Cat nap

Monty Cat is on a special diet for life. Since having recurring urine infections earlier in the year, the vet has now put him on a permanent diet of wet food specifically for cats with faulty bladders. Monty Cat food now costs us more than £2 per day.

The cause of the faulty bladder? The vet said it was likely to be stress. Of course we immediately felt guilty; the problem had indeed started on a weekend when we went on holiday and left him with Mr and Mrs Nunn... the stress must have been our fault. We worried. We wrung our hands. We shelled out another £50 for another three weeks' worth of food.

Two weeks ago a new two-person sofa bed was delivered to the flat. TheBloke (TM) unpacked it. Before he was able to put it together, Monty Cat decided he'd have a (stressed) snooze.

Look at this picture. Look at it.

Does this look to you like a cat with stress problems? Or does it look to you like a lazy industrial-sized tiger masquerading as a house cat?

Fucking ginger bastard.

Spit and Polish

The best thing about moving house, sorry, the only good thing about moving house is the anecdotes it generates for you, my faithful Ploggerati.

So, TheBloke (TM) was still a bit battered from his single-handed attempt to popularise Face Cricket, and we had heavy furniture that needed moving. Every time TheBloke (TM) leaned forward, he'd produce a profuse nose-bleed expressly designed a) to generate sympathy and b) to excuse himself from any further box moving. Yours truly is as physically strong as a seven year-old with rickets and Mr and Mrs Nunn had selfishly decided to go on holiday to celebrate Mr Nunn's 60th birthday. What total bastards.

This left us with one option: removal men. Or women. We are equal opportunities employers.

So, I called a few. Quotations (I will not call them "quotes") came in thick and fast. £170 seemed to be the average. I had one more guy to speak to.

"Hello."

"Hello - is that Terry?" Terry didn't seem an entirely likely name for someone who had answered the phone with a thick Polish accent, but who am I to judge?

"Yes. This Terry."

I explained how we needed a removal man on Saturday. "No. I not free Saturday. Sorry."

"Never mind then. Thank you." I was just about to hang up.

"I have friend though. George. George my friend. I will call him and see if he free."

"How much will George charge?" I asked.

"£60," said Terry. "If you have to go two times then it will be £120. He has trailer."

"Ah," said I, spotting the catch, "a trailer won't be big enough. And it might be raining."

"OK then," Terry compromised. "He bring van. I call you back."

True to his word, five minutes later, Terry called. "George will to come on Saturday with van for £6o. He doesn't speak good English though. So speak to me if questions."

Saturday came. George came. With his friend who was about a foot and a half tall and a foot and a half wide. I shall call him Cube Man. George takes a look at Monty Cat.

"You have good cat. Is good cat. Also, is too many stairs."

There was not much I could do about this.

TheBloke (TM) enquired if the furniture we needed moving would fit in the van. George surveyed. George pondered. George replied. "No."

I suddenly saw where this was going. We would help George and Cube Man load up their M-reg white van with all our valuables... and then we would never ever see them again. TheBloke (TM) was under strict instructions to get in the Mini and follow the van. And not to dilly-dally on the way. Off went the van with the home packed in it, TheBloke followed behind with... Sorry, slipped into some wartime songs there. Apologies.

Yet George and Cube Man managed to get all our furniture in said van, with a minimum of Polish cursing, and did indeed do it for £60, plus an extra £10 TheBloke (TM) gave them for not driving off with all our shit.

Now, does anyone know anyone you can hire to unpack all the bastard boxes once you get to your new house?

Holding Plog

Ploggers, fear not! I have not abandoned you. Here is a list of some of the things I have been doing over the last few weeks:

- Taking TheBloke (TM) to hospital several times

- Packing everything I own into cardboard boxes

- Trying to fit in an unusually hectic (and rather badly-timed) social life

- Moving house. For future reference, a Mini is not the best-suited vehicle for this enterprise

- Coaxing Monty Cat out from underneath the bed every time the cat across the road gives him a funny look. What a pussy. Literally.

- Dealing with Virgin Media. Watch this space for an update on Monday. It's a story.

- Playing Tetris with bedroom furniture

- Hugging furniture in Ikea. Then realising we can't buy it. Because it won't fit in the fucking Mini.

- Having no internet. Solved now. Finally.

Anecdotes you may look forward to:

- Our new neighbours. Particularly Juliet and her Very Firm Handshake.

- That's about it. Sorry.

Power play

Another Mrs Nunn Plog. I try not to, but sometimes it's just too easy.

"I'm reading Barack Obama's autobiography at the moment," proclaims Mrs Nunn. She pronounces Obama to rhyme with Go-slam-a. That isn't a real word by the way. Other words Mrs Nunn mispronounces include (but are not limited to) "buffet" (boofay) and "chihuahua" (shi-wow-wow).

"Anyway," says Mrs Nunn, after I have finished teasing her about her inability to pronounce possibly the most famous man in the world's surname, "his biography is really good, and I definitely fancy him."

"Sorry?" I say.

"Barack Obama" (Go-slam-a) she says. "I definitely would."

"OK Mum," say I, not even a little taken aback. For I am used to the weird and wonderful way of Mrs Nunn. "You're telling me that you would have sex with Barack Obama?" (Oh-balm-er).

"Yes," she says. "I bet his fantasy is a middle-aged white woman from the Midlands who runs a church orchestra and has her own mini apple orchard. And you know what they say, don't you?"

"No," I said, "I really, really don't."

"Once you've had white, there's no going back."

Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you Mrs Nunn.

Feline fortune

So, what's my excuse for tardiness? Well, I'm going to blame the NHS. That and TheBloke (TM)'s tendency to use his head instead of a cricket bat. Safe to say the last few days have mostly been about hospital appointments, surgery and failing to do any type of housework whatsoever.

Monty Cat, being the ginger git that he is, needs special food to stop him weeing blood. Stupid faulty cat. This costs (per week) almost exactly the same as TheBloke (TM) and I spend on our food shopping per person. And it has to be bought from the vets, at which there is no parking, and which is only open for thirteen minutes every other Tuesday, so long as it's not Whitsun.

So yesterday, being a Tuesday outside of Whitsun, I made the fortnightly visit to the vet to stock up on his special Monty Cat food. I parked illegally as usual, and dashed into the shop.

"Hi, I'd like some incredibly overpriced food please, preferably the stuff branded with 'I saw you coming' stamped on it," I said. Not really.

I said, "Could I get two packs of the Royal Canin feline wet food for cats with urinary problems?"

"Of course," said the receptionist. "Could I take your surname please?"

"Nunn," said I. Thankfully, this didn't turn into one of those interminable conversations where I get looked at sceptically and asked, "None? You don't have a surname?"

"Nunn," the receptionist repeated, "is it for Monty?"

"No," I said. "I find it so delicious that I serve it with potatoes and carrots twice a week. And my bladder has never felt better."

The receptionist looked a bit worried. Then realised I was joking. I'm not sure she approved. The food seemed to cost even more this week.

Furry ginger git.

Rent girl

With a little bit of luck, we've let the flat. We're still waiting for an exchange / completion date ourselves, but we've found a couple who'd like to rent the one we're living in at the moment. TheBloke (TM) was a little bit overexcited when he found out they are a lesbian couple and insisted we installed CCTV immediately. I refused.

I told Mrs Nunn the good news about letting the flat.

"Excellent," she said. "That's fantastic. And great that you'll have two girls living there. They'll definitely look after your flat. I rented a property to a gay couple once. I have to tell you, they were great. I had a very good experience with lesbians."

"Sorry, Mum," I said, deftly putting her on speakerphone so TheBloke (TM) could hear. "What did you just say?"

"I have had a very positive lesbian experience," she said brightly and loudly.

You heard it here first.

Bleeding the NHS dry

Day 1 (last Saturday)

TheBloke (TM) appears home early from cricket.

"Hello," I say. "I didn't get your text saying you were coming home." TheBloke (TM) looks a bit sorry for himself and appears to have a Post-It stuck to his head. On closer inspection, this is not a Post-It but in fact a large piece of medical gauze taped to his head.

"Oh," I say. "Are you OK?"

"No," says TheBloke (TM).

At this point, reader, I asked him what we were all thinking, "Is the Mini OK?"

It was. TheBloke (TM), as you know, tried to use his head as a cricket bat, and despite wearing a helmet, managed to get himself a nice crack on the bonce. The ambulance were called but let him go. TheBloke (TM) then drove home for two hours (whilst vomiting and bleeding) instead of calling me to come out and get him. I told him off and put him to bed.

Day 2

TheBloke (TM) is beginning to feel a bit better. He joins the pre-FABE party for Wii and cider.

Day 3

TheBloke (TM) has a worse headache than the day before and is feeling sick again. He elects not to come to the FABE. He tells me I should go ahead to the FABE, which I do. I return early, and find TheBloke (TM) has been bleeding profusely from the nose. I insist on a trip to A&E. TheBloke (TM) submits.

Our love affair with the NHS begins. Four hours in total, a doctor (about eleven years old) who didn't think it was at all serious, but at the last minute decided to do a CT scan... revealing a fractured skull, eye socket and broken nose. He sent us home, with instructions for TheBloke (TM) to take at least one day off work.

People in the waiting room evidently think he's in an abusive relationship.

Day 4

TheBloke (TM) has a little bit of a nose bleed but is generally feeling a bit better.

Day 5

TheBloke (TM) rings me at work to say he thinks he'll go to A&E again as he's got a bit of a nose bleed. This is TheBloke (TM) subtext for "I've lost most of my bodily fluids". I call a cab for him. An hour later, I get a text telling me he's likely to be admitted.

I leave work, pop home and grab a non-blood soaked spare shirt for him (these are becoming rarer in our flat) and head out to A&E. I find a very sorry looking TheBloke (TM) awaiting transfer by ambulance to another hospital, having just filled two bowls with nose blood. He has a large sponge stuck up each nostril. Yum. I suggest we go into the black pudding making business, but he doesn't seem keen.

We are here for three hours. Every time I ask a nurse how long the ambulance will be, I get told "imminently". After another hour passes, and still being told "imminently", I ask what "imminently" means, as in my vocab, it means in the next five minutes or so. I am informed, "That's not what it means on the NHS." How right they were.

He remains for the next four hours in total. I eventually kick off and ask the nurse to phone the ambulance people. Turns out the ambulance bloke "couldn't find" him first time round, so just left again.

The ambulance comes half an hour later. TheBloke (TM) is left in a hospital gown shivering by an open door, while the ambulance driver tries to find his ambulance keys.

I am not allowed in the ambulance, so make my way by public transport. I still manage to arrive at St Paul's before TheBloke (TM) who has been taken on a whirlwind tour of London by the fuckwit driver.

We find out TheBloke (TM) has to stay until Friday, when the specialist can see him.

You know what, I genuinely can't write the rest of this out because I can feel my blood pressure rising. Let's just say that although yes, he probably did need to be in hospital, the hospital he was transferred to gave him nothing other than drugs - and he never even got to see the specialist before he was discharged. (The discharge itself was supposed to happen at 8 a.m.... so off I duly trotted nice and early to the hospital. It actually happened at 7 p.m. that evening. The reason? The doctor was a bit busy. Brilliant.) I had to ask about nineteen million questions and hassle three hundred medical staff, most of whom did not speak brilliant English.

But it was all worth it. Want to know why? No, not the safe return of TheBloke (TM) - that was just a happy by-product. It was the following exchange.

Laura: Hi, TheBloke (TM) is in bed nine and doesn't have any water. Could I get a jug for him please?

Medical man: I... sorry... I no... understand.

Laura: (doing miming) Bed nine. Needs water (more miming). Can you get some (some pointing)?

Medical man: Oh! I sorry - no. You need nurse for water. I neurologist.

Laura: For God's sake, it's not brain surgery.

(I couldn't resist it.)

Anyway. He's home and fucked off his socks on morphine. It's brilliant! And there's enough left to sell on Ebay.

Day 8

The lazy bastard let me cook breakfast AND dinner AND do the washing up.

A moving issue

It has been - for various reasons - a mostly rubbish few days. There have been some highlights (I would definitely recommend Forbidden Broadway at the Menier Chocolate Factory) and the cheese and bacon burgers at the Fourth Annual Barbecue Extravaganza were perhaps the best to date.

I would not, however, recommend The Royal London's A&E department as a fun place to spend your Bank Holiday Monday afternoon.

Or, as TheBloke (TM) keeps reminding me, "Do you remember that time you went to the barbecue when I had a fractured skull and a broken nose? Did you enjoy your barbecue?" Git.

That is by-the-by. It has been a fairly rubbish few days. But, something strange happened today. Something strange and a little bit wonderful. A company called "Move Me" called me. I assumed it was a removals company - I have been touting for a man and van as we're (hopefully) moving house soon. So I chuntered on to him about various quotations we'd had and how I wasn't yet in a position to make a decision.

He then told me he had a broken leg. I said, "Oh, well you're not going to be doing any removals any time soon, are you?" He sounded a bit confused.

I eventually found out why. The company he's from don't do removals. They do a brilliant, brilliant (free) service that enables you to change all your address details with utilities companies online, or, where you can't do it online, they provide templates for all banks and building societies, they have all the addresses on a database and you can print off the letter, sign it and put it in the post. Job done!

Weirdly though, I have no recollection of seeing this site. And, weirder still, it wouldn't let me sign up as I was apparently "already registered". When I tried logging in (using all the various passwords I'd ever choose), it wouldn't let me. So I genuinely don't think it was me who registered my address. Still, a simple password change request, and I've got full access to the site. Admittedly as a Mr Laura Nunn. The phone number and email address was right though.

I have a moving fairy! Woohoo! Not quite as good as a guardian angel, but at the minute I'll take what I can get.

FABE

Ladies, gentlemen, boys, girls, literate squirrels (I know you're out there, you scheming rodenty bastards):

I apologise in advance for the weather on bank holiday Sunday. Of course it will rain. Of course it will, because I am holding the FABE (the Fourth Annual Barbecue Extravaganza). Our history of Annual Barbecue Extravaganzas ranges from lovely, lovely weather to "Oh fuck, the wind has blown out every single one of our matches, there's not a chance we can get this barbecue lit and it's bollocking freezing. Shall we go home and grill this lot?"

So, tomorrow it'll rain. Or possibly snow.

TheBloke (TM) has already decided to start the weekend off well by managing to get a cricket ball in the face and is now in bed with a bleeding head and a black eye. (Don't worry, he's fine. Though I am currently working on a special effects machine that'll make him think he's seeing double. Oh, come on, it'll be a laugh.)

There will be burgers. There will be sausages. There will - of course - be plastic cheese. There may even be ketchup and Pimms*.

And there will probably also be rain. Or possibly snow.

*Ketchup and Pimms is not, I repeat not a cocktail. Do not try this at home.

Second sight

After a while you think you know someone, don't you? You think, "I know Laura quite well. I read her Plog regularly. I know all about the escapades of Monty Cat. I am fully aware of the minutae of her life that she insists on publishing on the Interweb."

But I bet sometimes you think to yourself, "But I bet I don't know the REAL Laura. She could be hiding deep dark secrets from me. In fact, now you mention it, I don't think I've EVER seen the insides of her eyeballs. What sort of person is cagey about their own eyeballs? Yes, that Laura is a shady character indeed."

I am aware that I have indeed been keeping the insides of my eyeballs from you. And for that I apologise. And, courtesy of the slightly mad people at Vision Express (who assume that naturally everyone wants to be able to log onto their website to see inside their own eyeballs), please see my left and my right eyeball below. I am assured that the funny marks and the fact that the image is skewed is dust on the lens and a dodgy processor, not a fractured eyeball.

Light debate

Well, my lovely Ploggers, well, well, well.

What a very busy few days. In the last three days I have filled every unforgiving minute with at least sixty seconds' worth of distance run. In fact, some minutes I ran a good hour's worth of distance. That's how busy I've been.

I've had a few lovely days off work and I have achieved so far since Saturday:

- Dropped TheBloke (TM) off to play cricket

- Driven to the Midlands

- Had a hair cut

- Experimented with home hair dye

- Visited my friend Abi with a new baby (her own new baby, not one that she'd just happened to pick up)

- Went out for dinner with my parents

- Went on a horse-riding hack

- Had a primary school reunion

- Saw The Time Traveler's Wife

- Went to Chatsworth

- Did a pub quiz - and didn't get banned

- Saw my friend Elinor

- Drove back to London

Busy, busy, busy.

On the way home to London, as ever, I had Radio 2 on in the Mini. It was Jeremy Vine. I hate Jeremy Vine, but I couldn't be bothered to change channels.

Still, it was unbelievable. The "debate" show today featured members of the public getting genuinely furious about:

a) Roadworks in Manchester

b) Lightbulbs (I kid you not)

c) Whether or not British people behaved badly abroad.

Furious these people were. Angry, angry people. The lightbulbs were my favourite bit. The government is apparently banning 100 Watt lightbulbs in favour of energy efficient ones. Fine. A bit nannying perhaps, and personally I like bright lights, but if you get enough of those halogen ones, there's no real problem.

Or so I thought.

These people were - on more than one occasion - incandescent with rage. They made that joke (incandescent apparently being some sort of lightbulb) at least three times.

My favourite quotations:

"I'm bulk buying them. I bought twenty today." Since when is twenty bulk-buying?

"I'd like to bulk-buy them whilst they're still in stock, but I can't afford it." Christ, if you can't afford a few lightbulbs, I'd forget your rubbish lightbulb crusade and start lobbying the government for a better pension, or Mad Person Allowance or whatever it is you get.

"Will the government pay for a new light fitting for me?" No, Nigel. Now fuck off.

The last time I listened to Jeremy Vine it was about three years ago and an extremely lively (yet dull) debate was raging about wheely bins. I wonder if he goes home at night and cries himself to sleep about the futility of his existence.

Cat food

The vet told me that Monty Cat was overweight, and we should put him on a bit of a diet. I did.

Monty Cat then put on even more weight. Then I realised that we'd been measuring his dried food wrongly and giving him twice as much as he should have had. We corrected this.

We weighed Monty Cat. He is 4.2kg - the best part of a stone. I can barely lift him.

In the last six months I have also put on the best part of a stone.

TheBloke (TM), always sensitive, said to me, "Do you realise you've put on more weight than an entire Monty Cat in the last year?"

Fucker.

Comedying on my arse

Ploggers, it has been a while since I trod the boards of stand-up. When I did my last stand-up gigs, smoking had very recently been banned in pubs, and everyone was a bit befuddled by the atmosphere.

Having said that, I prided myself in thinking that I still know my routines pretty well. So that if anyone should ever say, "Perform me ten minutes of very average comedy or I'll shoot you in the face," I could have come up trumps. Sorry for anyone who thinks stand-ups ad-lib the whole thing. They don't. None of them. Some make a decent pass at 'faking the moment' and some are genuinely gifted with audience interaction, but by and large, most of it is a carefully-honed routine, where, like a poem, even the word order of every sentence has been tweaked and pulled for maximum comic effect.

So I am tidying the flat at the moment. The flat will soon be Very Tidy. In so doing, I came across a lot of old papers. In my early days of stand-up, I used to make notes about what I was planning to talk about; I didn't take the notes onto the stage (though I sometimes wrote key words on my hand just in case), but I'd use it as a memory jog before I left home.

I found one of these notes today, definitely from the early days and in my own handwriting. It looks like notes for a ten-minute set. I am ashamed to say that I recognise practically none of this as my material. So a challenge for you, Ploggers. From the below, please create your own jokes. I have typed this up exactly as the note reads.

• (Teachers)
• Knackered - tosser - sticky
• Sky
• Mum
• (Grandma)
• Back to work - does it really matter?
• Single - hair - religously - Sunday school project
• Name - number - dirty bitch - blow jobs - pick a pencil up - Dad - are you proud of me?
• Speed dating. Apparently he's a regular at Liverpool Street
• Drawback - sharing a flat. Petty
• Stranger
• Lost my security money. All worked out fine though - I kept her boyf's deposit.

I'm beginning to see why I gave it up...

Catalogue of disasters

TheBloke (TM) is of the South African persuasion, and therefore a little bit overexcited about Argos. Not the place in Greece. I can understand being excited about a Mediterranean holiday. He is excited about Argos the shop. Those of you born and bred in England can possibly guess from this how exciting your average South African shopping experience is.

I have tried - on numerous occasions - to explain to him that Argos is a little bit rubbish. Everything I have ever bought from Argos is either a little bit broken or else needs to be taken back because it's completely broken.

For further Argos frustrations see http://laurasplog.blogspot.com/2008/02/its-good-to-talk.html

I have explained Argos' rubbishness to him many times. I have pointed out that whenever we go, we end up waiting at least 45 minutes for our goods, which are then invariable slightly broken, or broken so completely we have to come again next week. This does not deter him. TheBloke (TM) loves Argos.

He thinks it's a magic, magic store where three thousand pages-worth of furniture, jewellery, toys, tools, nasal hair clippers, foot spas, games systems and sleeping bags nestle in a magic fairyland, ready to be called down at a moment's notice. Well, 45 minutes' notice anyway. He buys everything from Argos. Everything. Despite the fact that it inevitably breaks, usually one day after the warranty has expired. He loves it.

I will realise I need a new hairdryer, and I will propose popping into Argos on my way home.

"No!" cries TheBloke (TM) plaintively, "Not without me!"

"But TheBloke (TM)," I say, "you don't need anything from Argos. It will just be queues and frustrations, and there's really no need for you to come."

"But I LIKE it," says TheBloke (TM), and whimpers until I promise to take him after all.

When we get there, he presses his little wet nose into the (thankfully) laminated pages of the Argos catalogue, and starts stroking the page with Xboxes on, until someone (usually me) asks him to stop. Then he catches sight of the Spider-Man Ceiling Projection Alarm Clock, and the conveyor belt on which the goodies are delivered, and it's all I can do to wrestle his debit card off him.

He then has to sit in the car until he's calmed down. This usually takes about 45 minutes. Luckily this ties in nicely with the amount of time I have to wait for my slightly-broken hairdryer to arrive.

I hate Argos.

Plate tectonics

Last night was an early night. I was more tired than a worn-out ferret after a day of extra-busy ferreting.

I was asleep by 11 p.m. And then - very suddenly - I was awake. A crash had awoken me. Not the kind of little crash that indicates maybe a glass has been knocked over, but the sort of crash that tells you there is almost certainly death and very possibly dismemberment. I considered briefly if it was worth getting up to see the extent of the devastation, decided I needed a wee anyway, so got up.

In the kitchen sat a smug-looking Monty Cat. His smug look clearly said, "This is actually very much your fault, Laura."

On the slate floor was a plate smashed into at least twenty different bits. The remains of my evening's jacket potato sat amongst them.

Monty Cat's look couldn't have been plainer to read: "Laura, what have I told you about remembering to do the washing up? Hmm? Well, this is what happens when you don't. And from now on I shall be breaking a plate and waking you up every night at 12.30 a.m. until you learn your lesson. Now you are awake you may also stroke me and feed me as a reward for reminding you about the dishes. Thank you."

If anyone would like to adopt an overweight, ginger bastard*, please apply to the usual address.

* The cat, not TheBloke (TM) who may have ginger eyebrows but is reasonably slimline

Sweet sixteen

Ploggers, at the request of my good friend Hazel, please find below an excerpt from my 1995 diary. I was just sixteen, so you can imagine my life was full of all sorts of naughtiness - bunking off school, smoking, drugs and all types of illicit relations.

Or not.

I literally just opened my diary randomly and this is what greeted me:

11.12.95

I had a ton of work again at the weekend - I had to produce a six-sided poetry appreciation. Mine's nearly nine sides but it's not very good and I still have to copy it into neat before Thursday.

Otherwise, I've had a really good day today. These are all the good things that happened:

- I got 92% on a Maths practice exam paper

- I got English coursework back. I got an A(-) for my charity piece and my first straight A for my newspaper piece

- I got two things in the school magazine - my childhood memory and an article about 'Carmina Burana'

- The carol service I was reading in went well

So all in all I've had a pretty good day. The only thing now is all the work I have to do. I have to copy nine sides of English into neat before Thursday, revise for a Biology test before Wednesday (now is 10.15 p.m. Tuesday night) and enter my music composition into the school computer. Plus I have Mocks after Christmas. Argh!

I am the only person in the world whose mother did not read her diary. Not because she respected my privacy, but because it was just far, far too dull.

Several things here - 92% in Maths? I have no recollection of this. Perhaps I meant 29%. I've never been good with numbers.

Copying into neat? What a waste of time! Even though we had a PC at home, and I did do some of my homework on it, I remember even right through to the Upper Sixth, insisting on writing my English out long-hand, because I cared about it enough to physically craft the letters. That all changed about two seconds after I arrived at uni.

You might notice an absence of sex, drugs and general rock 'n' roll. Unless 'Carmina Burana' counts as rock 'n' roll and I'm fairly sure that it doesn't. I would like to defend myself, but having flicked through the rest of this diary, I genuinely can't, as the most scandalous thing I do is snog some bloke at a disco who then tells me he's too busy to see me again because he's got a new job stacking trolleys at Sainsbury's. I also had four friends over for a sleepover on New Year's Eve. We didn't drink, didn't do drugs and didn't even have one of those "all-girl pillow fights" that you see on the internet, just before the clothes start coming off.

I like the implication that the school only had one computer.

So yes. I was a gimpy geek. Official. Even geekier? I can remember which poem that particular appreciation was about. Remembrance - Emily Bronte. "Cold in the earth and the deep snow piled upon thee".

I guess I haven't changed that much.

Good sport

I have never been a natural at sports. That one sentence would likely win me an understatement trophy. I am impressively rubbish at anything involving hand-eye co-ordination, stamina or speed. Actually, that's not quite true. I can speed-read with the best of them. But anything that involves moving quickly is beyond me.

So you can imagine, Physical Education lessons at my traditional, sporty all-girls' school were not my favourites. I hated almost every single sport uniformly. In the winter, hockey and netball were a special type of torture, as we trooped out in our tiny little gym skirts and matching grey knickers, whilst the evil PE teachers huddled in fleecy tracksuits and a coat, and blew whistles at our sporting transgressions. If it rained, we played hockey. If it was windy, we played hockey. If it was rainy and windy and looked like it might snow a bit later on... we played netball. I
maintain there is no greater physical pain than stubbing frozen fingers on a powerfully-thrown netball.

When it came to picking teams, I was always chosen last, some point after the girl with both legs in a cast, and the one with chronic asthma.

Athletics was just as bad. Yes, sometimes the weather was nicer, but the activities were entirely pointless.

1500 meters - running in circles. If you did that without 'sport' as a notion behind it, you'd be institutionalised
Long jump - jumping into a pit of sand and getting your trainers all gritty. No. If you're going to do it, wear flip flops
High jump - psychologically I found this one difficult. I'd run up to the bar but (after seeing my friend Helen's head crack open on said bar the previous lesson), instead of flinging myself backwards over the bar, I tended to refuse it at the last moment like a naughty pony
Shot put / discus - throwing something I could barely lift. No. Just no.
Javelin - would have been OK if they'd allowed us to aim it at the PE teacher
Hurdles - jumping over a series of small fences? Yes, there's a skill I'll need in later life.

Tennis in the summer was OK - if only because you could use the excuse of "accidentally" hitting the tennis ball over the wall to take a long walk round the campus to the park on the other side of the school, thus experiencing freedom for about five minutes. The downside was you were still wearing your gym knickers, so actually it was a prime opportunity for humiliation. The local paedophiles also seemed to think all their Christmases had come at once.

In 1993 the entire class - apparently as a joke - voted me Games Captain for a term. I haven't forgiven them yet and one day I will wreak my horrible revenge.

In 1995, a shivering, freezing cold Laura was delighted that her team had one too many netball players in a games lesson, and valiantly volunteered to sit this match out. Which she did. I spotted some of the sporty girls talking to the evil PE teacher, Mrs Bengleton, who then approached me. She had a look of genuine concern in her eyes.

"Laura," she said. "I've just been told something and... I can't believe it's true." She looked at me with the pleading eyes of a child who's just been told there's no Father Christmas.

"Go on," I said.

"I've just been told... you don't like," she paused for effect, "netball. It's not true, is it?"

I reassured her. "Not true at all," I said.

"Thank goodness," she replied, a childish grin lighting her evil little PE face.

"I don't dislike it. I absolutely hate it."

Which may explain why - three years later - when she caught me skiving badminton (skiving in the library of course - where else would I go?), she didn't readily accept my explanation that I'd 'forgotten' we had Games...

So you'll be as suprised as I was to learn I'd passed the fitness test for the Metropolitan Police last week. Even if I still didn't quite have my breath back three hours later. Next question: will they give me a horse?

'N'-y way

I have had my faithful laptop for about three years. It's a bit slow these days and is rapidly running out of hard disk space. I shall have to delete some of my porn stash. But it serves me well for the most part. The vast majority of my Plogs have been composed upon its keys, and an inumerable number of emails have been drafted.

I touch type. I can do about 70 words per minute. More if they're all really short words like "the" or "and". "Discombobulate" takes a little bit longer, as does "ambidextrous". I don't think I could type "discombobulate" 70 times in one minute. Perhaps I will try at the weekend. Christ, my life is empty.

Anyway, although the laptop is a bit creaky at the seams, it's generally still operational, with only one real flaw... the 'N' key is worn away. Well, not quite. The 'N' key still works, it's just that the little white letter 'N' is worn away. This isn't a major problem. As I said, I touch type anyway, so I rarely look at the keys themselves. But I wondered how this happened.

Then I realised. It's my surname. Never in the history of surnames has a surname had such an imbalance of letters. THREE (count 'em) 'N' letters, and only one other letter at all. No wonder the 'N' lettering is worn away. I'm surprised the whole laptop isn't lopsided. A lopsided laptop. Or a lapsided loptop.

Hmm. An early night, I think.

Procrastinate later

Saturdays are always paved with good intentions. Summer Saturdays, TheBloke (TM) goes off to play cricket all day, and I have the best part of twelve hours to tick things off my to-do list. The to-do list currently looks like this:

- Buy house

- Sew button onto cardigan

- Write novel

- Ring vets

- Tidy shelving

- Reply to my backlog of email

OK, perhaps exchange and completion of a house in one weekend might be a bit too much to ask for. Additionally, the novel is perhaps a tall-ish order with a mere twelve hours to spare. But the rest should be achievable, surely?

Well, in case you're interested, here is roughly what the last ten Saturdays have looked like:

- 12 noon, consider getting out of pyjamas

- 1 p.m. watch SkyPlus rubbish, mostly Ugly Betty. Don't even concentrate on this, because I'm Facebooking in the background and - unusually for a girl - can't concentrate on more than one thing at once

- 3 p.m. consider going into town

- 4 p.m. put clothes on, go to Oxford Street

- 4.32 p.m. realise Oxford Street on a Saturday is where they hold the weekly Cunt Convention. I am - as ever - in attendance

- 5 p.m. come home and irritate the cat

- 6 p.m. call everyone I can think of in an attempt to avoid sewing the button on my cardigan. Or writing the novel.

- 6.40 p.m. try and find a really stupid addictive game on the internet I can waste my life with. If you want one, try http://fantasticcontraption.com/ or http://www.ig.ns.ac.yu/fun.html but you won't get your life back and don't say I didn't warn you.

- 9.00 p.m. realise TheBloke (TM) is home soon, and start preparing his dinner (otherwise he beats me, but only because I deserve it).

- 10.00 p.m. make a list of everything I need to do next Saturday.

Posh puss

I'm not ashamed to admit I like the finer things in life. The occasional morsel of smoked salmon, olives stuffed with feta cheese, a nicely tailored Calvin Klein suit. This doesn't mean I can always afford to indulge my tastes, but occasionally, as a treat, well, why not?

And we do occasionally spoil Monty Cat. I suppose that's what pets are for.

We are Sainsbury's shoppers, and our basket usually contains far more of the "Essentials" range than the "Taste the Difference" items. This is OK, because when we splash out, we probably appreciate it more.

Years back, I shopped at Tesco, who have a "Value" range and a "Finest" range. But now it's Sainsbury's all the way.

And we decided to treat Monty Cat to some super-duper special cat litter. Sainsbury's equivalent of the Tesco "Finest" range. It was at this point I wondered:

Do Sainsbury's make a "Taste the Difference" cat litter?