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Sunday, 23 April 2017

In which I've got the Monday sulks...

So here is Monday and it all begins again...

Four days of slog...

One day sleeping...

Two days of housework, washing and ironing...

Hurrah!  It doesn't get better than that, Dear Reader!

But wait...
This week will have some variety...

The kettle has stopped working, so I'll be able to boil water on the stove (now there's a bit of variety)

AND. The washing machine is fecked, so I shall be sashaying down to the nearest stream to bash me shreddies on the rocks.

On a lighter note...

I espied one of my paintings on the wall in the background on a TV programme.  Fame at last! But can they just do that?

Of course they can! It's only me, after all.

Saturday, 22 April 2017

In which I am only sixty (nearly)...

Had a divine day out with Nana...

In dire need of 'new' clothes that actually fit we mosied off for a waddle around the charity shops of Wellington.

Our requirements differed in that Nana is diminishing in size, whilst I, on a poverty induced diet of Asda Smart Price shite, am porking-up like a good 'un.

Nonetheless, any garment with a sufficiency of lycra, (lower 20's sizewise) has the required amount of 'give' to accommodate either of us and since our tastes are similar a certain amount of scuffling ensued.

'Look over there' says I, 'they're handing out free pies in the street' thereby distracting her long enough to grab a sensibly priced, seemingly unworn frock before she saw it.

'Huh! I'd 'ave 'ad that if I'd have seen it first' opined she upon recovery from the pie ruse, 'you've got an eye for a bargain haven't you?'

'Haven't I just' thought I. It comes from years of attempting to support myself on the meagre wage of a painter/carer with a non-contributory husband/Boy/occasional plus one.

Any road up she evened the odds with a four quid Per Una top so we cleared off to Boots for some mouthwash and charcoal biscuits, thereby ensuring both ends were equally fragrant.

'Blimey! How did you spot that?' enquired Nana as I made a grab for a three quid Spode, lidded jar within a milli-second of entering The St Margaret 's Hospice shop.
It's not often you get a bargain like that these days with all those sodding antiques programmes on the telly, but some eejit had had missed what was a good eighty quids worth.

With fifteen quids worth of previously owned tat between us we boarded the omnibus back to Wivey (seemingly now one of those rare corners of the globe one can sit outside and enjoy a fag with one's coffee without feeling like a complete pariah.)

That's about done the Easter Egg money sent by Aged P!

'You Mum still sends you Easter Egg money?' I hear you collectively enquire, Dear Reader.

Well, I am only sixty.


Friday, 21 April 2017

In which we debate our ghastly fate...

It's awfully difficult to support oneself financially when all alone with the burden, isn't it, Dear Reader?  Most especially if one is of the female persuasion and fast approaching old age.

One was deep in conv with two fellow late middle-aged ladies just the other day, who both have husbands, who were shouldering the family's financial burden alone. Both their husbands had, seemingly, entered mid-life crisis, abandoned their lucrative careers and deliberately allowed the burden of earning the entire family's living to their wives.  Notwithstanding the fact that the lion's share of housework and childcare still fell under the umbrella of the wife.

It really is still a man's world. with the thrilling array of menial job opportunities out their for women returning to work after having children.

Let's think: Care work (the catch-all euphemism for shit-shovelling), part time shop work, child minding, cleaning to name but a few of the exciting opportunities designed for us only.

As we bemoaned our fate, other passing women joined the debate.
'It's alright for you,' said one of them to me, 'you can just paint another picture and make some extra cash.'
Quite when I'm supposed to do that, who knows?  At night when I get home from a day charging around a Care Home presumably.

We would have all banded together to March on Downing Street simply to grizzle about our fate to the WOMAN at the top, but most of us had to dash home to cook supper and get ready for work the next day...

Thursday, 20 April 2017

In which One encounters a silly boy...

A young gentleman of my acquaintance told me yesterday that his best friend had 'given birth'

'How jolly nice' thinks I, 'tis a fairly recent phenomenon that young persons have BF's of the opposite sex'

When One was young, boys were an oily, spotty mystery and a girl's best friend was another girl.

'He phoned me from the hospital in a right old panic,' continued the cove.

Hmmmm, thought I. Curious. Other things must have undergone radical changes whilst One has been minding One's own bees-tiddly-wax...

To my certain knowledge it has always been the singular preserve of the female of the species to 'give birth'

But he blathered on, dropping the 'he's just given birth' nonsense into the conversation, so I know I didn't mis-hear it.

'Crikey!' thought I, 'The TV'll be all over this one. Never mind the Taunton Gazette.'

SOMERSET MAN GIVES BIRTH! I can see it now.

Unless, of course, the eejit's best friend is a sea horse.

Stupid, STUPID boy.

Wednesday, 19 April 2017

In which One is incontinent...

Oh my giddy aunt...

It's the beginning of the end...

Is it just me, or does everyone dream about not being able to find a toiley boiley when they need a wee when they're asleep?  Is it an age thing?

Anyway, One had one of those very dreams just the other night.  Every lavatory I encountered was either closed, didn't have a door, or was blocked up with unmentionable items various.

Being in a deep sleep, One didn't reach that period of consciousness where One leaps from the truckle bed and stumbles to the smallest room.

When one is young, one never dreams that one's Lilly white flesh will ever be dotted with liver spots, or that one will ever have a crepey neck, or more than a sufficiency of super-floo-us hairs. AND one may titter at the advertisements that intersperse afternoon television. You know the ones, Dear Reader, concerning the inability to pooh and the unwanted dispersal of wee every time one laughs or sneezes.

Well, for One it has come to pass...

One weed One's pyjamas. And One had an overnight guest of the male persuasion.

That's it, Dear Reader, the search for love is hereby over.

I'm getting a cat and be done with it!

Tuesday, 18 April 2017

In which 'tis the cycling season...

Here we go, Dear Reader...

With the first glimpse of sunlight, they're out! The flip-flop wearing, tattooed, dimpled thighed delights...

Pale, translucent, clad in ghastly shorts and vests, displaying their illustrated bodies in gay abandon, putting the rest of us off our lunch until the November shadows fall.

But even they, in their Primarni splendour, pale into insignificance alongside the irritant cyclists.  With their moist gussets suctioned to their aero dynamic saddles, they clutter up the highways delaying the rest of normal humanity in their little ve-hicles from gaining access to our places of work.

Nothing can be more ghastly than the vision of a grim-faced, middle-aged sort, with a pained expression forging his way through town and country on his bicycle.

I blame that Bradley Wiggins!

Although I have to say, there's something strangely appealing about the sinewy cove.

But I'm glad it's not me who has to launder his moist gusset area.

Monday, 17 April 2017

In which I'm a miserable old bat...

One knew it couldn't last, Dear Reader...

Woken up fit to bite a nail in half...

'But you were fair chipper just the other day,' I hear you chorus, as one.

When you've been in a bad mood as long as I have (fifty nine years) a day of merriment, is just that : a day.

'What's occurred to blight your sunny disposition?' I hear you collectively enquire.

Well, apart from stating the bleeding obvious: Buttgate, some snap- happy sort has gone and taken a photograph of me latest masterpiece and splashed it all over social sodding media.

NOTE TO ALL: my paintings hang in galleries for you to purchase, thereby easing my existence of penury and grinding poverty, not for you to copy  William Nilliam.

SO THERE!