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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?

Sunday, 5 November 2017

In which One frolliks in the forest...

I need a pair of pyjamas...
As am clawing way through a life of penury can only acquire items that are sorely needed. 'Want' flew out of the roll-down , motor-home window moons ago.

In fact, twas by the light of the silvery moon, enormous and uber-shiny of late, that One first became aware of a challenger to that full moon in the shape of One's fullsome moon-like arse protruding through a worn away section of One's jammy bottoms.

Not wishing to alarm the creatures of the forest where One parks up of a night, One sallied forth to seek jarmarage fresh.

You can see it now, can't you, Dear Reader...

One, frolicking about the forest in the manner of Snow White, singing with the indigenous critters...

More like looking for a mole hole in which to pooh.

No matter, be dead soon.

Anyway, I digress, pyjamas...

Almost always, unless you're minted and can shop at M&S, and particularly at this time of the year, all pyjamas have something banal printed on the front.

'I dream in glitter', 'up to snow good' ,or 'oh deer', don't look that cute on a fat old Trollope with her teeth out.

Absolutely nowhere could I find a pair that said, 'Feck off and don't talk to me until I've had three espressos and a fag.'

Friday, 3 November 2017

In which I'm disbelieved and cyber stalked...

Have developed ''cyclical vomitting syndrome'
Upon cancelling a day trip to the embalmers and being met with, 'I sort of expected it' One has soldiered on regardless.  Was expecting, 'oh I hope you feel better soon' , but, no matter, am used to being disbelieved, and cyber stalked to boot.

Anyway, life in even more abject poverty and damp, cold, temporary housing is no fun. Off back to the sun in the van soon, well in my dreams if not actual reality. Or maybe Luton.

If only One could live life in the manner of that Dawn Ward looky likey, Liz Hurley, and flollop about on the beach in a bathing suit, with me plastic nellies sliding under me armpits whilst me weird looking progeny snapped me on his eye phone.

Never get Boy to behave like that spooky Damien though. I did suggest he took a few shots of me in me vest and pants draped over the motor home, but he vomitted in me Lidls carrier. Must have that syndrome, like what I've got.

Wednesday, 25 October 2017

In which One is bemused...

'Shall I have  a go at the food waste bin with the toilet brush?' enquired the cove upon finding the aforementioned in the bath awaiting scrubbage.

'What?!,' countered One, incredulous.

The cove began to reiterate. One raised One's hand

'WHAT?,' enquired he, again, 'You've put bleach in it. You put bleach down the bog. I don't get it.'

And there you have it, Dear Reader, a succinct and brief explanation as to why sharing a home with a member of the opposite other is a bad idea.

This enquiry is as anathema as...

'May I attend to a gonad irritation with your inter dental flossing brush?'

or...

'Would you like me to stir your Espresso with my wissy-wooper?'

Purely for those of the male persuasion, let me explain...

A toilet brush is a vile implement, used only in dire emergency (usually as a direct result of a male personage using the facilities)
Following usage, should ideally be jettisoned and replaced forthwith. In the unlikely event it lives to un-clog again, it should be immersed in bleach and boiling water for at least an hour.

The mere fact that it has proven necessary to explain that toiley-boiley cleansing equipment may not be cross contaminated with items entering the kitchen is enough to illustrate the differences of gender.

Get a cat instead. That's my advice.

Monday, 23 October 2017

In which One visits the food bank...

If I am ever in the fortunate position of being able to donate, rather than receive, the generous givings of the food bank, I shall bear in mind that, although the humble baked bean is delicious, the deserving poor don't want to chow down on the little orange bastards every fecking day!

Plus, what with One now being a ' Lady in the Van' the inevitable consequences of bean over consumption are dire.

Anyway, am now a hobo and not a thing I can do about it.  What do hobos eat? Surely not bloody baked sodding beans all the time? One had formerly assumed their ubiquitous brown paper bags concealed alcohol in some form, but perhaps One has been labouring under a misapprehension and they, in fact, are shielding beans from the populous.

Anyway, should one of my food bank benefactors be reading this, I could really use a medium-sized pack of Waitrose sushi, 20 fags, a bottle of Pinot and some charcoal biscuits, thanks awfully.

Sunday, 22 October 2017

In which it's one down, tonnes to go...

Nothing like a death in the family to bring 'em from far and wide...

One fired up the motor home to attend the occasion, leaving the Capri Sun to set in my brief absence.

The 'no smoking' sign always appears a little incongruous on the door of the crematorium, but the clear and present danger of ignition came from the static activity caused by the rubbing together of gargantuan thighs clad in nylon leggings. (And they weren't even mine!)
In fact One melted into the crowd of molten lard like a dream.

'That's the best day out I've ever had in my life,' commented a nonagenarian as she wheeled away into the gathering gloom.

Wouldn't go that far, being unable to partake of the Pinot, what with living in a ve-hickle.