So this week, I've been on Jury Service. And of course, because it's me, I'm going to tell you all about it. Don't worry, I'm not quite so stupid as this woman; I can tell you all about it because the trial is over. Although I still have another week of Jury Service to complete. I assume they'll give me a new trial. Now I have some experience I'd like to be the judge, or at the very least a barrister on this next one.
I arrived at the Old Bailey on Monday morning. The timing of these things is never ideal: not only have we just bought (and were trying to redecorate) a buy-to-let flat, but we have a holiday coming up after the Jury Service, plus the latest round of redundancy notices are expected to go out any minute at work. Essentially I spent the previous fortnight trying to do all the work I need to do before my holiday ends (in October) to a quality that means it would be a bad idea to make me redundant, having increasingly paranoid conversations with plumbers and trying to keep a lid on what was threatening to become a full-scale nervous breakdown.
Let's just say I was ready to dispense some justice. And if one of the defendants had been a plumber, there was a very real chance I'd just shout, "Off with his head!". Thankfully it didn't come to that.
So, of the jurors waiting in the waiting area, fifteen of us were called at random and marched into a courtroom. Twelve of us were then selected as jurors. I refused to swear on the Bible, choosing a non-religious "Affirmation" instead. The wigs were hilariously ridiculous. So were the graduation-style gowns they wore, with little cravats. I thought so at the time, anyway. I thought they were less ridiculous later in the morning, and actually began to envy them; the temperature in the room was sub-Arctic, and a nice warm wig and a black dressing gown would have gone down nicely.
Although I believe I'm at liberty to divulge pretty much anything about the trial, with respect to the defendant (whom, after a 3-day trial was found not guilty... though let's just say I certainly wasn't convinced about his innocence. Which is apparently different to finding someone guilty. It's all very silly), I won't actually mention anything that would allow you to identify either the defendant or the trial.
Everyone who worked in the courtroom was very, very posh. They would make the three-way bastard love-child of Hugh Grant, Boris Johnson and Stephen Fry (go on, picture it, just for a second) look like Wayne Slob. There were so many cut-glass accents in the courtroom from the judge, the prosecution barrister and the defence barrister, that my glass of water exploded several times.
At the end of day one, with the defendant sitting miserably in the dock, the Judge said, "Thank you Jury. Your time here this afternoon has been much appreciated and we shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow morning when we sit at 10.30. For those of you following the cricket, you'll be sorry to hear that Tendulkar missed his century..." He then went on to give us a breakdown of the day's cricket match. At the Old Bailey Central Criminal Court. I found that massively disrespectful to the defendant. But there you go.
That was comedy indeed, but true comedy gold came the next day with the prosecuting barrister calling his witness. The witness was the police detective at the station who had arrested the defendant. The prosecuting barrister handed out paper copies of a transcript of the interview, and - in case there were any among us who were illiterate (and actually, looking at some of my fellow jurors, that wasn't necessarily an incorrect assumption), they decided they were going to read it out. Over 50 pages of it. It was like a very bad student play.
The very best part of this is the policeman witness played himself. He read out his own parts of the transcript. But because they can only call one witness at a time, the defendant couldn't read his own part. So the prosecuting barrister read out the defendant's lines.
Characters:
Bobby - a down-to-earth, salt-of-the earth London copper.
Prosecuting Solicitor - a ridiculously posh man wearing a stupid wig and cape PLAYING- a Jamaican man, mid-30s
Bobby: Right sonny, why was you on Fairleaves Road at 11 p.m.?
Prosecuting Solicitor: (in an extremely posh voice) Me was getting in me car, to meet me dealer who was sorting me some draw. Me had me music on.
This went on for two hours. The copper was being his London-self, and the prosecuting barrister - thankfully without any attempt on a Jamaican accent - read out the transcript exactly as the Jamaican defendant had said it. It was hilarious. It was exactly like Armstrong and Miller's Airmen sketch. But a quick glance around my other jurors showed me that no-one else was laughing. My shoulders were shaking.
My other favourite moment was when the defence called the defendant as a witness. He was clearly nervous, and his heavy accent made him difficult at times to understand. The following exchange genuinely happened:
Defending barrister: Mr Smith, how long have you lived in the UK?
Defendant: Since 2005.
Defending barrister: And your home country is Jamaica?
Defendant: Yes.
Defending barrister: What is your first language?
Defendant: Broken English.
I just wish I remembered more of it. Perhaps I should take a dictaphone into court next time. Well, that's one guaranteed way of shortening my Jury Service...
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Cat and mouse
Ploggers, apologies for my absence. It has been a busy few weeks, and looks set fair to continue. However, now, right now, I intend to update you with the very latest. Draw close.
It has been a mixed week for Monty Cat. Last Sunday morning TheBloke (TM) and I were up bright and early, expecting guests for a lunchtime braai. There was tidying to be done, and cleaning. You know, the usual hedonism.
TheBloke (TM) called me to the garden. "Look at this!" he said, brandishing something icky-looking. It was a dead mouse. TheBloke (TM) was holding it by its tail.
"Sweetie, we have plenty of food inside if you're hungry," I said.
Monty Cat had made his first kill. (I am exempting the time he accidentally stood on a spider.)
He hadn't eaten the mouse, but had left it as a present for us. Either that, or another cat had killed it, and Monty Cat had stolen it and put it outside our door to make us think he was well hard. TheBloke (TM) explained to me how important it was to Monty Cat's self-esteem for us to thank him for the gift. I left that to him. Monty Cat strutted around, proudly.
The braai was lovely, and it was great to catch up with so many friends. It was also amusing to watch the conflict on Monty Cat's little cat face. Monty Cat is a big lover of barbecues in all shapes and forms, because it normally means there is some chicken skin heading his way pretty quickly. However, Monty Cat has one nemesis: children. He is terrified of them. And our braai was attended by the very cute and engaging Esmee, who was just the right height to toddle towards him, shouting, "CAT!" Monty Cat made himself scarce.
Our friends left at about 6 p.m., an hour or so before Monty Cat's dinner. At his dinner time there was no sign of the Monster. This was odd. Monty has never knowingly missed dinner before. We gave him an hour. Then we went outside and called him. We banged his dishes. At 10 p.m., TheBloke (TM) walked up and down the road to check he hadn't been squashed. No Monty Cat.
We didn't sleep well, worried about the furry fluffster. When we woke, he still hadn't come home. His biscuits sat forlornly in his dish.
I knocked on the neighbour's door at 8 a.m. (clearly waking the whole household) to ask them to check their shed. No joy.
And then TheBloke (TM) on his way out of the house heard a pitiful mewing. "Mew. Mew. Mew." It was coming from next door but one's garage. TheBloke (TM) knocked at their door, and they shortly let out a very dusty, very hungry, very clingy Monty Cat. He was pleased to see us. We were pleased to have him back.
Two days later, when I wasn't feeding him quickly enough, the fucker bit my ankle.
Anyone want a cat?
It has been a mixed week for Monty Cat.
It has been a mixed week for Monty Cat. Last Sunday morning TheBloke (TM) and I were up bright and early, expecting guests for a lunchtime braai. There was tidying to be done, and cleaning. You know, the usual hedonism.
TheBloke (TM) called me to the garden. "Look at this!" he said, brandishing something icky-looking. It was a dead mouse. TheBloke (TM) was holding it by its tail.
"Sweetie, we have plenty of food inside if you're hungry," I said.
Monty Cat had made his first kill. (I am exempting the time he accidentally stood on a spider.)
He hadn't eaten the mouse, but had left it as a present for us. Either that, or another cat had killed it, and Monty Cat had stolen it and put it outside our door to make us think he was well hard. TheBloke (TM) explained to me how important it was to Monty Cat's self-esteem for us to thank him for the gift. I left that to him. Monty Cat strutted around, proudly.
The braai was lovely, and it was great to catch up with so many friends. It was also amusing to watch the conflict on Monty Cat's little cat face. Monty Cat is a big lover of barbecues in all shapes and forms, because it normally means there is some chicken skin heading his way pretty quickly. However, Monty Cat has one nemesis: children. He is terrified of them. And our braai was attended by the very cute and engaging Esmee, who was just the right height to toddle towards him, shouting, "CAT!" Monty Cat made himself scarce.
Our friends left at about 6 p.m., an hour or so before Monty Cat's dinner. At his dinner time there was no sign of the Monster. This was odd. Monty has never knowingly missed dinner before. We gave him an hour. Then we went outside and called him. We banged his dishes. At 10 p.m., TheBloke (TM) walked up and down the road to check he hadn't been squashed. No Monty Cat.
We didn't sleep well, worried about the furry fluffster. When we woke, he still hadn't come home. His biscuits sat forlornly in his dish.
I knocked on the neighbour's door at 8 a.m. (clearly waking the whole household) to ask them to check their shed. No joy.
Two days later, when I wasn't feeding him quickly enough, the fucker bit my ankle.
Anyone want a cat?
It has been a mixed week for Monty Cat.
Saturday, August 06, 2011
Mother tongue
When my younger brother and I were children and Mr and Mrs Nunn wanted to talk about something they didn't want us to know, they would switch to French.
This makes them sound a bit poncey, but as they'd both taken A-level French, with varying levels of success (actually, not that varying - one E and one D, I believe), it was a fast and fairly efficient code so "les enfants" couldn't understand.
This was all well and good, until I got to the age of 11 or so, when we started studying French at school. My parents quickly realised that I was understanding key words ("cadeau pour l'anniversaire" was clearly "birthday present") and so my parents no longer used the code to try to prevent my comprehension. I'm not sure what method they used instead. Perhaps passing notes. I shall have to ask them.
Jack, however, was a full six years younger, so the code stayed in force for longer with him. Unfortunately for my parents, my French was improving all the time... just as theirs was getting rustier. Certainly there was a lot more Franglais than proper French spoken.
A typical Nunn household exchange might go like this (don't worry - no knowledge of French is necessary):
Mr Nunn: Avez-vous booké le holiday yet? (note for francophones: they used the formal version of "you" not out of any mutual respect, but because they'd forgotten you're supposed to say "tu".)
Mrs Nunn: Oui. Nous going a Disney World.
Mr Nunn: Quand dates are nous going?
Mrs Nunn: Nous partez 5 juillet.
Smug Laura: It's not "nous partez", it's "nous partons". And actually, if you want to say "we are going", as in future tense, you either need to say, "nous partirons" or "nous allons partir".
Mr Nunn: C'est bien to leave Laura on her seul?
Mrs Nunn: Oui. Je beaucoup prefer to go without Laura. Smug vache.
This makes them sound a bit poncey, but as they'd both taken A-level French, with varying levels of success (actually, not that varying - one E and one D, I believe), it was a fast and fairly efficient code so "les enfants" couldn't understand.
This was all well and good, until I got to the age of 11 or so, when we started studying French at school. My parents quickly realised that I was understanding key words ("cadeau pour l'anniversaire" was clearly "birthday present") and so my parents no longer used the code to try to prevent my comprehension. I'm not sure what method they used instead. Perhaps passing notes. I shall have to ask them.
Jack, however, was a full six years younger, so the code stayed in force for longer with him. Unfortunately for my parents, my French was improving all the time... just as theirs was getting rustier. Certainly there was a lot more Franglais than proper French spoken.
A typical Nunn household exchange might go like this (don't worry - no knowledge of French is necessary):
Mr Nunn: Avez-vous booké le holiday yet? (note for francophones: they used the formal version of "you" not out of any mutual respect, but because they'd forgotten you're supposed to say "tu".)
Mrs Nunn: Oui. Nous going a Disney World.
Mr Nunn: Quand dates are nous going?
Mrs Nunn: Nous partez 5 juillet.
Smug Laura: It's not "nous partez", it's "nous partons". And actually, if you want to say "we are going", as in future tense, you either need to say, "nous partirons" or "nous allons partir".
Mr Nunn: C'est bien to leave Laura on her seul?
Mrs Nunn: Oui. Je beaucoup prefer to go without Laura. Smug vache.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Mr Nunn's Phonetic Alphabet
So Mr Nunn was talking to me about my Plog. "You're right," he said. "I can never remember what the phonetic alphabet is supposed to be either. And whenever I'm talking to someone at a call centre, I can only think of naughty words that start with that letter. And it's not usually appropriate."
So, for you, my dear Ploggers, Mr Nunn's Sweary Phonetic Alphabet:
A - Arse
B - Bollocks
C - Cock
D - Dick
E - Elephant cock
F - Fuckwad
G - Gonorrhoea
H - Handjob
I - Jap's Eye (I think this one is stretching it a bit)
J - Jap's Eye (I never said creativity is his strong point)
K - Knob
L - Lesbian
M - MILF (Or, at his age, "a younger woman")
N - Nonce
O - Orgasm
P - Prick
Q - Queer
R - Rim job
S - Sodomy
T - Tits, tits, tits
U - Urinary tract infection
V - Venereal disease
W - Wanker
X - Xenophobia
Y - Yanking myself off
Z - Zipper
Admittedly, to spell his own surname with this method, Mr Nunn would have to say, "My name is Nunn. Nonce, urinary tract infection, nonce nonce". Which has its drawbacks.
Also, anything with a Y in it, has the potential for someone to put the phone down on him pretty quickly. Unless he's phoning one of the "special" phone lines, where that's probably quite normal. What's probably less normal is him dictating things via the phonetic alphabet to a sex phone line. Unless that's what does it for him. I think I've thought about this a bit too much.
I'm going off to be sick now.
So, for you, my dear Ploggers, Mr Nunn's Sweary Phonetic Alphabet:
A - Arse
B - Bollocks
C - Cock
D - Dick
E - Elephant cock
F - Fuckwad
G - Gonorrhoea
H - Handjob
I - Jap's Eye (I think this one is stretching it a bit)
J - Jap's Eye (I never said creativity is his strong point)
K - Knob
L - Lesbian
M - MILF (Or, at his age, "a younger woman")
N - Nonce
O - Orgasm
P - Prick
Q - Queer
R - Rim job
S - Sodomy
T - Tits, tits, tits
U - Urinary tract infection
V - Venereal disease
W - Wanker
X - Xenophobia
Y - Yanking myself off
Z - Zipper
Admittedly, to spell his own surname with this method, Mr Nunn would have to say, "My name is Nunn. Nonce, urinary tract infection, nonce nonce". Which has its drawbacks.
Also, anything with a Y in it, has the potential for someone to put the phone down on him pretty quickly. Unless he's phoning one of the "special" phone lines, where that's probably quite normal. What's probably less normal is him dictating things via the phonetic alphabet to a sex phone line. Unless that's what does it for him. I think I've thought about this a bit too much.
I'm going off to be sick now.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Speak and spell
There are some things you learn at school that stay with you, that enhance your ability to interact with the world. Off the top of my head, these are:
- Rudimentary understanding of the basics of grammar and punctuation
- Ability to do percentages
- How to order beer in French
Then there are some things that you will literally never need to know. This list is quite extensive, so I have made it as concise as possible:
- That V=IR. I guarantee three months after your final Physics class, you will no longer remember what the V, the I, or indeed the R stands for. I have a vague feeling it's something to do with electricity, but then I thought V was velocity, so who knows?
- How to say, "I am fifteen years old" in German. To be honest, if you try this after the age of 18 on the internet, you can actually get arrested.
- How to jump over a series of small fences as quickly as possible. You call it hurdles. I call it "pretending to be a horse".
Then there are a few things which actually it would have been useful to learn at school, but for whatever reason, weren't deemed part of the curriculum. My top three are:
- Touch typing. I actually learned how to do this in an evening class, and it's been far more valuable and time-saving than any other qualification I've ever received.
- How mortgages work. Why would I care how to calculate the third side of a triangle, whilst having no sodding idea what the difference between a base rate tracker and an offset standard variable is?
- The phonetic alphabet.
Let's take the final one. The phonetic alphabet. Over the years, I've made a stab at it, as when you're on the phone giving your postcode and so on, it's useful to be able to distinguish between the phonetically-similar "n" and "m" or "b" and "p" and so on. But I've never really nailed it.
So here, below, is my working draft of the phonetic alphabet. Feel free to adopt:
A - Alpha
B - Bravo
C - Camembert
D - Dinosaur
E - Elephant
F - Finger food
G - Grandma
H - Halitosis
I - Ice cream
J - Juliet
K - Ku Klux Klan
L - Lesbian
M - Monty Cat
N - Nigel
O - Ostrich
P - Pimp
Q - Quibble
R - Restraining order
S - Substitute teacher
T - Tongue twister
U - Umbrella
V - Violence
W - Wanker
X - X-ray
Y - Yelp
Z - Zebra
I just hope I get a phone call soon where I get to spell the word "walks".
"Walks. That's Wanker Alpha Lesbian Ku Klux Klan Substitute Teacher."
Actually, I think we had one of those in our sixth form.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Tigris dormiens nunquam titilandus
As you may remember, here, and, because they didn't learn their lesson, also here, Petals Florist in Port Elizabeth provided us with possibly the worst wedding flowers in the world. Ever.
I shan't rehash the entire story, but complaints were made, promises of refunds were issued... and then all responsibility denied, with the previous owner blaming the new owner and vice versa. After charging us more than the original quotation, the R 850 we paid for a bouquet of lilies and some buttonholes (approx £90) which were wilted and drawn on in biro, we haven't received a refund to date.
Therefore, I told the owner of Petals Florist that I would be writing a review online, and that it would remain up until the refund was provided. So far, so consistent.
Hilariously, Petals and their friends decided they were going to do some damage limitation by using my comments box to talk about how wonderful the florist actually was. (My favourite said something like, "What an angry lady you are. I think you should let this go." What incredibly good advice. From Petals Florist themselves.) Like we couldn't see their comments coming a mile off. I have deleted most of them. The latest one says:
"I live overseas and was recommended Petals Florist by a relative who lives in PE. I sent my mum flowers for Mother's Day and by all accounts they were lovely. I plan to send her flowers for her birthday through Petals. I challenge you to actually leave this post up instead of deleting it!"
This is brilliant for two reasons:
I shan't rehash the entire story, but complaints were made, promises of refunds were issued... and then all responsibility denied, with the previous owner blaming the new owner and vice versa. After charging us more than the original quotation, the R 850 we paid for a bouquet of lilies and some buttonholes (approx £90) which were wilted and drawn on in biro, we haven't received a refund to date.
Therefore, I told the owner of Petals Florist that I would be writing a review online, and that it would remain up until the refund was provided. So far, so consistent.
Hilariously, Petals and their friends decided they were going to do some damage limitation by using my comments box to talk about how wonderful the florist actually was. (My favourite said something like, "What an angry lady you are. I think you should let this go." What incredibly good advice. From Petals Florist themselves.) Like we couldn't see their comments coming a mile off. I have deleted most of them. The latest one says:
"I live overseas and was recommended Petals Florist by a relative who lives in PE. I sent my mum flowers for Mother's Day and by all accounts they were lovely. I plan to send her flowers for her birthday through Petals. I challenge you to actually leave this post up instead of deleting it!"
This is brilliant for two reasons:
- Who would search for Petals Florist unless they were a potential new customer, or a "friend" coming to their defence? It's massively unlikely that an existing customer would stumble across my review and feel moved to spring to the defence of a florist shop. And a not very good, in fact, pretty shit florist shop at that.
- The commenter seems to be under the illusion that I am providing a lovely forum to give a "fair" view of the overall service Petals Florist in Port Elizabeth provides. Of course this is ridiculous - this isn't my aim at all. Why would I care if people have had a positive experience? My aim is to showcase, and hopefully to shame, Port Elizabeth's worst florist, Petals and show how they did their very best to provide really fuck-wank awful flowers for my wedding - and then deny responsibility.
Also, please note the poster uses the incorrect (pet hate) "Mother's Day" rather than my preferred "Mothers' Day" (please see Fathers' Day post). This is irrelevant, but worth pointing out, nonetheless.
So - anonymous overseas poster, your post will be deleted (though will remain in perpetuity on this post, where it is ridiculed).
Interestingly, I've also just registered the blogsite address: www.petalsfloristportelizabethreview.blogspot.com and may use this in the future if I need to.
And for the cost of a refund for the rubbish flowers, all this could go away...
When TheBloke (TM)'s mum heard about this, she was astonished at Petals' response and poor customer service. Knowing my tenacity, she said, "Why would they poke the tiger?" I am taking this as a compliment as I know she likes cats.
The tiger has been poked.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Old bangers
Every year, my friend Erica and I have an annual barbecue. This first started when I lived in Bethnal Green, she visited for the weekend, we had an impromptu barbecue because the weather was nice... and decided to do it again. So the second barbecue was named the Second Annual Barbecue Extravaganza (SABE).
For those who are interested, here are the highlights and lowlights of our barbecue history.
First Annual Barbecue Extravaganza, 2006
Erica and I poddled down to Victoria Park with a disposable barbecue. We made lots of Pimms, got a bit tipsy and ended up barbecuing strawberries. In case you were thinking of trying it, they didn't taste great.
Second Annual Barbecue Extravaganza, 2007
Didn't start promisingly, where the SABE coincided with the release date of the final Harry Potter book and there was an unfortunate mix up at Tesco. I raised eyebrows with the cashier by purchasing J K Rowling's latest tome... and a book of matches (which I swear was for the barbecue). Dean joined us, but unfortunately, the wind was windy, and the rain was rainy and the worst summer I've ever known blew out all 36 of the matches we'd bought. One after the other. Dean looked like he was going to cry. Eventually we gave up, cooked all the meat in the flat, set off both my smoke detectors, swore a lot and went to the cinema to watch Hairspray. Disappointing.
Third Annual Barbecue Extravaganza, 2008
TheBloke (TM)'s first Extravaganza. The sun was sunny. The BBQ was BBQ-y. We took photos where we all looked like Dawson's Creek failed auditionees. Dean and TheBloke (TM) got into a pointless contest of "who can stand closest to a pigeon". This may or may not have been cider-induced.
Fourth Annual Barbecue Extravaganza, 2009
TheBloke (TM) continues to hold the FABE against me. Two days prior to the FABE, he took a cricket ball to the head. He said he was fine and didn't want to go to hospital. However, the day of the FABE, he was feeling a bit sick, so decided to stay at home whilst Erica, Dean and I barbecued all manner of tasty meats, including bacon cheeseburgers, which were a new addition to the 2009 repertoire. I was a bit worried about TheBloke (TM) so left the FABE early (I didn't eat my second burger) to go and check on him. Turns out I was right to do so, as he was bleeding profusely from the face, had to go immediately to hospital and apparently had a fractured skull and broken nose. Who knew? To this day, he loves to say, "Do you remember that time I had a broken skull and you left me on my own and went and had a barbecue whilst I nearly bled to death?"
Still, the weather was nice.
Fifth Annual Barbecue Extravaganza, 2010
This was combined with our engagement celebration, and marked the first Annual Barbecue Extravaganza in our own garden, as we've moved to the burbs. There were cupcakes and the wearing of gay cowboy hats. It was fun. There were even balloons and cupcakes. What more could we want?
Sixth Annual Barbecue Extravaganza, 2011
This was yesterday. It was brilliant. Not only were we in our own garden, not only was it sunny, not only was no-one bleeding profusely from the face BUT there were burgers and sausages and boerwors and biltong and dips and plastic cheese and celery and cupcakes and muffins and cider and mocktails, and the whole thing was more fun than you can shake a stick at.
Seventh Annual Barbecue Extravaganza, 2012
With a bit of luck, Erica and Dean will be bringing a small, new addition to our Extravaganza. This will make our SEABE extra, extra special. So long as Monty Cat doesn't try and eat him or her. Watch this space.
For those who are interested, here are the highlights and lowlights of our barbecue history.
First Annual Barbecue Extravaganza, 2006
Erica and I poddled down to Victoria Park with a disposable barbecue. We made lots of Pimms, got a bit tipsy and ended up barbecuing strawberries. In case you were thinking of trying it, they didn't taste great.
Second Annual Barbecue Extravaganza, 2007
Didn't start promisingly, where the SABE coincided with the release date of the final Harry Potter book and there was an unfortunate mix up at Tesco. I raised eyebrows with the cashier by purchasing J K Rowling's latest tome... and a book of matches (which I swear was for the barbecue). Dean joined us, but unfortunately, the wind was windy, and the rain was rainy and the worst summer I've ever known blew out all 36 of the matches we'd bought. One after the other. Dean looked like he was going to cry. Eventually we gave up, cooked all the meat in the flat, set off both my smoke detectors, swore a lot and went to the cinema to watch Hairspray. Disappointing.
Third Annual Barbecue Extravaganza, 2008
TheBloke (TM)'s first Extravaganza. The sun was sunny. The BBQ was BBQ-y. We took photos where we all looked like Dawson's Creek failed auditionees. Dean and TheBloke (TM) got into a pointless contest of "who can stand closest to a pigeon". This may or may not have been cider-induced.Fourth Annual Barbecue Extravaganza, 2009
TheBloke (TM) continues to hold the FABE against me. Two days prior to the FABE, he took a cricket ball to the head. He said he was fine and didn't want to go to hospital. However, the day of the FABE, he was feeling a bit sick, so decided to stay at home whilst Erica, Dean and I barbecued all manner of tasty meats, including bacon cheeseburgers, which were a new addition to the 2009 repertoire. I was a bit worried about TheBloke (TM) so left the FABE early (I didn't eat my second burger) to go and check on him. Turns out I was right to do so, as he was bleeding profusely from the face, had to go immediately to hospital and apparently had a fractured skull and broken nose. Who knew? To this day, he loves to say, "Do you remember that time I had a broken skull and you left me on my own and went and had a barbecue whilst I nearly bled to death?"Still, the weather was nice.
Fifth Annual Barbecue Extravaganza, 2010
Sixth Annual Barbecue Extravaganza, 2011
This was yesterday. It was brilliant. Not only were we in our own garden, not only was it sunny, not only was no-one bleeding profusely from the face BUT there were burgers and sausages and boerwors and biltong and dips and plastic cheese and celery and cupcakes and muffins and cider and mocktails, and the whole thing was more fun than you can shake a stick at.Seventh Annual Barbecue Extravaganza, 2012
With a bit of luck, Erica and Dean will be bringing a small, new addition to our Extravaganza. This will make our SEABE extra, extra special. So long as Monty Cat doesn't try and eat him or her. Watch this space.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Kiwi fruity
It was time to meet Mr and Mrs Nunn, plus Jack, my brother, for lunch. TheBloke (TM) came along too.
Jack had barely sat down, before he had gleeful news to impart. "Laura!" he said, "Ask Mum about kiwis!"
"Huh?" I replied. "The green fruit? Why?"
"No," Jack said, "ask her about New Zealanders!"
I still wasn't following. Jack prompted me further. "Ask her about my girlfriend."
"Go on," I said to Mrs Nunn. Mrs Nunn clearly knew she was being set up, but carried on anyway. "Well," she said. "You know how I told you Jack's girlfriend was half Maori?"
"Yes," I said. "I remember being surprised because she's tall and fair. But yes, I do remember me telling you that."
"Well, she isn't half Maori," Mrs Nunn said.
"Well why did you say that then?"
"It's Jack's fault," Mrs Nunn proclaimed.
"How so?" my brother prompted.
"Well, Jack told me she was half Kiwi. So he told me wrong." Mrs Nunn looked haughty in her utter correctness.
"Huh?" I said, eloquently.
"Well, you know," Mrs Nunn continued. "Kiwi is a polite word for Maori."
I didn't even know where to start with this one. "Why would calling someone Maori be impolite? And also, no it isn't. It's just a word for anyone from New Zealand. And it isn't offensive," I said. "New Zealanders don't mind being called Kiwis."
"No," Mrs Nunn insisted. "Kiwi means Maori."
"Mum, you have cousins who live in New Zealand. They are Kiwis."
"No they're NOT," she insisted. "They have English grandparents - they aren't Maori at all."
"Kiwi does not mean Maori," Jack and I said in unison.
"Well it does to me," said Mrs Nunn, thus finishing - and winning - the argument.
Editor's note: Mrs Nunn has recently returned from a round-the-world trip, taking in a two-week sojourn to New Zealand. The mind boggles at the diplomatic incidents probably unfolding as I type.
Jack had barely sat down, before he had gleeful news to impart. "Laura!" he said, "Ask Mum about kiwis!"
"Huh?" I replied. "The green fruit? Why?"
"No," Jack said, "ask her about New Zealanders!"
I still wasn't following. Jack prompted me further. "Ask her about my girlfriend."
"Go on," I said to Mrs Nunn. Mrs Nunn clearly knew she was being set up, but carried on anyway. "Well," she said. "You know how I told you Jack's girlfriend was half Maori?"
"Yes," I said. "I remember being surprised because she's tall and fair. But yes, I do remember me telling you that."
"Well, she isn't half Maori," Mrs Nunn said.
"Well why did you say that then?"
"It's Jack's fault," Mrs Nunn proclaimed.
"How so?" my brother prompted.
"Well, Jack told me she was half Kiwi. So he told me wrong." Mrs Nunn looked haughty in her utter correctness.
"Huh?" I said, eloquently.
"Well, you know," Mrs Nunn continued. "Kiwi is a polite word for Maori."
I didn't even know where to start with this one. "Why would calling someone Maori be impolite? And also, no it isn't. It's just a word for anyone from New Zealand. And it isn't offensive," I said. "New Zealanders don't mind being called Kiwis."
"No," Mrs Nunn insisted. "Kiwi means Maori."
"Mum, you have cousins who live in New Zealand. They are Kiwis."
"No they're NOT," she insisted. "They have English grandparents - they aren't Maori at all."
"Kiwi does not mean Maori," Jack and I said in unison.
"Well it does to me," said Mrs Nunn, thus finishing - and winning - the argument.
Editor's note: Mrs Nunn has recently returned from a round-the-world trip, taking in a two-week sojourn to New Zealand. The mind boggles at the diplomatic incidents probably unfolding as I type.
Friday, July 08, 2011
Petals Florist, Port Elizabeth
So, I am sure many of you remember the dealings I had with Petals Florist, Port Elizabeth for our wedding day. Those of you who've forgotten can refresh your puny memories here.
"What happened next?" I can hear you ask. Well, gather close my many friends and I will share with you my review of Petals Florist, Port Elizabeth and their wedding service.
Petals Florist, Port Elizabeth, Eastern Cape Review
As you know, the flowers provided for our wedding were beyond awful (as per the previous Plog). On the day, we were lucky enough that the lodge where we got married were able to make some new arrangements for us, so the day wasn't ruined. Having said that, we paid approximately £80 in flowers (well, actually, TheBloke (TM)'s sister did) which were totally unusable.
Despite emailing and asking for a refund, the owner of Petals Florist didn't bother replying... until my Plog went live, and then suddenly I got two emails straight away.
One was from the owner of Petals Florist, a lady called Desere Heck. This sounds like a made-up name (although it isn't) and if she were in a comic, I imagine she'd hang round with girls called Cynthia Crumbs, Bunty Golly-Gosh and Jemima Crikey.
Her email - at first - was civilised and explained that she'd recently taken over the business and didn't feel she could be held responsible for the previous owner's mistakes.
However on the very same day I had an email from Tersia Ferreira, the lady we'd dealt with whilst arranging the order, stating (and I truly love this):
"I would firstly like to apologize for your terrible experience – however I would like to advice you that I have sold the business before your wedding. Trevor Bacon of Petals Florist did the wedding and I believe he did a good amount of mistakes in weddings after that as well."
Please note that throughout this, no-one is saying that they thought the quality was good. In fact, poor Trevor is being blamed for fucking up weddings throughout the Eastern Cape.
Desere Heck is telling me that she DIDN'T own the business during my wedding... as is Tersia. Now, as the customer, I don't really care who owns the business, I just want a refund. I pointed this out to Desere; as they are trading under the same name, it is Petals Florists, Port Elizabeth who owe me the refund.
Desere's response was to offer me a free bunch of flowers (not that useful when I'm based in the UK - and anyone we sent it to in PE would know it was a freebee from a crap florist). I explained we were looking for a refund. She whinged a lot about how it wasn't her fault. She said she was a new start-up business and I was damaging her business and she hoped I felt good about myself. (I did actually, so it was nice of her to ask.)
We weren't threatening to sue. We weren't asking for compensation. We just wanted a refund for the flowers that were unusable on the wedding day. Many brides would be a lot more agitated than I was.
I suggested what I thought was a very fair compromise. Because she was a new company (albeit trading under the same name), I was willing to cut her two months' slack and she could pay the refund on July 6. I would take all references to Petals Florist's name down in the meantime, and so long as the payment was made on 6 July, it would remain that way.
Desere Heck of Petals Florist, Port Elizabeth agreed to this.
A few days before the 6 July, I reminded her, and gave her the bank details to transfer the money to TheBloke (TM)'s sister.
This was the response (edited slightly to protect identities of the innocent - not Desere):
So, to finish, a limerick:
A florist called Desere Heck
Told lies right up to her neck.
The lilies were wilted
But TheBloke wasn't jilted;
The ceremony she failed to wreck.
And one for Petals Florist:
In PE a florist called Petals
Made a wedding bouquet out of nettles.
When someone complained
They said, "We're all untrained!
We could send you a dock leaf to settle!"
"What happened next?" I can hear you ask. Well, gather close my many friends and I will share with you my review of Petals Florist, Port Elizabeth and their wedding service.
Petals Florist, Port Elizabeth, Eastern Cape Review
As you know, the flowers provided for our wedding were beyond awful (as per the previous Plog). On the day, we were lucky enough that the lodge where we got married were able to make some new arrangements for us, so the day wasn't ruined. Having said that, we paid approximately £80 in flowers (well, actually, TheBloke (TM)'s sister did) which were totally unusable.
Despite emailing and asking for a refund, the owner of Petals Florist didn't bother replying... until my Plog went live, and then suddenly I got two emails straight away.
One was from the owner of Petals Florist, a lady called Desere Heck. This sounds like a made-up name (although it isn't) and if she were in a comic, I imagine she'd hang round with girls called Cynthia Crumbs, Bunty Golly-Gosh and Jemima Crikey.
Her email - at first - was civilised and explained that she'd recently taken over the business and didn't feel she could be held responsible for the previous owner's mistakes.
However on the very same day I had an email from Tersia Ferreira, the lady we'd dealt with whilst arranging the order, stating (and I truly love this):
"I would firstly like to apologize for your terrible experience – however I would like to advice you that I have sold the business before your wedding. Trevor Bacon of Petals Florist did the wedding and I believe he did a good amount of mistakes in weddings after that as well."
Please note that throughout this, no-one is saying that they thought the quality was good. In fact, poor Trevor is being blamed for fucking up weddings throughout the Eastern Cape.
Desere Heck is telling me that she DIDN'T own the business during my wedding... as is Tersia. Now, as the customer, I don't really care who owns the business, I just want a refund. I pointed this out to Desere; as they are trading under the same name, it is Petals Florists, Port Elizabeth who owe me the refund.
Desere's response was to offer me a free bunch of flowers (not that useful when I'm based in the UK - and anyone we sent it to in PE would know it was a freebee from a crap florist). I explained we were looking for a refund. She whinged a lot about how it wasn't her fault. She said she was a new start-up business and I was damaging her business and she hoped I felt good about myself. (I did actually, so it was nice of her to ask.)
We weren't threatening to sue. We weren't asking for compensation. We just wanted a refund for the flowers that were unusable on the wedding day. Many brides would be a lot more agitated than I was.
I suggested what I thought was a very fair compromise. Because she was a new company (albeit trading under the same name), I was willing to cut her two months' slack and she could pay the refund on July 6. I would take all references to Petals Florist's name down in the meantime, and so long as the payment was made on 6 July, it would remain that way.
Desere Heck of Petals Florist, Port Elizabeth agreed to this.
A few days before the 6 July, I reminded her, and gave her the bank details to transfer the money to TheBloke (TM)'s sister.
This was the response (edited slightly to protect identities of the innocent - not Desere):
"HI Laura
I have decided against making the refund for the following reasons:
- I did not have anyything to do with your wedding so don't see why I need to pay for this
- I offered you flowers as a kind gesture twice and you did not want them
- Your friend mentioned she doesn't like flowers and so I am concerned about how much she knows about flowers. How do I know how she carried the flowers to your venue? Was she gentle, was it in the heat, was it touching the side of the container? The flowers were in her care for longer than they were in ours.*
- If the flowers were in such a shocking condition why did she not say anything when she collected them at the shop. Why did she not point out the pen mark in the shop?
So, if you feel good about putting the blog back up then please do so. What that achieves for you ,only you will know. I have a clear conscience about my decision.
Kind regards
Desere"
*NB The flowers were picked up a day before the wedding, against our wishes, and at Petals Florist's request as they decided to shut on our wedding day, despite initially promising they'd be open. The flowers were kept in a cooler box the entire time... so much so that they weren't even taken out to be inspected. They were wilted, yes, but the flowers were poor quality in the first place - too much green, not enough blossom, and that weird crimped edge you get on flowers that haven't been grown properly.
So there we go, UK. Some lessons we can learn from customer service from our friends in South Africa:
- It is fine to provide the customer with a substandard product
- If the customer complains, ignore it
- If the customer goes public with the complaint, pretend it's someone else's fault
- If this doesn't work, grudgingly promise a refund
- Tell lies about above refund (despite having a "clear conscience"
- Lose our wedding certificate**
** This wasn't actually Desere of Petals Florist, it was South African Home Affairs, but I thought I'd mention it.
So, I hope you enjoyed my review of Petals Florist, Port Elizabeth and their wedding flowers. I will be providing Desere with a monthly breakdown of how many potential customers come to my site, after Googling Petals Florist, so she can see how much potential business she's losing.
So, to finish, a limerick:
A florist called Desere Heck
Told lies right up to her neck.
The lilies were wilted
But TheBloke wasn't jilted;
The ceremony she failed to wreck.
And one for Petals Florist:
In PE a florist called Petals
Made a wedding bouquet out of nettles.
When someone complained
They said, "We're all untrained!
We could send you a dock leaf to settle!"
Sunday, July 03, 2011
Physics - not my bag
I'd say I was the grand old age of eleven before I realised that my talents lay towards the arts rather than the sciences. However, being at an academic school, the study of Chemistry, Biology and Physics was compulsory right up until GCSEs. So I studied all three of them until I was almost 17.
Biology I enjoyed. Chemistry I loathed (I hated its ridiculous terminology - whoever heard of measuring moles?). Physics was kind of... meh. I liked my teacher, but I struggled with maths. But the maths in Physics was easier than the regular maths you did in the classroom, and - on the rare occasion I would get an answer right, I was rewarded with a nice whole, round number. I can't deny I enjoyed the satisfaction.
So I studied Physics and I did OK at it. But there are still some fundamental issues that remain with me. Questions about the universe which I just can't answer.
So. Physics boffins. Riddle me this, if you will.
Imagine I am standing holding a lovely shiny handbag.
It's a pretty handbag, but I'm doing a sad face because it's heavy. It's full of new shoes and my arms are beginning to hurt. Also, in this drawing, I don't have any hands, which makes it even trickier to hold said handbag.
Because I am married now, and have a man to do all sorts of tasks I can't be bothered with (including, but not limited to holding heavy bags on my behalf), I ask TheBloke (TM) if he will carry me.
He reluctantly agrees, and we progress down Oxford Street at rush hour with me riding him like a pony. Who says I'm spoiled?
OK. So TheBloke (TM) now has a sad face because he is not only supporting my (feather) weight, but he's also carrying the big bag of shoes... OR IS HE?
Here, physics boffins, is my question. You'll notice MY face is sad too. Because my arm is still hurting because I am still carrying the bag. I can still feel the weight of it. My little handless arms are still hurting. So surely I must still be taking the weight. So TheBloke (TM) is only taking my weight, not the weight of the bag too.
At this point (when posed this question) TheBloke (TM) refuses to talk to me anymore, saying I'm an idiot.
Now, in order for my little arms to feel much better, I have proposed a solution, as per the next image. This way I no longer feel like I'm supporting the weight, and TheBloke (TM) is definitely taking my weight AND the weight of the lovely bag with all the shoes in.
Biology I enjoyed. Chemistry I loathed (I hated its ridiculous terminology - whoever heard of measuring moles?). Physics was kind of... meh. I liked my teacher, but I struggled with maths. But the maths in Physics was easier than the regular maths you did in the classroom, and - on the rare occasion I would get an answer right, I was rewarded with a nice whole, round number. I can't deny I enjoyed the satisfaction.
So I studied Physics and I did OK at it. But there are still some fundamental issues that remain with me. Questions about the universe which I just can't answer.
So. Physics boffins. Riddle me this, if you will.
Imagine I am standing holding a lovely shiny handbag.
Because I am married now, and have a man to do all sorts of tasks I can't be bothered with (including, but not limited to holding heavy bags on my behalf), I ask TheBloke (TM) if he will carry me.
OK. So TheBloke (TM) now has a sad face because he is not only supporting my (feather) weight, but he's also carrying the big bag of shoes... OR IS HE?
Here, physics boffins, is my question. You'll notice MY face is sad too. Because my arm is still hurting because I am still carrying the bag. I can still feel the weight of it. My little handless arms are still hurting. So surely I must still be taking the weight. So TheBloke (TM) is only taking my weight, not the weight of the bag too.
At this point (when posed this question) TheBloke (TM) refuses to talk to me anymore, saying I'm an idiot.
Now, in order for my little arms to feel much better, I have proposed a solution, as per the next image. This way I no longer feel like I'm supporting the weight, and TheBloke (TM) is definitely taking my weight AND the weight of the lovely bag with all the shoes in.
Now, TheBloke (TM) is insistent that he would still be taking the weight of the bag in the second picture, but I do not see how this can be; if my arm still hurts from the weight of the bag, clearly I must be supporting the bag's weight. Fair enough, TheBloke (TM) is supporting my weight, but surely this can't mean the bag's weight is being supported twice. That would break all laws of physics (I expect, I don't claim to be an expert), and we all might disappear down some sort of bag-shaped wormhole.
So if we are both supporting the weight of the bag in picture two, then surely picture three must be a more energy efficient way of transporting my big bag of shiny shoes.
Please discuss.
Other than Chemistry, I'd probably say Art was my worst subject. In case you were wondering.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
I scream
There are several reasons why I'm not a big fan of the overnight work trip. Some of the reasons are to do with being bored of flight delays, consistently disappointed in hotels, and just a general feeling of preferring to be at home.
Some are to do with the fact that TheBloke (TM) is naughty when I am away. To be fair, he's naughty when I'm at home too, but at least he is supervised for the majority of the time.
Whilst I was away in Glasgow, he told me that there had recently been a spate of ice cream burglaries in the area. I said this was unlikely, and he said that the hot weather had driven them indoors in their search for ice cream. I continued to express my doubt.
However, when I got home last night, and went to the freezer, I picked up this tub:
It felt suspiciously light. I opened it. The little wooden spoon which came with it had writing on, but it was no amusing joke, based on a pun as per the 1980s. Instead it said "SOWEE" (sorry).
The tub was empty, but looked as though it had previously contained delights that were not only chocolatey, but also coconutty and possibly even caramelly.
Looking at the lid of the ice cream tub, further evidence came to light:
So I guess I owe TheBloke (TM) an apology. It really was ice cream thieves. We shall have to start locking our freezer.
Some are to do with the fact that TheBloke (TM) is naughty when I am away. To be fair, he's naughty when I'm at home too, but at least he is supervised for the majority of the time.
Whilst I was away in Glasgow, he told me that there had recently been a spate of ice cream burglaries in the area. I said this was unlikely, and he said that the hot weather had driven them indoors in their search for ice cream. I continued to express my doubt.
However, when I got home last night, and went to the freezer, I picked up this tub:
It felt suspiciously light. I opened it. The little wooden spoon which came with it had writing on, but it was no amusing joke, based on a pun as per the 1980s. Instead it said "SOWEE" (sorry).The tub was empty, but looked as though it had previously contained delights that were not only chocolatey, but also coconutty and possibly even caramelly.
Looking at the lid of the ice cream tub, further evidence came to light:
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Cross-eyed
Generally I've been lucky with my eyes. Never quite 20/20 but more than OK to do without glasses. This meant I avoided that awful teenage stage where you eventually convince your parents to invest in contacts... and your friends are so used to seeing you with glasses that you look a bit like a blind raccoon without them. Even though your eyesight is perfect. You looked better with glasses.
I skipped all that. However, occasionally at work, I do get headaches, and I am generally in front of a screen for at least 9 hours a day. So I toddled off to the opticians, who told me my prescription hadn't changed since my last visit, but did recommend I got some glasses for VDU use.
I am not to be trusted choosing things to wear by myself, so TheBloke (TM) met me after work to choose some suitable frames. We spent a while looking at the ladies' frames... and then I noticed the men's section had a greater selection. I tried a couple on - they felt fine (not too big) and so I took a pair of Oakley's to the shop assistant.
In retrospect, the choice of shop assistant was probably where it all went wrong. He seemed Asian, but had a very odd accent - almost Eastern European or Italian and didn't speak great English. In retrospect again, I suspect he was faking it and we were on some kind of CCTV wind-up programme.
"Hi," I said.
"Hi," he said.
"I have chosen some frames. They're from the men's section, but I guess that doesn't matter, does it?" I wondered if men's prescriptions were slightly different in anyway.
"Yes, does matter," said the optician.
"Oh," I said. "Will they be too big?"
He looked at the frames. "No. Is very small size. Very small for man."
"So, why can't I have these frames then?" I asked.
"These are man frames," he stated definitively.
"I know that," I said. "But what's the difference between these and the ladies' frames?"
"Well," the optician said, turning over the frames in his hand as if to point out some manly technical detail, "these frames are... the colour is man colour. Is darker than lady colour."
"OK," I said, "but some of the ladies' frames are black, so I don't really see how that's a problem."
"Well," the optician continued, "if your colleague see you wearing man's frames, they will laugh at you. They might to point and also laugh."
"Oh," I said, thinking swiftly of my colleagues, and dismissing this as a likely problem. "Is that it? I am happy to take that risk."
The optician sighed. "Your total will be (insert equivalent amount of GDP of China)."
"What the fuck?" I thought loudly. I said, "But the frames are only (insert amount of an impulse-buy pair of shoes)."
"Yes," he continued, "but the lenses are £200."
"So how come," I asked, "you can get NHS specs all-in for £50?"
That was a mistake. He spent the next ten minutes drawing me a cross-section of a lens. Apparently it has eight different layers, including one for fog. I reiterated that I would be wearing these glasses rarely, when I got a headache, indoors. I didn't need to be fog-proofed. We agreed (him reluctantly) that I didn't need fog-proof lenses. "These lenses you have ordered will take 15-20 days to come in store. The frames will be here very quick, but lenses, they take long time." said the optician.
"That's fine," I said. I was in no massive rush.
He (very, very laboriously) typed into his computer system. "Patient has selected Oakly (sic) MAN FRAMES. Patient advised but sure she wants MAN FRAMES. Basic lenses (15-20 days). Patient happy with MAN FRAMES for MAN. No refund."
The next working day? A phone call. "Hello Ms Nunn? Your lenses are ready. We're just waiting on the frames now."
It would have been less painful to gouge my eyes out with a rusty teaspoon. Perhaps that can be their new slogan.
I skipped all that. However, occasionally at work, I do get headaches, and I am generally in front of a screen for at least 9 hours a day. So I toddled off to the opticians, who told me my prescription hadn't changed since my last visit, but did recommend I got some glasses for VDU use.
I am not to be trusted choosing things to wear by myself, so TheBloke (TM) met me after work to choose some suitable frames. We spent a while looking at the ladies' frames... and then I noticed the men's section had a greater selection. I tried a couple on - they felt fine (not too big) and so I took a pair of Oakley's to the shop assistant.
In retrospect, the choice of shop assistant was probably where it all went wrong. He seemed Asian, but had a very odd accent - almost Eastern European or Italian and didn't speak great English. In retrospect again, I suspect he was faking it and we were on some kind of CCTV wind-up programme.
"Hi," I said.
"Hi," he said.
"I have chosen some frames. They're from the men's section, but I guess that doesn't matter, does it?" I wondered if men's prescriptions were slightly different in anyway.
"Yes, does matter," said the optician.
"Oh," I said. "Will they be too big?"
He looked at the frames. "No. Is very small size. Very small for man."
"So, why can't I have these frames then?" I asked.
"These are man frames," he stated definitively.
"I know that," I said. "But what's the difference between these and the ladies' frames?"
"Well," the optician said, turning over the frames in his hand as if to point out some manly technical detail, "these frames are... the colour is man colour. Is darker than lady colour."
"OK," I said, "but some of the ladies' frames are black, so I don't really see how that's a problem."
"Well," the optician continued, "if your colleague see you wearing man's frames, they will laugh at you. They might to point and also laugh."
"Oh," I said, thinking swiftly of my colleagues, and dismissing this as a likely problem. "Is that it? I am happy to take that risk."
The optician sighed. "Your total will be (insert equivalent amount of GDP of China)."
"What the fuck?" I thought loudly. I said, "But the frames are only (insert amount of an impulse-buy pair of shoes)."
"Yes," he continued, "but the lenses are £200."
"So how come," I asked, "you can get NHS specs all-in for £50?"
That was a mistake. He spent the next ten minutes drawing me a cross-section of a lens. Apparently it has eight different layers, including one for fog. I reiterated that I would be wearing these glasses rarely, when I got a headache, indoors. I didn't need to be fog-proofed. We agreed (him reluctantly) that I didn't need fog-proof lenses. "These lenses you have ordered will take 15-20 days to come in store. The frames will be here very quick, but lenses, they take long time." said the optician.
"That's fine," I said. I was in no massive rush.
He (very, very laboriously) typed into his computer system. "Patient has selected Oakly (sic) MAN FRAMES. Patient advised but sure she wants MAN FRAMES. Basic lenses (15-20 days). Patient happy with MAN FRAMES for MAN. No refund."
The next working day? A phone call. "Hello Ms Nunn? Your lenses are ready. We're just waiting on the frames now."
It would have been less painful to gouge my eyes out with a rusty teaspoon. Perhaps that can be their new slogan.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
When you care enough to send the very best grammar
Let's get this straight once and for all...
It's Fathers' Day. Not Father's Day. Same with Mothers' Day.
The reason behind this is, fantastic as you may believe your father is, it ISN'T JUST HIS DAY. There are lots of fathers. When something is plural, you put the apostrophe after the "s".
If you have "Father's Day", this means that just one father gets a day. So we would have to have some rota system. This seems unfair, and also unlikely that we are going to get through every father in the world, celebrating the day on an annual basis. There is nothing wrong with the system of Fathers' Day, which allows us to celebrate all the fathers once per year (even the slightly loopy ones who dress up as Superman and make a nuisance of themselves in public buildings).
So, be like me and refuse to buy cards that say Father's Day! Revolt!*
* NB This usually means making your own card, or being creative with Tippex, as Hallmark has not yet accepted the LGS (Laura's Grammar Standard) rules. It is a matter of time until I rule the world, at which point deviation from the LGS will not be tolerated and will be punished with imprisonment with nothing but a copy of Lynne Truss' Eats Shoots and Leaves.
It's Fathers' Day. Not Father's Day. Same with Mothers' Day.
The reason behind this is, fantastic as you may believe your father is, it ISN'T JUST HIS DAY. There are lots of fathers. When something is plural, you put the apostrophe after the "s".
If you have "Father's Day", this means that just one father gets a day. So we would have to have some rota system. This seems unfair, and also unlikely that we are going to get through every father in the world, celebrating the day on an annual basis. There is nothing wrong with the system of Fathers' Day, which allows us to celebrate all the fathers once per year (even the slightly loopy ones who dress up as Superman and make a nuisance of themselves in public buildings).
So, be like me and refuse to buy cards that say Father's Day! Revolt!*
* NB This usually means making your own card, or being creative with Tippex, as Hallmark has not yet accepted the LGS (Laura's Grammar Standard) rules. It is a matter of time until I rule the world, at which point deviation from the LGS will not be tolerated and will be punished with imprisonment with nothing but a copy of Lynne Truss' Eats Shoots and Leaves.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Bully for me
There are some things in the world I consider myself very - or at least fairly - good at. These include (but are not limited to):
- Being organised - no-one plans in advance like I do
- Being loyal - a lot of my best friends I've known for 20 years or more
- Being good at spelling. Mostly. Though the word "committee" throws me more often than it should.
There are other things - of course - that I'm not so good at. These include (but are not limited to):
- Maths
- Making Victoria sponge cakes (unless you particularly like one half of the sandwich so undercooked that it was actually runny... and then microwaved until it turned rock hard. Luckily TheBloke (TM) did indeed seem to like that.)
- Reverse parking
And in the final list we have things I'm truly terrible at. This is mostly:
- Sense of direction
- The Xbox games Portal and Portal 2.
I suspect the two are linked. For those of you who haven't experienced the delight of aforementioned video game, essentially you are a girl with two guns. It isn't, however, a violent game. Each gun opens a different door. The orange gun opens a door to... wherever you shoot the blue gun. Confused yet? Well, that's just the easy stuff. Physics comes into play. You can open an orange door in the floor, a blue one in the ceiling, walk into the orange door and fall out of the ceiling. Just yesterday I trapped myself in an infinite falling loop.
Now, there is much I like about Portal. The humour is exceptional and it's a beautifully-scripted game that makes me laugh out loud in a way I don't think any other video game ever has. It's a welcome engaging and non-violent game. Unfortunately, the payoffs I get between levels are few and far between as I spend 90% of my time trying to work out why I'm staring at my feet and the other 10% drowning in a puddle. A puddle which you're not supposed to be able to drown in.
TheBloke (TM), of course, is very good at Portal. He is also very good at sense of direction and Maths. Annoyingly he's also quite good at spelling. But ha! I win one - he's not loyal at all! He shags round at every chance he gets. Not really. Well he might. But I doubt it as he's usually tired from winning all the levels on Portal.
He does whizzy things with lasers and coloured paint, and Stephen Merchant (who voices Portal 2) is always saying winning things to him. I just drown in puddles and stare at my feet.
So, we've established TheBloke (TM) is good at physics, sense of direction and Portal. So what video game am I good at? Bully. We have it on the Wii. You play a 15 year-old boy who goes round his school beating up nerds. Key skills? Giving wedgies and hitting people.
I might put that on my CV.
Tuesday, June 07, 2011
Cat call
Monty Cat has been increasingly naughty of late. He has always been a very food-oriented cat, incapable of leaving the slightest morsel of kibble for later on. We often laugh heartily at friends who insist that they can go away for the weekend and leave a few bowls of dry food out for their cat. If we did the same, Monty Cat would have wolfed (catted?) the entire pile before we'd even managed to lock the door.
We try to instil strict feeding times for Monty Cat - 7.30 a.m. and 7.30 p.m., in an attempt to stop him waking us up too early in the morning, and to get him into a good routine, like a naughty toddler. This suits us, as we generally feed him before we go to work, and then again when we get home.
However, sometimes I need to go into work early. And Monty Cat doesn't always understand this routine. As far as he is concerned, the only reason TheBloke (TM) or I even bother to wake up is to feed him. Therefore when I get up and go downstairs and don't feed him, there is a loud meowing protest, and the occasional biting of ankles.
A week or so ago, after leaving the house without feeding the cat (knowing TheBloke (TM) would feed him in half an hour's time at the regular feeding time), Monty Cat bolted out of the front door with me. He is not normally allowed out of the front of the house, because of the road. I didn't see him. In fact, the first I knew of it was five minutes further down the road when a white van man pulled over and motioned me. "Do you have a ginger and white cat?"
"Yes..." I thought he was going to tell me that he ran over him.
"He's been following you down the street." I turned around. A naughty Monty Cat stared innocently back. We were quite a way from home by this point, and I was worried the cat might be lost. So I decided to walk home again, so he knew where he was.
I turned back home. The cat followed me. I got to near where we lived, and was sure the cat could find his way home from here. I headed back towards the tube station. The cat followed me.
I didn't really want to pick him up a) because I didn't want cat fur over my dark suit and b) because he's fucking massive. But there was no option. I went to scoop up Monty Cat, as a passerby came close. At which point Monty Cat pretended I'd never seen him before in his life, looked at me as if I was some mad-cat-bin-lady and hid under the nearest car.
The passerby gave me a filthy look.
I headed back to work. TheBloke (TM) reported later Monty Cat came in for his breakfast at the usual time.
Today when I got home from work, a parcel had been delivered to our neighbours. Again, it was close to - but not quite - Monty Cat feeding time. Once again, said naughty cat followed me out of the front door, and crossed the road with me to our neighbour's opposite.
It was only as I knocked on their door, I was aware of a ginger bundle of naughtiness waiting in front of me at their door - as if I was the sort of mad lady who never goes anywhere without her cat.
The door opened... and out bolted a massive dog. The neighbour shouted for the dog to get back in, and shouted to their friend that his dog had just "gone for" the cat. To be honest, I don't really blame the dog. If I was a massive dog, and my own front door was opened to reveal a fat, juicy ginger snack on my doorstep, I'd not hesitate in taking a bite either.
Monty Cat flinched for about... 0.5 of a second, and then decided the payoff of possibly getting fed by sticking close to me was worth the possibility of being eaten by a Doberman. In fact at one point, I did wonder if Monty Cat was going to eat the Doberman.
He does like his food.
We try to instil strict feeding times for Monty Cat - 7.30 a.m. and 7.30 p.m., in an attempt to stop him waking us up too early in the morning, and to get him into a good routine, like a naughty toddler. This suits us, as we generally feed him before we go to work, and then again when we get home.
However, sometimes I need to go into work early. And Monty Cat doesn't always understand this routine. As far as he is concerned, the only reason TheBloke (TM) or I even bother to wake up is to feed him. Therefore when I get up and go downstairs and don't feed him, there is a loud meowing protest, and the occasional biting of ankles.
A week or so ago, after leaving the house without feeding the cat (knowing TheBloke (TM) would feed him in half an hour's time at the regular feeding time), Monty Cat bolted out of the front door with me. He is not normally allowed out of the front of the house, because of the road. I didn't see him. In fact, the first I knew of it was five minutes further down the road when a white van man pulled over and motioned me. "Do you have a ginger and white cat?"
"Yes..." I thought he was going to tell me that he ran over him.
"He's been following you down the street." I turned around. A naughty Monty Cat stared innocently back. We were quite a way from home by this point, and I was worried the cat might be lost. So I decided to walk home again, so he knew where he was.
I turned back home. The cat followed me. I got to near where we lived, and was sure the cat could find his way home from here. I headed back towards the tube station. The cat followed me.
I didn't really want to pick him up a) because I didn't want cat fur over my dark suit and b) because he's fucking massive. But there was no option. I went to scoop up Monty Cat, as a passerby came close. At which point Monty Cat pretended I'd never seen him before in his life, looked at me as if I was some mad-cat-bin-lady and hid under the nearest car.
The passerby gave me a filthy look.
I headed back to work. TheBloke (TM) reported later Monty Cat came in for his breakfast at the usual time.
Today when I got home from work, a parcel had been delivered to our neighbours. Again, it was close to - but not quite - Monty Cat feeding time. Once again, said naughty cat followed me out of the front door, and crossed the road with me to our neighbour's opposite.
It was only as I knocked on their door, I was aware of a ginger bundle of naughtiness waiting in front of me at their door - as if I was the sort of mad lady who never goes anywhere without her cat.
The door opened... and out bolted a massive dog. The neighbour shouted for the dog to get back in, and shouted to their friend that his dog had just "gone for" the cat. To be honest, I don't really blame the dog. If I was a massive dog, and my own front door was opened to reveal a fat, juicy ginger snack on my doorstep, I'd not hesitate in taking a bite either.
Monty Cat flinched for about... 0.5 of a second, and then decided the payoff of possibly getting fed by sticking close to me was worth the possibility of being eaten by a Doberman. In fact at one point, I did wonder if Monty Cat was going to eat the Doberman.
He does like his food.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Knock knock
It was time for a visit to Mr and Mrs Nunn. Mostly because I needed a new topic for a Plog.
I told Mrs Nunn that I was going to a hotel in a nearby village for a meal that night with my friends Erica and Dean.
"What's the name of the hotel?" Mrs Nunn asked.
I told her. Let's say it was called The Fox and Hound.
"The Fox and Hound in Barrow?" Mrs Nunn asked.
"Yes," said I.
"I heard that was a knocking shop," said Mrs Nunn.
Oh. Well, plans had been made, and my friends and I met for a dinner at aforementioned knocking shop. It was all very nice. We had three courses from an extensive menu and caught up on all the news. It looked like a perfectly lovely country restaurant and hotel - no sign of any dodgy activity at all. Certainly no hookers - unless middle-class Boden-dressed ladies with children and elderly ladies are the predilection of the general population in Barrow.
After a nice evening, I got back to my parents' house.
"Did you have a nice meal?" asked Mrs Nunn.
"Yes thanks," I said. "And I've no idea why you said it was a knocking shop - it was perfectly nice. Definitely not a brothel."
"I didn't say it was a brothel!" protested Mrs Nunn. "I said it was a knocking shop."
Mr Nunn looked amused.
"What's a knocking shop then?" I asked.
"Well, you know," said Mrs Nunn, "a place people go to to stay overnight and have sex."
"What," I said, "you mean a hotel?"
"No!" insisted Mrs Nunn, "I mean where people go away for a dirty weekend!"
"You mean a romantic hotel where you go away with your partner?"
"Yes!" said Mrs Nunn, "But you also have sex!"
Mr Nunn looked even more amused.
"So let me get this straight," I clarified, "any hotel where you have sex is a knocking shop?"
"Shut up," said Mrs Nunn, thus winning the argument.
I told Mrs Nunn that I was going to a hotel in a nearby village for a meal that night with my friends Erica and Dean.
"What's the name of the hotel?" Mrs Nunn asked.
I told her. Let's say it was called The Fox and Hound.
"The Fox and Hound in Barrow?" Mrs Nunn asked.
"Yes," said I.
"I heard that was a knocking shop," said Mrs Nunn.
Oh. Well, plans had been made, and my friends and I met for a dinner at aforementioned knocking shop. It was all very nice. We had three courses from an extensive menu and caught up on all the news. It looked like a perfectly lovely country restaurant and hotel - no sign of any dodgy activity at all. Certainly no hookers - unless middle-class Boden-dressed ladies with children and elderly ladies are the predilection of the general population in Barrow.
After a nice evening, I got back to my parents' house.
"Did you have a nice meal?" asked Mrs Nunn.
"Yes thanks," I said. "And I've no idea why you said it was a knocking shop - it was perfectly nice. Definitely not a brothel."
"I didn't say it was a brothel!" protested Mrs Nunn. "I said it was a knocking shop."
Mr Nunn looked amused.
"What's a knocking shop then?" I asked.
"Well, you know," said Mrs Nunn, "a place people go to to stay overnight and have sex."
"What," I said, "you mean a hotel?"
"No!" insisted Mrs Nunn, "I mean where people go away for a dirty weekend!"
"You mean a romantic hotel where you go away with your partner?"
"Yes!" said Mrs Nunn, "But you also have sex!"
Mr Nunn looked even more amused.
"So let me get this straight," I clarified, "any hotel where you have sex is a knocking shop?"
"Shut up," said Mrs Nunn, thus winning the argument.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Medical wonder
I hate my doctor's. Generally when I need to see a medical professional, I use my work's private doctor. But I have wonky knees and my private health insurance won't pay out for a podiatrist, so I need an NHS referral, if I don't want to spend £700 of my own money (I don't).
The last few times I've been to the Chigwell Medical Centre, I've been kept waiting at least half an hour (for the first appointment in the morning - it's astonishing how they manage to be behind prior to actually seeing any patients) and then the doctor I've always seen there is a) totally ignorant b) Googles symptoms (this is honestly true - she doesn't use a medical site or anything, she literally puts the symptoms through Google) and c) last time - worryingly, I ended up telling HER which strains of the flu the latest vaccine prevented and how to use her computer system. Suffice it to say, she is not a great doctor.
I called the centre. They have helpfully installed an 0844 number to ensure it costs you the maximum amount when phoning. They kept me on hold for 15 minutes.
Posh receptionist: Chigwell Medical Centre, how may I help you?
Me: I'd like to make an appointment please.
I gave the receptionist my details so she could identify me on the system.
Posh receptionist: I'm afraid your doctor, Dr Probablyquitegood isn't in next week.
Me: I've never actually met Dr Probablyquitegood - I'd be happy to see anyone.
Posh receptionist: The only doctor with any appointments left is a lady doctor. Are you happy seeing a lady doctor?
My sense of feminism was outraged.
Me: What?
Posh receptionist: She's very good. She's a very nice lady doctor.
Me: She's a doctor? That's fine, of course! Seriously, I don't think you should be differentiating her on her gender, unless someone particularly requests to see a female doctor.
Posh receptionist: OK then, I've made you an appointment for Tuesday with Dr Theoneyoualwaysseeandwhoisacompletefuckingidiot
Me: (quietly) Fuck. (voice inside head: Do you have a man doctor I could see instead?)
The last few times I've been to the Chigwell Medical Centre, I've been kept waiting at least half an hour (for the first appointment in the morning - it's astonishing how they manage to be behind prior to actually seeing any patients) and then the doctor I've always seen there is a) totally ignorant b) Googles symptoms (this is honestly true - she doesn't use a medical site or anything, she literally puts the symptoms through Google) and c) last time - worryingly, I ended up telling HER which strains of the flu the latest vaccine prevented and how to use her computer system. Suffice it to say, she is not a great doctor.
I called the centre. They have helpfully installed an 0844 number to ensure it costs you the maximum amount when phoning. They kept me on hold for 15 minutes.
Posh receptionist: Chigwell Medical Centre, how may I help you?
Me: I'd like to make an appointment please.
I gave the receptionist my details so she could identify me on the system.
Posh receptionist: I'm afraid your doctor, Dr Probablyquitegood isn't in next week.
Me: I've never actually met Dr Probablyquitegood - I'd be happy to see anyone.
Posh receptionist: The only doctor with any appointments left is a lady doctor. Are you happy seeing a lady doctor?
My sense of feminism was outraged.
Me: What?
Posh receptionist: She's very good. She's a very nice lady doctor.
Me: She's a doctor? That's fine, of course! Seriously, I don't think you should be differentiating her on her gender, unless someone particularly requests to see a female doctor.
Posh receptionist: OK then, I've made you an appointment for Tuesday with Dr Theoneyoualwaysseeandwhoisacompletefuckingidiot
Me: (quietly) Fuck. (voice inside head: Do you have a man doctor I could see instead?)
Monday, May 16, 2011
Misconception
My brother Jack is massively jealous of his friend who has not one but three nephews and nieces. This means that whenever I see Jack, he drops massive hints about me getting up the duff. Nunn family "hints" generally lack subtlety, so they tend to go something like this:
Jack: When are you having babies?
Me: Fuck off.
Still, I'm getting to that age where if I want children, I ought to start thinking about it within the next few years. To help us with the decision-making process, TheBloke (TM) and I started thinking about the likely impact it might have on our lives. The closest thing we have to a child is Monty Cat, so we decided on a points system out of 10. It should be noted at this point that Jack hates cats.
Can we leave it by itself whilst we go away for a night?
Monty Cat - 8
Child - 2
Able to take care of its own toilet needs?
Monty Cat - 8
Child - 1
Cuteness
Monty Cat - 7
Child - 5 (the ginger gene is strong in our families)
Ability to generate money through commercials / look after us in later life
Monty Cat - 2
Child - 8
Likelihood of eating us if we die without feeding it
Monty Cat - 9
Child - 1
Totals:
Monty Cat - 34
Child - 17
So looks like Jack will have to wait a bit longer. Perhaps we should get another cat, as we have categorically proved that cats are twice as good as children. Jack would like that.
Jack: When are you having babies?
Me: Fuck off.
Still, I'm getting to that age where if I want children, I ought to start thinking about it within the next few years. To help us with the decision-making process, TheBloke (TM) and I started thinking about the likely impact it might have on our lives. The closest thing we have to a child is Monty Cat, so we decided on a points system out of 10. It should be noted at this point that Jack hates cats.
Can we leave it by itself whilst we go away for a night?
Monty Cat - 8
Child - 2
Able to take care of its own toilet needs?
Monty Cat - 8
Child - 1
Cuteness
Monty Cat - 7
Child - 5 (the ginger gene is strong in our families)
Ability to generate money through commercials / look after us in later life
Monty Cat - 2
Child - 8
Likelihood of eating us if we die without feeding it
Monty Cat - 9
Child - 1
Totals:
Monty Cat - 34
Child - 17
So looks like Jack will have to wait a bit longer. Perhaps we should get another cat, as we have categorically proved that cats are twice as good as children. Jack would like that.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Measured response
Ploggers, Ploggers, apologies for tardiness. I have no real excuse, other than being at work during the day, being tired at night and being a pensioner at weekends (B&Q, gardening and a spot of baking).
However, there are always moments which I can stop and laugh. Here is a transcript of a genuine telephone conversation with Mrs Nunn last week:
Me: So TheBloke (TM) and I are going to look at sofas tonight after work, but I totally forgot until I got into the office and I didn't bring a tape measure, and because we have narrow doors, I'm worried something we order might not fit through.
Mrs Nunn: Oh. Don't you have a tape measure in your desk drawer?
Me: No.
Mrs Nunn: Ask your colleagues. I'm sure someone will have a tape measure.
Me: I doubt it. I can't think why they would.
Mrs Nunn: Oh, I bet they will. I always used to have a tape measure in my desk drawer.
Me: Why?
Mrs Nunn: In case of... clothes and stuff.
Me: Sorry, what?
Mrs Nunn: (clearly avoiding the fact that you would never need to measure clothes) Well, you know, in case you need to measure your head or something.
Me: What?
Mrs Nunn: You know! When you're at work and you need to measure your head.
At which point I wondered whether I was actually hallucinating, so I made my excuses and said goodbye.
Just in case I ever go mental, at least we know it's genetic.
However, there are always moments which I can stop and laugh. Here is a transcript of a genuine telephone conversation with Mrs Nunn last week:
Me: So TheBloke (TM) and I are going to look at sofas tonight after work, but I totally forgot until I got into the office and I didn't bring a tape measure, and because we have narrow doors, I'm worried something we order might not fit through.
Mrs Nunn: Oh. Don't you have a tape measure in your desk drawer?
Me: No.
Mrs Nunn: Ask your colleagues. I'm sure someone will have a tape measure.
Me: I doubt it. I can't think why they would.
Mrs Nunn: Oh, I bet they will. I always used to have a tape measure in my desk drawer.
Me: Why?
Mrs Nunn: In case of... clothes and stuff.
Me: Sorry, what?
Mrs Nunn: (clearly avoiding the fact that you would never need to measure clothes) Well, you know, in case you need to measure your head or something.
Me: What?
Mrs Nunn: You know! When you're at work and you need to measure your head.
At which point I wondered whether I was actually hallucinating, so I made my excuses and said goodbye.
Just in case I ever go mental, at least we know it's genetic.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Flower power
Apparently it's tradition for something to go wrong at weddings. It's almost considered a good luck charm in itself for everything not to run perfectly. Whether you trip face-first into your cake, drop your wedding ring down a gutter or get left standing like a lemon at the altar, I am assured these are all good omens for a long and happy life together (perhaps barring that last one).
Thankfully something went wrong on our wedding day. It was perhaps par for the course - trying to organise a wedding on another continent, with guests travelling from quite literally round the globe, it was probably odds-on that something wouldn't be perfect.
It was the flowers.
Now, as you know, I'm no Bridezilla, and actually we almost decided not to bother with flowers at all. I just wanted something to do with my hands during the ceremony. So after a certain amount of research, I chose the calla lily for my bridal bouquet. In addition to being simple, it was also native to South Africa. Score! Lorna - best wedding planner ever - liaised with various florists in Port Elizabeth, and sent them the following photo, along with others just like it, to check they'd be happy to recreate the arrangement for the big day.
To cut a long story short, we were warned that, yes, whilst it was native to South Africa, it was actually out of season in March, so we wouldn't know for sure two weeks until the wedding whether they'd be able to get calla lilies. This was disappointing, but not the end of the world, and I chose some back-up St Joseph's lilies in case the florist - Petals Florist in Port Elizabeth, weren't able to get them.
A week before the wedding we were told - yay - they could get calla lilies, but they would be "off white". I asked what this meant, but again, they wouldn't know until they saw them. I wasn't that bothered. Any colour between white and yellow would be fine. Petals Florist then said the flowers would be more expensive than the original quotation because they'd have to get them in from Johannesburg. Fine. We agreed to pay the extra. They asked if we could pick them up on the Friday before the wedding - but as the wedding wasn't until the Saturday afternoon, we pushed back on this. They eventually agreed we could pick them up on the Saturday morning.
Fast forward ahead one week and it's the day of the wedding! Unbeknownst to me, Lorna had been called by Petals Florist in Port Elizabeth on the Friday and told she had to pick them up that day because they were renovating on the Saturday. Reluctantly, she did so and put the flowers in a cool place in water, as she was instructed to do.
Basically by the time they arrived to me, the flowers were a disaster. I was happy to go ahead with them initially - until I saw the faces of everyone I showed them to. I'm not a proper girl, but my hairdresser's expression of shock and horror convinced me we couldn't use them.
The petals were curled and brown along the edges. The flowers hadn't opened properly. Worst of all, one of the buttonholes had a very large pen mark right down the centre of the blossom! You can click on the photos to see them full size. Unfortunately we didn't get a picture of the buttonholes, but you can imagine the quality.
We were really lucky that the lodge we held the wedding at - Hitgeheim - were amazing. "We'll make a plan," said the owner, Archie, using his favourite expression.
Within an hour, and at no extra cost, they pulled together my bridal bouquet, using a native protea, which looked amazing (if that doesn't sound too smug).
So, disaster averted. However, Lorna had paid for the terrible bouquet from Petals Florist. So she wrote a nicely-worded email of complaint a few weeks after the wedding, enclosing the photographs as evidence of poor quality.
They didn't even do her the justice of replying.
So, Petals Florist in Port Elizabeth, South Africa - consider this your first online review. Which will stay online, and - as I notice you don't yet have a website - will probably be the first hit on Google when anyone types in "Petals Florist in Port Elizabeth" or "Petals Florist Wedding Bouquet" or even possibly "Petals Florist". Also - although you may not know what this is - I used to work in Search Engine Optimisation. So by repeating Petals Florist in Port Elizabeth lots of times, and sneaking in phrases like "terrible quality", "rip off" and "appalling customer service", this page should get lots of hits. As an extra service for free, I'm willing to throw in a monthly report for you - how many people have found this site by searching on "Petals Florist". I'm nice like that.
So good luck with that.
By the way, Petals Florist in Port Elizabeth, I will take this review down any time you decide to refund Lorna for the very bad bridal bouquet and apologise for not replying to her earlier email. Your choice.
Thankfully something went wrong on our wedding day. It was perhaps par for the course - trying to organise a wedding on another continent, with guests travelling from quite literally round the globe, it was probably odds-on that something wouldn't be perfect.
It was the flowers.
Now, as you know, I'm no Bridezilla, and actually we almost decided not to bother with flowers at all. I just wanted something to do with my hands during the ceremony. So after a certain amount of research, I chose the calla lily for my bridal bouquet. In addition to being simple, it was also native to South Africa. Score! Lorna - best wedding planner ever - liaised with various florists in Port Elizabeth, and sent them the following photo, along with others just like it, to check they'd be happy to recreate the arrangement for the big day.
A week before the wedding we were told - yay - they could get calla lilies, but they would be "off white". I asked what this meant, but again, they wouldn't know until they saw them. I wasn't that bothered. Any colour between white and yellow would be fine. Petals Florist then said the flowers would be more expensive than the original quotation because they'd have to get them in from Johannesburg. Fine. We agreed to pay the extra. They asked if we could pick them up on the Friday before the wedding - but as the wedding wasn't until the Saturday afternoon, we pushed back on this. They eventually agreed we could pick them up on the Saturday morning.
Fast forward ahead one week and it's the day of the wedding! Unbeknownst to me, Lorna had been called by Petals Florist in Port Elizabeth on the Friday and told she had to pick them up that day because they were renovating on the Saturday. Reluctantly, she did so and put the flowers in a cool place in water, as she was instructed to do.
Basically by the time they arrived to me, the flowers were a disaster. I was happy to go ahead with them initially - until I saw the faces of everyone I showed them to. I'm not a proper girl, but my hairdresser's expression of shock and horror convinced me we couldn't use them.
The petals were curled and brown along the edges. The flowers hadn't opened properly. Worst of all, one of the buttonholes had a very large pen mark right down the centre of the blossom! You can click on the photos to see them full size. Unfortunately we didn't get a picture of the buttonholes, but you can imagine the quality.
We were really lucky that the lodge we held the wedding at - Hitgeheim - were amazing. "We'll make a plan," said the owner, Archie, using his favourite expression.
Within an hour, and at no extra cost, they pulled together my bridal bouquet, using a native protea, which looked amazing (if that doesn't sound too smug).
So, disaster averted. However, Lorna had paid for the terrible bouquet from Petals Florist. So she wrote a nicely-worded email of complaint a few weeks after the wedding, enclosing the photographs as evidence of poor quality.
They didn't even do her the justice of replying.
So, Petals Florist in Port Elizabeth, South Africa - consider this your first online review. Which will stay online, and - as I notice you don't yet have a website - will probably be the first hit on Google when anyone types in "Petals Florist in Port Elizabeth" or "Petals Florist Wedding Bouquet" or even possibly "Petals Florist". Also - although you may not know what this is - I used to work in Search Engine Optimisation. So by repeating Petals Florist in Port Elizabeth lots of times, and sneaking in phrases like "terrible quality", "rip off" and "appalling customer service", this page should get lots of hits. As an extra service for free, I'm willing to throw in a monthly report for you - how many people have found this site by searching on "Petals Florist". I'm nice like that.
So good luck with that.
By the way, Petals Florist in Port Elizabeth, I will take this review down any time you decide to refund Lorna for the very bad bridal bouquet and apologise for not replying to her earlier email. Your choice.
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