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Sunday, 21 May 2017

In which One needs a bit of lick on a hankie...

Having been thrust into a world peopled, in the main, by young persons of the female persuasion, One has found they fall into two categories...

One is the pink haired, shaven headed, illustrated and pierced kind that One has waxed lyrical of in this tome afore, and the other kind? Well, there's an oddity if ever I saw one!

There appears to have been an unwelcome resurgence of the ghastly pancake make-up of the 1960s.

The little dears look positively ridiculous with their American Tan matt faces atop their otherwise death-grey, cadaver-hued flesh.

With tidemarks along the jaw line that are visible from outer space, it's as much as One can do not to blend it in with a bit of lick on a tissue.

And as for the ludicrous, painted on square eyebrows: well, I ask you, Dear Reader, what on earth do they think they look like?

I suppose it's 'fashion' and something akin to the misunderstood glittery look of my youth, but, with their dyed, clip-on extensions completing the bizarre look, they really are a ridiculous shoal of Clown fish.

Saturday, 20 May 2017

In which Wallis is back...

With a moment or two to while away yesterday, I trawled through the tranches of photographs online of that Pippa Middleton sort and the delicate looking, chinless 'Banker' she was plighting troths with.

What grabbed One's attention were the seemingly endless hoardes of Hooray Henrys and Henriettas done up like ninepenny dinners.

With a supposed bottomless pit of clothing allowance to dip into the blighters looked positively ghastly in the main.

Tottering by in their Manolos that very likely cost more than six month's care-worker salary, with their dimpled knees peeking out from below a disastrous, designer frock, flashing their china teeth for the masses, it makes One stamp One's tiny foot in frustration that I've left me Kalashnikov in me other handbag.

After all, one can forgive bad taste, but no taste at all?  That cannot be excused.

Not that I begrudge the upper classes their share of happiness, oh no, I'm all for the pursuit of love, even though it's always been just out of my reach.

It just looks so much more satisfying and easier to grasp against a backdrop of inheritance and trust funds and more than enough spons to get yer teeth done.

AND the overriding pictorial memory of the day was that rather plain looking Pippa sort. Didn't she have a ghostly resemblance to that style icon cadava, Wallis Simpson?

Friday, 19 May 2017

In which there are weirdos out there...

I don't like that 'Banksy' nonsense...

But I've always had a sneaking admiration for the spray can wordsmith who sallies forth, under the light of the moon, in order to share his/her innermost thoughts with a passing motorist or two.

Who can forget 'Free Nelson Mandela' or 'George Davis' et al.

I well recall a drunken reveller trawling the byways of Luton when I was a gal hollering 'Free Nelson Mandela' when some wag pulled up his sash window and shouted...
'If it's free, give us half a pound'

As for poor old George sodding Davis, I couldn't give a kipper's dick: either wear Asda clothes or fecking don't.

But...

I have been musing, this very day, upon my favourite ever graffiti offering...

'Have a poo'

It's sprayed on a utilities box along Silk Mills Road, where no pedestarian ever treads, it being a traffic only zone.

Imagine the determination of the odd fellow who took the night air to pass on that valuable smidgen of information to the passing hoardes.

It carries no political message, is not particularly profane, but it makes I titter every time I sees it!

AND, tis rather good to know that there are persons abroad who are weirder than me.




Thursday, 18 May 2017

In which One stinks...

And so it came to pass that One did not, in fact, get mown down by a bus , or indeed, expire in any other dire circumstance...

Today wasn't as humiliating as yesterday, but it still stunk.

And it wasn't the only thing what ponged neither!

One, for the most part is a fragrant being, in the manner of that twat Jeffrey Archer's wife as described by a stchoopid old out of touch judge who clearly wanted to slip her one up the chuffster.

But, I digress, I do, in fact have two unpleasantly odourous zones about my person.

One is the inside of my right wrist (discovered by vile ex husband's sniffage of my watch strap) Quite what he was doing sniffing it, I can't say, but I've been vilified for my whiffy wrist ever since.

The other, a self discovery, was established this very day...

Upon removing my spectacles, in order to chew the arm whilst pondering a dilemma, I happened to catch a whiffster of the left arm that had been nestling above my left ear for a goodly part of the day.

What a positively pungent pongzilla!

Fortunately no one gets close enough to sniff me anymore, so my secret is safe.

ANYWAY for all I know I have further stink zones not yet discovered, or, maybe that swung me the job at SOP House.

Wednesday, 17 May 2017

In which One wonders what today will bring...

Just when it seemed almost impossible for things to become any more unpleasant - they have!...

Another task has been required of One: cutting the nails of the inmates. Quite how this can be described as an activity is beyond me and seems to be deemed necessary as a way of belittling and humiliating.

It certainly worked for me! It's been many a moon since I got home from work and burst into tears of frustration.

Ripping off my uniform before applying bleach and carbolic soap to my Lilly white flesh, shards of human finger nail (complete with human excrement still under them) fell from my clothing.

I want to die - today if possible.

Tuesday, 16 May 2017

In which I itch...

I hope the person who gives me a lift to work has got their car fixed or neither of us will be sallying forth again today.

SOP House makes me itch, it's so whiffy.

I have left strict instructions to have a bullet put through my head in the event of my even found saying, 'now what did I come in here for?'

Each day brings with it a new task not found on my job description and a fresh humiliation. The toxic phrase, 'and any other task' covers that, I imagine.

If only I had a pension, or a husband with a pension I wouldn't have to die in the saddle. But no, our money was in property and we all know that sorry story don't we, Dear Reader.

The future is a bleak and scary place, much like the present.

Maybe I'll get lucky and be run over by a bus today.


In which One's bad luck continues...

Got paid!  Almost enough to cover 75% of the bills, except the mortgage, so thank heavens the summer is coming because a park bench beckons.

But wait, from my meagre pittance, a large amount of income tax has been deducted...

Me.   'How come?'
Tax Office.    ' We have you down as working for two companies, with two full time jobs.'

One patiently pointed out that given the number of hours in a day it wouldn't be possible to have two full time jobs.

'When will this money be refunded to me?'

I was told it might be next month.

For me as things are, that might be too late.

Oh, and I couldn't even get to work today...