss literature or do my laundry, I find it difficult to make conversation with said child. However, determined to make an effort with the exceedingly cute children, when offered a cuddle with the youngest adorable baby, I agreed.

I took little Ben without dropping him (I actually awarded myself Maternal Points for this, but didn't tell Jo). I made him giggle by waving a teddy bear towards him. All was going splendidly. Until suddenly, for seemingly no reason, little Ben let out a howling scream. After more teddy bear wiggling he seemed OK again, but Jo's comment, "I haven't heard him cry like that since he needed codeine at the hospital" meant I ruefully subtracted my recently-awarded Maternal Points.

Still, the child was still sitting on my lap, cutely, wasn't crying. I was doing pretty well. With every two minutes that passed, I awarded myself more Maternal Points. I was feeling smug. And perhaps a bit over-confident. I attempted some knee-jiggling. This was a storming success and produced some more giggles.

Until cute little Ben leaned forward and (I'm going to say "brushed", others might say "bumped") his head on the table. It definitely wasn't a hard bump - and I think it barely made contact. I wondered for a second if we'd got away with it, but after considering this for a few seconds, Ben decided to dob me in and cry again. Loudly.

At which point I had no choice but to deduct all my Maternal Points and hand the baby back to his rightful owner.

So, sorry Jo. And thank you for having me - it was lovely to see everyone. I hope we can do it again soon, and that it was merely my imagination when I thought I overheard a muttered, "restraining order".

* However, when I was fifteen I regularly babysat five girls called Debbie, Dawn, Donna, Della and Delise. You can't make this shit up.

Slip up

As a child, falling snow was of huge excitement. I'm not entirely sure why, but seeing it flurrying down would send the entire class (and often the teacher) to the window with the cry, "Snow!". The next question would it be whether or not it was settling. Only once in my memory was the snow bad enough to close the school for the day, yet still, there was something in the whiteness, the transformation of the familiar into the unknown that was thrilling to us as children.

And if I'm honest, much of that feeling remains into adulthood. Singing away with my choir doing Christmas carols whilst snow fell behind us, I did get that gleeful feeling when it's nearly the school holidays. And of course, as an adult, I'm fully aware that snow brings problems - travel issues, slipping issues, and it's more expensive to run the central heating. But it's still quite exciting.

Even prevented from going into the office one day a few weeks ago, whilst I was able to work from home just as (if not more) effectively, it was still exciting and a bit of an adventure. Each time a fresh snowfall fell, in spite of myself, I grinned and thought, "Snow!"

And now? Three weeks later? I'm genuinely bored of it. I'm fairly sure we've never had snow on the ground this long in my entire lifetime. I am sick of nearly falling over on my way to work each morning. I am bored of coming home every night thinking, "This is the coldest I have EVER been". I am especially irritated that it's dragging on so long it looks like it might threaten my weekend plans to drive to Bristol.

And TheBloke (TM)? He is planning an entire snow family. Snow woman, snow children... I told him we hadn't really discussed this, and it was a big decision to make. He said he was willing to give up his job to be the carer.

I'll be the one standing in the garden with a hairdryer on full blast.

Cat-atonic

There is a battle that rages in our house. It rages like a slightly vexed butterfly, beating its wings in a futile manner. I am so good at similes. You can tell I did really well in my English degree.

The battle is between TheBloke (TM) and me, and concerns the fluffy, ginger git that you might know as Monty Cat. TheBloke (TM), full of his love for man's fellow creature, is all for letting Monty Cat sleep with us every night. I, on the other hand, am not. Now, before you start labelling me some sort of hygiene or control freak, please let me assure you, I would like nothing better than to have a cuddly feline snuggled up to me all night long, purring gently. It sounds wonderful.

But Monty Cat is not really the snuggling sort. He'll snuggle for a few minutes, to lull you into a false sense of security,

and then, just as you're dozing off gently to sleep, he'll creep underneath our bed, and lie on his back, claws upwards, scratching the bejesus out of our mattress. For fun. And to make noise. A lot of noise. The aim of this game is that we wake up and play with him. Alternatively, he loves nothing more than a 4 a.m. game of, "Do you think my nose is wet enough?", whilst pushing his wet cat nose into my face. He is nothing if not manipulative.

And I am something of a light sleeper.

And so the battle rages. I say "sleep with the door shut", TheBloke (TM) says, "leave it open, poor kitty".

Sometimes I relent. If I do, it's usually on a weekend when I don't have to get up too early. Sometimes TheBloke (TM) waits until I'm asleep and opens the door for the naughty cat. If we don't open the door to him, Monty Cat stands outside mewing and scratching the carpet to make as much noise as possible. Stupid cat.

Last night, through a winning strategy of alternate threat-making and sulking, I won the battle to have the door shut. Our door doesn't easily shut completely because of the carpet, but we can push it closed enough to stop Monty Cat coming in.

Or so I thought.

After shutting the cat out last night, I slept well. Until at 2.35 a.m. I was suddenly wide awake. The reason for my sudden wakefulness was a ginger fluffy git had attached himself ("playfully" as TheBloke (TM) would have it) to my toe. With his teeth. The furry fiend had crept under the duvet and decided to nibble my toes as a mark of his affection.

"How did you get in?" I asked the naughty cat, and promptly took him outside and shut the door again.

The next morning TheBloke (TM) told me the cat had actually been in our room for hours - had spent an hour sleeping on the bed between us, had scratched the mattress as was his wont, and - apparently - has now learned how to push open a door. Apparently he had even played a couple of rounds of "Do you think my nose is wet enough?" with me and I hadn't noticed a thing.

Perhaps I'm not such a light sleeper as I thought.

Does anyone want to buy a naughty cat?

Snow joke

Lots of snowy snowy snow. It's cold enough to freeze a flea.

TheBloke (TM), being of the South African persuasion is a little bit overexcited by this much snow, and, prevented from going to work because of the weather, yesterday he built his first ever snowman. You have never seen such an excitable, out of breath, perfectionist Saffa snowman builder. I tried to help at one point but was instructed, "No, I don't want to be able to see any leaves on him. Get some more snow and cover them up. No. Those buttons aren't good enough. He needs a hat." And so on. Eventually I left him to it and assumed the role of photographer.

Here are some photos I took.

And here's what happened when I turned my back for five minutes.

"Well, people need to know he's a snow MAN," insisted TheBloke (TM). I worry that we may give our 900 year-old neighbour a bit of a shock when she goes into her garden today.

De-friended

Ladies and gentlemen, Ploggers and Ploggeresses, it is with a grave tone of voice and furrowed brows that I must make the following announcement:

Annabelle is no longer a Facebook friend.

I can hear you gasp in shock and awe. "But Laura," you might say. "Where on earth are you going to find your comedy from now? What happened to make this person whom you don't like, and who quite clearly detests you no longer be imaginary friends on Facebook?"

Well, Ploggers, the issue came to my attention a few weeks ago when a mutual friend made me aware of another hysterical Annabelle update. Something along the lines of, "Taking my lovely Mummy to dinner at the Ritz. Hope the food and service is better this time - getting fed up with their standards slipping." or "Having trouble parking the Rolls. Always tricky when the boot is weighed down with gold bullion" or "Just had my fifteenth orgasm in five minutes. Can't help it when my boyfriend's cock is two feet long. So tired!"

Anyway, I trundled along to her Facebook page to have a gander for myself, and you know what? I couldn't see it. The privacy settings had been changed so (perhaps entirely fairly) I could no longer make fun of her ridiculous status updates. (Of which, as she quite rightly informed me at our high school reunion, I must be jealous. See http://laurasplog.blogspot.com/2008/06/orange-and-greene.html for more giggles). As a result of this meeting, I changed my Facebook page so she couldn't access my blog from there - she'd have to actively seek it out if she wanted to read tales about herself, which of course she did, amusingly later tagging a photo of herself at the reunion with the - frankly Wildean "Yes, I may be orange, but at least I'm not an ugly geek". Which as you can imagine made me cry until tears poured down my cheeks (with laughter, obviously, and then I forwarded it to all my friends).

So, no longer able to amuse myself with her brilliant status updates or slightly sick-making wall posts ("Young Conservative and proud!", "I love the Daily Mail") etc., I decided that it was time to terminate the friendship. Ploggers, I clicked "remove". However, as she has approximately 1000 other friends, most of whom I'm guessing haven't spoken to her more than once (or if they have, perhaps they enjoyed her status updates as much as I did), I don't think she'll particularly miss me.

I love Facebook status messages. It's a way of getting things so spectacularly wrong. Here are some of my favourite genres:

The passive-aggressive - Sarah is pissed off at a certain someone for reasons she won't go into here

The trying to be funny and failing - Jeremy just is

The "existential" - Jeremy isn't

The weird - Julia loves penguins on old lady toast

The twattish - Simon wishes his new baby would shut the fuck up, and wonders when he's next going to get a shag

The too-personal - Felicity can't wait to be in bed with her new man. (NB almost always followed with a passive-aggressive "Felicity thinks some people should know better than to lie and hurt you when you trust them.")

The badly-spelled - John cant w8 2 Friday!!1!!!1!

The Annabelle - Annabelle is making the most amazing curry with wild coriander and organic mince. Yum. Annabelle is having more fun than you could ever have in all of your sad little life.

So Ploggers, it's over to you. What's the best (worst) Facebook status message you've seen?

Cock-eyed

What a lovely Christmas. Good company, good food, but most importantly, a fresh stack of Mrs Nunn anecdotes, with which to regale you. Here is Snippet #1.

Mrs Nunn giggled, "Tell your grandma about your friend whose boyfriend had a very big cock."

This was - sadly - a normal conversation in the Nunn household.

"Well," I said to my grandmother, "my friend Cookie dated a guy whose penis was so huge, she described it like a baby's arm holding an apple."

My grandma laughed.

"One thing I don't understand though," Mrs Nunn said. "Shouldn't it be a baby's arm holding two apples?"

I have not been able to look at Mr Nunn the same way since.

Nonsense Noel: Part III

And finally, the one you've all been waiting for - number one on the ridiculous carols list...

Away in a Manger!

"But Laura," you might say. "I can see your point with some of the other carols you've picked out. There are some odd lyrics there. But Away in a Manger at least kind of makes sense." Does it? I ask you. Does it?

Away in a manger,

Away where exactly? I think "In a manger" would have sufficed entirely. Except it doesn't scan so well.

No crib for His bed
The little Lord Jesus
Laid down His sweet head

We're talking about a - what - two-hour old baby here? Little Lord Jesus, at the grand old age of two hours, had the autonomy to lay down his own head? Unlikely. Babies can rarely support their own necks until at least a month old. But again, "The Little Lord Jesus was burped, spewed a bit and was eventually settled down by his postnatally-depressed mother, before cacking himself all over the hay" doesn't quite have the same ring to it.

The stars in the bright sky
Looked down where He lay
The little Lord Jesus
Asleep on the hay

Brilliant. We need more anthropomorphic stars, that's what I say.

The cattle are lowing
The Baby awakes
But little Lord Jesus
No crying He makes

Now, I'm no midwife, but I think it's a bit dangerous if the kid won't cry. In fact, I'm fairly certain it's a sign that there's something wrong with their breathing. Try slapping him on the arse and see if that helps.

I love Thee, Lord Jesus
Look down from the sky
And stay by my bedside,
'Til morning is nigh.

Ooh, weird. Who is the sudden "I" who has crept into this? This freaks me out a bit, because assuming the "I" is the person singing the song, they appear to have delusions of grandeur ("Yeah, Jesus, come and visit ME, I'm dead important. Not important enough to stay awake whilst you visit me though, obviously. Just sit by my bed until I wake up, K?"), but they also expect the invention of a time machine to be imminent.

Be near me, Lord Jesus,
I ask Thee to stay
Close by me forever
And love me I pray

"Stalk me, Jesus!"

Bless all the dear children
In Thy tender care
And take us to heaven
To live with Thee there

"Kill all the children and we can all be together for ever and ever and ever..."

I genuinely cannot believe they make children sing this sinister, sinister song, involving an inaccurate, if not traumatic birth with the child not breathing, and overtones of stalking and infanticide.

And on that note, Happy Christmas, Ploggers!

Nonsense Noel: Part II

Continuing the countdown of ridiculous festive lyrics. In at number two, it's that old favourite, Hark the Herald Angels Sing.

That said, the first verse isn't too bad. It mostly makes sense:

Hark the herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!
Peace on earth and mercy mild
God and sinners reconciled"
Joyful, all ye nations rise
Join the triumph of the skies
With the angelic host proclaim:
"Christ is born in Bethlehem"
Hark! The herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!"

It's verse two where things start getting a bit... funky.

Christ by highest heav'n adored
Christ the everlasting Lord!

OK, all making sense so far. Heaven adores Jesus (not that impressive if heaven created him. That's a bit like me making a mince pie and telling everyone how good my own mince pie is). Everlasting Lord sounds a bit like a battery that won't run out, but OK, at least it makes sense.

Late in time behold Him come
Offspring of a Virgin's womb

What does this mean? "Late in time..." is Jesus a bit on the tardy side? "Offspring of a Virgin's womb". This makes sense (well, of course it doesn't biologically, but we all know the story: "The angels done it, Mum, I swears I is a virgin...")

My main problem with this line is the terrible, unforgivable attempted rhyme of "come" with "womb". So much so that every time I sing it, I have to force myself to be grown up and not sing "Offspring of a Virgin's womm" just to make it rhyme.

Veiled in flesh the Godhead see
Hail the incarnate Deity

What's a Godhead? Anyone? I think this is about fleshy God again. "Incarnate", I think, literally from the Latin means "made of meat". So this couplet is all about saying hello to the meaty God. Hello meat God!

Pleased as man with man to dwell
Jesus, our Emmanuel

Jesus likes living with men? Or men like living with Jesus? No idea. Everyone seems quite smug though.

Hail the heav'n-born Prince of Peace!
Hail the Son of Righteousness!

More smugness here. He must be a pain in the arse at dinner parties. "Hello, I'm Meat God, Son of Righteousness. Nice to meet you, root of Jesse. How's that lion?"

Light and life to all he brings,
Ris’n with healing in his wings

Whoa. Whoa whoa whoa. Jesus can fly? THAT is news to me. To be fair, it doesn't specifically detail that he can fly, but it does say quite categorically that he has wings. So he could be like a flightless bird like a penguin or an emu. Jesus the emu. Jemu.

Mild He lays His glory by

Huh?

Born that man no more may die,
Born to raise the sons of earth
Born to give them second birth

Just to offend anyone I haven't yet managed to... I heard a Bible reading earlier this week that talked about Joseph finding out Mary was up the duff and intending to cast her aside until an angel appeared to him. They then went on to Bethlehem to be counted or something along those lines, and they still - at this stage - weren't married. Firstly, should they have been sharing that cattle shed at all, unchaperoned? Secondly, did they ever get married? I don't remember hearing anything about their wedding. I think we may have uncovered some sort of scandal here... Anyway, I digress. Second birth, off to heaven, we get it. I've always been a bit foggy about how Jesus' death actually meant my soul was saved (well, OK, not mine), but everyone else seems to understand, so perhaps that was an RE lesson I missed.

Tune in tomorrow for the number one, most ridiculous carol lyrics.

Nonsense Noel: Part I

As we're feeling festive, let's talk carols. I sing in a choir, and have done, on and off, since the age of 7. I reckon I've sung O Come All Ye Faithful at least 400 times in my life. I know all the words off by heart, including the verse which you're only supposed to sing on Christmas morning. I know the Alto part blindfolded. Admittedly, it's a fairly unusual carol service that insists on blindfolding its choristers, but I'm not here to judge.

So yes, cursed with something of a photographic memory when it comes to song lyrics, I know pretty much every word of every verse of every popular Christmas carol. And yet barely three of them make sense. I give you - as a countdown until Christmas, the worst offenders of festive nonsense.

In at number 3: O Come, O Come, Emmanuel

Verse One:

O come, O come, Emmanuel!
Redeem thy captive Israel
That into exile drear is gone,
Far from the face of God's dear Son.

OK, accepting that Emmanuel means God made flesh, or some such guff, the first sentence is OK. Basically "Hello fleshy God!".

"Redeem thy captive Israel"? Well, my knowledge of early Middle Eastern politics is about as strong as my grasp of current Middle Eastern politics, but let's make a basic guess that Israel is under rule by the heathens. Those pesky heathens. Never mind! God is on his way!

"That into exile drear is gone, Far from the face of God's dear son". Sorry? Let's unpick the crappy grammar and word order. Basically, I think it means "dreary stuff has gone into exile, miles away from Jesus." Essentially, Jesus has banished the drear. Jesus is bringing us a massive party. Great. Kind of makes sense so far. Roll on verse two.

O come, thou root of Jesse! draw
The quarry from the lion's claw;
From the dread caverns of the grave,
From nether hell, thy people save.

I have genuinely no idea what the "root of Jesse" is. It's either a person or a type of mathematical calculation. Let's go with a person. Jesse. Sounds American. No self-respecting Brit would be called Jesse. Anyway, Jesse's root (his or her son or daughter, perhaps?) is about to attempt something a bit dangerous - apparently stealing food from a lion. Not advised. Unless "draw" in this case means put pencil to paper and do a pretty sketch. But I don't think so.

"From the dread caverns of the grave, from nether hell, thy people save". Jesse's root, whoever he or she is, is going to raise the dead. Possibly in a zombie-esque way. I wonder how this will go down with Jesus and his big party. I'm sensing conflict. Stay tuned, this one's getting exciting. Actually, it isn't. There are about six hundred verses to this*, each one slightly duller than the last.

Translations welcome. Tune in tomorrow for more festive foolishness.

* slight exaggeration

Christmas Story

Ploggers, I have been absent, but I have returned. "What have you been doing?" you ask. Lots. Lots and lots and lots. Four choir concerts, three work dos, two turtle doves and one good friend to stay the weekend.

However, the Christmas spirit is in the air, there is snow on the ground and it is mere days until Father Christmas loads up his improbable method of transport with presents. Huddle close then, Ploggers, for I have a Christmassy tale to tell. It is a tale so special that Mrs Nunn threatened to visit violence upon me if I were to retell it, as she fears embarrassing the people in question. However, two years have passed since this time and I am hoping she has a) forgotten or b) will be overcome by the Christmas spirit and forget her threats of beating and instead buy me extra presents. More than my brother anyway.

A number of years ago, as is the tradition at Yuletide, my family and I attended the local church for a Midnight Mass service.

"Church, Laura?" I hear you say. "But you are a confirmed atheist!"

And you would be right. But everyone loves a good Christmas carol, so Midnight Mass it is each year to sing carols and giggle at the prayer where you're supposed to say you're unworthy to gather crumbs from under the table.

The vicar was apparently new and a bit nervous. The sermon started. I hate sermons. Even as a child in the church choir (my parents were trying to get me into a local Catholic school; I'm not sure how they thought singing in a Protestant church choir was going to help. It didn't.), I used to take a book to read, much to the disgust of most of my fellow choristers, who quite rightly surmised that I was not heaven-bound, even at the age of 10. So yes, I hate sermons. And I was beginning to wish I'd brought along my new Nintendo DS, but thought this might be even less acceptable for a 28 year-old than it was for a 10 year-old. So I twiddled my thumbs instead.

My old English teacher from my high school sat to my right. Mr Nunn sat to my left.

The sermon was patronising and pants:

"Once upon a time there was a residential centre for people with special needs. No-one was quite perfect - whatever perfect means. Gary lost his temper often. Sarah would scream if anybody used her mug and Daniel hated having his hair touched. One day they all went out on a lovely trip. Everything was going really well until Sarah accidentally touched Daniel's hair. He snatched her mug from her and threw it on the floor and she screamed. Gary started trying to punch the bus driver."

I wondered where this was going.

"Then suddenly, they came upon a church. 'Can we go in?' pleaded Sarah. In they all went. It was nearly Christmas, and the Christmas tree in the church left all three of them speechless. A hushed quiet came over the group. Near the altar stood a lady holding a baby. Gary bounded up to the woman, limping and twitching slightly, like he always did. 'Can I hold your baby?' Gary asked."

The vicar's voice went quiet and meaningful at this point.

"The lady looked at Gary. And she passed her baby to Gary. And Gary took the baby, and was holding him. Then Gary..."

(pause for meaning)

"Then Gary... lifted the baby up, and killed him. KISSED him. Sorry. KISSED."

I was helpless with laughter. My English teacher leaned over from the right and whispered, "Well, I didn't see that coming."

Mr Nunn leaned over and said, "I thought the slaughter of the innocents came later?"

We all shook with laughter for the next half an hour. Best. Sermon. Ever.

No energy

Ploggers, Ploggers, you thought my gas story ended there, didn't you? My naive little friends.

Two days later I was working from home. The doorbell rang. Ding dong! Actually, it doesn't go ding dong. It does a very naff impression of Big Ben, but we don't need to go into that now.

A man stood at the door with ID round his neck that a) didn't have a recognisable company name on and b) had no photographic ID. "I've come to read the meter," he said.

"Where are you from," I asked. He checked his PDA. This confused me. He didn't seem to know which company he worked for. "I am from Southern Electric," he decided. "Mrs Rogers?"

Mrs Rogers was the previous owner of our house. I said, "We don't have our power with Southern Electric, and I'm not Mrs Rogers."

He turned on his heel and stormed off. "Fine!" he said. "Fine! I'll just tell them you refused a meter reading and you'll get a letter!"

I am literally quaking in my boots.

Gassing away

Ding dong! The doorbell rang just a few minutes after I got home from work. I answered it. A bedraggled-looking Asian man stood on my doorstep, wielding ID.

"Scottish Power," he said, and looked at me expectantly as if I was supposed to know how the rest of the conversation went. We looked at each other blankly for a few seconds. Then I remembered I'd changed the energy suppliers to Scottish Power just a few weeks ago.

"Oh," said I, "have you come to read the meter?"

"No," asserted the man, in - let's be honest - not very good English. "Who you currently have power with?"

"Scottish Power," I replied.

"Yes, that is right," said the man. "Who is your current energy supplier?"

"Scottish Power," I repeated.

"Oh!" said the little man. "What tariff are you on?"

"I don't know," I said. "But look, handily, here is my latest bill."

"Can I come in?" asked the little man. I didn't really want him to but I felt I couldn't say no. He looked at my bill with the comprehension of someone not comprehending very much. A little bit how I look when I receive anything from the Inland Revenue. "How much is your monthly payment?" he asked.

I told him it was £46 and showed him the bill. I told him I thought this was quite expensive, particularly as this was only the standing charge and didn't include any electricity or gas actually used.

"No, is very cheap," he said. "Is definitely the best tariff."

We stood and looked at each other a bit more. He broke the awkwardness. "Can I have a glass of water?" I didn't want him to have a glass of water, but I got one for him anyway. He drank it. Whilst we looked at each other awkwardly. Monty cat ran past him and he tried to touch his tail.

"OK, I will go now," said the man. I think we were both a little bit relieved.

Ikea: The Cunt-clusion

Reader, I complained to Ikea. I detailed the fiasco with the out-of-date flyers, the slat-free bed and the Ikea-only sized bedframe. I relayed my experiences with their helpline (cut off - twice). I explained to them how the "contact us" link on their website didn't work. And finally, out of desperation, I found an email address for their CEO. Reader, complain I did. And this was the response I got.


Dear Laura

Thank you for your email.

I am sorry to hear about your bad experience with IKEA.

In regards to the bed slats they are sold separately which is indicated on the tags in store and also mentions this online.

The beds we sell are european sizes due to IKEA being Swedish hence you will need one of our mattresses to fit the bed.

I will feedback to the store regarding the pricelist but if you went to a member of staff they would of printed off a list with everything you require so no mistakes could be made.

In regards to returning the bedframe we have a 90 days returns policy and without the packaging you could incur a 30% reduction but the store will make that decision once they see the bed frame.

If you had delivery and decided you no longer want the bed then you would also incur a recharge as they would class this as change of mind.

If you still want to go ahead and have it collected then please reply with you full address, convenient contact number and the ST,RG, TR and the date and article number on the receipt.

Kind regards

Lee

They "would of", would they, Lee? Lee, whom I am guessing, is NOT the CEO of Ikea. So I am supposed to telepathically know that the information you're handing out in store is guff, and really I should be queueing to speak to your gormless colleagues? Additionally, if anyone knows what the ST,RG and TR are, I'd be delighted to know. I'm going for Stupid Tossers, Right Gits and Total Rejects.

OK, let's do the math, as they say in the States. I liked the idea of doing math rather than maths. Sounded like there was less of it for a start.

So, the Ikea bedframe cost £47. The slats cost £20. The non-refundable delivery cost £35. Total cost = £102.

They are suggesting I can have it collected (an additional £35), and then I would forfeit 30% of the product costs (£20.10). This would mean a total refund of £11.90. Genius.

In short, Ikea are a large bunch of illiterate, muddy gits, incapable of working a telephone, a pricelist or knowing the difference between "would have" and "would of". And also, if you want to buy a bed, there's a never-used one for sale on Ebay.

Ikea Part Three

So, off we went to Ikea to get some bed slats. They were put on the bed frame. The bed frame now looked something like a bed. The wardrobe doors fitted the wardrobe. The new handles even allowed us to open the wardrobe. I had even got the worst of the muddy Ikea footprints off the stair carpet. Everything was tickety boo.

Well, almost everything.

We ordered a double mattress from John Lewis to go on our new Ikea bed (now with new, improved slats!). "But Laura," I hear you cry, "I regularly read your Plog, and I heartily agree with almost everything you say. But John Lewis is a different supplier! You can't blame Ikea for another company's poor service."

I say hush. Hush, hush, hush. Listen up.

The John Lewis mattress was booked to arrive on a Thursday. Ten minutes before delivery, John Lewis called to make me aware. The delivery men wore "carpet protectors" on their shoes. My stairs remained unmuddied. They asked to use the toilet. The toilet seat was carefully left down after they finished.

I revelled in the knowledge that finally, FINALLY the bed was ready, and we would never never never never never never never never never never have to go to Ikea ever again.

Until TheBloke (TM) got home. And put the mattress on the bed. And we noticed that the mattress was about 20cm too small for the bed. I swore. I shouted. I stamped my little feet. Actually, they're fairly average-sized feet, but I stamped them anyway. I checked the John Lewis website. I'd definitely ordered a double. I checked the Ikea website...

It was at this point we realised that Ikea beds are totally different sizes to normal-sized beds. And - surprise surprise - the only place you can buy mattresses to fit is... wait for it... Ikea. And - surprise surprise - their mattresses are about three times the price of anywhere else. And then of course you have to buy special Ikea bedding, special Ikea duvet covers etc. etc.

Ploggers, this was enough. I wrote to Ikea. Tune in soon to find out just how brilliant their customer service is.