That was the year that was...

Well, 2010 - you're on your way out aren't you?

It's difficult to know what to write about at this point. Do I review all the incredibly epic things that have happened in the world this year? Elections? Broken promises? Riots? Chaotic weather patterns? Murders? Royal Engagements?

I mean, as a nation we've been busy. If someone asked us to fill in a form showing our productivity as a nation for the last 12 months I think we'd be ok to say - "We've definitely done more than the odd the finger painting." We've even survived a recession. Most of us have survived the recession by wondering if we'd know we were surviving one without the papers to keep harbinging doom our way.

To be honest, I don't think I can remember all the stuff that's happened this year and The Big Fat Quiz Of The Year will probably shoe horn everything I had to say into a tight Jimmy Carr witticism anyway so I'm not really sure I need to bother.

I could review my year for you - it's been busy. Busier than the average. Returned from lapland, moved to London, got a job, got dumped (repeat that as often as necessary), moved house, went to Edinburgh, got a new job, moved house again...busy nah?

However, mostly my year has been absolute turmoil and me running around as though both my arse and hair were on fire going "Oh bugger bugger" In a terribly Bridget Jones manner. I'm not sure I want to subject you to reading that as large portions of my year were repeatedly giving into the same dumbass man and getting my self esteem battered. Yum, cod.

Well...not any more. Huzzah. 2011 is going to be...

...oh fuck off anyone that thought I was going to write some free spirited bullshit about how great and different 2011 is going to be. Of course it isn't. It'll be exactly the bloody same. Of course I'm hoping not to move house so much having found one with limited numbers of rodents. But let's not kid ourselves that I'll do anything like make good decisions or not be a whiny bitch about it once I've done it.

Good. I'm glad we're all on the same page.

Now, what are your plans for this evening? Excellent. Good work. I'm glad to see you're celebrating properly. If you need me I will be with my sisters playing Singstar and Cranium until the wee small hours and possibly singing Auld Lang Syne into a mug of wine. Or a beaker. One of the best things about being an Aunt is access to children's cups, meaning you can sup your alcohol in a wholly inappropriate fashion. That is, if you're not just drinking the wine straight out of the box.

So, New Year's Resolutions?

1. To always be having fun.

Anything else can go to hell.

Slow On The Uptake

Well blogosphere, how are we all?

I've a confession to make - recently I've watched the Twilight films. I watched them in the wrong order apparently, meaning that I've now seen Eclipse, New Moon (the 2nd and 3rd ones) but not Twilight (the 1st one).

They are not good films.

I know, I know. I'm about 6 months behind the rest of the known world in watching them and coming to this conclusion. I didn't mind watching them - I've tried my hardest to watch only films this festive period (films and Porridge, truth be told) so I quite enjoyed their epicness. They seem to get better the firhter you get into the series. Sadly for me, this meant that I watched it peak and since then have been watching the desire to live drain out of myself.

I've not brought myself to watch Twilight yet, although I'm going to have to, and soon.

I've bee doing a lot of reflecting the last few weeks. I guess when you find yourself doing a Christmas as a singleton for the first time in 3 years, you reflect on what it means. Never, I REPEAT NEVER, do this whilst watching the Twilight films. It will lead to a conversation like this going on in your inner monlogue -

Man that girl is boring.
And pale.
And definitely not fun.
Who is that pale man kissing her and delivering a constant soliloquy about how she is his reason for living?
Wow. He really likes her.
She is not fun. Why does he like her?
Ah, well. Let the boring folk run riot together in their grey little world.
Wait a minute...who is this beautifully sculpted man? Why does he have that squashy nose?
Never mind the nose, he's taken his t-shirt off again.
Why is HE kissing her now?
Why is he saying he'll never give up on her?
I haven't seen or heard her do a single interesting thing yet and all these men are in love with her?
She is not fun.
Wait, who is this beautiful man with a Tom Selleck like moustache?
He doesn't seem to be kssing her?
Oh crap. He spawned her.
I miss Tom Selleck.

My trail of thought will trail off here and I might end up watching 3 Men and a Baby or Meet The Robinsons, but you catch my drift.

Now I'm going to have to watch the first film to find out what she did in that film that was so great that she can act like a drip for two more films and there will still be a puddle of hottie around her ankles humping away wildly and begging her to stay.

I'm hoping she had some kind of super awesome cat fight where she clawed the face off a ho and then stole her fledgling porn career. Poor Selleck-tache-Dad would be gutted but it'd make great viewing.

Of course this blog won't make much sense if you haven't seen the films but then maybe it'll save you the pain of ever being curious enough to watch them. I certainly wish I hadn't. If you see me in 2011 with lank hair, no make up, no smile, and a penchant for doing the stupidest option have available to me then you will know that I have cracked and sacrificed everything in order to snare a manbeast.

Not that either of her options are particularly appealling. Pale face talks faaaarrr too much about 'His reason for living' (ie - MiseraBella) which is all very well and good - but it's not fun.

Hey Reason For Living, fancy doing karaoke?
I can't, I'm contemplating eternity.
Hey Reason For Living, do you want to watch Crocodile Dundee with me?
No, I just can't bear to watch such peril. It reminds me of when you were stupid enough to risk your life over an angsty row we had.
Hey Reason For Living, can I do you from behind?



Reason For Living, are you still there??


But she wouldn't still be there. She would be away somewhere else, because she is not fun. Not that agreeing to be done from behind is a prerequisite for being fun (unless the toilet wall is your bible - 3rd cubicle, paragraph 19)

And the buff one that loves her? WHY IS HE HAIRLESS LIKE A BABY?

He is meant to be a werewolf and yet he has been waxed within an inch of his life. This is not good. Not good at all. Real men have hair. Just take a look at Selleck-tache-Dad...he knows how to do it.


So there you go, now I can go back to my Porridge reruns and a trip bowling with my family. I am an awful bowler...

Call me Macauley...

It's a worrying week for my nerves. The entire world has gone ballistic over the snow...the media is barely content with criticising the government for the financial world crisis - we are now being led by morons incapable of stocking up on enough grit to keep us safe in these Arctic times. I'm biting my tongue. I'm not asking the obvious question - "Hey Daily Mail, if we did have enough grit supplies to deal with this weather would your headline by any chance be - AFTER TEN YEARS OF WASTING MONEY ON GRIT INSTEAD OF USING IT TO SEND PEOPLE BACK TO WHERE THEY CAME FROM IT FINALLY COMES IN HANDY".

It's not that I want the country to be at a standstill - far from it. I'm currently on my way to Leeds - havign got up at 5:30am to be delayed by 90 minutes with no real idea as to whether I'll even be able to get back once I arrive at my destination. I'm sort of imagining a Home Alone style Christmas at this point where I'll have heaps of fun, cause some damage and then learn something poignant. Only it'll happen in Leeds. Which might mean I'll need to glam it up a bit. Glam? Is that the right word?

Last time I went to Leeds I got licked by a hobo. Sitting, incredibly hungover, in the foyer of my hotel trying to remember where I lived and why I was in Leeds I was set upon by a man insistent on showing me his tummy. Once he'd shown me his tummy I was licked. Joyeaux Noel.

Even If I do get back from Leeds today, I still have to make it back to Somerset on Friday. Friday - Christmas Eve - at 5:30pm when I finish work. Sheesh when did being a grown up become such a ball ache? I don't even have balls! Am I not meant to be rolling around in the snow, playing with family and preparing to be snowed in, not out?

With any luck there'll be plenty of snow to go around but it will just manage to happily miss the stretch of the M3 and A303 as I desperately try to be in my bed by midnight to wait for the big man.

Fingers crossed.

Writer's Block

I have writer's block. So, ironically, (is it ironic? I'm nto 100% sure I know what ironic is any more in this post Alanis aftermath of questions.) I am doing some writing to try and help me with my writer's block.

How are things? Are you well? I mean, it's been a while hasn't it?

I think we're just going to have to accept that for a while, a weekly blog is all I can manage. I'm really sorry to let you all down. I realise you depend on me for entertainment in this age of CGI and JLS and other 3 letter phenomenoms.

I'm on a bit of a downer if I'm honest. This time last year I was approximately 24 hours away from being up to my neck in snow as I pranced around Lapland in my elf suit and generally had the time of my life. Prancing was slightly inhibited as the snow necessarily makes that difficult. this year I'm having to settle with watching Elf on my bed and preparing to go into the office tomorrow. It's just not as good, let me tell you.

I think next year I'll go back to Lapland. An adventure like that definitely shouldn't only happen once - look at Lord of the Rings - there's a reason it's a trilogy. The vague plan right now is to go on a big tour of Scandinavia and Northern Europe and see the Norwegian fjords, ice hotels and more northern lights. With any luck I can persuade someone to pay me to write about it while I'm there. That way you can come too. If you want to. But you're not obliged.

I guess I went on a date last night. I think it was a date? You know when you go on something and it kind of seems like it's a date but you're not sure if it's definitely a date? I met up with a boy and went to a bar and had some drinks? That's a date right? It's been a freaking long time since I went on a date. Maybe I need to start keeping some sort of checklist for features which make an evening a date?

I'm not sure why I went on a date: historically I loathe dating. I find it tedious and boring and the vats majority of the date is utterly superfluous. You know within the first 10 minutes whether there is chemistry and then beyond that it's just waiting to finish dinner and pay the bill. Baffles me as to why people continually subject themselves to this mind numbing shite.

I think the worst date I ever went on was the one that got followed up with a text saying - "It would be really nice to see you again, but I understand if you got all the material you needed from that one dinner." Ouch! Catty much? As it turned out, I did get enough material from that one dinner once he had sent that text. But he was flattering himself if he thought he'd factored on my radar prior to his insecure outburst.

I mean, Sex and The City would have you believe that dating is glamorous and exciting and either hilariously entertaining or so sizzling that you're shagging in just a pair of Jimmy Choo's before you've even ordered a starter. What they fail to tell you is that 90% of actual dates end with you both trying to manage expectations of where this is going.

I will definitely call you.

And I will definitely pick up the phone. Pro-mise.

Well, good! That's just good. That's so good. I can't wait to see you again.

Oh me neither. Well, bye!

Bye then!

*Cue running in opposite directions*

It's certainly not as glamorous as Samantha's moaning would have you believe. Lying bitch.

Bingo Jells

Never try and write the title first. That's the first rule of writing anything. Once you've not written the title first you should also not write the first line. Just because it's best to write the rest of it first and then that stuff will come to you afterwards. It's best to always start with the second line if you can but don't force it if it isn't forthcoming. So maybe just write off writing the first paragraph.

Writing's a complicated game. Without a rule book. One day - will people refer to writing as typing? There's a thought.

I went to the Christmas department in Harrods today and felt effortlessly glorious imagining the house I will one day own with a massive tree in the centre of the living room. We'll be blissfully carefree over the needles dropping lightly to the floor as we'll have a hardwood surface and so they are easily vacuum cleaned - these things are important.

The presents under the tree will usually start in nice piles for whether they're mine, Locke's, Ruby's or my husband's - but as the kids get excited shaking them and exploring they'll get messier and messier. We'll have a 'strictly no Christmas tree chocolates before Christmas' rule and although Locke and Ruby pester me I never give in. My husband gives in all the time. This is because the kids prefer me - not him - and so he has to buy their love. I pretend to be mad at him but I don't mind. I adore him and so I'm OK with the balance of our parenting. We're an excellent team.

On Christmas Eve we let the children decide if they'd like to go to church for the midnight service with their Grandma. They'll find this exciting until they're about 16 and then they'll stop. We'll all have mulled wine and I'll put the children to bed. Then my husband will let me open my Christmas Eve present from him. It's always sexy pyjamas and a nice dressing gown but I act surprised and immediately put them on. Then we snuggle up and watch a film and then we get everything ready for the next day and go to bed.

Then next morning all the family are round (this is the year we're at mine) and everyone has a great time saying hello and getting down to opening the presents slowly throughout the day. We have a huge lunch and swear blind we'll never eat again before promptly declaring we want leftover sandwiches an hour later.

I think Christmas is a really good measure of a family and people. I'd like to think a person's on my wavelength if we have similar views on Christmas and how it should go. Also, if you measure proximity to Christmas by viewings of the Coca Cola advert and a shift in TV adverts away from 'Have you had a slip or trip anywhere...' and closer to 'buy a mince pie fatty'.

I realise this may seem a little early for a Christmas themed blog - but hey ho. It was what's on my mind. It was either this, X Factor or some neurotic ramblings about how I have an inability to be cool with the opposite sex.

Children Are Lucky

I've spent the last hour watching CBBC shows on demand on my TV. It's been pretty epic if I'm honest. An hour well spend in my humble little tiny opinion. I learnt in the last hour that I don't really approve of small bears that scream and have faces like socks that have been punched. I also learnt that I'm a massive fan of giant red monsters. Also, that in children's TV - the bigger the creature the stupider it is and the deeper the voice. Those are some facts.

I've also eaten a lot of prawns tonight. A LOT OF PRAWNS. Absolutely loads. But they were delicious. And I put them in some kind of home made lemon type sauce. I feel pretty domestic and great right now. I've been wanting to be more domestic lately. I think there might be some kind of maternal strings pulling in my innards. I'll probably have a baby next week. Or something like that anyway.

I don't have a great deal for you I'm afraid bloggypoose. I've not thought a single profound thing all day. Shocking - I know. Erm, nope - I'm really dredging as much as I can think of. There's nothing.

I could make something up? Yeah, I'll do that.

So, I was staring out the window and I saw a small bird. And the small bird was arguing with a massive bird - I think it might have been a cormorant.

The small bird bottled the big one. That was it. Fight over.

I think the moral of the story is that you don't want to piss of a hummingbird. The reason they hum, it turns out, is to try and keep their tempers. If you disrupt the humming cycle then they get quite angsty and may stab you.

We're learning.

Day 1 of New Job

Erm, so - this might well be the smallest blog I've ever done and these are the reasons for it:

1. Yesterday was the first day of my great new job.
2. I was assigned 18 clients to look after.
3. I need to have a meeting with all 18 clients before Christmas.
4. I went out after work and polished off an entire bottle of Champagne.
5. Today is the second day of my great new job.
6. Ouch.

Inside my Skull

I've spent a large portion of my morning watching Supernanny. I'm ok with the judgement I might feel from some of you. It's been a difficult week and I promised myself that this weekend I would only do things I actually wanted to do.

It's been a good week; I got a wonderful new position at work and was thrilled about that. Then spent the rest of the week dodging the office minefield of trying to look enthusiastic about said position without looking like I thought I was the dog's bollocks for having said new position. Wasn't easy. Especially as new position began to seem more and more like something that was going to make me cry on a regular basis until I'd fully worked out how the hell I slotted into the current system. Conclusion; chill the fuck out with Supernanny.

I had some wonderful bus encounters this week. Why is it when people try and make friends with you on the bus, their questions immediately start to sound like doing the groundwork on killing you and disposing of your body?

* So, you live round here? Local victim...

* Have you lived in London long? Are you aware that 90% of murders begin with an innocent bus conversation?

* Do you have any family round here? Is anyone going to notice you're gone?

Also had my first experience of being on a bus when the announcement rings out - "The destination of this bus has changed. Please see driver for further information."

2 things wrong with this -

1. You can't just change the destination of a bus, that makes it a different bus. That is false advertising.

2. SEE THE BUS DRIVER? Are you insane?! No one talks to the bus driver. The bus driver is usually the drunkest, most abusive person on the damned bus. And when you live on The Old Kent road, that is impressive.

So...tangents aside, I guess the important thing is that I just wanted to do nothing and be left alone this weekend. And I've so far succeeded. Yesterday was an amazing day. My tiny little sister decided to surprise me by being amazing and ordering a brand new winter coat to be delivered for me. It was one of those things that happens totally out of the blue and makes you want to be in a musical so you can sing about it.

Then I went to the supermarket and had a great moment of personal connection with one of the checkout assistants. I was using the self-checkout and had put all my stuff through but I needed the helper man to take the tag off my brand new pink electric toothbrush. As I went over to ask him, the helper man had to sort out someone else's issue. Helper man looked me in the eye as he took off the toothbrush (I've named her Jessie) tag, and said 'Some people are so dumb.'

I felt great. Not only was this guy amusing, but he also thought of me as on his level enough to confess this without thinking I was also dumb. This was a win for me. Then I got home and realised I'd left some of shopping at the checkout. I had to go back and look at the judgemental checkout man and admit that I was also one of the dumb ones. Brilliant. Massive fail.

Today I'm in my pyjamas with a laptop, the desire to sleep and the knowledge that I should be scripting several things and writing new material. Well, maybe after the next episode of Supernanny...

Sabbatical

Hello dear neglected blog...I can only offer my humblest apologies.

I was reminded this morning that it's now been over a week since my last blog - if I was an alcoholic and you were my drowsy sweet amber nectar then I would be doing well. But you are (probably) bored people, and I am a fairly insignificant feature in your day. And so I feel I have let you down.

The reminder came as a bit of a surprise if I'm honest. For two reasons -
1. It's been over a week since I last blogged. That's a long time for me to not do something I love. I think the main reason is, all the things that have happened to me in the last week are really cool but not things I'm allowed to talk about online yet...but watch this space for some really exciting changes to my life.

2. Someone noticed I wasn't blogging.


Number 2 may seem like I'm being unnecessarily down on myself in order to provoke mass commentary below going - "I love your blog, Laura. I read it everyday..." tra la la la cue 50/50 shame and pleasure from Laura.

I'm not being like that, although beign a self confessed mentalist I'm generally ok with praise and conflicted emotions concerning praise.

Writing a blog is weird, because it runs a fineline between lots of very uncool things.

* Are you basically writing a diary but really narcissistic and so you publish it?
* Are you a horrible person that likes to belittle others anonymously online?
* Are you funny and people actually want to read it or do people read it because they feel sorry that you write under the sad delusion folks are interested?

It's difficult to tell - obviously a blog takes a long time to build up a following, so how long do you blog before you admit that no one is struggling to find you, they all found you and then went back to watching Married With Children because it was better quality?

To combat this problem, in my mind I write for four people. These four people read my blog everyday and are the only interested parties in what comes out of the end of my fingers.

Person 1 - Maisy. Maisy is secretly very insecure. She is blonde and wears her hair in pigtails. She often wears wellies (red ones) because she'd very much like to be retro but doesn't really understand how to and so just selects items that small children wear more than adults and then wears those. She used to have a brace and so she never shows her teeth when she smiles now. Maisy reads the blog because it calms her down that other people worry about inane things too. This is why sometimes I neglect the funny and write her something about how I worry so much I'd given myself IBS by the age of 21. She loves me for it. Maisy also only reads my blogs in coffee shops. She does this for two reasons -
1. She hopes eligible batchelors will see over her shoulder that she reads obscure comedy blogs. This will lead to Maisy being directly involved in boosting my readership which makes her feel like a vigilante. She also hopes the eligible batchelors will then strike up a conversation and she can have children who will also wear red wellies and adore their doting mother.
2. When Maisy laughs it is a short bark which immediately embarrasses her. She secretly enjoys the quizzical looks this earns her in public when people look up from their lattes. If she laughs out loud at things she's reading at home it just causes her father to ask what she's reading and then not get why it was funny. People in coffee shops never do this.

Person 2 - Hannah. Hannah is an old friend I went to school/sunday school/Debenhams/the zoo with once that I have now sadly lost contact with. Hannah remembers me and we are now friends on Facebook which is how she knows about my blog. Hannah reads the blog because she hopes that one day I'll get famous and she can be on the E4 documentary about my life and say that although we sadly don't see enough of each other, she knows everything about me and we are great friends. Hannah doesn't really find the blogs funny but she does find them interesting. Hannah's quite interested in how people have changed since we stopped seeing each other in school/sunday school/Debenhams/the zoo and is quite freaked out that I'm an adult now just like she is. It's quite odd for Hannah that anyone would get in to stand-up, let alone the runty girl called Laura that had bad hair and flew completely under everybody's radar for the vast majority of years before she started shamelessly self-promoting.

Person 3 - Sam. Sam is my only male follower. Sam is unsure why he follows my blog. He's never met me, probably never will and doesn't really remember which link warren he followed to stumble upon the wittering of a girl he clearly has nothing in common with. He'd never tell anybody he read a blog. Let alone that he read a girl's blog. The main things that keep him hanging on are that it gives him a satisfying sense of voyeur that it's difficult to get from reading people's Facebook statuses. As a general rule, Sam dislikes social media and the constant need for people to advertise their every move. However, this blog seems to be more thought out. It's for Sam's benefit that I'm incredibly hypocritical and flighty in my opinions on things that I haven't worked out my opinion on yet. I like to make sure he understands the complexity of writing a blog that is both your public front and your honest communication with people who are gratifyingly interested in what I actually think. Sam appreciates this and continues to read. Sam doesn't read daily, he doesn't log on to the computer that often. But he does binge read when he's missed and feels this makes up for his lack of communication. In an alternate universe Sam and I know that if we met up we'd not get on well initially until the frost had thawed and then we'd probably have more in common than any of my other readers.

Person 4 - Angela. Angela is great. She's active, she loves to laugh and she is the most supportive person on the planet. She is also the hardest person to write for. Angela is my shadow. She knows my every move and will often know what I'm blogging about before I do. Mainly because she was present at the time of the event of which I will later blog about. Angela is my twin. She knows me and my life so well that sometimes it's tough to make her understand a blog. I worry she'll question why a point has been embellished or exaggerated for comic effect - she'll post below that 'I didn't happen like that...'. She may not see the line between me and my blog. It also makes it difficult to sometimes write a viewpoint I'm still playing with - in case Angela reads it and says 'You don't think that' and I'll be caught between explaining that I chose to blog it before even talking to her about it, or that she doesn't actually know that particular view of mine. It's difficult. In all honesty I don't even know if Angela reads my blog. She might do, she might not. But she's always in my mind when I work out what to publish. Can I talk about the one night stand I had last night or will this cause an eruption of reaction from Angela because I haven't told her yet?

Monday Night's Alright in Blighty

'Sup folks and folkesses,

Soooooooo - it's Monday. Monday is usually my day in the office - BUT NOT TODAY. Today I got a special treat - today I went to Hull. Oh yeah! Green with envy? You should be. I was in Hull. I didn't really do anything in Hull but I have been there. So I can now tick that little British location of my chart of places to visit.

Hull?
Yes?
Consider yourself visited.
Will do my friend.

Boomtown.

So...this weekend I also crossed the sleepy town of Uppingham off my 'To Visit' list. You could argue that it was less a case of ticking it off and more of a case of adding it so that I could then proceed to cross it out. Your argument could well be effective in finding the truth.

Laura, you added that to your fictional list so you could cross it off.
*hides pencil*


Uppingham is a miniscule village between Leicester and Peterborough and I went there for a small elf reunion. All the littlest elves were gathered into a coop and displayed proudly to passers by, for a shilling you could pet one. That last bit was not true - it was a ha'penny. NAY! Stop lying Laura. Ok. Loudy. I had a reunion with a few of the elves that I met in Lapland. We had a glorious weekend.

The highlight was definitely our trip to the smallest fun fair I've ever seen. It was incredibly tiny and we quickly located the three rides that we wanted to have a go on. The first was the waltzer - it was AMAZING. The desire to keep my head forward almost resulted in my neck breaking as the casually dressed lunatic in charge of spinning us decided to take us into hyperdrive. I struggled to stay sat whilst the waltzer went a waltzing, but somehow this Superdry clad spin operator managed to wander listlessly around our spinning vehicles, smoking, choosing a potential teen to finger, and spinning our addled brains into oblivion. Hats of to him.

We then went over to some sort of invention designed to cause severe inner thigh bruising and/or loss of dignity depending on the thickness of your tights. I was secured into my chair and eagerly awaited being flung every which and way and left. What I didn't anticipate was that, being a good 4 inches shorter than most folks, there would be a large gap between me and the over the shoulder holders. This meant I spend a large portion of the rider in thin air, and would arrive back on the seat and one end of the ride with a thump and some bruising that would be hard to explain if I ever went to bed with anyone other than David Attenborough in shiny silver disc form.

It was at this point that we realised the lack of queues between the rides was not necessarily a good thing, as the speed with which we went from one ill advised death trap to the other meant that the nausea from the previous ride had not fully abated by the time we signed up for the next.

Swallowing our misgivings, we clambered aboard the Dodgems. Ah, the dodgems. Now, the dodgems would have been brilliant fun had it not been for an evil demon child who decided to try and cause whiplash to anyone with 10 feet of his car. Which was all of us. I was very grateful to my fellow elves for deciding that is was indeed ok for 3 twentysomethings to gang up on a lone 14 yr old, all in the name of £2.50 well spent. So, we battered the crap out of him. I say we. I mean them. I, unfortunately, got a particularly hard whack from said devil child. Such a hard whack that my dodgem went mental. It got utterly stuck in reverse. Reverse was not even a function available in the dodgem. I played out the rest of my token flailing wildly and trying not to swear whilst making eye contact with the 4 and 5 yr olds who were wondering why the crazy lady was screaming.

It's a long time since I've been to the fun fair and it was definitely better than I ever thought it could be - not that I'll be rushing back any time soon. I am still vomiting candy floss and self-loathing.

Body Slam Dunk

It's been one of those days that slams into you from every direction with the good, the bad and the ugly. Less of the ugly because you can side step them as they come at you if you're wearing a properly functioning mong radar. Eugh.

I've had a work trip down to my old university in Kent. The University of Kent is a fantastic place and I had 4 very happy years here. Coming back is like putting on an old pair of boots and feeling great, and then noticing someone a lot skinnier than you is wearing the same pair and looks a lot better. I feel a bit like a tired grey version of the students who are here now. I know this is ridiculous (and a terrible analogy as I'm actually quite stunning and these people are gross). NB - I will be making up for my insecurity with false self confidence in places throughout this blog. I have always been accused of using humour as a defense mechanism - and I don't see why this is a bad thing - surely it's better to have a joke than a knife? Wit can be cutting but it rarely severs an artery. Unless you're carving a particularly strong pun into someone's neck. Which wouldn't be a bad thing...oh look - a tangent.

Um, so anyway. Yes; it's nice to be back. But I want to leave now. I am fully floored by the amount of gossip about my life that has still somehow made it back to these echoey halls - even long after I am gone. I was greeted with the line "So - I know who YOU pulled in Edinburgh." within 30 seconds of walking into the bar - glorious. Not only has my news survived a long trek of folks to get it back here - it's also crossed borders. I must be either truly interesting - or truly tashy. I'll take interesting trash I think; like when you see something really cool in a bin and have to take it home...no? No one else? Just me then. Well, fuck you. If you saw a gramaphone in a bin you'd want it to. Not that it was a gramaphone in my case - but a largely edible sandwich is better. So there.

I went to my morally reprehensible meeting and they adored the product; the compromise I have had to come to on this subject is that any commission I receive will go directly to an eating disorder charity as I refuse point blank to personally benefit from this industry. I was pleasantly surprised by the outift though - even if they did offer me some of their products after the meeting. I didn't know whether to be grateful or furious. I refused politely explaining that I'd just eaten a large portion of cheesey chips and they had worked perfectly as a hunger suppressant. Laura humour 1 - Diet pills 0.

I've caught up with a lot of old friends and it's worked as a good measure of how proud I am with where my life is headed that I'm not embarassed about answering honestly with what I've been up to lately. Gone are the days of quietly mumbling something about a house near Greenwich and a sigh before I explain that I really should work harder on booking gigs and blogging. Huzzah! Am humour whirlwind and proud of it! And fit. I am fit? Did I mention I was fit? And feeling a tad delicate today.

In the murky pool of gossip I unwittingly entered, someone also found it appropriate to tell me all about my ex's new relationship. Wonderful. No, genuinely wonderful. In all honesty it was the last thing I was waiting for that I thought could throw me back a few steps and now it's come and gone and I am ok. Unless my sadness is hiding somewhere but I don't think so - I think I just don't care? Have I matured in some way when I wasn't looking? Plus, apparently she is very tall. So in my head she is a heron. And he has to go out to dinner with a heron. What a bellend. Who would break up with me to go out with a heron? I am beautiful! And she has a beak! Dumbass. I would never go out with a heron. I am mortally afraid of birds. I have not matured clearly. But I do feel a big sense of relief.

The final bodyslam was finding out my sister has gone in to hospital. This is genuinely sad and worrying. Tis only appendicitis so I'm thinking she'll be fine. But I am a natural worrier. And a tad svelte and incredible to look at. So all in all it wasn't the best news.

But then there has been great news - I am seeing my elf friends this weekend for a chilly reunion! We are already hastily planning the wine so you will get some Loughborough themed blogs posted Saturday and you will be grateful! Because they have been typed with some spiffy fingers. Seriously hot momma over here.

Now back to London - back to London and back to my new life. I feel like it's someway fitting that this is my 100th blog and I have spent the day so wrapped up in a life that is so alien to the things

I Wanna Be a Billionaire

I caught up with X Factor last night - this is the first year I've ever watched it and I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm quite enjoying it. The judges are all reassuring self-serving enough to satisfy me that they'll put through genuine talent in places because it'll get them more money. So, I get to watch some decent karaoke. Delightful.

It does seem that each contestant on the show has to be either so stupid that you're sure the vast majority of their cerebral activity is totally dormant, or have some kind of tragedy which only singing in front of a judgemental, fickle public could possibly cure. I mean, I understand having a dream - but is the X Factor really really the solution to your trauma?

I fully understand you have two children and have struggled. I think global fame and media scrutiny are the perfect solution and will be a godsend to your, already stressful, life. Well done.

It frustrated me quite a lot in the early episodes when contestants would burst into tears and wail loudly about their 'one chance' to get to their dream. As though, if Louis Walsh says no that means they need to head home immediately and only ever sing in the shower from now on. Why is there only one chance? I mean, there's always the option of working really hard for a lot of years and getting there very slowly but surely? You could try that...? It's kind of what I'm working on right now...? No? Ok, yeah - if they say no you'd better cut your tongue out. Good plan.

Last night I caught up on the weekend's episodes and am now so saturated in drawn out cliffhangers and odd key choices that I needn't watch any more for at least a week. I am properly hooked.

I've developed an unwieldy crush on Matt - delightfully humble Essex painter and decorator who shuts his eyes a lot and this seems to be a big factor affecting how well we know him. From what I can tell, Danni Minogue is of the opinion we need to really know an act before we can enjoy the sound coming out of their mouth. I therefore suggest they harvest contestants with the most Facebook friends and stop all this singing competition nonsense.

I thoroughly enjoy Cher and her exciting new take on the competition. Is she going to cry or say something stupendously vacant mid performance this week? Is there going to be a surprise rapping bit in the middle like a few of her other pieces? There is? glorious. I do love a system.

The bands I'm not enjoying quite frankly, Cheryl seems under the impression (wrong, according to Simon and the audience - who boo and cheer EVERYONE equally - go figure?) that the newly formed bands need time to get to know each other before they'll be a fully fledged group. WHAT? What madness is this? A band can't just be perfectly manufactured for instant gratification? Are you insane Cheryl? What a bimbo. Anyone would think they'd also need a concept on what the musical influences and style of the music was going to be! Ha!

I totally and utterly loathe Katie Weasel - she is a massive ball bag. She has literally nothing authentic about her at all. She has a good voice - but her first song choice was bland and more about emulating Madonna and Lady GaGa than about her showing off any vocal skill. I think she's a fake little shrew who needs a good kick in the shins and leaving in a muddy field so she can gush to the grass about what a legend she's going to be. She's not going to be a legend. I don't think any of the great legends needed X Factor for people to notice they were legends. I also don't think they set out to be a legend. They set out to do what made them happy and this pleased other people. I'm 99% sure Bob Dylan never were a multi coloured plastic cockcroach ass on his head in order to gain attention. 99% sure. Don't follow him everywhere.

This isn't funny

This blog will not be funny in any way shape or form, I'm warning you now so you can stop reading it if you want to. It is honestly not funny - but I need to vent.

Continuing from yesterday's theme - I have spent the morning trying to find positive stories in the news about diet pills so I can turn up to my meeting and be able to help them sell more to people. Unfortunately I've hit an impasse in that I've sickened myself with the thought that I might somehow contribute to an industry of insecurity. I don't really know what to do.

The last article I read explained how there is a controversy over diet pills as they've been proven to cause tumours in rats. The manufacturers say this is irrelevant to humans. Thankfully, someone dishing out licenses says this is not irrelevant. However, it's not that these pills are then not on sale; it's that they are not allowed to be a medical subscription. Are you kidding me?

The forums for these pills are filled with people praising the diet pills for helping them lose up to a stone per week. This is a thoroughly unhealthy amount of weight to be losing through crash dieting. Diet pills just suppress your hunger. There is a reason we feel hunger - it's because we are hungry. Hunger means we need food. Good food - not burgers, saturated fats and shit - proper food.

I am not praising obesity or fat people - I think it is just as unhealthy. Eating disorders go both ways and I'm not claiming that diet pills cannot be used in an extremely carefully controlled exercise and good food regime to help people who are extremely ill through excessive eating.

But, these forums for the companies flogging diet pills are filled with forums with girls saying they are a size 12 and just desperate to get down to an 8. And they need this to be instant gratification - there isn't the time to do it sensibly and make it stay off because they genuinely believe they are so disgusting and wrong.

The most sickening thing is the girls (and it is all girls) praising the diet pills for doing the work. Tell me what's wrong with this sentence:

"This syrup really works!!! It's quite hard not to eat but it's been 5 days now and I've lost 8lbs!!! Thanks!"

You are losing weight because you are starving - you will not keep that weight off. You will give yourself brittle bones, eye problems, gum problems, stomach ulcers and dizziness. There is nothing magical about these starvation detoxes - they are just conning you into believing your eating disorder isn't a fucking problem because you paid someone to help you with it.

If you are overweight and could be healthier by losing weight, join a hockey team and have the discipline to put yourself on a good diet and plan to see the weight come off over a year.

Eating disorders can literally appear overnight. They are petrifying and leave people not really sure if it's worth being alive because everyday is so damn difficult to cope with. They affect moods, trash relationships and turn people into manipulative shadows. They don't really go away either - they hang around for years and pop back up. Watching someone get destroyed by their relationship with food is one of the most depressing things you can sit through - and it is horrendously difficult to treat. How do you treat someone who doesn't know if they can cope with being cured?

I honestly don't know whether I can stomach this meeting. I may have to take a bit of a professional hit and not go. I may have to go and spend an hour asking him how any of the advice on the website is responsible when it publishes testimonials of people who have not eaten for a week and are thrilled with his product for helping.

I think I may have a little trouble controlling my temper. There are just not enough people in the world talking sense to people who need it. Apparently it doesn't spin enough money.

Femme Fat-Al

I'm watching America's Next Top Model. I find this show hilarious and brilliant in equal measure. It makes me feel better about myself that my chosen mode of personal expression requires some form of cerebral intensity.

I blew a gasket at work today. On Thursday I am being sent to a meeting with a company who sell diet pills. There is nothing essentially wrong with this I suppose - what annoyed me was that there are only pictures of women on the website. The entire marketing of the company is aimed at the ladies and it promotes such an unhealthy desire for all of us to be sticks that we think that we need to take desperate steps like diet pills and that's fine.

I'm tempted right now to turn up with a chocolate bar in each pocket and various strawberry laces hanging out of my teeth.

I'm not sure I'm going to be able to keep my temper at people who make a living selling insecurity with free delivery.

I don't think I'd have minded too much if I hadn't checked the Facebook page for the company and seen the comments from girls who were buying these products.

"Hi, just ordered some of these pills - hope they work!"

"Is there a way I can use these without the detox and still lose weight?"

"I've been on these pills for 10 days and haven't lost ANYTHING - what do I do?"

10 days? 10 days - are you kidding me? And the advice coming back is - just eat less! Take more of the pills! Take this combo! What the fuck?

Eat sensibly, eat fruit and veg and exercise and give yourself months, not days, to lose weight. Where is the voice telling us this stuff in a way that we're actually going to listen?

Watching America's Next Top Model is like the icing on the cake - reminding me that the world is barmy and that some people will manipulate the self-worth right out of others. And it very frequently seems to be a girl.

Can we please work out a world where we aren't terrified of looking like ourselves? Where we aren't reading magazines where we applaud extra weight if it's in the right places and circle it in red if it's not deemed appropriate? Where we are neither allowing obesity on the ground of not offending but not encouraging brittle bones and poor diet for the sake of wearing a pencil skirt?

It really upsets me.

My meeting on Thursday may end up with a fully inserted Snickers in a man who should take better care over the advice on his website...

I'm an evil alien

So...today I did potentially the most rock and roll thing I've ever done in my life! I flew to France for lunch. In a tiny plane with only 6 leather seats. We flew from Rochester to Le Touquet and had a delightful meal and a play on the beach and then flew back again.

The journey all started yesterday really. Yesterday I went to Bluewater and bought the pair of boots that will be integral to my winter foot health. I had to sell a kidney to afford them due to severe financial restrictions right now, but they are genuinely a necessity as without them I would be in flip flops until after Christmas which could lead to pneumonia. I think. In all honesty I'm not really sure how you get pneumonia but I assume if you get cold, wet feet it can happen.

After Bluewater which involved two krispy kreme doughnuts and a minor mall induced panic attack. I went to Whitechapel for a gig. Now, I don't like to be judgemental. That's a massive lie - I revel in it. But, I'm not usually vocal about it. Usually I keep my contempt in until I'm in a safe place and have fully assessed my opinion on the subject. Yesterday I did not.

It was a gong show and there was a huge crowd assembled and I started out enthusiastic. My enthusiasm waned as I got further and further into the gig and realised that the combined IQ of the entire audience must have been somewhat akin with a Kerry Katona book signing. And that includes the guy employed to remind her how to spell her name. And how to hold a pen. And what a fucking book is. Kerry Katona...easy target? Well, yes, probably, but there's a good chance my entire ability to be funny has been trashed by this experience of comedy.

The first act in the gong was very good, a nice intelligent guy with some delightful lines and a strong delivery...after that I felt the night deteriorated somewhat. The audience stamped their feet and whooped and cheered at the most banal material - seeming to revel in their cluelessness. I was almost disappointed to survive the gong. Being booed by a balding 20something in a checked shirt who seemed to be modelling his look on a decaying gormless lumberjack with less finesse was a highlight.

The prize for the night was £50...at the point where an 'act' got practically a standing ovation for describing the disabled children he worked with as 'top level spastics' and 'dribble covered wheelers'...I left. I gave up any desire to be Queen of this night and hightailed it out of there and back to the real world where people engage their brains before braying before a moron.

Snob? Me? Yes. Absolutely. And fucking proud of it.

SO I left that gig and disappeared up to Barnet, High Barnet. The tallest haircut in London. I stayed over night with one of my fellow elves from Lapland and we watched Stepbrothers and had a perfect sleepover. Stepbrothers is one of my favourite films. We love it so much that in Lapland we actually made our beds into bunk beds. Fact. See Facebook for pictorial evidence.

This morning we awoke and headed over to Rochester. We got mildly lost and I have seen the same roundabout at least 3 times today. But finally we were at the airfield.

The tiny plane was excellent and although I was rather nauseous taking off we were soon in the air and sailing over Canterbury. It was amazing to see a city I know so well from the air. I have a lot of incredibly happy memories in Canterbury and seeing it from a perfect blue sky was amazing.

We landed in Le Touquet and headed into town. Le Touquet is rather like Wysteria Lane in Desperate Housewives. There were more Mercs and MX5s in driveways than I've ever seen in my life. But I ate salmon (my favourite) and played on the beach (I adore beaches and the sea - see previous blogs for gushing) and all in all have had a miraculous day. A perfect day.

Have you? Sorry, just realised I've been a bit 'me, me, me'.

Standing on my Earlobes

Free!

Panic not fine friends - it turns out the guy with the funny shirt thought I was Lady GaGa (because we look so similar) and kidnapped me by accident. After 4 hours of him asking me to sing Ra ma ooh la la, and me failing miserably, he clicked that I wasn't her and he let me go.

Relief is not the word! I spent the night in the bath trying to wash the smell out of my hair and this morning I have fingers and toes like a prune. Its a nice look but I'm going to have to sit in the airing cupboard after I've written to you and try and dry out a bit.

Right now I'm sitting on the sofa fuming about the fact that I have a Saturday morning off and Saturday Kitchen has been replaced with The Commonwealth Games - gutted! I'm trying to tell myself that the fault lies with me that I don't appreciate sport over fun cooking challenges and hairy bikers...it probably shouldn't be too difficult. I think I'm a little culturally challenged.

I'm supposed to be going shopping today - and I will attend the shopping centre but unfortunately no purchasing will be done due to severe financial straits. Ah, sigh, poor me, the life of an artist and all that...meh. But, yesterday, some oppurtunist git decided to take advantage of the fact that I was a little snoozy on the train and swiped my Oyster card as I drooled.

The weird thing about this petty theft (replace petty with ridiculous if you like) is that my laptop was also on the train table and they didn't bother with that...surely that's lesson one in theft?

Q. If offered a nice laptop or unlimited access to zone 1 for the next two days - which should you take?

A. Well, I am a big fan of the District Line...

Knob.

So I have a new Oyster Card now - and this one is called Fenella (after Fenella Fudge who does the travel on Radio 2 sometimes and has possibly the best name I've ever heard ever). I wouldn't have minded losing the last oyster card so much had I not given him a name (Steve Wright - my mp3s are god themed, oyster cards are radio 2 themed). I'm a bit worried that whoever has Steve Wright now is not treating him nicely and wilfully smacking him into the little yellow circle without a care for his brain haemorrhaging or anything like that. Poor Steve Wright.

Tomorrow's blog may be late but should be incredibly intensely exciting as I am going to France - just for lunch - yeah ROCK AND ROLL! Tell you about it soon...

You Drive Me Crazy

I'm genuinely blogging from the inside of a haggis. I've had the weirdest dat today - when I woke up there was a tall man with a blue shirt on standing over my bed holding a hessian sack. I was a little alarmed to see him there and asked what was going on. He asked me why I dribble so much at night and I was a little embarassed. He took this oppurtunity to put the bag over my head and kidnap me.

Then he put me in this haggis. It's moist, not uncomfortable, and a little smelly if I'm honest. I don't think he intends to kill me - it's potentially an experiment to see if I'll eat my way out. I don't think I will - at least not for a few days as I am pretty good at coping without food and I also like to be the winner very much.

The man had a light Welsh accent which is another baffling clue to this puzzle - I'm 99% sure haggis is a Scottish delicacy which could mean he is working for some kind of alliance. Alliances freak me out really. Especially the Royal Sun Alliance. That is a freakishly big, hot, regal alliance.

So, all in all, there's not really much to say in this blog as I haven't been able to do much today due to kidnap and haggis restraint. If I am out by tomorrow I'll let you know how it goes but in the meantime if you have any ideas on how to escape do let me know.

Sing Like No one Likes Ribena

I'm quite poor this month. By quite poor I mean I got paid yesterday and now am back in my overdraft again having paid rent and other such fun expenditures. As a result of this I am living solely off bread and pot noodles. It's a curious thing how much my body hates me right now. The sort of hate usually reserved for an X Factor judge who's made an ill advised decision - you know; super serious.

Usually I'm quite springy. The addition of much crust and dried peas to my diet has made some of the springyness disappear. It's not that my body doesn't want to be springy any more - it's just that it can't be. Because it is leaden. Nightmare. Usually I approach escalators and other such rising aids with a delight that I can bounce up, up and up and reach the top like a brunette tigger with a red bull addiction. The last few days it's been more a case of flumping onto the bottom step and enjoying the feeling of the slatted surface caressing my face as the suits walk all over my back on their way past.

By the end of this month I might start to resemble the bread. This wouldn't be the end of the world as my bread of choice is a particularly tasty 90p Tiger Loaf with black pepper coating. So I'm going to be a feisty tiger by November. I'm wondering whether my skin will resemble that of a tiger, or that of a flaky white loaf. I hope the tiger. I would like to look like a tiger. And it would make me worry less about yeast infections.

I would also get to have whiskers if I were a tiger - it's no secret that I'd genuinely like to have facial hair. Not the kind of facial hair that women sadly get when they reach a certain age - but proper facial hair. A funky moustache and a massive beard that I could keep things in and stroke when I was feeling poignant.

But for now I am just a bit hungry and looking forward to my slices of bread for lunch. It's a wonderful life.

Living with Penelope

Blogosphere, hear me roar!

I'm not totally sure what I'm roaring about but I thought I'd kick things off with a big noise and we can go from there. That ok?

Well, I'm sorry you were expecting something a little more profound but I can't help but feel you're reading the wrong blog if that's what you wanted. Yes, this is Laura's blog. Lexx? Yeah, small one. No shoes? I thought that'd work. Cool.

So we're all up to speed? Why were you late? So far...not a lot. I roared, you guys argued a bit but essentially we've all settled down and are now enjoying each other's company. You more than me because, let's face it, I do the lion's share of the work in this shindig. Not that I mind. Oh, come on, don't get upset...but how often do you give input that isn't just in my mind? Exactly. Stop whining.

I went to Manchester yesterday. I REALLY like Manchester. It is full of excellent coloured buildings that look interesting and slightly archaic but still exciting and spiffy. Yes, that's right Manchester, I gave you spiffy. It's not as grey as London - not that I don't like London, it's just I think it can lack personality.

I'm a dedicated Southerner and I'd genuinely struggle to move up North but it really is appealing sometimes. The problem with London is that there is so much personality stuffed into here that we almost lack an identity as a community - we are the mongrel of the UK. The most popular stereotype of a Londoner is a moody curmudgeon on the tube that wears a suit and talks to no one.

I dislike this stereotype and feel that we only fall into the trap because it's expected of us. If people talked about London as being a super colourful vibrant place then I'm sure we'd let that soak into our bones and we'd go with it. Like Camden, Camden high street has really taken people's fantasies and run with it - why can't the rest of London go with that?

As an experiment I tested out whether Londoners are stuck in their rut by making sure I smiled at 5 people on the tube to see their reactions. They ALL smiled back! What a discovery! All London needs is someone to chivvy them into realising that we don't all have to play up to the mindless drone stereotype. We are dying to talk to each other and express some personality and turn our city into some kind of happy town where people don't judge us based on the behaviour of tired commuters on a packed public transport system.

And if we don't all join together and do it then I'm moving to Manchester. Fact. So, here you go - out and about today pick 5 people who look the least like muggers and smile at them. I bet they were just dying to find someone to smile at. Makes you feel like a hell of a person.

Denver has the lowest number of water buffalo

Going to Manchester today...I like Manchester. It's full of men and pecs. Work that one out yourselves.

yesterday was an arse-ridden day full of pox and gimpy things that made me wrinkle my nose and weep. Weeping is a much better way to say 'I cried like a small child at the age of 24'. Weeping implies I was a maiden who had been long since separated from her family and forced to work in a corn field but carried on stoically, even if I did weep a little at night. Silently of course. Weeping says nothing of the streaming nose and puffy eyes. Weeping also sounds a little like a sore. Like a big nasty red boil that oozed pus. I was not like that. But I may have wept.

I'm not weeping today. I'm going to Manchester to see tall buildings and talk to important people.

It's been a busy week and here are some major reasons for the blog hiatus, which I count as holiday time and shall not be shouted at for;

1. It was my birthday. Yes, that's right. I got a year older and am now at the shockingly dizzy heights of 24. I'm hoping 24 is going to be a really good age to be. I wasn't really a fan of being 23 - except for Lapland which was a total lifetime wonder - nothing much good occurred at the age of 23 and overall being 22 was a lot better. I'm wondering if it's an inate need for control that I can only really enjoy myself when I am an even number? Which means I'm going to be totally screwed up when I'm 30 because although I know it is an even number, I consider it an odd one and this is going to be tricky. My birthday was a day of 2 halves - 1 half being poo and in Gravesend, the other half being a delightfully laid back evening of drinks with some awesome people.

2. I moved house. Potentially more exciting than this whole nonsense birthday thing. I now live precariously close to the Monopoly board having just transferred to within spitting distance of the Old Kent Road. This move is intended to save me a lot of time in the morning and to give me somewhere fancy to live. Fancy, yes. Time? Not yesterday while the entire London transport system ground to a halt over these tube strikes. I was astonishingly late for work. This sparked a fail day of epic proportions which wound up with me losing £1200 and shouting at a bus all the way home.

That bus was a knob. Like a big, red, mechanical road based tapeworm.

3. I did some comedy for children. This was an excellent addition to my weekend - they are difficult but satisyingly interesting to perform to. Long may my foray into the world of children's entertainment continue...yessum. I found out that my long term plan to have everyone living in bouncy castles is a fail plan and that tomorrow's generation wouldn't go for it...shame. No imagination the youth of today.


And those were the highlights of my week. Except for deciding that I am truly addicted to X Factor and not ashamed of it. Saturday nights are now firmly Merlin, X Factor and sleep. Cool I am not.

Le Freak

Well, I have not blogged for an age,
Because I went out earning a wage.
I decided it sucked,
And the world can get fucked,
And I'll blog when I'm let out my cage...


*Normal Service Resumes Tomorrow*


Much like the tramping sodding bumfuckwit underground which can go soak its balls in vinegar for ruining my morning which had a knock on effect on the rest of the wanktestical day.

Dancing Like The Way You Move

So...the dust has settled enough from my epic night out on Saturday to be able to contemplate it. Yesterday was a total wash out filled with food and much recovering - there was certainly not enough brain power to consider a review!

We awoke hurting and hanging and had just about enough wherewithall between us to put together a fry up - an epic fry up. Every thing with the potential to be fried food went into this breakfast. Twas a feast for kings...and about 30 minutes after we'd finished this my mum phoned to see what time we were coming round for the roast she was cooking. Now, to be fair I'd had ample warning that she was intending to make this roast. In fact, this roast was being cooked in my honour and was stuffed with parsnips and sweet potatoes just for me. I'd forgotten about passing on this vital information or limiting my intake of food so as to leave enough space for said roast. Error.

We rocked up to my parents' house and tried our best to cram in as much of this delicious roast as possible but it was difficult. I didn't even know parsnips could look smug.

Saturday night was a night of two halves. It began with a sedate meal - desperately trying to cheer up a slightly heart broken younger sister. It turned out all she needed was vodka and a jug or two of a drink that tasted like Berocca. We drank a fucktonne of it and quite frankly it did not result in 'me, but on a really good day'. It resulted in me, but on a day where I can't see and am incapable to choregraphed movement.

We finished up our night in a greta new club - the only great club Taunton has ever had, and one that has sprung into being since I moved. Gutted. While in there we realised that the small (now drunken) sister was catnip to local men. Older sister, also giggling drunkenly into a Smirnoff Ice, was a magnet for whorebitches in stilettos who like to bruise people's feet. I, it seems, am a magnet to group dances. macarena? Yes. Just yes.

The taxi home at 3am was definitely good craic. I had the phone number for a lawyer with nice teeth, a sister who was pretty ssure her foot was broken, a sister who probably had the phone number of the 40 odd men who had fallen over their own feet to speak to her and a giant grin on my own face. Now, if only I could remember what the lawyer was called or whether he had any interesting features other than shiny teeth I'd be laughing...

I am too tired for this...

It's just taken me a long time to negotiate a busy road home. Here are my findings from today -

Beeping at me will only encourage me to slow down and scowl.

If I shout 'Bellend' at you it's because you are, in fact, a massive bellend and you should just pull your car over and walk home and stop being such a disgrace to the rest of us.

There is nowhere on the planet you need to be urgently enough to excuse you undertaking in the dark and pouring rain.

There should be 'tourists' and 'locals' lanes on all major roads in pretty areas. Just because I choose to live in the West Country doesn't mean I should have to slow down past Stone Henge and marvel at it's mundane audacity. I would like to zoom on past in the 'I have somewhere to be, this is not a novelty' lane swearing at you and laughing at your bored children who are plotting your deaths for lousing up their childhoods with these 'interesting things' to see on the journey. Get them to a theme park.

Sign posts need to be erected upon EVERY junction between you and your destination because guessing is fallible. Either that or the centre of towns need to have bright lights shooting right up from their centres so you can follow the beam in the right general direction until some useful official puts up a post with a title on it. It cannot possibly be that difficult?

I should never spend 5 hours alone in a car. My mind wanders to places it shouldn't and I have a general hatred of everyone. Including you.

I'm Back In The Shi-i-i-ire

So I've just touched down in Somerset...wha' Zummmmerzet? No fuckwit, that is not how I said it so please do not repeat it back to me like the fact that I've just revealed where I'm from has made you start imagining I have a thick rural accent and a piece of straw hanging out of, my frankly slack, jaw. I do not meet people from India and suddenly start repronouncing Mumbai for them in their own accent in some sort of hideously racist attack. So don't do it to me.



Have been greeted with a new wardrobe from my generous little sister and a chance to babysit my nephew tomorrow morning. This is excellent news as it means I can start forming a set for my Comedy 4 Kids gig next week. I'm pretty sure 1 4month old will be an excellent judge of material. Sure...

Right now we're all gathered round watching old, seriously old, home movies. This would be a really lovely experience if it weren't for that fact that I went through a long phase of wanting to be a boy. I insisted on having a Damon Albarn inspired hair cut and mainly wearing felt shirts. Hideous.

Tomorrow I am out on the town. Taking my new boots out to meet and greet the folks of Taunton town. Taunton's an interesting night out. By rights it should be a little bit crap, and it is, but it's also a little bit amusing. The convenient location of a marine camp just down the road makes it a bit of a slag magnet. So it can be a very amusing place to go and judge people. I'm a massive snob. It's paining me slightly that I intend to wear Jeggings out tomorrow. I've tried quite hard not to let wordsquishes into my general day to day life - I don't follow Jedward and I certainly wouldn't buy tickets to SuBo. But somehow a pair of jeggings have vaccuumed pack themselves to my legs and have chosen to look great with my boots. C'est La Vie.

So I am off to nestle deep into the bosom of my beloved county. It's good to be home.

My Naughty Little Sister

Today's blog is entirely dedicated to my naughty little sister. Or, it would be if I had one. I do have a little sister. Only she is not naughty. She's not really naughty in any way.

She's 5 years younger than me and entirely more mature and level headed than I suspect I will ever be. When my parents had children they carefully chose names that couldn't be shortened into irritating familiar versions of the names they had painstakingly chosen. I completely sympathise - there must nothing worse than agonising for 9 months (or longer) over what to christen your ball of genes only to find his grubby urchin street friends have had a get together, thought 'Miss Lexx you are clearly a fool. We've had a little chat and decided 'Tezza' is a much more appropriate tag for him to take forward into the adult world.'

So for myself and my older sister they settled on Sarah and Laura. These never get shortened. Occasionally some one will attempt to call me 'Law' which results in me adding the 'ra' to the end. This means that these friends don't last for long becuase they inevitably think I'm barking at them and they run for the hills.

So, when it came to my next sibling - what changed in their pattern of thinking? They chose Megan. For one, we are not Welsh, we are a pretty mongrel family in terms of heritage but there isn't really a jot of Welsh, so Megan is an odd choice. We are primarily of Scottish/South African decsent making us stingy with a tendency to aggressively colour coordinate. So the Welsh thing is pretty baffling.

Poor little Megan has learnt over the years to answer to any one of the following nicknames that has been cast upon her;
Meg, Mog, Peg, Peggy, Meggy, Mogwin, Egg, Milly Moggy Moo, Peggity, Peg-a-leg, Megalith, Meggity, Megwin, Pegwin, Mogwyn (the y is important) - and, at family occasions where people like to tell her that the name stems from Margaret, she also has to cope with Margaret (original), Maggie, Mag and possibly worst of all Marge. No self respecting 19 yr old should have to roll her blue eyes, toss her beautiful blonde hair and answer to Marge.

Megan is 5 years younger than me and unfortunately for me we don't look a lot like sisters. We look a lot like a waify blonde model has attracted a needy midget with uncannily similar eyebrows. I have a desperate need for approval from my little sister. Our relationship has always been a little backwards. She often gets midnight phone calls from me wailing about my latest panic and she calmly and collectedly tells me to pull myself back together and go to sleep. She was promoted to department manager in her job after approximately 16 hours on the job. I travel the length and breadth of the country telling jokes and asking people to read my daily outpourings of barmpot. She is altogether a lot more, well altogether than I am. And I applaud her for it.

When she was little she honestly looked like a cartoon cherub. She had perfect blonde curls, was, well, fat. She was fat. She was a little marshmallow baby. And I delight in this fact because at some point in our lives I have been skinnier than her - even if it did only last a few years. Or until she had control over how much she ate. Actually, my earliest memories of her having control over what she ate were of her controlling several snails and woodlice into her mouth and delightedly crunching and chewing. I don't know if you've ever scooped well masticated snail shell and woodlouse legs out of a cherub's mouth but it really does make you wonder if religion is all it's cracked up to be.

On the few occasions I managed to get her to come to University to visit me I immediately wanted to pack her on the next train home and get her as far away as possible. Not because she was a pest - I am the pest - but because a vast horde of male admirers would be offering to buy me drinks in exchange for an introduction to my sister. I'm pretty sure had she stayed for more than a few days she would be married by now. Albeit to someone far beneath her, but hell, that's what divorce is for.

I like to bother Megan. Bothering Megan is one of my favourite past times, and like a true adult she dutifully puts up with it because she knows this is just how our relationship works. When I've been away from her for too long it starts to show, because I start to bother other people who don't react to it so well and bad things happen. She is like a vaccine or a drug that I am dependent on for release of botherness.

I suppose I don't really have anything to end this on. It's just a little dedication to my eternally wonderful little older younger sister. Long may she sigh and wish I was easier to be around while I am poking her in the back of the neck and marvelling that it is the only place on her body that she has fat. We call her neck fat deposit Carlton. Well, I call it that. Because I'm pretty sure if you shaved her head she would look like Uncle Phil from the Fresh Prince. But I mean if some slightly hidden neck fat is your only worry, you're laughing?

The Invention of Smiling

Face - I just want to be with you.

Hand - It's not that I don't want to be with you. I just can't be with you all the time.

Face - Why?

Hand - Because I've got shit to do. I gotta be shaken, I got to wipe, I got fingers to support. I'm busy. You just sit there all day.

Face - Exactly. That's why I get so bored. I got nothing.

Hand - You need a hobby.

Face - But what can I do? You used to think I was cute. You used to stroke me all the time. Now you're just always busy with buttons and typing and stuff. You don't even moisturise before you come to see me any more.

Hand - I would if I could. But I just can't have you hanging on my every move all the time. You know? You gotta relax. All that frowning - you're gonna be exhausted.

Face - You'd frown too if you had my rotten luck...

Hand - I can't frown and you know it! That was a dirty thing to throw in my palm.

Face - Oh all right then - ball a fist. Whatever. Don't point the finger at me in this argument.

Hand - You're the one always turning your nose up at me! Like I'm not even good enough for you anymore. And I've seen the way you look at my twin.

Face - Oh please! Don't give me that. You couldn't wait to jump on that other girl who came around here the other day. You literally couldn't have pounced quicker. "It was a slap" You said. Yeah, well, I don't see why you had to go. What's wrong with a kick in the shins, huh?

Hand - I ain't explaining myself to you any more Doll. I've had it. You can paint your own eyes and lips from now on. I'm sick of running around after you. Who wipes the crumbs off you when you eating? Huh? Who puts your war paint on so you can go winking at other guys? Who always, ALWAYS washes after wiping so that you ain't gotta wrinkle your pretty little nose when I gets close? Huh?

(Pause)

Face - You think my nose is pretty?

Hand - Sure do. Always have.

Face - I love your cuticles.

Stuff the Manic Wagon

In the last couple of days I've been pretty busy. Good busy and bad busy.

Firstly, I've been trying to train someone at work. This is great because it means someone trusts me with someone else. It also means I have plenty to do in the office and I get to make a new friend. Unfortunately it's showed me that my nurturing side is decidedly lacking.

I always thought I was pretty nurtuting. I like to name inanimate objects and I'm a big fan of looking after things that don't really require looking after. When I was at University I had a pet hamster which I took very good care of. Essentially my pet hamster was only aball of wool which I kept behind a trellis with some glass beads to eat. But I took care of it really well. I used to take it out to the garden with me in the summer (my housemates thought I was barmy). And once, when my housemate Will kicked it's water tray by accident, I made him go and refill it. Will was bemused and tried to say no but I was insistent that it was a hot day and bad things would happen if he didn't. Eventually Will gave in and my ball of wool got new water. I was a good parent.

But my hamster died when another of my hosuemates needed a fancy dress costume. That was a sadder day than most. So, with all this practise, and the fact that I rarely cruelly kill Sims, I thought I'd be excellent. I am not.

My attention span and patience are limited it turns out. I mean, I always knew I was bad at concentrating on things that don't entirely occupy me, but I thought I'd be better with actual people with personalities.

My trainee is delightful. She's dedicated and committed and going to be seriously good at her job. She actually already is. But I do keep looking up when she says my name and thinking 'Oh, you're still here.'

I'm terrifically lucky that she is very patient and a nice person because I'm sure it must be quite alarming to have the person shaping the roots of your new career keep staring at you bug eyed as thought she's not too sure who you are. I think she may have twigged when she came back from lunch break and I said 'Oh!' very loudly and gave her back her chair.

This is worrying me that went I have more dependents I will struggle slightly. Is it ok to put yoru baby down to sleep and go downstairs to watch TV and potentially forget it's there? Go away for the weekend and forget to poke airholes in its crib? Move house entirely and list the baby as part of the itemised contents?

It's probably about time I got a pet. Just a small one. One that I keep tabs on. I sounded out this theory to a workmate in the lift yesterday only I screwed it up slightly by not thinking before I spoke.

Workmate - "You just need to get yourself a boyfriend."
Me - "No, I don't want a boyfriend. I'll definitely take better care with a rabbit."

Sigh.

Chin Up Betty

I did not sleep well last night folks. This has lead to there being a curious pattern to my day so far. Firstly I was super bouncy and bouyant this morning. To the point where I might have used the word 'super' out loud in conversation. This, twinned with my pony tail, had members of the office community alternating between wanting to stab me and get me a job writing scripts for Sister Sister.

I got a hell of a lot done this morning. I was efficient. I was like a laser, cutting through piles of work and watching the smoke rise as I completed things one after the after. Mere mortals would have been shocked into vomiting by the speed with which my hands and brained whirred. I was all over it.

Then I went for lunch. I fed myself. I chose a spicy pizza. This was an error in itself. When you have IBS it's important to learn what is going to be ok and what is going to have you sitting very still in your concentrating very hard on not moving so that the shooting pains in your stomach don't make you whimper like a wet goat in a gale. The spicy pizza was an error which I will pay for later when my stomach starts saying

'Hey, new plan! Let's play hedgehogs.'
"What?" says I
"Yeah! Hedgehogs!"
"I don't know what that means....OW"

And then I'll see that what stomach meant was he was going to curl up in a small ball and feel all prickly. The side effect of my tummy curling into a small ball means that my whole torso has to follow suit. And while I like role play, playing the part of Quasimodo as I walk down Norwood high street is not cool. I fit in fairly well with the other nutters. But it's not ideal for someone as effortlessly cool as me. Ahem.

But anyway, I went for lunch. And now my body is confused. And it wants to sleep. This has resulted in a severe detereoration of attention span. Now, my attention span is not great at the best of times. My brain works a little quicker than the rest of my body and so I get halfway through doing things and I'm bored and so I've stopped and am daydreaming and/or started doing something else. So I'll be drafting an email to someone and then my brain starts thinking, what shall I have for dinner and while I'm busy pondering it my sneaky little hands have gone off to type into google and then all of a sudden I'm on 'What The Fuck Should I have For Dinner' .com and my email is abandoned and I haven't even noticed I've done it. Curses!

So in short, I guess what I'm going to need is a reason to stay awake. And so far, I do not have one. Answers on the back of a post card please.

Bug Juice

One of my best friends ceased today. My faithful, beautiful, wonderful, epically loyal laptop, Bug Juice, just stopped working and I am devastated.

Bug Juice - named after an obscure TV show my sister and I used to watch about an American summer camp. Reason for this being there was a fat blonde kid called Asa who used to cry about EVERYTHING. No exaggeration. He was proud of himself for everything -

"I...(sob) climbed all the way to the top of the wall and my mom would have been so prouuuuud (wails)"

"I...(sniffles) managed to do the whole hike today without falling down...I am so proud of myself. But I still miss my mooooooom (full blown dribbling and thrashing)"

"I...(wipes snot on back of hand) managed to go a whole day without eating a snickers...I miss my heaaart attaaaaaaack"

And so on and so forth. He was a mess. And my laptop is/was an Acer and is therefore named after this show that brought us much joy.

Bug Juice is the first laptop I've ever had and he really is my pride and joy. I have a tendency to name everything which does make it difficult when they inevitably break. When my car dies I'm going to sob relentlessly. My car is called Roly, because Dad thinks he looks more like a roller skate than a car. He is small, a bit crap and has orange bucket seats. I adore him. My mp3 players have traditionally been named after different deities/important folks - so far we've had Buddha (a Creative Zen), Hercules and Zeus. My new one is called Bono. I don't really know why. I think it's because he pisses me off just when I think I should like him.

Bug Juice came to live with me the Christmas before last. He was initially perturbed by the amount I played Chocolat on him. I explained I don't sleep well in silence and films I know off by heart work best. He understood. I was concerned by the flashing red lights down one side - Bug worked hard to explain that these were normal and indicated internet access.

Bug Juice and I did dissertations together, we watched hours of YouTube together researching the history of Vaudeville, we went through a lot...and now he is gone. And I am bereft. I now have evening after evening stretching ahead of me where I cannot work on scripts, I cannot surf random crap until even I'm bored of my own procrastination, I cannot watch While You Were Sleeping over and over again until both Bug Juice and the disc are weeping and begging for it to stop. No amount of explaining to Bug how perfect Bill Pullman and I were for each other got him on my side for that one.

I'm not sure I'm going to be able to move on very quickly. I'm going to need some time. Even borrowing my flatmate's mac to write this on feels kinda wrong and dirty. Like cyber cheating. Bug is lying on the floor looking dejected and a little morose. It's like he's in a coma? He can't actually be totally gone can he? There must be things people can do to rescue him? Please?

I miss Bug Juice. And my sanity.

Saturday's Bitchin'

Not going to lie to you folks, it's Saturday night and I'm alone in the flat with an open tin of Roses. This isn't a cry for help - this is a conscious choice on what I wanted to do with my evening. That's just how I roll you know?

I've just got back from the Funny Women Laugh Chance Saloon at the Roundhouse in Camden. Sadly I was not quite funny enough this year to get into the final but I'm genuinely cool with that and very much looking forward to going to see the finals and cheering for Miss Hele Arney who is lovely and brilliant. Seek her. Only seek her gigs though. I don't want anyone organising a mass stalk on my orders.

I had a weird reminder tonight. The MC for the gig went round each of the competitors and asked us all what we wanted to be when we were little. My obvious answer was actress. But then I thought about it. And I remembered that I actually wanted to do something else.

I wanted to run my own Post Office. Or a bank. Or anything with my own stationery. For at least a year I had a fully blown Post Office set up in the corner of my room. Any friends of my parents that came round had to open an account with me. It's a wonder anyone remained friends with them. Who wouldn't want to go and visit their close friends who have a hyperactive runty daughter that keeps pressing them for their middle initial and showing them spreadsheets factoring in interest payments? I guess it was like hanging out with a financially obsessive twiglet.

That was genuinely all I wanted in life - to just have my locals who came in every week and I would be behind the counter with a stack of Rio cans to sell and village gossip to pass along. In my village the post office would likely be better populated than the pub. Whenever there was a thunder storm people would look around each other and then head down to the Post Office for shelter because they know I'll have baked muffins for everyone and have camp beds set up for those who needed them.

I'd know 95% of the villagers of course. And the 5% that I didn't know would come in to the Post Office more often than they needed to, because they desperately want to be 'in' with my crew. I'd sigh at them and ask for their details to fill in whichever form they needed and then eagerly spell out their complicated middle names with emphasis on the silent k's.

My dog will live out the front of the shop. She'll be pretty overweight because everyone always feeds her a little something even though I beg them not too.

I may still plough on and go for this little dream. I feel it would be satisfying and fulfilling. And I really like Rio.

Jaunty Spoof Song, or "I have issues"

Where can you find boredom
Have your hopes and dreams stamped on?
Learn stapler technology
Where can your personality fall through?
On the desk or on the screen
Where can you learn to sleep with your eyes open
Play with a mouse and hard drive
Study pornography
Sign up for the sports team
Or listen to gossip with the obigatory scream
When your team and others meet


In the office
Yes, you can surf the world wide web
In the office
Yes, you can set your mind to blank
In the office
Come on now, people, this is wank
In the office, in the office
Why can't I see your other hand?
In the office
Come on, you know that website's banned!
In the office
Come on and join your fellow drone
In the office
Come on people, have a moan
In the office, in the office, in the office (in the office)


They want you, they want you
They want you as a new recruit


If you like adventure
Don't even plan to enter
The recruiting office fast
That original thought will be your last
I'm telling you on the level
They're signing you to the devil,
Maybe you are too young
To join up today
You might still have a chance,
To escape a suit lobotomy



In the office
You can use a pen without supervision,
In the office
The highlight of your year is Eurovision
In the office
Come on now, people, make a coffee
In the office, in the office
Try not to staple through your hand
In the office
Come on, admire the hordes of the fake tanned
In the office
Come on and save your precious cells
In the office
Come on people, escape your compartmentalised hells
In the office, in the office, in the office(in the office)


They want you, they want you
They want you as a new recruit


Who me?


They want you, they want you
They want you as a new recruit


But, but but I'm afraid of fuckwitted boring people who only care about money, channel 4 and where they're going to throw up in their hair at the weekend.
Hey, hey look
Man, I get cold sweats just thinking abotu walking through the glass doors at the front and trying to pretend that a spreadsheet is a challenge and that I always dreamed of being asked whether I thought a red letter head was more interesting than a blue one!


They want you, they want you in the office


Oh my goodness.
What am I gonna do in a pencil skirt and heels all day smiling vaccuously into the space where my monitor was but that is now a grey blur because my eyes have glazed over and I've carved my extension number into my arm with a compass so the mouse has stopped working because it's covered in congealed blood but no one has noticed because we are all to conditioned to the pain of having your soul dripped out day at a time by the monotony of these 4 walls?


They want you, they want you in the office.

The blog of eternal stench

'sup bloggees.

So...I'm really grumpy today. I have no idea why I'm grumpy. I just am. Totally grumpy. I am the gumpus. Grump Grump Grump.

I have tried everything to alleviate it and have now come to the conclusion that those around me are going to have to come to terms with the fact that I am now grumpy. I come in a new version. It's like an upgrade if you like. Laura 3.0 - now comes with added scowl.

Those that know me well will miss old features like constant chattering, singing along to the radio, smiling at passers by, turning simple things like walking into games and playing 'Conversational Jukebox' where you have to sing a phrase from a song that relates to the last thing someone said. In place of these outdated features we now have;

* using 'fucking' as a negative description to everything and everyone,
* refusing to suffer fools gladly
* partaking in gladly watching fools suffer
* openly tutting, rolling my eyes and sighing at people
* flicking people in the head that repeatedly piss me off
* inhaling chocolate at a faster rate than is technically either healthy or 'eating'

We at Lexx Enterprises hope you enjoy our latest modern model and think you'll find it a refreshing change to the moronically chipper, let's face it, slightly irritating, version of old. For those of you interested in the live shows, you'll find in place of flights of fancy and whimsical considerations of 'whether poo has personality' will be improved with the addition of screaming fits at the front row and painstakingly detailed analysis of why everyone who is not on my wavelength should be disposed of. Slowly. And creatively.


We've installed these changes just at a point where you'd got used to how to handle the old version and were perfectly satisfied with the way it fitted into your life. What you'll find now is that a prickly version of the modern classic will now be a permanent fixture in your life and you'll be at a loss for how to respond to continual whining and kicking in the shins.

There may be teething problems at the outset but we foresee you'll either start screening your calls and reading text messages through a squint or you'll enjoy having another pessimistic bugger in your usual crew to throw sticks at small children and complain that no one is good enough to sit in the same coffee shop as them.

With all the spare time I will no longer be wasting on looking for the positive things in life, I will have much more time to read the tabloids and come to the conclusion that celebrities are knobs and that xenophobia is a must-have for the winter season.

Whistling into an egg cup.

I am wearing some wonderful boots to work today. They are wonderful for many reasons - mostly that they make me feel a lot like a superhero - some kind of ninja type creature with a svelte figure and incredible balance.

I have never been svelte. I've been many things. But never svelte. I'm so un-svelte in fact that I had to look it up to see how you spell it because I've never had need for it before. Now I've used the word svelte too many times and it's lost all meaning. I once did this with my sister's name and by the time I got off the bus and through the front door I was convinced she wasn't actually called Megan. She was too confused as to how this could happen to be angry at me properly but I knew she was hurt by my profound stupidity.

I am small and a bit curvy in both the right and wrong places but I'm certainly not svelte. I'm also not balanced in any sense of the word. I fall over a lot and have a tendency towards neurotic episodes that some might called mentally 'un-balanced'. In fact, only the other day in my office one of my co-workers oh so casually asked 'Laura, have you ever been diagnosed with bi-polar?' indicating that if I said no he would immediately do the honours. I decided not to reply and just went back to painting my desk half rainbow, half skulls.

So the fact that my boots make me feel like a ninja is excellent. They are blue and yellow and black with swirly lines and funky heels that are a bit high but not too high. I can walk around the office giggling that no one by the printer has any idea I fight crime by night. I don't really fight crime but I do hide from hammer murderers so well that I don't even come into the room I'm in.

Dressing for the office is hard at the best of times because no one wants to be totally frumpy, but no one also wants to be the young pretender who's half dressed to work and half dressed to stop the men folk doing their work. So my new boots fit the bill perfectly. They are a little bit 'ooh' whilst also being a little bit 'I'm far too zany to actually sleep with you without probably having to have haveyour complete medical records first'. Which I feel is a positive.

I think I will find a place to go this weekend where I can really test out the boots' capabilities. I won't be jumping off buildings to check the jet pack, or hopping out on muggers to see if they have a super kick. I'll just be walking around town looking haughty and clever and seeing if this stops people doing crime. I have a feeling my test will be very effective and if it is I can put this forward to the government to counter the cuts in spending they are making to the forces. Foolproof. Proof, fool.