Tea time

I have been lent a book called “Three Cups of Tea” – the by-line reads “One Man’s Mission to Promote Peace One School at a Time”. It’s apparently a multi-million US bestseller, which goes someway to explain the ridiculous way they’ve chosen to capitalise every word in their by-line. Americans love capitals. I think they secretly want to be German. And even Germans wouldn’t capitalise the verbs. Americans are uber-Germans. You heard it here first.

Anyway, turning the book over and judging it from its back cover, the basic premise is a traveller (or if we’re American, a “traveler”) in trouble is moved by the kindness of people he finds in Pakistan. And he builds them a school. And then another school. And so on, until he has built lots of schools.

This all sounds very inspiring. I think this sounds like a remarkable thing to do. If you have a bit of time and want to do something nice for a community, why not build a school? The part that bothers me is this quotation:

“Here we drink three cups of tea to do business: the first you are a stranger, the second you become a friend, and the third you join our family, and for our family we are prepared to do anything – even die.” – Haji Ali, Korphe Village Chief, Karakoram Mountains, Pakistan.

Woah. Hang on a second. You’ve lost me. We don’t know each other, so we have a couple of cups of tea and become friends, I can get on board with. That sounds fine, and I like nothing better than a strong cup of tea with a chocolate hobnob. It is a fine way of bonding.

But if we’re still a bit thirsty and reach for the teapot a third time… suddenly I have to lay my life down for you? We only met an hour ago.

Going by their rules, this also means that I have to sacrifice my life for the three dodgy workmen who removed the rowan tree (and my three remaining sunflowers) yesterday. This seems a bit harsh, because whilst they did their job effectively and reasonably tidily, I don’t really value them as I do my family, if I’m honest. And I’d be a bit irritated if one of them phoned tomorrow and asked for both my kidneys, citing the three cups of tea rule.

This also means though that Mrs Nunn is definitely immortal, as she has drunk so many cups of tea (averaging 7 per hour) that pretty much everyone in Western Europe is honour-bound to lay their life down for her. Perhaps this book is onto something after all.

Anyone fancy a cuppa?

Stick it where the sun doesn't shine

Ploggers, it's no shock to any of you who have either followed the sunflower saga, or else have ever purchased a houseplant for me, to learn I do not have green fingers. Lilies lay listless, crocuses croak and pansies pass away.

And the sunflowers. Oh the sunflowers.

So, excited to have a new garden this year, in February I bought some sunflower seeds. The main reason I chose sunflowers for my foray into gardening was it said on the packet they were suitable for small children and very easy to grow. This suited me perfectly. We'd had a cold winter, and the packet said they needed to be planted in warm soil, so I waited like an overexcited child waits for Christmas. Except, I was waiting for spring. Not Christmas. Even I know that's a bad time to plant sunflowers.

By April I could contain myself no longer and planted the seeds indoors in pots. It was a miracle! Within two or three days they began to sprout. I propped them up, firstly with lollipop seeds, and later, Mrs Nunn brought some canes for me. I was so excited.

Then in May I was due to go away on holiday for a week. This posed a problem. Did I a) plant the sunflowers outside or b) leave them indoors? I dithered. And dithered some more. And eventually decided to plant half of them outdoors and leave half inside.

When I came back from my hols, all of the indoor sunflowers had died. I may have cried a little bit. Worse still, most of the outdoor plants had disappeared entirely. The work of slugs, apparently, as the three surviving plants also had large nibbles from their leaves.

So I worked hard on my three remaining plants. I nursed them. I loved them. I put eggshells around their bases to ward off the slugs. I gave TheBloke (TM) strict instructions to water them if it was dry when I was in New York. And finally, finally this week, the tallest (OK, only two feet, but still) finally looked like it was almost ready to bloom.

Today - coincidentally - we paid a man some money to come and chop down a tree that was too close to our house. He did a good job. Very thorough.

He didn't even charge us extra for the three weedy-looking sunflower plants he felled whilst carrying out his duties.

I will not be defeated. I'm already planning next year's sunflower crop. I think the secret is to plant more. 200 should give at least five of them a fighting chance of blossoming.

Magic of childhood

I spent a very nice few hours with my friend Kath yesterday, and with her daughter Lily who's about 18 months old. I have come to the conclusion that this is a Very Good Age. Mostly because they can't yet ask you incessant questions, but they can giggle at all the hilarious things you do to amuse them. It's positive feedback all the way.

Any regular Plogger will know that I'm not that great with kids. Usually I have no idea what to say to them ("Have you read Ian McEwan's latest?" doesn't normally go down that well). Alternatively, I try too hard to enter their world ("What's your doll called? Jasper? That's a lovely name. Oh, you mustn't pull her round by her hair like that. Yes. OK, I did know she was a doll. I was just trying to... never mind. Stop looking at me so scathingly. Leave me alone.".)

Other recent successes: comparing a much-beloved newborn to a scene out of Carrie, banging a baby's head on the table, and causing a full-scale tantrum when I offered constructive feedback on a (let's face it) off-key version of The Hills Are Alive.

But yesterday was like all my best comedy gigs rolled into one. I developed a brilliant trick of hiding a toy ladybird (not hiding it very well, mind you) and then making it appear from Lily's ear. When I do this with adults, they tend to get bored with it in about twelve seconds. Lily was still finding it hysterically funny (especially when I mixed things up a bit and made it come out of her tummy button) a good half hour later. She laughed. She clapped. She didn't even heckle (apart from one stomach-churning moment when she glimpsed the ladybird between my clasped hands. Luckily she forgot about this about two seconds later).

So I'm announcing my triumphant return to stand-up. New rules: no audience members over the age of two.

Uplifted

I put my heavy bag down in the hotel lift (elevator) and let out a long sigh. The gentleman who stepped into the lift (elevator) with me said, "It looks like it's been a long day."

It had. It had been a long day. I got up at 6.30 a.m. and was in the office by 7.15. I then took the subway over to New Jersey, and ran a training session. During the workshop, at the stage when I ask the group to give me an expectation they'd like to meet in the training session, one participant said, "My expectation is to find out why I've been sent on this training course and if it's going to be as much of a waste of time as I think it's going to be." He didn't improve throughout the session.

I then got the train back to Manhattan (it's 95 Fahrenheit today but not really sunny - just very humid so utterly unpleasant underground), then tried to get the subway back to Midtown.... and ended up in Brooklyn. I still fucking hate the subway system.

I eventually got back to the hotel at about 6.30 p.m., exhausted. So when the lift (elevator) companion said that it looked like it had been a long day, I agreed. And said, "I hate your subway system." (I thought it was a fairly safe bet he hadn't designed it.)

He said, "You look knackered. Ha! How many New Yorkers would say 'knackered'? None! Just me!" At which point he thankfully got out of the lift (elevator), otherwise, I think I might have punched him.

I've had a great time out here, but I'm ready to come home to London, the drizzle, the tube system (I never thought I'd miss the tube), Monty Cat and TheBloke (TM). Possibly in that order.

Fishing for compliments

As mentioned in an earlier Plog, you see some unusual things in New York City. None more so than the sign I spotted a few days ago (at this point I should tell you where the sign was, but I was lost as usual at the time, so I'm going to go with "somewhere around Park Avenue and Midtown").

I feel it is my civic duty to make people aware that beta fish and African dwarf frogs have arrived! I do not know what this means, but I'm guessing it's some sort of alien invasion, or at the very least, a plague, as visited upon us last by our Lord in the form of locusts and shit.

"But Laura," I hear you say, "this isn't so odd. It's just a pet shop sign telling people that they have new stock in..."

Yes Ploggers, that was my first thought too... until I realised that (sinister voice) it wasn't a pet shop.

Additionally, the fact that the active verb is used, suggests that said fish and frogs made their own way to the shop. Like they've just caught a plane or shipped themselves over.

Also, I have no idea what a beta fish is. Is it the early version of a fish that's still in test mode? Is it a thick fish that didn't get in the top stream (stream, geddit?) at school (school, geddit?)?

Worryingly, I've only just noticed the Zagat sign on the door too... for those not in the know, Zagat is a restaurant reviewer... Another plate of beta fish, my chums? Or would you rather wait for the African dwarf frogs legs? Do bear in mind though, if they're only dwarf frogs, their stubby little legs probably won't be too filling...

Fort tooth and claw

So, whilst the mouse is away, the Monty Cat plays. As does TheBloke (TM), apparently.

I'm in New York for almost another full week yet, and TheBloke (TM), has made good on his promise/threat to build a fort.

The worrying emailed updates from him started the day after I arrived in Manhattan.

Day 1

Some of the cardboard boxes I've collected are very flimsy and struggle to support any sizeable weight.

The cement under the grass limits my support beams.

The ladder will need thicker wood.

To be continued...

Day 2

The timber supplies arrived today. I forgot exactly how much I ordered. The back garden now looks like a lumberjack's dream. Was finally able to break through the layer of cement under the grass and the central support structures are in place. The rain today meant that I wasn't able to run the electrical cables. On the plus side, the rain has helped with the moat. To be continued...

Day 3

There's not much I can do while I wait for the cement to dry.

Day 4

Stupid cat has left paw prints all over my cement foundation. Problems encountered with the plumbing. On the plus side, we have more fertilizer for our lawn now. There's plenty of lawn left. It's between the fort and the moat. *** Finally a photo was sent. And hilariously, Monty Cat won't let TheBloke (TM) anywhere near it. He has built a fort for our cat. How manly.

Nailed it

There are many things I find strange about New York City. People are much politer than in London. Traffic is allowed to turn even whilst pedestrians are crossing. There are an astonishing number of ugly old men with gorgeous, young, blonde girlfriends staying at my hotel.

But the weirdest is toenails.

A work conversation the other day:

Colleague 1: I saw this woman on the subway the other day and she was wearing sandals and had like no nail polish on.

Colleague 2: Ewww! Gross!

Colleague 1: I know! I mean, why wear sandals if you have gross feet?

This confused me. I am not a particularly girly girl, and on average, I'd say I paint my toenails twice a year. And yet I wear sandals for at least two or three months of the year. I have never considered my unpolished toenails to be gross.

I dismissed it as a peculiarity of my colleagues. Until I was on the subway earlier today. I should tell you that by a random twist of fate, Nice Kate's wedding last weekend meant my toenails are still bright red, painted in honour of the occasion, and to match the belt that went with the dress I wore.

So I was on the subway, getting lost as ever because the NEW YORK SUBWAY IS THE SINGLE MOST FUCKING RIDICULOUS METHOD OF TRANSPORT EVER. Digression: they have multiple subway stations with the same name (a bit like having six Leicester Squares), you have to enter on different sides of the street if you're going uptown or downtown, and often can't switch if you realise you're on the wrong side, each colour line goes in several different directions, and is distinguished by a letter on the front of the train, there's no board displaying when the next train is due, so you can wait for ages and ages, then finally, to add insult to injury, some trains don't stop at every station, and others don't run at weekends. They let you guess which is which.

Anyway, I was on the subway, probably going in the wrong direction, and a lady said to me (because for some reason, people in New York don't know the London rule of 'shut the fuck up because someone might stab you'), looking at my feet "Cool nail polish. That's OPI, isn't it? I recognise it. I'm like, 'They do so many different shades, I get overwhelmed'."

I smiled, had no clue what OPI is and told her I did it in London. Myself. "You do your own nails?" she asked incredulously, like the fact that half of my toe is usually covered in polish isn't enough of a clue. I didn't tell her why. It didn't seem to be an appropriate time to mention that every pedicurist I've ever had, I've managed to kick in the head. The curse of ticklish feet.

Maybe I should try it one more time...

Experienced Virgin

Dear Ploggers,

Welcome to my 800th post. 800 bite-sized, fun-sized, drivel snacks. Aren't you lucky?

So... why the radio silence this end? Well, I have been doing all manner of Very Exciting Things. Exciting Thing Number 1 was Nice Kate and Kev's wedding. (It feels wrong to say "Nice Kate and Kev", like I'm implying that Kev isn't nice. He is nice, it's just that "Nice Kate" is Nice Kate's name. I told Monty Cat's babysitter, Mel that I had been to Kate's wedding and she said, "Oh, Nice Kate?" Which pretty much proves it. My parents have met Nice Kate and Kev, and still only know Kate as "Nice Kate".)

Anyway, the wedding was lovely, everyone looked beautiful and behaved well, apart from TheBloke (TM) who firstly decided he was going to be the Pope by putting the napkin on his head, and later decided my fascinator looked much better on him than it did on me. Sadly he was right.

And it's been a whirlwind - no sooner did my arse touch my sofa in London, it was time to pack my bags again for New York - a work trip.

Please skip the next few paragraphs if you still want to be my friend. Because I am about to be more Annabelle than Annabelle herself.

So, I'm currently sitting in Virgin's Upper Class Lounge at Heathrow. The day so far has gone like this:

9.14, one minute before my agreed pickup time, I get a text from my limo driver to say he is here. He puts my bags in the limo and drives me to Heathrow.

10.30 We go through our own special entrance at Heathrow. Thanks to sat nav, the staff know I have arrived and greet me by name, whisk my bags away, glance at my passport, hand me an immigration form, and point me in the direction of the lounge ("The Clubhouse").

10.40 After wandering through Duty Free ("Where our prices are inflated by 17.5% to negate any savings you might make!") I enter the Clubhouse. They greet me again by name, as if they were expecting me. I am informed that the tables have waitress service, or if I prefer, there is a deli bar serving everything from smoked salmon to pork pie, to panini, to a pint of prawns. I do not know what a pint of prawns is, but I imagine it might be a pint... of prawns.

I have a wander and find myself in the spa area, where they book me in for a complimentary manicure. I could choose to sit by the pool or the sauna, or go get a spray tan, but - silly me - I didn't put a bikini in my hand luggage.

10.45 I wander up to the roof garden, past the 3D cinema, where a bunch of kids are watching a DVD of Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, but to be honest, I can't see any 3D glasses available, so this bit could be a bit rubbish. Still, there is another massive cinema, twenty feet away, showing news, sport and... well, at the moment, adverts.

10.50 I decide I'll have something to eat and select from the breakfast menu (though as I type this at 11.26, I've only got four minutes until the lunch menu starts, so who knows, I might go for a second round), and I order Eggs Benedict. They ask me if I want a cocktail, but as I've still got work to do, and drank quite enough at the weekend, I decline and opt instead for a freshly-made, frothy hot chocolate. It arrived within five minutes and was delicious.

All this is - of course - free. Or perhaps "included in the price of my ticket" might be a better phrase. As you can imagine, the ticket wasn't an Easyjet special.

I believe I can opt for a massage on board (but probably won't, as I don't have a good history of foreign massages - see Hong Kong and Turkey), and there's a cocktail bar actually on the plane. When I arrive in New York, a chauffeur will pick me up and drive me to my hotel. Which will probably seem utterly crap in comparison.

Oh. My. God. I just realised - I've been sitting on their computer bank next to what I assumed was condiments for food - sauces and the like. It's actually a "help yourself" pick and mix counter. I would keep typing but my mouth is now crammed with toffee and it's hard to type whilst your fingers are still in the sweetie jar.

Annabelle moment over. Sorry about that.

800th Plog complete!

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.