(Bad) language and literature

Many people consider university days to be the best days of their life.  Whilst I was lucky to meet good friends, and had fairly decent accommodation, life has definitely got better since not surviving on Tesco Value pasta, going to nightclubs where the toilets would regularly overflow (actually, make that "going to nightclubs", full stop) and moving to a city that isn't entirely comprised of hills.

Add into the mix that for my three years at Bristol it rained twice; once for one year, and then a second time for another two years.  A lot of students end up with Fresher's Flu; I actually started to grow mildew.  It wasn't until I'd lived in London for a good six months that I felt myself drying out.  This is only partly a joke.  In my third year, I went to the doctor as my ears felt like they needed to pop all the time.  I wondered if they were blocked and needed to be syringed.  The doctor told me that after flu and contraceptive enquiries, ear problems were the most common ailment they saw; the air in Bristol was so damp it actually buggered up people's sinuses.  The problem went away as soon as I left the city.

Anyway, I was clearing out my PC's hard drive recently, and stumbled once again across the folders of essays I'd written at university.  All of them were carefully referenced, with full bibliographies.  Some of my tutors had set incredibly baffling essay titles, presumably to make themselves feel better about their own intellects.  Favourites include:

• Acting is antithetical to romance
• "'The nobility of poetry, says Wallace Stevens, 'is a violence from within that protects us from a violence without.' It is the imagination pressing back against the pressure of reality." (Seamus Heaney, The Redress of Reason)
• 'It makes little sense to define "ethnicity as such", since it refers not to a thing-in-itself but to a relationship: ethnicity is typically based on a contrast.' (Werner Sollors)

And my all-time favourite nonsense intellectual wibble (described in a previous Plog):

• ‘The romances explore what it means to be a subject: an agent of the self, within the state, seeking for satisfaction.  And so the epitomic figures are the ones denied their place at the centre, not only the rogues, slaves, fishers, and vagabonds, but the itinerant princes, and, crucially, the exiled women.’ (Palfrey) Discuss with reference to Jonson and/or Shakespeare. 

If that makes any sense to you at all, I would be delighted to hear from you.  I remember reading it out to myself seven or eight times in a row, thinking, "Surely this is an Emperor's New Clothes type of thing.  Surely we're supposed to go back to the tutor and tell him that this is a fuckload of bollocks."  Turns out not.  You live and learn.

Despite writing the essay, I still have absolutely no idea what "an agent of the self" means.  Still, I got a 2:1.

Which may explain, by the time we got to the third year, I'd really rather had enough of it all.  I'd had enough of the fact my ear wouldn't pop.  I'd had enough of walking uphill no matter which direction you went.  I'd had enough of the fact that my clothes wouldn't dry out, ever.  I'd had enough of agents of the self, of fishers and vagabonds and of fucking Seamus fucking Heaney.

And so I wrote my dissertation on Philip Larkin.  Specifically on Philip Larkin and swearing.  Last I heard, I still had the Bristol University record for using the world "cunt" 32 times.

Though apparently I shouldn't have said it to the head of department, whilst handing the essay in.  You live and learn.

Mini drama

TheBloke (TM) is no stranger to the comedy voice.  Usually delivered in a falsetto, he will frequently adopt a Mexican / French / Italian accent (that's not three different accents, by the way, it's just impossible to pin a location on the voice) and say something silly.

So be it.

Anyway, a while back we were at a friend's wedding, staying in a hotel.  We'd both woken up early, had breakfast, had a potter around the city, and as the wedding wasn't until late afternoon, we had a bit of time.  As South Africa were playing rugby that day, TheBloke (TM) repaired to the hotel bar to watch sport, and I retired to our room and thought I'd chill out for a while.

After taking a bath I felt a bit sleepy, so snuggled down under the duvet.  I dozed for a while.  Suddenly, I heard a knock at the door.  I jumped, then remembered; we'd only been given one hotel key.  TheBloke (TM) needed to be let back in.  As I was starkers though, I thought I'd better do a quick check before opening the door.

"Who is it?" I trilled.

"Ees Minibar!" said TheBloke (TM) in one of his hilarious voices.

I laughed (out of pity, probably) and went to the door and opened it to let him in.

It wasn't TheBloke (TM).  It was the Mexican / French / Italian man the hotel employed to restock the minibar.  Who was looking, quite incredulously - though it has to be said, not entirely disapprovingly, at my tits.

I shut the door again, possibly not quickly enough to avoid quite an awkward moment.

And then hit the minibar.

(Not so) epic fails

Being something of an "A" type personality, combined with a school education that basically meant if you hadn't been awarded a doctorate by the time you were 14, you were an underachiever, I've always been fairly driven.

However, there have been times in my life when I haven't quite reached my own high standards.  Presenting:

Laura's Big List of Failures (in no particular order)

1. My fifth form mock GCSE Chemistry exam.  There were 40 questions.  I had period pains.  I have never liked Chemistry.  I remember staring at the wall for a lot of the exam,.  When I got the results, I got 37.5.  I was chuffed.  Perhaps, deep down, I was a genius after all.  It wasn't marked out of 40.  I got 37.5%.  Honourable mentions also for the History mock A-level paper where I misspelled "Cranmer" all the way through (and had him executed for Catholicism), Maths homework where I got 0/10 and the French prose, for which I was awarded a princely -18/25.  Yes.  A negative number.  And French was one of my stronger subjects.  I told you the school was tough.

2.  My first driving test... was marked by an ex-Police examiner.  I got 32 minor faults.

3. My second driving test... was on A-level results day. Although it was a year before my own results day, a lot of friends were in town.  One of them waved at me during the test.  I didn't wave back, but took my eyes off the road for long enough to edge what was deemed to be "too close" to the car in front, earning me a failure and a big "D" for "Dangerous" on my exam paper.  The shame.

4.  Meaning to tell the attractive bloke I worked with (who was looking for a new flat) that I had a spare room.  I meant to say, "There's a space in my two-double bed flat," or "There's a room in my flat," or "I have a flat share available," or something along those lines. What I actually said was, "There's space in my double bed if you don't mind sharing."

5.  My Grade 3 violin exam.  I guess I was about 12, and to be honest, I didn't know it was possible to fail an Associated Board music exam.  I thought they were there just to rinse parents of cash, and if you turned up with approximately the right instrument, you were good to go.  Turns out you're supposed to practise and shit.  Who knew?

Beauty is skin deep

Often I wonder if I'm a "proper girl".  I hate clothes shopping, going to the hairdresser and (brace yourselves) only own about four pairs of shoes.  And one bag.  Deal with it.

Never more am I reminded of this than when I go to the beautician.  Oh, of course I'm not one of those perma-tanned Essex girls, but every so often, something has to be done about the thickets of eyebrows which sneakily grow in the night.  Normally I can maintain myself, but every so often the mass becomes so dense I have to hire a professional.

Whenever I do go to get my eyebrows waxed or threaded or whatever, I try to tie it in with another undesirable treatment that I probably should have (and would want to have if I was a proper girl).  The last time this happened was just before we went on holiday.  I decided that if I was going to get my eyebrows sorted, I may as well book in a manicure and pedicure too.

I can genuinely never understand how other women manage to enjoy a visit to the beautician.

Those of you who are long-time followers of this Plog will know that I don't generally get on well with pedicures.  In fact, I have something of a habit of kicking the pedicurist in the face.  I have ticklish feet.

Anyway, forewarned is forearmed, so I jokingly said to my pedicurist, as she started on my feet, "I am ticklish, but I'll try not to kick you in the head!"

The Chinese girl administering the pedicure looked up at me and said, "You fuckin' kick me, I know good lawyer."

This wasn't going well.  The woman in the next chair looked horrified.  I tried (and thankfully succeeded) not to kick the pedicurist.

"How long since last pedicure?" she asked?

"Oh, erm, about six months," I said.

"Six month?  Six month?  That is disgusting!"

Now, I will admit that some people have disgusting feet.  I can honestly say though, whilst I'm not going to win any foot-modelling contests (slightly hairy big toe), I actually have quite nice feet.

"Oh," I said, "they're not that bad."

"Yes," she said.  "I never go most two weeks without pedicure.  You disgusting!"

Eyebrows next.  Normally eyebrow waxing isn't that painful, but this time, for whatever reason, it really stung.

The eyebrow waxist was the same woman who'd done my feet, called me disgusting and threatened to sue me.  "Is this first time eyebrow waxed?" she barked at me.

"Erm, no..." I said.  "Are they that bad?"

"No, not bad," she said.  "Just why you being such a baby with eye watering?  You need relax."

I tried to relax.  She came at me with tweezers.  I inadvertently flinched.

"For God sake!" said the beautician.  "I don't understand.  You have had this done before so why you being like this?  It's so annoying!  You rubbish!"

Finally it was over.  I left.  I left a tip.  I didn't want to get sued.  Or followed down the street with tweezers.

Joint account

So, based on the last post, TheBloke (TM) and I decided that in order to get the best of both worlds, we should collaborate on a novel.  Now, because we don't like each other's company enough to actually sit down and decide plot, character and style, we decided just to write one paragraph each.  The below is Chapter One.  See if you can guess who wrote which paragraphs.  It's not rocket science.

The Emotional Vampire Unicorn - Chapter One


Sonia woke up knowing it was going to be a good morning.  The sun was shining, it was a Friday, and she was planning to meet her best friend Jeremy for lunch in town later.  As she got dressed, she admired her bedroom, which she’d recently had redecorated.  The painter had done a really good job.  She was happy.  She went downstairs to make breakfast.


As she skipped down the stairs towards her kitchen, her massive breasts bounced as if in slow motion. Her roommate Tanya was already in the kitchen making a fresh coffee. She was naked, which was not unusual for Tanya, as she quite often walked around the house naked. Sonia admired Tanya’s sexy curves, while gathering supplies to feed her dragon who would be arriving soon from the mountains of Smork to be fed and then take Sonia off to work.

Sonia and Tanya were very best friends... but that wasn't to say that sometimes Tanya could irritate Sonia.  They had had countless petty arguments about whose turn it was to buy toilet roll, and who had run up the phone bill last quarter.  But underneath the squabbling, they were solid.  They'd been at school together and were as close as sisters.  Sonia was slightly jealous of Tanya's job, as she worked from home most of the time, as a freelance journalist.  Sonia herself had to trek to Westminster every day for her job as a political researcher.

Sonia said good-bye to Tanya with a passionate kiss on the lips and a soft pinch of her nipple. Tanya smiled and smacked Sonia's pert buttocks as she turned to leave. Gathering the food for her dragon and her trusty sword, she headed outside where Fenhark, one of the mightiest dragons in the kingdom, was swooping down towards the clearing outside of Sonia's house. Once Fenhark was fed, she mounted the mighty beast and they headed for the skies on route to Westminster, which was also known as the forbidden forest, where Sonia would research how the clans of the north would react to her killing the ninja warlord Shupang, in a bloody battle.


Whilst Sonia went off to work, Tanya finished clearing up in the kitchen, got dressed and sat in front of her laptop.  A freelance journalist's lot was not an easy one; today she had to try and eke out a 1000-word article on the merits of a certain brand of dishwasher powder.  She promised herself that if she could do it within an hour and a half, she'd reward herself with a cup of tea, a biscuit and a chance to write some of her personal project - a story about a little girl with a big imagination.

Just as she was about to type, the front door shattered and zombie lurched into the house, seeking living flesh to quench its insatiable appetite. Tanya reacted quickly and reached for her powerful laser-guided splinter-gun, which was secured to the underside of her desk. She turned with the gun firmly in her slender hand, as the first zombie reached for her throat. Tanya jumped backwards as the zombie’s flailing hand missed her throat, but caught her blouse, tearing it to shreds. Tanya didn’t hesitate, firing the first round of the powerful handgun into the undead creature face, splattering its brains across the newly repainted wall. Sonia would not be happy when she returned tonight.

Screen dump

TheBloke (TM) was watching something on TV last week called Game of Thrones, but to all intents and purposes, could just easily have been named "Dragons, Tits and Dwarves".  TheBloke (TM) said if there was a series that was actually called that, he'd definitely watch it.

So, always an aspiring writer, I asked him that if I were to write the perfect film for blokes, what ingredients would it have?  Here is his list in order of preference:

• Tits
• Tits
• Tits
• Lesbians
• Dragons
• Explosions
• Sword fights
• Alien spaceship
• Tits and bush
• Car chase
• Bromance
• Bi-curious cheerleaders
• Group (female) shower scene
• Guns
• Zombies
• Dwarves
• Ninjas
• Tits

I told him how I thought that was somewhat limiting, and he took the opportunity to remind me that the only type of story I enjoy is one about a little girl with a big imagination.  I said that was completely untrue.

And off we went to see Matilda at the theatre.  (Which was brilliant, by the way)

Singing the BBC's Praises

Say what you like about the BBC.  A) Their complaints process is one of the swiftest to reply I've ever come across and B) They have a sense of humour.  Below is the reply I received from them today in response to this tongue-in-cheek complaint:

Dear Ms Nunn

Thank you for your comments with regard to ‘Songs of Praise’ broadcast on BBC One on 6 September.

I understand your feel we did not take into account that this day is an important Satanist day and you were unable to sing along with the hymns as you were too busy sacrificing a goat.

I am sorry you missed a fine show, but you seem to have been confused about the dates. This year, the Satanic Feast often termed ‘Marriage to the Beast’ falls on 7 November, a Monday. You also seem to have misinterpreted the nature of the ritual involved. However, I do hope you manage to enjoy the rest of the series and am glad that you find the hymns so uplifting.

I do understand you feel very strongly about this, so I’d like to assure you that I’ve registered your concerns on our audience log. This is a daily report of audience feedback that's made available to many BBC staff, including members of the BBC Executive Board, programme makers, channel controllers and other senior managers.

The audience logs are seen as important documents that can help shape decisions on future BBC programmes and content.

Once again, thanks for taking the time to contact us.

Kind Regards

Mark Madden

Praiseworthy

My old comedy tutor, Rob Hitchmough is running an hilarious campaign to get this week's Songs of Praise the most complained about TV show of all time.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the programme, essentially it's a churchload of old people bussed into a church which is obviously normally nine tenths empty and forced to sing hymns at a camera, for the reward of a slight chance of being on the telly.  They usually feature shots of at least one "ethnic" to show how Christianity is all-encompassing.  Vom vom vom.

"Why Songs of Praise?" you might ask, and you'd be right to do so.  It's a reasonably harmless TV show (save for the fact you have to watch mindless human sheep bleating to their imaginary shepherd), and that's precisely why complaining about it is a genius idea.

For those of you who never saw the extremely special Jerry Springer - The Opera, this is why.  The show went on tour, and was picketed by Christians... the vast vast majority of whom hadn't seen it.  Because "they just knew" they'd find it offensive.  And perhaps they would.  From memory, it does contain the lines, referring to the Virgin Mary, "Raped by an angel... fucked by God."  Actually, the musical is really about loving each other and harks back to Larkin's "What survives of us is love" and Jerry's tag-line, "Take care of yourselves... and each other."  Quite Christian messages really.  Certainly much more so than the death threats the producers received from Christian Voice.  Hey ho, I'm off the topic.

The point is that every time something hits the headlines for being offensive, literally thousands of people will jump on the bandwagon and complain about something they've never seen (like the Russell Brand furore a couple of years back).  The BBC, being a publicly-funded institution, must consider every single complaint.  The Songs of Praise campaign is a reaction to the Daily Mail-reading, "disgusted of Tunbridge Wells" types who complain about offensive material without ever seeing it.

And what - to me at least - more offensive that prime-time indoctrination?

Hence my complaint below.


"I wish to complain in the strongest possible terms about the scheduling of Songs of Praise this week.

I do enjoy watching the show, both for the excellent presenter, Aled Jones, and the great karaoke-style hymns.  ("Lord of All Hopefulness is one of my all-time faves).

However, I was disappointed this week to see that you have taken NO consideration to those of other faiths.  You are undoubtedly aware that the first Sunday of November is the most important date in the Satanic calendar, and I was unfortunately sacrificing a goat at the time of broadcast, meaning I totally missed the verse where "Your trust ever childlike, no cares could destroy", which is totally the best part of that hymn.

By the time I'd finished mopping up the goat blood, that beardy twat Glen was banging on about something or other.

Yes, yes, I know the episode is available on iPlayer, but it's not the same as when I have it on HD on my 56 inch LCD TV.

I hope you will be more respectful to those of us who practise Satanism (but who also enjoy a good Sunday singalong) in the future.

With very best wishes, and may the Prince of Darkness be with you.

Laura"


I look forward to their response.

To join the record attempt, simply click here and complain your little socks off about anything you can think of.

Beaver hunt

Being a student of English literature, one could reasonably assume I've risen above the cheap jokes and guffaws of my teenage years.

One would be wrong.

I read this article on the BBC website today.  Ostensibly it's about how Canada would like to change their national animal from a beaver (dull and pestilent) to a cuddly, friendly polar bear.

However, as ever with these things, there's always a naysayer.  Step up Pat Martin, MP for the New Democratic Party:

"Polar bears are cool but the beaver played a pivotal role in the history of Canada.... It was the relentless pursuit of beaver that opened the great Northwest."

You heard it here first, folks.  Canada was founded on the pursuit of beaver.  Not just the pursuit of beaver, but the relentless pursuit of beaver.

Snigger.

Work it out

Those of you who know me in real life, or those of you who are long-time Ploggers will know of my aversion to any type of exercise.  It's not that I'm a massive fatty, I just don't enjoy any type of sport.  Partly this is owing to my total lack of competitiveness (well, lack of competitiveness at anything I've got no chance of winning.  I wouldn't test my competition commitment in a game of Scrabble, for example).  Partly though, it's a hangover from how much I hated PE at secondary school.

As every school in England, by law, has to have masochistic PE staff who enjoy nothing more than seeing a group of fourteen year-old girls shivering in a tiny little skirt, gym knickers and a sports bra, whilst they themselves bundle up in puffa jackets from The North Face, thermal gloves and an industrial whistle.  Our school was no different.  Mrs Bakerhurst and Miss Simpleton were our two torturers, and they loved absolutely nothing more than shouting, "Come on girls!  Go! Go! Go! Go!", whether you were on your way to the torture field (hockey pitch) or standing in the showers.

Autumn and winter I hated.  I have always hated the cold.  For some reason our winter sports kit was actually designed to be colder than our summer sports kit (which inexplicably allowed us to wear tracksuit bottoms for certain activities).  No such joy for winter.  An Aertex shirt (with initials embroidered in house colours), a tiny little skirt and grey, baggy gym knickers.  The skirt was entirely pointless, as it flapped open.  A pervert's dream.  With autumn and winter came netball and hockey.  I loathed netball.  I hated hockey even more.  Arming aggressive girls in puberty with wooden sticks didn't seem like the smartest tactic.  But then being smart isn't usually one of the required, or even desirable, skills on the job spec for a PE teacher.

Spring and Summer were just as bad - athletics (running in circles), hurdles (jumping over a series of small fences - there's a skill I'll need in later life), throwing spears, throwing cannonballs, jumping in sand.  Complete pissing waste of time.

The worst was cross-country.

Oh yes, we had a torture field (hockey pitch) but this wasn't enough for the PE teachers.  They decided it was time for us to do cross-country in the actual countryside.  One problem with this: our school was in the town centre.  Luckily this didn't stop Mrs Bakerhurst or Miss Simpleton.

Recap: we were fourteen.  We were all girls.  We were wearing white Aertex shirts and grey gym knickers, with a pair of trainers.  Literally nothing else.

And we were made to run through the town centre.  It was a circuit of about a mile, and within the scenic cross-country route we went by McDonalds, Argos, Dorothy Perkins, Next, the Post Office, Greggs, WH Smiths and Tesco.  It was also market day, so the town was especially busy.

We were fourteen.  Did the PE teachers supervise us on this trip, running alongside us, shouting out encouragement?  Did they buggery.  They were too busy smoking a fag behind the bike sheds, probably.

Now, I've never been any good at any sport, but my stamina has always been particularly bad.  Imagine this if you will - 25 teenage girls jogging through a busy town centre basically wearing underwear.  One of them is flagging and is well at the back of the crowd, ready to be picked off by the local paedo like a lion takes down the weakest gazelle.  It was surely only a matter of time before the Benny Hill music started playing.

Thankfully I made it back to the school un-raped. But if I ever have children, before they even enter the educational system, I will dedicate a large part of my time to writing a letter excusing them from every single PE lesson they may ever have to do.  In fourteen years of enforced PE, the only thing I learned was: Avoid PE - Avoid PaEdos.

Shower of abuse

As long-time readers are doubtless aware, this is my 886th post.  I expect you wonder from time to time, "How do you keep your content and anecdotes so fresh and relevant?"  Well, thank you for asking.  The answer is that I have a secret weapon.

Mr and Mrs Nunn.

Whenever I feel writers' block encroaching, it's time to go and visit the parents.  This will undoubtedly provide me with at least three new anecdotes to take away and amuse you with.  I know everyone thinks their own parents are mad, but mine actually are.  Mrs Nunn is quick of temper but quick to forget about it.  Mr Nunn is slow to anger, but very easy to wind up, as he likes everything to be perfect.  You could argue that I shouldn't be winding my pensioner parents up, but honestly, do you want to read a Plog or not?

So, before I went to visit them recently, I was talking to Mr Nunn about the shower.  When TheBloke (TM) and I had been there last, the shower had kept us delightfully awake by randomly dumping cold water on us in the middle of the shower.  Mr Nunn was - of course - devastated about this.

"So," I said to Mr Nunn on the phone, the day before I was due to travel, "have you got that bastard shower fixed yet?"

"Yes!" said Mr Nunn.  "We've had a brand new shower put it, and it's lovely, so you will be able to have a lovely, hot shower when you come to visit."

So up the M1 I toddled.  (The word "toddle" is to throw Mrs Nunn off the scent as she gets angry if I drive above 60 mph.)

The next morning I decided to have a shower.  My parents have one of those electrical showers with a pull cord.  I pulled the cord.  It wouldn't pull.  I wondered if it might be a bit stiff, being new, so I tugged it a little bit harder.  Still no joy.  I didn't want to break it, so I went to fetch Mrs Nunn.  Mrs Nunn couldn't pull it either.  She went to fetch Mr Nunn.  Mr Nunn couldn't pull it.  So far this was a bit like the story of the Enormous Turnip.

In my world, at this point we'd call a professional in.  Not in Mr Nunn's world.  He likes to fix things.  Within two and a half minutes, he was tinkering with the box on the ceiling, despite my protestations that actually, I think I'd rather have a bath anyway.

Ten minutes later I had a bath.  Mr Nunn went away muttering.

Later that day, I went to visit Erica and Dean, who have recently had a brand new baby.  Brand new babies are brilliant because you can put them in fancy dress and they instantly look fantastic.  As Dean pointed out, they can dress their daughter in a teddy bear outfit, as a dinosaur or as a pumpkin and people say how sweet she looks.  If he went to work dressed like that, he'd be sectioned.

When I got back to my parents' house, Mrs Nunn told me that Mr Nunn was trying to mend the shower.  She made a cup of tea for me.  I said to her, "Did you know the wi-fi is down?"

Mrs Nunn said, "Yes, Mr Nunn has turned the power off so he can tinker with the shower."

I said, "So how did you manage to boil the kettle then?"

Mrs Nunn looked perplexed.

Mr Nunn came downstairs and said, right, just need to put the power back on.  He reached to the fuse box, flipped the switch and there was a massive bang.

Mrs Nunn instantly started screaming.  Not out of fear, but at Mr Nunn.

"For fuck's sake!  I fucking told you not to fucking touch the fucking electrics.  I've had e-fucking-nough of this.  Seriously.  STOP fucking around with it before you fucking kill your fucking self!"

Such a torrent of swear words and volume.  It was quite terrifying.  How was Mrs Nunn going to follow this sentence?  A request for divorce?  A fist-fight?  Not quite.

"Oh look," she said, looking through the window, her tone of voice changing faster than a politician's argument following an opinion poll, "the petunias are out."

My parents are mad.

Heart of darkness

So, for my birthday this year, TheBloke (TM) took me to a restaurant called Dans Le Noir.  This is a restaurant where you are seated completely in the dark and have to guess what you're eating.  My first thought was, "Fucking A!  I don't have to dress up, wear make-up or make any effort whatsoever.  Best birthday ever."

It backfired a bit when TheBloke (TM) turned up naked.

Not really.  It was a bit chilly for that.  One of the many benefits of an autumn birthday.

So, we turned up at the restaurant, which was in the Clerkenwell/Farringdon area of London that I've always found a bit odd.  It doesn't seem to have found its identity.  It's part marketing agency, part law firm, part finance, part charity sector, and to be honest, it needs to pull its little socks up a bit and decide what it wants to be.

On the way there, we found a cocktail bar doing two mojitos for £6.95.  Big fat bargain!  And a jolly good mojito it was too.

So we trotted off to Dans Le Noir, and - unfortunately - they'd lost our booking.  No worries, and yay for a Monday birthday as it meant that they were able to accommodate us.  We had to put everything we owned in a locker.  Not literally everything we owned.  We didn't have to come back home first, pick up Monty Cat, the Wii, the Mini and our sofa.  Just our bags, phones, watches, and anything that could emit light.

At this point we were introduced to Trevor, our blind waiter.  And there's a sentence I never thought I'd type.  I mean, who's called Trevor?  All the staff at Dans Le Noir are blind.  Well, all the waiting staff are blind anyway.  I imagine it might be a bit hard (though not impossible) to be a chef blind.  And probably a bit of a fire hazard.

Trevor led us conga-style into the restaurant and ensured we were seated safely at our table.  It was dark.  I knew it was going to be dark.  But I didn't realise just how dark.  I assumed that after ten minutes or so your eyes would get used to the dark and be able to pick out shapes.  Nope.  Even after an hour and a half, I still couldn't even see my hand in front of my face.  This might have been because my hand wasn't in front of my face as I was so busy cramming my face with yummy food.  I gave up on cutlery after about twelve seconds.  It slowed me down.  This is a life lesson I might take away with me, and try to implement in non-dark restaurants too.

Amusingly Dans Le Noir made you pour your own water from massive decanters.  I put an elbow in a water puddle not of my own making (at least I hope it was water) at least once.

Instead of having individual tables, we were seated at long bench-style tables.  I guess this is to stop you knocking stuff off the edge of the table incessantly.  However, we were sat unfortunately close to our neighbours, and I definitely groped the Mexican lady sitting next to me at least twice.  She got me back once though, so I think we're almost equal on the lawsuit.  It was probably funnier for TheBloke (TM) who could just hear, "Oh, sorry, was that your..? Oops."  Turns out it was indeed her oops.

The food was very good in general though it was a really weird experience not to know exactly what you were eating - or indeed how big the portions were.  It was hard to know if I felt full or not when I couldn't see how much I'd eaten.  Some of the meat was a bit fatty, and I feel tricked that they made me eat black pudding as that's never something I'd touch under the cold light of day.  Having said that, it didn't taste as bad as I thought it would.

When Trevor finally led us blinking into the light, we both felt quite dizzy for a few seconds.  Then we were taken through the menu of what we'd actually eaten.  We'd got most of it right, save for a few surprises of things we probably wouldn't have guessed, such as venison and celeriac.

So the big question?  How old am I?  Well, I've got to that age where I either graciously refuse to answer such an impertinent question... or else I just lie.  Suffice to say that if MTV were making a TV programme about my birthday, it would not just be Super Sweet but rather Super Super Sweet Sweet.

Perhaps TheBloke (TM) took me to a pitch black restaurant so he didn't have to look at my massive wrinkles.  Oh yes, we had a lovely evening at a fairly exclusive restaurant that he'd planned in advance for ages, but clearly his motives were all about my haggard sagging face.  I'm going to have words with him tonight.  The twat.

Odds on

There has never been any doubt that academically my talents rest more with the arts than the sciences.  This, I suspect, was highlighted by this post where I pretty much failed to understand gravity.

Confession time: despite working in banking for the best part of the last ten years, I am also truly terrible at maths.  (For the Americans, that's "maths" plural because schools over here generally make you do more than one sum before letting you off, as "math" might suggest.)

Oh, don't get me wrong, I successfully limped through the National Curriculum and gained an adequate "B" at GCSE (my lowest GCSE grade and my highest GCSE achievement), but I was never going to enjoy a job where I had to do anything more complex than work out the occasional percentage.

Which brings me to my Question Of The Month.

• If you add two even numbers together, you get an even number (e.g. 4+4=8, 16+2=18 etc.)
• If you add two odd numbers together, you get an even number (e.g. 3+3=6, 19+5=24 etc.)
• If you add an odd and an even number together, you get an odd number (e.g. 5+2=7, 9+6=15 etc.)

Out of these three possible combinations, two of them result in the output of an even number.

Shouldn't this mean there are twice as many even numbers as there are odd?

I asked TheBloke (TM) about this, and he just looked at me, raised a ginger eyebrow and said, "You're an idiot."

I am beginning to think this is what he says when he doesn't know the answer to something.

Top table

In the 1970s and early 80s there were a series of public information films aimed at children.  These were cartoons with a cat, Charley, who would regularly warn children about the dangers of playing with matches, going off with strangers and playing by the river.  The tone suggests they were aimed at very young children, who perhaps were given more freedom to play outside than the 6 year-olds today.

So far, so good.

And I think we can all agree that today's young children would never be allowed to play in the street unsupervised, because of Evil Paedophiles (despite the fact that abduction / incident rates haven't gone up at all since the 1950s - it's just a hot topic for the media so it gets more publicity).  We don't need to give children these messages as they're so rarely without a teacher or parent to supervise them.  So in some ways today's children are more over-protected.

Until you see this:

The title of this video is "Charley says 'Tables are Dangerous'".

Let's just recap on that one.  Tables.  Tables are dangerous.  Tables.  How big a problem was this that the government decided to make a public information film about it?  Was it the leading cause of injury amongst 5 year-olds in 1976?  Was the NHS overstretched because of hospital admissions owing to table-related frivolity?

Whilst the children of the 70s were allowed to play outdoors by themselves, at least the noughties' children aren't stupid enough to be injured by flatpack furniture.

Honestly, Charley, if you genuinely manage to get hurt by a table, I think we can all agree that's natural selection taking place right there.  Please don't pass your rubbish hurt-by-a-table genes along.

With a bit of luck Charlie's had his bollocks lopped off anyway.  You can see that one in "Charley says 'Neutering hurts!'"

I'm all ears

There are many bits of advice I was given as a child that I have chosen to ignore as an adult.  My grandma was extremely insistent that sitting on wet grass would give you a kidney infection.  To this day, I have never yet heard the NHS issue such a warning in autumn or in spring, nor have I had a kidney infection from the occasional soggy picnic.

Grandma had quite a few similar rules that must never be broken.  These included ensuring you applied camphor and amber (what on earth is amber?) to your chest if you had a cold but you must wash it off the next morning, or you would definitely get a chest infection and probably die.

Going outdoors with wet hair would also lead to pneumonia, and again probably death.

However, serving whipped cream a full five years past its expiry date, greened with age and mould was apparently "nothing to worry about, eat it up".

This one always perplexed me, though to be fair to Grandma, I don't think it was one of hers:  "Make sure you wash behind your ears."

Now, I'm going to ask for an amnesty here.  Let's be honest with each other.  Do any of you, any of you wash behind your ears?  I'll start: I don't.  I never have.  In my 31 and 11/12 years on this planet, I genuinely don't think I have ever washed behind my ears.  Having said that, I'm not sure how they would get dirty anyway.  It's not as if they go out at night trolling the streets of London by themselves.  Besides which, a good shampoo every day would surely dislodge any excessive ear dirt.

But at the back of my mind is a little niggle.  What if everyone else DOES wash behind their ears?  And what if I've just exposed myself as a dirty-eared whore?

It's hard being me sometimes.

Shooting the shit

There comes that moment, eventually, in every relationship where you just know you've reached "that" level.  For some couples it's the first kiss, for others, the day they move in together, the day they get engaged or married, or the day they have their first child.

For us, that special day came last Tuesday.

"Come look at my poo!" said, TheBloke (TM).

Now, before I go on, I ought to give you some context on this.  On our first ever holiday together to New York, apparently TheBloke (TM) had done the biggest poo in the world ever.  He maintains to this day that a) not forcing me to look at it and b) not waddling into the hotel bedroom to get the camera to take a photo of it remains the most romantic thing he's ever done.  Because we weren't "there" yet.

However, he talks about this poo often, almost as if it were something he gave birth to which he had to give away.  A wistful glint appears in his eyes.

On Monday last week, TheBloke (TM) said to me, "Come and look at my massive poo!"  I refused.  And perhaps it was tiredness, perhaps it was jetlag, possibly even my own imagination, but I think he sulked for the rest of the evening.

So when he tried again on Tuesday, I didn't feel I could deny him.

"Come look at my poo!" he said.  "It's even bigger than the one I did yesterday!"

I tried to turn him down, but the sad little puppy-dog look was too much to bear.  Into the bathroom I went.  "You might want to hold your nose," he said.  I did.

I was immediately nearly sick.  Twice.

I have to hand it to him though.  It was a massive, massive poo.  About the size of your average newborn.

With that in mind, if we ever decide to have children, I'm going to leave the childbirth to him.  He clearly has an opening very much bigger than me.  I will no longer let him sit on barstools in case he slips right over one.

At night when I shut my eyes, all I could see was his massive turd.

Ladies and gentlemen, TheBloke (TM) and I have now reached "that" level.  I'll be honest, the level before was better.

Nuggets of wisdom

My favourite American TV advert so far:


Several children, aged approximately 4-6 years old talk to the camera individually. They are clearly being asked the type of foods they don’t enjoy.

Cute Asian girl: Broccoli!

Cute blonde boy: Gween beans!

Adorable twin girls: Cabbage is icky!

Cute blonde girl with two front teeth missing: Thpinach!

Cut to voiceover: Sometimes it’s hard to get your children to eat what’s good for them...

So far, so predictable. Cue a commercial for sweetcorn, yoghurt, or some other product designed to get picky children to eat a bit more healthily. But no. This is America.

Voiceover continues:... Give them chicken nuggets! Chicken nuggets. Because kids don’t like vegetables and you definitely shouldn’t try and encourage them to eat them!

OK, that last sentence might be a bit made up, but the rest is pretty much word for word. Jamie Oliver has a lot to do in the States. Having said that, I went to his most recently-opened restaurant in St Paul’s in London a couple of weeks back, and most things on the menu were items such as “fried crispy pigs’ cheeks” and “smoky ribs”, so perhaps the inspiration is coming the other way.

It’s only a matter of time before Jamie is crusading trying to get the kids of Rotherham to eat chicken nuggets. Watch this space.

Supersize me

Ploggers, we are officially on holiday! After a week at work that can be best described as “challenging”, tube journeys which can be politely described as “fucking shit”, a car drop-off at the airport which I would euphemistically describe as “wank”, a two-hour delay at Gatwick, a flight where our row was sandwiched between two screaming babies I would nicely describe as “cunts” and two hours standing in a line at Customs at Orlando which was staffed by someone whose ability would be better suited to cleaning the toilets at McDonalds, we finally, finally made it to the car rental place.

Because TheBloke (TM) and I are super-organised, we had already booked our car, and just needed to go to Alamo Car Rentals to pick up our compact car, as ordered.

After another 20 minute queue at Alamo (I guess the Floridians are just getting us ready for Disney by testing our ability to edge forward in sheep pens), we finally made it to the front of the line.

“Evening!” said an employee, who – like all Americans was called Brad, Chip, Brett or something of the kind.

We handed over our paperwork. “Oh,” said Brad-Chip-Brett disappointedly.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. My normally dangerously-low blood pressure was already at near boiling point from the debacle at Customs.

“Oh, nothin’,” said Brad-Chip-Brett. “It’s just you’ve booked a compact and they’re SO small. You’ll get like a Fiat Panda or something. It won’t even have a trunk. And I see you have two large cases.”

“Oh, it’ll be fine,” I said. “The back seats will fold forward. We got them here in a Mini."

“Yeah,” said Brad-Chip-Brett, “but the Panda won’t have cruise control like you’ll be used to.” I didn’t dare tell him that my Mini doesn’t actually have anything more advanced than electric windows.

“Listen,” continued the Alamo man, “I can do you a deal. Normally for $11 more per day I could upgrade you to a Toyota Yaris, but what I’ll actually do is for $11 per day, upgrade you to a Toyota Corolla. How does that sound?”

I looked at TheBloke (TM). He said, “I think we’ll be fine with the compact. Really, it’s not a problem.” At this stage we had been awake for about 20 hours and still had a drive (on the wrong side of the road) ahead of us. We wanted a bed, more than we wanted anything else. Well, apart from me. I still wanted to punch the twat at Customs.

“OK, OK,” said Brad-Chip-Brett. “Hmm. OK. I probably shouldn’t do this, but I can get you an amazing deal. For just the $11 per day, I’ll upgrade you to an SUV.”

TheBloke (TM)’s little South African face lit up. Which is why, dear readers, our Fiat Panda looks a bit like this:

“Oh, one more thing,” said Brad-Chip-Brett. “Your contract specifies that you need to pay for a full tank of fuel with the car. So that’s an extra $100. So that’ll be a total of just $211.”

A tank of fuel (at rental car places) is quite a lot more expensive in an SUV than it would have been in a Fiat Panda.

I am beginning to see why Americans make great sales people.

Tunnel vision

I'll come clean with you, Ploggers, it's all been a bit too much recently.  Nothing awful - in fact, quite the opposite, but plumber stress combined with work stress, combined with the usual day-to-day hurdles meant that - quite literally - the high point of my day on Tuesday was when the cat was sick under the bed at 7 a.m. and I had to crawl under the bed with the Vanish Carpet Stain Remover and scrub.  Things went downhill from that point.

So, it's hardly surprising that in the last few days, my temper has been fraying.  Now, I'm not really a shouter.  Mrs Nunn is a good shouter.  My brother, also, has his shouty moments.  I seem to have inherited Mr Nunn's skill for bottling it all up... and in my case at the very least, taking it out on public transport.

It has been alleged that on Monday this week at 8.14 a.m., on the London Underground at Stratford Station, I stampeded a man out of the way.  I concede I was trying to get off the tube.  He wasn't moving.  Just standing in front of the doors.  To be fair, there wasn't much space for him to move to.  So I had to barge past so I could get off at my stop.  TheBloke (TM), who was sitting next to me, tells me that after I stampeded the man out of the way, he too got off the train.  And everyone else tutted at the rude woman who'd shoved her way past.

Oh dear.  Well, these isolated incidents happen in the capital I guess.

Except on Tuesday at 8.32 a.m. I was on the Jubilee Line and had just reached my destination at Canary Wharf.  Again, I needed to get off the train.  I did so, but as I alighted, I felt something plastic make contact with my hand and I heard a clatter.  I looked back in case I had dropped something.  I turned round just in time to see the train doors closing and an angry-looking woman whose coffee Thermos had just been knocked on the floor.  By me.  The train had gone before I could apologise.  Also, I didn't really want to.  She was in my way.

So it's interesting to note that currently the artist Michael Landy is running a project to gather the random acts of kindness that happen on the tube.  You can see more information here.  I think it's a good job Michael isn't asking me to contribute my thoughts. This week my greatest act of kindness would be:

I spent a total of seven hours on public transport this week and I did not stab anyone, not even the irritating Essex girl with massive hoop earrings on the phone OR the fat woman who oozed onto my seat.


Please send awards and accolades to the usual address.

Going for a song

One of my favourite activities as a child was Brownies.  I loved Brownies.  I loved the uniform (who could blame me, it was a stunning piece of couture?), I loved working for badges, I loved - frankly - having more badges than anyone else (apart from Swotty Susan, who literally had about 70 badges.  It's a good job she was a bit chubby or they wouldn't have all fitted on her uniform).  Most of all, I loved it when I finally became Sixer of the Pixies.  This meant I was nominally in charge of five other girls.  What this meant in practice was I was supposed to tick their names in a register and collect their subs each week.  The novelty wore off after about two weeks and I used to let the others take it in turns.  That's the kind of firm but fair leader I was.

One of the other things I loved about Brownies was when we would all go on a Pack Holiday.  This was exactly like a family holiday: it would generally involve at least six arguments, substandard accommodation and at least one visit to a church you didn't want to go to.  It did have the added advantage though of planning midnight feasts (which would never happen as everyone would fall asleep first) and pretending you had a sore throat at night to get a throat sweet from Brown Owl (whom I suspect was sneakily swigging neat vodka from the sheer awfulness of being responsible for 20-odd seven to ten year olds).

Pack Holidays were always held no more than about fifteen minutes from home, which took the glamour out of the location a bit.  But we did get to sing songs.  There was one song which was massively politically incorrect about being Red Indians ("All of us are red men, feathers in our head men, down among the dead men, pow wow, we're the men of the golden cow" were the lyrics I can remember.).  There was also one about yodelling on a mountaintop, and one more about a kookaburra living in an old oak tree.  This seemed unlikely in the East Midlands, but I was eight; who was I to question it?

I do remember one particularly disturbing song we learned one Pack Holiday (to the tune of John Brown's Body):

I wear my pink pyjamas in the summer when it's hot
I wear my flannel nightie in the winter when it's not.
And sometimes in the springtime and sometimes in the fall
I jump into my little bed with nothing on at all.


That's the time you ought to see me!
That's the time you ought to see me!
That's the time you ought to see me!
When I jump into my little bed with nothing on at all.

There are several reasons why I find this song so disturbing.  Most obviously that a group of eight year-old girls are encouraging people to watch them whilst they're naked in bed.  But more infuriatingly - why on earth would you wear pink pyjamas to stay cool in the summer and wear nothing at all in autumn or spring, when presumably it's cooler?

It's just insane.  I mean, the pink pyjamas would have to be made of some sort of thermal cooling material to make them cooler than the naked body, or at the very least to have some sort of battery-operated inbuilt cooling system.  And yet there is no reference to this at all in the song.

It's very wrong to teach eight year olds such terrible logic.  The Girl Guides Association ought to be ashamed.