Google+ Followers

Follow by Email

Saturday, 9 December 2017

In which I want a home of one's own...

I'm just about to begin reading 'My life in houses'  by Margaret Forster...
There is a forward by Leonard Woolfe, giving his views on the profound effect out homes have upon us.

I have preconceived ideas about the book having read quite a few of the author's previous offerings with varied resulted opinions.

Having led a life, for the most part, without stability and security, I've seldom enjoyed the luxury of the comfort of familiarity.

This time of year does allow me to wallow in such heaven, though, as when Boy was a baby, we spent a happy year in Highgate on the private, gated, Holly Lodge Estate.

Just by closing my eyes i can transport us to the day I walked through the snow to buy a Christmas Tree and dragged it back up the hill propped on Boy's pushchair.

The blissful winter afternoons of that time were spent in the shadowy glow of a fake, as if we cared, log fire, devouring our solitude.

What shall I feel now? Too old to put feelings on hold. Just a stilted, supressed nothingness at the end of the day with the sure and certain knowledge that an icy terror will wake me before dawn.

Saturday, 2 December 2017

In which I'm still a puzzle...

'Hello! I haven't seen you for absolutely ages,' trilled the bird from a gilded cage, who, it has to be said, was done up like a ninepenny dinner...  'Where are you living now?'

Not - 'how are you?' or some such greeting reserved for persons ordinaire.

I'd have shot off over the road pretty sharpish if I'd seen her coming, but it was a dark night and I'd thought to pay my surreptitious visit incognito, what with my 'gentlewoman of the road' demeanor.

I, of course, lied and said I was living in my flat. Where else would I be?

Honestly, you'd think I bolted regularly, the way people carry on, when in reality, there's just been the ill-fated sojourn in Devon and the brief dalliance as a lady's maid, who turned out to be a sociopathic closet lesbian.  Ah well, One is legendary for One's poor decision making.

I ought to write it all down. You couldn't make it up, but of corse, I have, haven't I.

Wednesday, 29 November 2017

I'm which gloom is upon One...

It's almost impossible to convey to you, Dear Reader, the icy grip of terror that clings to One's dropping bosom upon awakening.

'Can't you just live in  the moment for one day?' enquires a passer by on life's highway.
NO, actually, when each day that passes is another day towards the end of the current living arrangement with no plan for what comes after that.

Violent nightmares illuminate One's slumbers and lonely silence, One's waking hours, apart from the relentless cyber stalking.

The past cannot be changed, can it? As for the future? Is there going to be one?

Thursday, 23 November 2017

I'm which One makes light of the bleak festivities ahead...

I'm poised to place this advertisement in the nearest post office window...

As you know, Dear Reader, despite working into One's dotage, One has not a penny to put in the old man's hat.

Whilst wandering the highways and byways of Cornwall, where this week the homestead on wheels is parked, I've become aware of a seasonal business opportunity that may well put a turkey twizzler on the Christmas table.

Knowledge gleaned from many a year watching Countryfile of a Sunday night, whilst harvesting super-floo -us hair and picking me feet in readiness for the coming week's arse wiping, has made me aware of the lucrative nature of harvesting parasites.

Mind you, they did give me a bit of duff info, or so I believe...

Its mistletoe, Dear Reader, that One has spotted in great money-making abundance, high in the naked winter tree branches.

The good burghers of Countryfile, I recall, informed One that this particular, snog -inducing parasite, resides only in Apple trees. I beg to differ, irritating Matt-all over the fecking  telly-Baker, I've seen it in rich abundance in other roadside greenery, so there!

Or, might it be that the canny, kiss inducing blighter has, like your very own Lovely One, realised that it's been barking up the wrong tree for time immemorial?

Any road up, I digress, here is the proposed advertisement to be placed in the lonely hearts column, although given One's spectacular failings in that department in the past, that may not be wise!


Wanted: lithe old gentleman in possession of very long ladder wanted by morbidly obese (perfect for use as ballast) aged beauty, for the harvesting of seasonal bounty to be sold by the wayside from the back of me van.
Please send photograph of ladder.

Monday, 20 November 2017

In which it's begun...

The true meaning, and the official beginning of Christmas, has begun: I'm a Celebrity, get me out of here!

A rake of third rate, d-lister nonentities ligging about in the undergrowth, sweating and masticating kangaroo penises.

I've already started my annual hate campaign against the one who irritates me the most: Rebecca Vardy.  She appears to be let off any mildly exerting challenge for 'health reasons'.

Anyone who's willingly boffed Peter Andre and then bragged about it must surely consider being shut in a coffin with six million cockroaches, a walk in the park!

AND, how does being a famous person's wife make you a Celebrity?

The world's gone mad!

Friday, 10 November 2017

In which G Ma gets one up the chuffer...

Am seriously jacked...

Fed up with chucking up all the time and then having to lie prone throughout the day, only to be awake in the middle of the night whilst the rest of the world slumbers. Must re-think the nutritional requirements of the over sixties. Clearly fags, Pinot and croissants don't cut it anymore.

Nothing on telly, and I can't even get out of the van because it's precipitating.

There's only so much Daily Mail online One can read. Am fully informed re: plastic-nellied eejits and whatever cove they're currently boffing. AND how many more pictures of that annoying Liz Hurley in a bathing suit does One have to suffer?

The world's gone MAD.

What with all this sexual improprieties surfacing, leading to films being re-shot and soaps re-written there won't even be anything on the telly at Christmas.

Perhaps a few re-runs of The Waltons would be a safe bet, but no doubt John Boy was guilty of slipping Grandma one up the chuff box every time she bent down to tie her shoelaces.

Thursday, 9 November 2017

In which it's a NO to the NONO...

As I lie here wrapped in a moist duvet I've been pondering my life in houses.
Moved 19 times. Been made homeless 4.

Excessive by anybody's standards.

I suppose all this silly and fruitless 'pursuit of love' a la Nancy Mitford has really been the quest for security and stability.

2 family homes lost in the Father's business pursuits as a child. Quite how an Elecricity Board apprentice went on to be Judy Carne's manager and then to finance the beginning of Howard Goodall's musical career is beyond One's comprehension.

Matey old Ron Harris from Luton was dropped like a stone as soon as Howard and his cohort in the duo 'Half Brother' began to gain momentum and that sounded the death knell for our family's financial security.

Ron's dead now, but the rest of us are still floundering about in our hand to mouth existences.

Me? I'm just the culmination of stupidity, poor decision making and missed opportunity.

But hey, I've got the makings of a post menopausal beard in the offing. Perhaps the circus beckons?