The whole tooth

Overheard on a Central Line tube towards London. A girl in her early twenties, talking on her mobile. Please put on your best Geordie accent for full effect.

"Haway, man, I applied for a job as a trainee dental technician. And they got back to me dead quick like, in a couple of days, which was dead good because I've been applying for loads of stuff, and most of them never get back to me at all. So they asked me what my expectations of the role was."

There is a pause here whilst the person at the end of the line speaks.

"I know man. And I telled them like, I know it's not just like counting teeth and that because me mam used to be a dental technician, so I know what it involves and that. No, listen Mam," (it becomes apparent that she is speaking to her ex-dental technician mother.

"Mam, listen, Mam! Nooo. I just want to know. If it says 'trainee dental technician', will I be expected to pay for training?"

Her mother clearly reassures her on this point as she appears mollified.

"One more thing, Mam... I won't actually have to touch people's mouths will I? That's just too gross for me. I canna bring meself to do it."

I wish her well. And would advise she probably keeps that last point to herself in the interview. Though I have a sneaky suspicion it might become apparent over time.

Underground resistance

When the London Underground works, it's pretty damn good. Down you pop, down the stairs and onto a train, which, like something out of Alice in Wonderland, will pop you up in a new and surprising part of London, with practically no effort. It's almost magical.

When it doesn't work, however, it's cock-dribble of the highest cock-dribble order.

On Tuesday night, after work I wanted to come home. I did not think this was unreasonable. But noooo. Someone had lobbed themselves under a train at Kilburn (miles and miles and miles from where I work), and so I had to find an alternate route home.

No worries. I am a savvy Londoner, and jumped on the DLR to Bank. Except one stop before Bank, the announcer decided that it was a bit too busy at Bank Station and we were off to Tower Gateway instead. In case of confusion, that's Tower Gateway in the middle of fucking nowhere.

It took me an hour and a half to get home, and I was not a happy bunny.

Then on Wednesday, the same thing happened again. Some twat decided to make a meat pie of themselves at Waterloo. At rush hour.

So, if you're thinking of committing suicide by jumping under a tube, please consider the following:

1. Have a look at this. I might not care that much, but someone does.
2. There are less selfish ways of doing away with yourself. If you really want to make a statement that you hate the world and the world hates you, and you intend to punish them by inconveniencing them on their way home, this is good. It means you care enough about what other people think. So stop trying to kill yourself and go back to point one.
3. If on the other hand, you don't want to cause disruption to people, consider a different method of offing yourself that won't cause trauma and irritation to hundreds of thousands of people. But I'd still recommend point one first.
4. Only 40% of tube suicide attempts actually work. So if you think life sucks now, imagine how much more it will suck when you're still here, but now you have no arms or legs to scratch your itchy bollocks, or to jump off Archway bridge.

So those are my thoughts on the subject. I apologise if you're offended by them. But please, don't jump under a train. At least not whilst I'm commuting. (Please avoid the Central and Jubilee lines at the very least. Thanks.)

PS Please see my new exciting poll on the left-hand side of the screen. Vote, vote, vote!

Got, got, need, swap

As many of you know, I work in finance. I have no desire to be more specific than that, other than to say that - despite almost ten years in the industry - I would be hard pushed to describe a single technical aspect of banking. I seem to have forged a career that nicely avoids all the mathsy stuff. Which, as my high school maths teacher, Mr Mercer, will attest, can only be a good thing.

Anyway, a lot of people at the place I work are fairly well compensated for the crazy hours and stressful lives they lead. And we have on our firm's intranet a site where people can post classified ads. Let's call it, for the sake of argument, Sell Stuff, Buy Stuff.

This site is hilarious. The most common postings are:

1. Nanny required in Canary Wharf. Ability to teach Cantonese as a fourth language to tri-lingual children an advantage
2. Porsche 911 for sale. Hardly used as wife's runaround.
3. iPad for sale. Bought last week and want upgrade.
4. Flatmate wanted for spacious loft conversion in SW1. Rent £3000 per week excluding bills.
5. 2 x Ascot Enclosure tickets for sale. £400 each ono.

Hilarious. I have yet to Sell Stuff or Buy Stuff, but should I ever want shot of Monty Cat or TheBloke (TM), I know where to start.

However, last week I saw my favourite ever advert. Nestling amongst Nespresso machines and mingling with Mazdas, was the following advert:

"Pannini stickers swaps wanted. Have double Drogba, will swapsie for Kaka. Contact Pravi Patel."

Brilliant.

Faking it

Going on holiday takes a lot of preparation. Firstly there is the fun stuff - reading the reviews online of the hotel you're going to, buying cheap tops from Primark and fantasising about a week in the sun.

Then there is the admin stuff - the "where have I put my passport", "bugger, I forgot to order currency", "who's going to look after the cat?" (Thank you surrogate parents Mel and Andy!)

And finally there's the, "Crap, I'm pasty as fuck" part. This usually happens about a fortnight before the holiday, and - if you're anything like as naturally pale as I am - leaves you heading straight for the supermarket's fake tan aisle.

Now, we've all had fake tan disasters, some more memorable than others. In fact, I have yet to find a fake tan product that doesn't leave me patchy in parts, and hilariously dark-skinned in others. It's all part of the fun though. This year, I started early. A good month before the holiday, I stocked up on some of the moisturiser that promises to gradually turn your skin into "holiday skin". I applied it faithfully after every shower, despite the fact that (as my friend Erica noted) it makes you smell like pork all day.

I then "topped" up with a L'Oreal (because I'm worth it) spray can thingy, which was a bit like doing graffiti on my own legs. The legs were still - let's be honest - patchy, but I'd actually, for once, achieved a decent result on my tummy, which was looking bronzed, if not toned.

Smug, would be the best word to describe me on our first morning in Turkey when I put on my new bikini and swanned to the poolside. Smuggy smuggy smug.

And later that day, when we went for a Turkish bath, I was happy to parade around (so long as no-one was looking at my legs) because I had a tanned, tanned tummy.

Then the exfoliation started. After about five minutes of brisk scrubbing, my exfoliator (I wonder if that is her job title) took great pains to point out to me what a good job she was doing. In broken English, she said, "Here, look. Look at all dirty skin I have removed."

And she moved her hand to show me the remnants of my last month's hard work. Icky bits of my skin, in a subtle bronzed tone, were on her exfoliation equipment.

And the worst part? By the time she finished, my tummy was patchy. I looked a little bit like I had a pigmentation problem. I later tried to rectify this with emergency fake tan which I'd brought on holiday with me. This merely made matters worse.

I spent most of the rest of the holiday resembling an unimaginative patchwork quilt in various shades of beige. Until the sunrash broke out and I added a nice dash of bumpy red to accessorise.

I rock.

Racial abuse

I can add Turkish to the list of nationalities that I have kicked in the head.

No-one should have to compile such a list, but sadly, I do. It just so happens I have extremely ticklish feet. (Please see http://laurasplog.blogspot.com/2007/04/international-relations.html for more information.) I am now sensible enough to avoid pedicures, but this one snuck up on me.

It was our first full day in Turkey. Mr and Mrs Nunn and TheBloke (TM) and myself were all chilling out around the pool, marvelling at the sunny sunshine and the mountainy mountains. All was excellent.

"Shall we go for a Turkish bath?" I pondered aloud to Mrs Nunn. She thought this would be a very good idea (£20 for an hour and a half's exfoliation and massage can't be bad), and so off we trundled.

And my, it was pleasant. We were ushered into a heated marble palace and instructed to relax. As we relaxed, warm water was poured over us. We were then exfoliated within an inch of our lives. Well, within an inch of Mrs Nunn's life, and within 2.2 centimetres of my life. My generation prefers the metric system.

Next came the covering with soapy bubbles from a bizarre pillowcase bubble maker. It's hard to explain. Here is a picture.

Please note that this is neither Mrs Nunn nor myself. Neither of us current resembles a fat, bald, middle-aged man. Yet. The masseur is holding something that looks like a bedsheet, but is actually a pillow case with holes in that creates the suds. Lovely.

Anyway, I digress. It was time for the massage. And, inevitably, the lady touched my feet. I flinched, giggled and got away with it. She then started working on my shoulders. I relaxed. She then did a sneak attack on my left foot. And that, dear Plogger, is when I kicked a Turkish woman in the head.

Even bearing this head-kicking in mind, the experience was still less embarrassing than my Hong Kong massage experience. Which I don't want to talk about.

Postcard

Turkey. Wish you were here. Unless I haven't met you or don't like you. That would be weird.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Fast food

OK guys, I don't normally do this, and I promise this isn't an advert but...

I've noticed I eat a lot of crap at work. This is mostly owing to the fact that the people I work with are a bit too lovely and bring in cakes and chocolates all day. And I have the willpower of one of those obese Americans they have to take to hospital on a crane. Basically the bikini project isn't going too well (can you lose a stone in a day without liposuction or chopping off a limb? Neither of which - for the record - I'm particularly keen on...)

So, someone told me about Graze.com. For £2.99 they deliver a box of four yummy treats to your desk. I now get a box twice a week. Treats have so far included pistachio nuts, sunflower seeds, chocolate buttons and raisins, marinated olives... they've been lovely. And on the off-chance you get something you're not that keen on (I don't like the wasabi peas), you just log onto the website, it shows you what they sent you, and you click on "bin it" and they never send it to you again! It's super cool.

The idea is it's supposed to stop me eating crap at my desk. And it's kind of working. Apart from the Krispy Kreme on Monday. And the flapjack on Tuesday. And the bacon sandwich on Wednesday. Anyway, that's not the point!

The point is, I've been given a code for you - my lovely Ploggers - to have your very own free first Graze box, and then one more half price. You can cancel at any time and you don't need to pay a penny upfront. I can highly recommend it. Even if it's just to make your colleagues jealous when they deliver an exciting-looking package to your desk.

So, go to Graze.com and enter the code: DGPM11WT, and if you take them up on your offer, I get £1 off each box you lovely people order too. So it's win-win. And munch munch.

See you when I get back from hols, Ploggers!

The view from my chair

I'm not going to pretend I find cricket fascinating, but really, sitting in the sun in my favourite month with a pot of houmous and a good novel by my side and a holiday abroad starting tomorrow... Well, that's pretty good, isn't it?

Erupting temper

I want to go on holiday. I don't think that is unreasonable. It's been almost a year since I was abroad last, and even that was a long weekend rather than a proper long break. It's been nearly eighteen months since my last "proper" break.

So, excitingly, the holiday is booked. The hotel is waiting. Monty Cat-sitter has been booked. The passport has been renewed with the world's dodgiest photo. This week is my last week at work. I have bought an unfeasibly large amount of suncream and several tops from Primark which will undoubtedly fall apart as soon as I put them on. That's what holidays are for.

Except, the cloud of ashy doom is threatening and as I type this, all UK flights are cancelled. We all thought it had gone away but oh no. It sensed Laura wanted a holiday, and is deliberately spiting me. Now, I don't know about you, Ploggers, but I hate to be intimidated by a volcano that appears to be named by someone leaning too heavily on the middle row of the keyboard. Efullfallajjkfdid or something.

Volcanologist: What shall we call the latest volcano?

Junior Volcanologist: Etna? That's a good name.

Volcanologist: Nah - we've already got an Etna I think.

Junior Volcanologist: What about Edna? My gran was called Edna.

Volcanologist: I don't think so.

Junior Volcanologist: What's wrong with the name Edna? She was a lovely lady!

Volcanologist: I'm sure she was, but, really, for fuck's sake! (Leans heavily on middle row of keyboard) Bollocks. I've just typed 'Eyjafjallajoekull'. Fuck it, I can't be arsed to find the delete key. That'll have to do. I'm bored now. I'm going home. Why did I choose this stupid career? I could have been an accountant you know.

Wheely sexy

Ploggers, a few months ago, I Plogged about a worrying notice in my old neighbourhood of Bethnal Green. Those of you who are new to the Plog or have severe memory problems, may want to check here for information on a dominant ex-guardsman offering colonic therapy to ladies.

Well, as my regular Ploggers (or "stalkers" as I like to call them) will know, a few months ago we moved to the burbs. Well, that's not quite true. We thought we'd moved to the burbs - still fairly built up, a decent tube station on the Central Line but a bit more space. Turns out we actually moved to the middle of the forest and didn't realise until we'd already completed on the house. A fox sleeps on the top of our shed.

I have wandered off the topic. Basically, five minutes down the road is what is known as the technical demographic of "a bit posh". Each house has at least four cars (one of which is a bit crap and scruffy - like last year's Audi A3 - which is obviously the runaround for the cleaner or nanny). What I'm trying to say is we've moved up in the world. We is well posh, innit?

So I was a bit surprised yesterday. I went to Costcutter (OK, we're not that posh) for a few bits and pieces and saw the following advertisement in the window.

Hopefully you can see that and it's not too blurry. Basically Rosie (who doesn't even live in our neighbourhood, I would like to point out, from her postcode), is offering warm and womanly soft kisses and happy chat. She is also keen to let potential punters know that she is fully independent. Because no man gets turned off faster than when he knobs a prostitute who's part of a large corporation's franchising system.

Weird as that is, there's another part of this that disturbs me. The wheelchair access. Now, don't get me wrong, I am fully supportive of disabled rights (not to the point though where their toilets are labelled "differently abled", I mean really, fuck off) and if someone who's physically impaired chooses to shoot their wad in a prossie, far be it from me to tut disapprovingly. It's just... I'm assuming (perhaps wrongly) that this would be something of a niche market. Prostitution itself is fairly niche. Let's take a generous estimate and say 1 in 100 men visits a prostitute at some point in their life. Now let's estimate the percentage of wheelchair users. Now I live in London, so appreciate I may see fewer wheelchair users than actually represent the average (apparently tube station steps are a fucker when you're just pushed down them in a chair. And I definitely shouldn't do it again, or I'll definitely get the ASBO). But I'm guessing no more than 1 in 500 people is wheelchair bound.

I've just asked TheBloke (TM) to help me with the above probability, and he says, using the figures above (and assuming wheelchair users are no more likely to shag a prossie than their able-bodied counterparts), Rosie is aiming at a 1 in 50,000 chance.

Which seems a bit optimistic for a card placed in the window of a suburban Costcutter. She'd be better popping inside for the lottery and buying a Lucky Dip.

Which, ironically, is the name of her prossie franchise. (Not really, but it'd be great if it was, wouldn't it?)

Stand up and deliver

I often get asked, "Do you miss doing stand-up comedy, Laura?"

And mostly, honestly, it's not something I have to think too hard about.

"Not really," I reply. "It's a lot of late nights when you're working full time. And for every lovely gig I'd do at the Comedy Café or Downstairs at the King's Head, there were twenty crappy gigs above tiny pubs in Soho somewhere, where there are only seven audience members and four of them don't really speak English. And often I'd have to hand out flyers beforehand, sometimes in Leicester Square, wearing a giant sandwich board proclaiming 'Comedy Tonight!' and sometimes my colleagues would walk past and I'd have to avoid them. Which is harder than it sounds when wearing a sandwich board. And sometimes hoodies would come up behind you and slap your sandwich board. And sometimes strange French men would hit on you. Also," I say, putting my best grown-up voice on, "you kind of have to choose between a normal lifestyle with a mortgage and taking a massive gamble on something that you may never make a living from."

Then people ask, "Do you miss the buzz?"

And I reply again, "Not really. I was never one of those comics that really suffers the highs and lows. I loved writing a perfect line, but for me the joy was more in the writing than the delivery."

"You never miss it at all?" my friends ask.

"Well," I might say, "actually, this week..."

"Yes," they might cajole, leaning forward. "Go on."

"Well, last week I was out with some friends and - of all things - we were talking about stand-up. People were listing their favourite comics, and - shockingly - Lenny Henry's name came up. I try to nod and smile mostly when people list the terrible comics that they love, but the two exceptions for me that I just can't let pass are Peter Kay (make a joke for once you lazy fat bastard. "Do you remember biscuits?" Yes I fucking do, now make a joke about them!) and Lenny Henry. So, like I said, I couldn't let this pass...

"So I said, 'Lenny Henry? Lenny Henry? I have never found anything he's done funny... apart from Dawn French.'"

It took my friends a second or two to let my (frankly genius) adlib sink in. Then of course, they fell around laughing. Why wouldn't they?

But that was it. In days of yore I'd have written it down for future use. But here the joke lived - briefly - then died. And that's what I miss about stand-up - giving jokes the gift of eternal life. Or milking, as it's sometimes called. Welcome to my Plog.

Cat burglar

In some ways, Monty Cat has been a very good cat lately. Whilst he still wakes us up at 5 each morning, to play "Please Chase Me Out of the Bedroom", once chased, he seems to settle down.

A couple of days ago though, Monty Cat had a bit of an upset stomach. Nothing massively to worry about, and we just kept an eye on him for a couple of days. But then he became really lethargic, sleeping even more than usual, and even allowing me to cuddle up to him on the sofa. This was not normal Monty Cat behaviour.

Then, disaster struck. Monty Cat went off his food. This never happens. You can feed him three cats' worth of dinner, a dish of milk and he'll still pester you for meaty treats. Just last week he stole pineapple out of my Chinese takeaway, off my very plate, and scampered away with it. (When he realised it was pineapple he'd stolen, he looked at me disgustedly, as if to say, "What the fuck did you give me that for?")

So Monty Cat off his food was definitely a cause for concern. I mollied him. I coddled him. I tempted him with bits of beef and chicken and infinite saucers of milk. He really wasn't hungry. At dinner time, I mixed together his usual wet food with some of his usual dry food, and he did eat a little bit, but he picked all the dry food out. Again, this is not normal Monty Cat. A fussy cat he is not.

The same thing happened at breakfast this morning, but as he was at least eating his wet food, I didn't worry too much, thinking that the worst that had happened was he had, for whatever feline reason, gone off that particular brand of dry food.

Until two minutes ago. Two minutes ago I was in the utility room, putting away some shopping from earlier. Suddenly I saw movement. I jumped. Oh. It was only Monty Cat. Monty Cat with his head in the massive spare bag of dry cat food we keep in the utility room, carefully sealed with a clothes peg. The bag had a massive rip in the side of it, and hundreds of teeth and claw marks all down the side.

Sometimes I swear that cat just pretends to be stupid. No wonder the little fucker isn't hungry.

Over-share

I'll admit it, I still have shares in RBS. I have no idea how many or what they're worth (other than I know they're worth 90% less than they were when I got them), but I do. I have shares in RBS.

Yesterday I received, forwarded from my old address, a letter from the share company - Computershare - wanting me to update my email address. And rightly so, as the one they've got is an old work one, two companies out of date. I couldn't remember my login details as it's been so long since I've dared look at my shares. So I thought I'd call them.

I had to press the requisite 19 buttons before I could connect to an operator. The operator then took me through security, asking me my name, my middle name, my old address, my old staff ID (which astonishingly I still remembered), my National Insurance number and my favourite type of cheese (mature cheddar). That last one is a lie. But by the end of those questions, you could be damn sure I was who I said I was.

"Can I change my address please?" I said to the lady.

"You have to write in for that," she said to me.

"Really? I've just identified myself through your systems, do I really have to write?"

"You can do it online..." It felt weird hearing someone with such a strong Bristol accent say "online". I don't really think of that part of the world having electricity, let alone eBay.

"I can't remember my login details, and if you email me a reminder, it'll go to my old email address," I reasoned.

"Then you'll have to write in," she said

"That seems a bit archaic," I said. "Could I email with the change of address?"

"In many ways," she stalled, "it's quicker if you write in to us."

Now, I know the Cotswolds may not be at the forefront of computer technology, but I wasn't going to let that pass. "Sorry," I said, riled now, "how is it quicker if I write? If I write, I have to type a letter, print it out, fold it, put it in an envelope, put a stamp on the envelope and put it in the post. The Royal Mail then have to pick it up, transport it to Bristol and you have to open the letter. If I email it to you, you'll have it now. So how, exactly, is it quicker 'in many ways' if I write to you?"

"I'll just put you on hold while I check you can't email," she said. I am certain she used this opportunity to call me a bitch. I would have done in her position.

"You have to write in," she confirmed. So I did. Please see below.

***

Dear Sir or Madam

Change of Address

After speaking to your spectacularly unhelpful staff recently, I understand that despite passing through all your security measures to identify myself, I am unable to change my address over the telephone, or by email. Clearly “Computershare” is using Commodore 64s.

Whilst it may be true that my shares are probably worth slightly less than the stamp on the envelope, would you please change my address (Shareholder reference no: XXXXXX) to the address above.

Also my email address has changed to laura.nunn@gmail.com. Your unhelpful staff said I had to request a PIN to be able to change this email address, but I reckon you’re bright enough to sort it out yourself. Go on, have a go.

Yours faithfully

Laurasplog

Clubbed over the head

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Braaaaiiins

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zombies. You heard it here first...

Luck of the draw

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Playing with fire

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let's do the time warp...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sharpening?" he asked.

"Sorry?" my befuddled morning brain replied.

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

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

* Steven Moffat

Medium at large

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peeping Tom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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