Take Two

I see they're making a remake of The Karate Kid. This disturbs me slightly. Not just because it encourages violence and parodying of "defence moves" amongst young boys, but because, let's face it, the original was a bit shit. It certainly didn't merit God knows how many sequels.

Cult classic maybe, but the only two things anyone can tell you with any surety is there was an old Asian guy called Mr Miyagi, and a scene where the boy had to wax a car. Call me obtuse, but that does not good cinema make.

More worrying still is that this paves the way for yet more shit remakes of originally shit films. Here are some ideas, updated with a "modern" twist.

1. Grease. The original taught us that if we wanted a boyfriend, we needed to dress slutty and start to smoke. The remake could involve Sandy deliberately getting pregnant to get a council house, and smoking a crack pipe.

2. My Girl. The original was a fairly sweet coming-of-age film about a girl whose best friend is allergic to bee stings and dies. (Sorry for the spoilers, but really, come on, the film's like twenty years old.) The remake involves the part where they become "blood brothers" by cutting their fingers and pressing them together, transmitting the HIV virus and being a modern cautionary tale.

3. Dirty Dancing. Would need to be dirtier. Much dirtier.

4. 10 Things I Hate About You. Today's audience has a shorter attention span and is unused to hearing harsh feedback: hence Six Things I Could Give You Constructive Criticism About

5. Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. Obviously would need to concentrate on the environmental and socially irresponsible way they alter history. Would need to include a bleak scene at the end where they realise they've inadvertently stood on a butterfly and destroyed the world as we know it. Ted cradles his dying father, who's final words are, "Why, Ted, why? It was only a school report..."

One to watch

Ploggers, I don't do this often, and that is why you should listen to me. There is a book you're going to need to buy, and you're going to need to buy it now.

"Wow," I hear you say. "Is it Audrey Niffenegger's latest, Her Fearful Symmetry? After all, you did love The Time Traveler's Wife."

No, Ploggers, it is not Her Fearful Symmetry. It was OK, but I saw one of the twists coming a mile off, and besides which, Niffenegger has a crap ear for English UK (as opposed to American English). When did you ever hear of an English person "petting" a cat, rather than stroking it? And would you ever say that you were "wanking off" over someone's shoe? OK, you probably wouldn't admit to it anyway, but surely, fellow Brits, we'd say "wanking over her shoe" not "wanking off over her shoe". As opposed to the Yanks, who would surely use "jerking off". But this is a minor, and masturbatory point, and not at all the reason for this Plog.

The book I'm about to recommend to you, I grabbed from the library shelf in a last-minute, "fuck it, I can't be bothered to stand here all afternoon and choose". It is David Nicholls' One Day.

I had read Starter for Ten (loosely set at Bristol Uni and loosely set around University Challenge - two good reasons for reading it) by the same author a couple of years ago. It was OK. Had a few funny moments in it, but was pretty forgettable, and I didn't really like any of the characters. So it was with pretty low expectations I took One Day home.

And over the next day or two, on my two-hour tube travel each day, its protagonists, Emma and Dexter, became my new best friends. Well not Dexter, he was a tit. But Emma was lovely. She made me laugh out loud. I would definitely have let her sit next to me in French lessons. The novel also has a brilliantly-sketched failed stand up comic in it, playing barely-disguised comedy dives I remember gigging at myself. And it is funny and clever and special and moving, and I refused to read the last chapter until I was away from public transport, so I could savour every last word. (Anyone who thinks they spotted me crying on the 7.30 a.m. train at Canning Town, that was probably my over-emotional twin. Ignore her.)

What does it remind me of? Well, a little bit like the Time Traveler's Wife - not for any magical hokery pokery, but because time itself is almost a character in the novel - the book is narrated on 15 July each year - and takes a snapshot of the characters' lives at this time. And of course, I did actually read it on 15 July, which made it even more special.

It's also very Thomas Hardy - letters which never reach their intended recipients, and fate playing its hand the way it will.

A bit Nick Hornby. Blokey humour. Shagging. Drugs. Fast cars.

It's a little bit Larkin too. Nicholls quotes him a couple of times, but actually, the line it brought to mind to me wasn't used in the novel - "What will survive of us is love".

Read it. Then read it again. Then put it on your shelf and don't lend it to anyone. They might not give it back.

Living in a box (room)

Each summer weekend I get at least one full day to myself. TheBloke (TM) toddles off to play cricket, and I, car-less and carefree, have a whole day of poddling to myself.

Except I tend not to poddle. Unwilling to take the tube on the two days' respite I get from it, and otherwise house-bound, I tend to do a whole load of chores (whilst simultaneously avoiding the chore that needs doing the most). For example, this weekend the little room needed clearing out. It's not a small task, but eminently achievable given an entire weekend. So far, I have put six items in a charity bag and giggled over my own genius in stand-up comedy material.

However, I have:

• Done three loads of laundry
• Done seven hours of gardening
• Made poached haddock pate (nicer than it sounds)
• Made roulades from smoked salmon
• Written lots of emails
• Finished my novel (reading someone else's novel, that is, not writing one, sadly.)

I like to think that actually, despite not yet achieving my goal for the weekend, I have at least made significant progress on some other chores that needed doing around the house, and managed to fit in a spot of relaxing too.

I'm off to New York for work in a couple of weeks, and will be gone for the best part of a fortnight. (Did you know Americans have no word for 'fortnight'? Weird. For the Americans, I will be in New York for almost two weeks.)

So, I asked TheBloke (TM) what he would do whilst I was gone. I was expecting him to say he'd finish off the decorating, or tidy the utility room, or maybe arrange for a tree surgeon to lop down the unwanted rowan tree...

No.

He's going to build a fort. "A really good one". He has forbidden me from throwing away any of the recently-accumulated cardboard boxes, or the old broken bed. There will be no girls allowed. Monty Cat will be allowed in because he is a boy.

TheBloke (TM) is thirty-five years old.

So there you go, Americans. Another definition of "fortnight" - building a fort on the nights your partner is away.

Waiter waiter, there's a fly in my soup...

Too... hot... to... type. Eh, who am I kidding, I love the summer. Although I'm due to go to New York in a couple of weeks, where it's apparently beyond stifling at the moment. So ask me again mid-August.

So, amongst sunbathing, pulling up weeds (which in most cases turn out to be flowers, and in one memorable case, fresh from the smugness of pulling up an entire bramble, realising it was actually nearly-ripe blackberries), I'm trying to clear out the little room. We have three bedrooms, though the little room is really only suitable for dwarves with growth impairment. I think it would make a nice piano room. TheBloke (TM) thinks it would make a nice home gym, but he is wrong. And importantly, not in the house today.

So, I'm trying to clear out the little room, which has been a repository of junk ever since we moved in. The contents include (but are by no means limited to: cricket trophies, broken suitcases, an entire dismantled broken bed, a selection of badges, a dental retainer from when I was seven years old and a whole load of paperwork).

I made a start. But it was only a few minutes into the "tidying" when I stumbled across some notes I'd made when I was still doing stand up. I used to keep a notebook by my bed, as ideas often occurred to me when I was half asleep. Perhaps I was half asleep when I wrote the following; I have absolutely no memory of it. It's in note form, and I'm 99% certain I never tried the material on stage, because I don't think I ever actually turned it into a joke. Enough. Here you go - a Laura Nunn original:

Nazi dinner party: Gestapo soup.

You won't be surprised to hear I don't do stand up any more...

Ring sting

So, the whole engagement thing has lent itself to some amusing stories already. This is the main reason I agreed to get married. Material for the Plog.

So... TheBloke (TM) and I decided to try and find a ring that I liked. I though this would be easy as I have No Opinion On Jewellery Whatsoever. Or so I thought. Let's just say I've spent more time in London jewellers than most London jewellers over the last month or so. Turns out I had quite a specific idea of what I wanted... and no-one seemed to manufacture it.

Anyway, there's one big jeweller in London who advertises themselves as having seven floors of diamonds, come to their London showrooms! I wouldn't be so mean as to name them (www.cooldiamonds.com), but I thought, "Seven floors! Well, they must have every type of diamond possible there!"

So TheBloke (TM) and I turned up. "Do you 'av an appointment?" the French attractive receptionist man asked.

"Erm, no. We kind of thought with your seven floors, we could just wander round a bit."

"Is no problem. Follow me." He then tried to use some smart fingerprint technology access to get to - presumably - where the diamonds were. But it didn't work. He intercommed Barry, who was less French and who let him in.

We ended up sitting in a scruffy office, with two French girls eating their lunch and talking in French, whilst the French man pulled up the webpage of diamonds (which of course we'd already seen, but assumed this was just a sample of all the stuff they had on their seven floors). Nothing really appealed, but to be polite, we mentioned a couple which were OK. We assumed we'd then be allowed to go upstairs to their seven floors.

"No!" said the French man. "I will now ask them to send down your ring." He went to his CCTV pictures and phoned Tom. Tom didn't answer. He then used his PC to instant message Tom. We were shown magic hydraulic tubes which were used for whizzing diamonds around the seven floors.

We waited for half an hour. The French man smiled. I told him we only had another fifteen minutes - would the rings (which we didn't even like all that much) be ready by then? He called Tom again. Tom didn't answer. Then Tom sent someone else's ring down.

At which point we gave up.

The birds

Sing a song of sixpence

A pocket full of rye

Four and twenty blackbirds

Baked in a pie

Blah blah blah until this slightly disturbing verse:

The maid was in the garden

Hanging out the clothes

When down came a blackbird

And pecked off her nose.

She made such a commotion

That little jenny wren

Flew into the garden

And put it back again

Now, I'm no expert in medical matters, but I have to say I feel some sympathy for the poor maid here. She was going about her own business, hanging out the clothes. Just an average day at work.

Then, out of nowhere, a fucking blackbird comes and takes her nose right off. I mean talk about a case for Claims Direct ("Have you been injured at work?). But here's where the sympathy kicks in. "She made such a commotion". Like she's milking it a bit. I mean really, the poor fucker's just had her nose ripped off by a bird whilst hanging out the washing.

A bit of a commotion is the least I could understand. Picture yourself hanging up your washing, and suddenly, a bird flies into your garden, and attacks your face. Now, as I said, I am no medical expert, but I bet to take an entire nose off, that's going to take quite a lot of pecking. Noses don't come off that easily (unless you're Michael Jackson).

So the maid is lying on her back in the garden whilst a turdus merula is repeatedly stabbing her face with its sharp little beak.

Like I said, picture yourself in that situation. "A commotion" doesn't do justice to the amount of horrified screaming I, and likely any witnesses, would be doing. But no. She's just causing a scene. Typical woman.

Good job jenny wren is there with her surgical knowhow and rhinoplasty kit. Which is of course ridiculous. Birds can't do complex surgery. They don't have opposable thumbs for starters. So really when jenny wren "put it back again", really she just dropped the bloodied lump of gristle back on the traumatised maid.

I love kids' rhymes.

At it like a rabbit

So, a few weeks ago, TheBloke (TM) and I were on holiday in Turkey with Mr and Mrs Nunn. It was the last day of the trip; we'd had a lovely time looking at sea turtles, rock tombs, mud baths and all-you-can-eat hummus. This was our last day, and TheBloke (TM) and I decided to go on a trip to mark the end of the lovely holiday.

So off we went on a little boat operated by the hotel, to explore some uninhabited islands. Ideas of sandy oases floated in my head as we lazed on the deck of the little boat. In no time at all we arrived at the first island. Well, I say "at", near would be a better preposition. There was no harbour. There was no docking. Merely a desultory lowering of the anchor, and a 25 metre swim / wade to shore.

As for sandy beaches, you can forget them. There was some sort of scrubby shingle, upon which - a bit bizarrely - bunny rabbits were frolicking. Out of the shingle, a large pine-covered hill loomed. We knew one of the local islands was called Rabbit Island, so we assumed this was it.

We waded to the shore, me holding a beach towel and my sandals above my head, TheBloke (TM) choosing to take his whole rucksack, which I thought at the time was a bit excessive for a twenty-minute stop-off.

On shore, I wrapped the scratty hotel beach towel around my bikini-clad person. TheBloke (TM) started trudging up the fucking hill. Of course he would. Call me old fashioned, but a bikini and Crocs are not usually the attire I choose for mountaineering. (Who am I kidding? The thought of mountaineering is so alien to me that there's practically UFOs hovering round the very idea.)

We tramped cheerlessly up the mountain (OK, gentle incline) until the path became impassable. Then, we turned 180 degrees and tramped down again. "Laura, I have something to ask you," said TheBloke (TM).

("Oh God, he's going to want to knob me in the forest," was my first thought. Ratified by the fact that he had the video camera pointed at me.)

"Will you marry me?"

Obviously he was taking the piss. "Are you taking the piss?" I asked.

"No," said TheBloke (TM). He held up a ring, which looked suspiciously like it had come from Argos, but you're not supposed to say that, are you?

("Did he just find that on the ground?" I wondered.)

"This is a temporary ring," said TheBloke (TM). "I thought we could pick out one we liked together. This one's from Argos."

It was at that moment I knew he wasn't joking.

Reader, I married him. Well, I didn't there and then, obviously, but I just couldn't resist quoting pretentiously from Jane Eyre. I expressed my intention to marry him.

So, after removing the newly-presented ring (TheBloke (TM): "Don't go in the water with it - your finger might turn green."), we got back on the boat.

We thought it would be nice to know the name of the island upon which we'd got engaged. I said to the captain, "Is this Rabbit Island?"

"No," said the captain (please put on your best Turkish accent), "we go Rabbit Island next."

"Oh," I said, "are there rabbits there too?"

"No," said the captain, emphatically.

"So why is it called Rabbit Island then?" I asked, not unreasonably.

The captain gave a shrug, which, in a different location, I would describe as Gallic.

Not to be deterred, TheBloke (TM) asked, "So what's this island called then?"

"This island?" The captain cleared his throat. "This island is Rat Island."

Rat Island. The romance. And for further romantic viewpoints on the same story, check out http://sadmuppets.blogspot.com/

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