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Saturday, 26 December 2009

In which I am spoiled with Chanel delights...

'Bon Noel' to all you darling readers. Unable to send seasonal greetings before now as hand eye coordination a little questionable. That, coupled with knee injury and Bloke having the worst head cold ever experienced by man rendered NS&I castle a veritable infirmary.
Tilly, our scullery maid, laid the fires, put quails eggs on to lightly boil and brought us a pot of coffee before being given a small gratuity by Lovely Moi and sent on her way to enjoy the festivities with her vast, unwashed, blue collar family somewhere on the 'other side of the tracks'
One is sorry to report a further injury sustained to the knee following yet another fall. Both dear little knees now so severely swollen and bruised another visit to the doctor had to be endured.
'You should consider lowering your centre of gravity' said the obnoxious little medical bastard.
'For your iformation, mate' Lovely One replied through gritted teeth, 'I've lowered my centre of gravity to the tune of six bleedin' stone'
'Oh. I'll shut up then shall I?' continued medical man.
'Yes' says I lugging my skinnies over my gargantuan arse and atempting to look as fierce as one can whilst wearing a short fleece and musical Christmas socks.
Anyway, the upshot of the falling over means that the elderly of this parish will have to be without the ministrations of Lovely Moi until at least the middle of January.
Although, I shall need to reign in my feeding habits which have indeed spiralled out of control over the festive season, or I shan't be able to do up my 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest' white uniform.
Consumption excesses have not gone unnoticed by Bloke who when asked'
'What shall I take for a snack whilst we walk Stinky?'
replied
'A suckling pig, my love, or perchance a side of ham?'
Well, that's it! Back to SW now the feasting season is over.
I expect you're all wondering what delights Lovely One has been gifted this Christmas. Well, Bloke and even Boy excelled themselves with divine Chanel items and sparkly things to die for. Even aged P's proffered Chanel this year spoiling Lovely Moi very much indeed.
BF, however, has clearly gone gaga. Opening her gifts I was thrilled with a beatiful fabric work of art depicting Florence or Venice or some such dreamy place and I framed it immediately and hung it in the long gallery. As usual with BF, there were multiple delights.
Picture - fantastic, wonderful, love it.
Glamorous black sequinned gloves - fab, lovely, love 'em.
Box of tea bags - very strange, weird, can only imagine there's a similar sized box of something lovely and smelly nestling in BF's kitchen cupboard somewhere to be discovered when BFP nips out to make a cup of tea.
And the veritable piece de resistance - an item given to me with the message, 'I hope you still like this' - a blue and white candlestick that I had been missing since vacating Rice Towers and moving into NS&I Castle.
OF COURSE I LIKE IT. IT'S MINE.
Clearly with the absence of Lovely One to organise BF et al with a place to sell their wares and make some moolah, BF has taken to stealing people's prize possessions from them and then giving them back as Christmas gifts.
She's gone over the edge since I left Wivey. I must return forthwith with vodka and fags.

Saturday, 19 December 2009

In which I have a very moist entrance...

Let it snow, Let it snow, let it snow...
And it did, darling readers, it did! The little burger van had a festive sprinkling of white to welcome in the Christmas season. Sadly, Bloke is a bit 'Bah Humbug' about such things and absolutely forbade any form of decoration Lovely One sugested. One was even forbidden to wear one's lovely fairy wings and halo! Apparently they are against 'elf n safety' regulations, as is anything I suggest actually!
Rather a profitable day was had feeding the great unwashed of deepest. An odd lot they are too!
As I informed you all just the other blog, BF and Lovely Moi are shadows of our former selves. In fact Lovely Moi is now reclaiming all the fabulous designer wear that had been passed down to BF when it became too small. The Pink One has to be completely bypassed in these transactions now as she is too vast for any of our castoffs currently.
And there I was feeling smug about the weight loss equivalent of a small child when my little world was shattered by the insinuation of Bloke that I am still the size of a small ugly crowd!...
It all began last week when a dripping sound became more and more audible from the grand reception hall, which just happens to be underneath Lovely One's private marble bathroom suite. In fact, my claw footed genuine Victorian, super deep bath sits directly over the main entrance to NS&I Towers and affords a splendid view of the magnificent driveway in order that One can vet any callers whilst reclining in Jo Malone splendour and have any unwanted callers dispatched by the butler via instructions over the in house comms.
Water positively cascaded down the granite walls and through the splendid Lutyens ceilings. In fact One's wellies were almost full by the time we investigated. Being unable to find a 'little man' to remedy the situation at some ungodly hour One placed a large 17th century tupperware container under said leak and bogged off to bed. Lovely Moi had completely forgotten the domestic inident until Bloke raised the topic.
'Don't take umbrage' he began...
Now One knows that something is to follow which will indeed cause Dear Little Lovely Moi to indeed take umbrage, whatever the devil that is!
'But couldn't it be that a bath full of water with you in it is enough to dislodge a waste pipe from underneath the bath?'
I tell you dear reader, he broached this subject whilst being in a confined space with Moi! Ordinarily One would have launched Oneself, Miss Piggy style, at the bastard and given him a chinese burn on the willy, but One was simply too too shocked.
Clearly darlings I have not seen the last of the Fat Club! There's me thinking I'm looking rather magnificent for an old girl in me leggings, Uggs and Fastnet Big Wide (Do google fastnet outfits, dear readers, you won't regret it) and all the time I obviously still look like a Biffer!
Bloke attempted to weasel out of it with all manner of excuses involving intricate graphs and lectures involving physics, but, NO, NO, if Darling One is still vast enough to resemble something that has the power to dislodge the internal plumbing methinks One should lay off the pies over the festive season.

Wednesday, 16 December 2009

In which I unearth a Festive Fir device...

All is ready for Christmas in NS&I towers in the depths of the forest. Stinky is doing her best dislodge my glamorous baubles with her tail every time she bounds past the tree after me into the scullery to investigate what our maid is preparing for supper. And what a tree...
Lovely Moi was utterly horrified when bloke informed me that he actually has an ARTIFICIAL CHRISTMAS TREE. Oh horror of horrors I thought, smiling bravely. I imagined one of those ghastly offensive items one's dear mama brings out every year, complete with glass Woolworth baubles circa 1955. But no, I need not have worried my dear little head. (It wasn't so much Bloke's taste that alarmed One, but Mrs Bloke mark two. A little 'cut price, pound shop, bargain basement' for Moi)The Festive device is an intricate work of engineering in the extreme!
I wrestled it down the draughty stairwell from the 'Christmas Room' - so there Aaron Spelling - and erected it in the ballroom. Collapsed, it looked fairly innocuous, but on inverting it's three sections, it hinged out to form the most reaslisic, utterly huge Christmassing Tree.
Obviously, Lovely One is rather more used to having One's Festive Fir dug up to order by a 'little man' in Norway. But, no matter, said hinged device will suffice nicely now it's decorated with One's exquisite baubles. Underneath are many, many 'man wrapped' gifts labelled for Lovely Moi. The boxes are small - oh goody!
Anyway, back to supper...
Last night it was home made mushroom soup as a first course.
Darling Bloke decided to sup his soup whilst wearing a bathrobe, and nothing else. Well, darling readers, who could bear to miss the last quarter of 'Goldenballs'? Well, Lovely One could actually, but - no matter.
And speaking of Goldenballs, I pass on to you all a little tip...
Well, dear reader, it's Bloke's tip actually...
DON'T EAT PIPING HOT SOUP WHILST ONE'S GOLDENBALLS ARE PEEKING OUT OF ONE'S BATHROBE.
The consequences could be dire! First degree burns on the gonads are a festering nuisance, as wearing open crotch trousers on the Burger Van is against Health and Safety guidelines - section 4 paragraph 2.
I have made the pilgrimage to see BF and lovely D to distribute tasteful gifts and offer seasonal greetings. Dear old Wivey was positively arctic! It no longer feels like home now I'm settled into the castle in deepest.
BF and Moi are shadows of our former selves! I feel we may allow ourselves to overindulge during the festive celebrations. Even if I indulge in the extreme I shall never fill out one of BF's enormous glamorous brassieres. I wore a delightful aqua blue lace one yesterday over the top of three layers, including a Monsoon woolly the devil made me buy yesterday.
I'm off to stock up on seasonal goodies now in anticipation of Boy arriving to inhale all food in the smeg...

Tuesday, 8 December 2009

In which I am Mortally Wounded...

Well darling reader, what a day! Lovely Moi is now fully conversant with how to attach plastic bags to the nether regions of the infirm and needy...
The aforementioned took place at the beginning of the week, which began with me not knowing how to attend to the needs of the incapacitated and elderly, but being in jolly fine fettle One's dear little self, and ended with aforementioned 'Dear Little Self' being fully acquainted with elders' requirements and incapacitated Oneself!
Have spent fantastically tiring week entombed in airless, windowless room being positively 'crammed' with all information it probably took Juliet Mills, in 'Nurse on Wheels' yonks to learn!
Google it dear reader, it's an ancient B&W.
'OH NO', I hear you collectively cry, 'Our Beloved Lovely One is injured!'
Sit down, dear reader, and resist the temptation to rush to my side. After all I have Bloke to attend to my every whim.
I shall take you through the entire event step by step...
We all sat in a 'horse shoe' pattern of desks and chairs surrounded by enormous amounts of paperwork and files, marked, exciting things like:
'Health and Safety at Work'. Which dear little Moi should have been given to read BEFORE entering the building!
There wasn't anywhere to deposit One's coat, bag etc., so everything got unceremoniously shoved under desk.
Divine morning of 'Colostomy bag info' passed without event until course leader nipped out for fag and Moi, choking for air in the way too hot and airless tomb, decided to get up from desk and open door to avoid asphixiation of remaining students.
Unfortunately, following a.m. of shuffling paperwork and fidgeting, One's fabulously expensive and business like handbag shoulder strap had become trapped around leg of chair and leg of desk, creating an extremely effective trip wire.
Your sharp intake of breath is very nigh audible to poor little injured One, darlings! Yes, you guessed it, One neatly hooked handle to ankle - moved off at speed - tautened strap between chair leg and desk and 'voila' crashed to the concrete floor landing on all fours!
Fabulous, sleek curly blonde mane remained salon-style intact and super-brain-filled head missed massive hoisting equipment by fractions of a squillimetre. (Fortunate indeed, or Lovely Moi would have been but a fragrant memory...)
Scraped Oneself off floor and regained composure...
Assembled students offered sympathy and assistance, but seemingly, Lovely One had come through hideous ordeal unscathed...
Following day - a bit swollen, well, OK, a lot swollen around the knees. Very tender to the touch, but seemingly nothing broken.
Following, following day, like NOW actually, in acute agony all over dainty little pale skinned self!
Knees like sodding Billy Bremner - google it - ancient footballer!
Nasty blackening bruises on legs, stiff as a stiff, arms unable to move above darling head, heels of hands tender as a tiny infant's head, neck crunching and creaking at every turn of perfectly shaped head, back sore and aching, and generally truamatised all flamin' over!
Shall be visiting nearby medical establishment on the morrow darlings! Simply out of the Q to be bending down, or Heaven forfend, actually KNEELING to attend to elderly needy types.
I implore you all, dear readers, not to dash to my side to offer aid and comfort. I have darling Bloke for all that.
On relaying of this sad and sorry tale to said Darling Bloke, he proffered...
'Blimey, I hope you didn't fall on anyone!'

note:
Although I do, indeed, like red roses. Yellow are my fave!

Friday, 4 December 2009

In which I get lost in Deepest...

Well, darling reader, my lovely stint as a pretend housewife is over. I am now, what used to be called, a 'home-help'.
Dear little old ladies in bungalows, the very occassional little old gentleman, need getting out of bed, washing and dressing, breakfast, lunch and tea, so hey presto! Lovely Moi!
Today I set off at some ungodly hour, while it was still dark, with my list of Multimapped instructions and meandered around the countryside occassionally catching glimpses of the sea but sadly not the place I was seeking.
I called into a garage, purchased a map, but still had to call my instructor and be guided in like some kind of pensioner seeking missile.
Many, many bungalows in Deepest Devon, housing many, many very old persons! The end of life looks like a miserable thing indeed.
Each little bungalow had a profusion of framed photographs on display charting the passage of each little life that dwindled away inside. As Lovely One was merely an observer today of the routine that I shall be following until I avail my dear little self of the facility, I had plenty of time to look around each lonely room I found myself in. Each one had black and white, studio posed, framed photographs of the occupants offspring. They all looked like Lovely Moi and Brother in acrylic fairisle turtleneck ski jumpers and sporting side parted freshly combed hair. Further along the shelves were wedding photographs of aforementioned offspring and yet further, grandchildren. Some babies, family gatherings and, as now seems quite ordinary, graduation pics. Only one, an old gentleman, had a black and white picture of himself as a young man gazing into the eyes of a young woman. None of the old ladies, who incidentally outnumber the men six to one, had their husbands present in any shape or form. In fact, all little old lady bungalows were bereft of any sign of testosterone, past or present. Can it be that they were glad to see the back of them?
Each neat little home was decorated in pastel shades with amatuer watercolour paintings on the walls and furnished with 1970's H plan sideboards etc. Whatever happened to the sideboard? A ghastly piece of furniture used to house glasses one never used and china that only came out at funerals.
Administering to the elderly looks rather more palatable than tending to the needy and bonkers. I think I'll be rather good at it!
I remember Big telling me that the difference between and 'old man' and an 'old gentelman' is - money. Well, we know he's got lots of it, perhaps I shall appear to cook his lunch one sunny day.
Tomorrow I am Burger Van Saturday Girl again. This time shall wear something warm and not have glamorous bra strap on display. After banning me from kissing and cuddling on 'the van' bloke snuck a snog when we had no customers last time, so I shall be taking him to an industrial tribunal if he so much as brushes past me tomorrow!
I don't care how much he lolls around on the four poster wearing just his shreddies and socks tonight, I shall resist him on the morrow in favour of bunging burgers down the neck of beefy truckdrivers - so there!

Wednesday, 25 November 2009

In which Lovely One is practically blown over the edge...

Have been buffetted by Hurricaine Herbert out on Jennicliff today. Stinky going bananas after rabbits tearing around in the undergrowth. When not walking in the woods we have to be accompanied by Bloke, since Lovely One simply cannot join in the bizarre dog owners ritual of carrying around ghastly little plastic bags in which to deposit the deposit of One's canine companion. Of course, as soon as we arrived, Stinky had to 'do it' so at least that got it over with and Bloke made off to one of those nasty little poo postboxes.
Lovely Moi tottered in the manner of Streryl Meep in 'The F L's woman' on the edge of the cliffs gazing out to sea looking ethereal, well as ethereal as one can in an anorak, and trying not to think about dog poo.
It became clear very soon that the reason there wasn't anyone else about was that they'd very likely all have been blown over the edge and washed out into the briney!
Bloke had forsaken the great unwashed and starving of Deepest in fear of being buffetted out into the middle of the road in burger van, and jolly nice it was to have him home for the day with Moi!
He really is the most agreeable company, especially since he is, as the name 'Bloke' implies, a MAN.
On Sunday we braved the gales and headed up country for a visit to Boy. It really was the most perfect day. For dear little Lovely Moi it's such a source of constant delight that I actually have a partner who, not only accompanies me on these visits, but actually ENJOYS them! We went first to Rice Towers to pick up mountains of post. We wanted to see how tiny little next D neighbour was but - out - so we sheared to the Bear for lunch.
Boy arrived straight from his bed, looking completely the part - crumpled, dishevelled and teenagerish, but was nonetheless engaging company.
He relieved me of any cash I might have had secreted about my person and bogged off back to Vile exHusband's lair to slaughter aliens on the pooter.
We cleared off to BF's and had a cup of tea with them. BF has practically got cheekbones now she's shifted all that flab and hasn't got a face like a full moon anymore!
Oh, I forgot, Boy, Bloke and Moi have FINALLY arranged to go up the smoke, well up the car exhaust fumes, to Luton to visit aged P's at Christmas.
Anyway, darlings, I drift off, yet again. BF gave me a bag of nice clothes that were probably destined for the Pink One, who, incidentally, set fire to herself last week. Don't ask!
Oh, alright then, ask...
Pink said she had been 'tending a cardboard box fire in the garden' when the wind changed and she was consumed by flames. Personally, I reckon it's more a case of 'Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves' a la Cher. In fact, La Pink Une could be the result of a bizarre Cher-like disaster in which the lypo-suction machine was set to 'blow' rather than 'suck'.
Anyhow, the perfect day in which I saw many of the most important people in my dear little existance, ended in a lovely fireside clinch before bedtime, and all was right with the world.
Goodnight Grandma
Goodnight Jim-Bob

Friday, 20 November 2009

In which Stinky and Lovely Moi forrage in the undergrowth...


Well dear reader, I am well at last. Have been confined to satin sheeted four poster since Monday with ghastly Deepest Devon style virus. Stinky has been invaluable during my confinement. That is, if one likes having one's startlingly pale, baby soft skinned face licked to bleedin' pieces! I am a great believer in the healing power of 'a bit of lick' but sadly, not from Stinky!
I have, today, an interview, darlings, for a little, not too taxing part time job, so I have just ventured into the deep dark woods with Stinky as a little test run into the outside world before I sashay off later this afternoon.
I am an avid follower of that little darling outdoor fiend, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, and as such have been foraging in the undergrowth looking for something yummy and free to have for tea. He always comes back from the great outdoors with something I'd like to have a little nibble on down his corduroys, so in the best tradition of hedgerow foragers I thought I'd have a little go!
Off I strode, in my lovely new designer wellies, with a little basket, looking for all the world like Red Riding Hood,except that I was wearing my Fastnet 100% Merino wool short wide jacket, looking adorable, of course! In Graphite Grey, by the way. Google them darlings and buy one immediately!
Anyway, I digress, yet again, dear reader...
I collected a lovely basket of funghi and berries and scampered back to base with the Stinker. I texted Bloke to inform him of my escapade and that, due to my longtime viewing of River Cottage, there was nothing to fear from my funghi. He retorted with - 'I've watched Fred Dibnah, but it doesn't make me a steeplejack'. Oh Ha Ha, says Lovely One, 'My my what great big sharp teeth you have to scoff up your lovely hedgerow soup, and if you don't I shall invite H F-W to forrage immediatley in my undergrowth!

Thursday, 12 November 2009

In which I liberate a sack full of brassieres on their way to Pinkie...

It's six forty-seven and I'm ready to take Stinky into the woods, well, alright then, almost ready. After her little message of yesterday I'm taking no chances!
It has come to my attention that people who own dogs appear unconcerned as to their, (the people, that is, not the dogs), appearance. One sees them on an almost daily basis wearing the same muddy trackie bottoms and wellies, unbrused hair, no makeup and looking positively dishevelled. I just cannot bring myself to face the outside world without at the very least a freshly washed glorious mane of blonde tresses and a swipe of Chanel mascara. Well, darlings, one has standards after all!
Much excitement, I have been allowed on the burger van! Much to the distress of Darling Bloke who had been left in the lurch by the hired help who is suffering from swine flu, I offered, yet again, my dear little services. And, guess what, he actually said YES!
I didn't have to front up at some ungodly hour like he does and so I spent a while scouring the dressing room for a suitably 'cateringesque' outfit. Sadly - nothing. So after spending an hour putting on my 'natural' makeup (why does natural take longer than tarty?) and decided upon a pair of ruched black leggings, a dear little tie back black top and uggs. I was rather afraid he might make me wear some ghastly head attire that would squash my beautiful curly blonde locks, but no, I was allowed in as I was.
He was rather put out that my lovely pink lace bra peeked out when I leant forward and I was forced to wear a cardi, buttoned up, and a rather fetching black pinny.
I say 'my pink lace bra'. Well it is mine now, following it's liberation from a huge sack full of bras that I intercepted on their way to the Pink One from BF. I have never seen so many fabulous concoctions for the encasing of middle aged nellies! I reckon old BF is a bit of an underwear fiend! I can imagine her sashaying round the bungalow in a smidgeon of Agent Provocateur and her American Tan support stockings. It's a good job BFP has got low blood pressure or he'd have been a goner yonks ago!
Well, dear reader, I liberated a good few fabulous lace fripperies and bagged up the rest for the Pink One, who, by the way, has the most fantastically ginormous knockers I have ever seen! She'll look a big bouncy Pink temptress in them, methinks! Mr P always has a vaguely nervous demeanour about him and I think I know why!
My normal human sized nellies were positively lost in one or two of the larger brassieres. I tell you darlings, little old ladies have been tirelessly slaving away for many months to knock up enough lace to make even one cup to encase BF's knockers. So much so, that the larger ones that I couldn't bear to pass on to the Pink one I have taken to wearing over the top of my clothes.
I'm just off out with Stinky into the woods. Stinky will be wearing a darling little tartan overcoat that Bloke has fobidden me from putting on her and I shall be wearing a lilac lace 'Doreen' over the top of me anorak!

In which Stinky gets her revenge...

Rather rashly, Lovely One, in days gone by... Last week, actually, foolishly offered to do the early morning dash through the woods with Stinky Mutt.

Day One - Up at six, showered, in woods by seven. OK, eight, it takes ages to dry Lovely Moi's curly blonde tresses.

Day Two - Up just after six, had cappucino, faffed about, read emails, showered, in woods by nine thirty.

Day Three - Weekend, so Bloke accompanied Moi et Stinky on what was a very much longer forage through the undergrowth than One had in mind!

Day Four - Ditto day three.

Day Five - Stinky Mutt did a 'fossbury flop' onto Lovely One in order to alert attention to the fact that she needed a tinkle. Reluctantly up at nine, showered, in woods by eleven. Hurricaine Herbert blowing, peeing with rain, got lost, drenched and muddy.

Day six - Woke up at seven thirty, 'sod the stinky Mutt' murmered Lovely Moi, turned over, snuggled into Bear's vacated space and fell into a dreamy sleep. Stinky hung on until lunchtime when Lovely Moi had showered, put on ten minute face and taken pity on Stinky who's legs and eyes were crossed by this time.

Day seven - Fell into a lovely sleep when Bloke had departed to feed the great unwashed of Devon and awoke to find a large crow on the windowsill battering the glass with it's beak. 'Shall have a quick latte' thinks Moi, 'before taking stinky into the woods'. Wandered into painting room to find Stinky had used it as a latrine in order to make a point. Shows intelligence I suppose that in a house with as many rooms as this she knew that one was mine. I shoved her out of the patio doors for a rummage in the garden.

Tommorow - Up at six, in woods with Stinky by seven, just as Bloke thinks I have been every day. Good job Stinky can't squeal on Lovely One.

Wednesday, 11 November 2009

In which I stick my lovely head in a gas oven...

Massive problems with computer darlings. I am lost without Boy, puterwise, and dare I say it, I think I've found a use for Vile ex Husband, since he could always fix any probs.
Bloke is divine in every way, but not able to fix Lovely One's computer mishaps.
Having a really lovely evening: Moi pottering to and from the kitchen with culinery delights and Bloke forcing the stinky mutt to eat a large proportion of it every time I leave the room. He thinks I haven't noticed, but I have! I simply cannot believe it's because my yummy dinners aren't mouth wateringly tasty, I think he must be trying to lose weight.
I did have a slight mishap with this evening's supper. It could have happened to any of you dear readers, it really could!That ridiculous oven of his! The top shelf goes in at a jaunty angle and when I peeked inside to check on the roast potatoes the bastard tin load shot off the end and flung themselves into the little bit where the gas comes out. Fortune shone upon Lovely One and Bloke was happily ensconsed in the shower washing away the burger grease of the day. There was nothing for it but to lie prostrate on the kitchen floor (luckily recently mopped by Lovely Moi) and hoik the festering charred lumps out with knitting needle onto said floor. The oven had gone out by this time being bunged up with today's culinery delight so I turned the gas off since I had my lovely head in the oven and didn't wish to alarm Bloke lest he find me on his return from the shower.
I managed to liberate the roasties with the knitting needle but on their passage to the kitchen floor they picked up rather a covering of the charred remains of previous yummy dinners I have concocted.
The stinky mutt is really fussy. Even she bogged off when offered a morsel.
I remember the first meal I cooked Bloke...
'What are you cooking?' says he.
'I prefer not to christen it until it's born', says I.
He wandered off laughing.
He's not laughig now!

Saturday, 7 November 2009

In which I 'knowed he was coming, so I baked a cake'...


Well darlings I am prowling around deepest in the dead of night. Just can't sleep and there is a great big bear growling 'neath the duvet. He says I shuffle/fidget/fart/snore/giggle/sniff and generally keep him awake, but it's all filthy lies I tell you!
I am currently hiding from the world and pretending to be a nice little housewife. Unfortunately one or two of the required skills for the job have passed me by. I don't have the Delia gene. I really do try to make nutritious and tasty treats to tempt the darling bear, really I do. Read 'Really I do' in the manner of Katharine Hepburn, Oh, I know what I mean!
Anyhow, dear reader, I digress, I'm good at that. On Bonfire night I decided to make something unusual and delicious and invented a crunchy coating for various body parts of the chicken. Thinking 'Colonel Sanders' I concocted a divine mix of crushed almonds, garlic, herbs, parmesan cheese and cocoa powder. Well not actually almonds as Delia said, but peanuts. Well, they're nuts aren't they? We didn't have any garlic so I substituded ginger, ditto, mixed spice, mousetrap cheese and a packet of low calorie butterscotch options. Actually, the addition of the cocoa powder was a brilliant idea of my own, but sadly didn't have any.
Bear being Bear, looked slightly alarmed when the crispy roasted chicken body parts came out of the oven, but, bless him, tucked in with gusto. He did try to divert my attention by taking me to the Ho, or is it Hoe, in Plymouth to see the fireworks. I tell you, darling readers, fireworks have come a long way since I used to terrify my pussy with a Catherine Wheel nailed to the shed door!
Anyway, lots of 'Oooohs and Aaaahs' later we sashayed back to base only to find Stinky Mutt in a state of panic having been unable to resist culinery delight and looking very guilty about having scoffed the lot!
Bear escorted Stinky to the kitchen to 'tell her off', but Lovely One, who just happened to be passing by, distinctly heard Bear THANKING Stinky for scoffing the lot so he didn't have to eat it! I ask you, darlings, has Bear no spirit of adventure?
So today I made another valiant attempt to tickle the tastebuds of the Bear. I tell you darlings I am never listening to that bloody Delia woman again! The date and walnut cake I cooked in a silicone loaf tin had the appearance, look and feel of a housebrick, complete with the large dent in the middle.
I was engaged in the important mission of painting my toenails when I heard the familiar sound of a Bear entering the kitchen to dump his work stuff and I could have sworn I heard a whimper of fear when he espied the cake, cooling on it's rack. Not to be deterred I draped myself coquettishly round the kitchen door awaiting a bit of Bear attention for my efforts. Sadly the kitchen door is of the sliding variety and I slid, along with it, into the hall landing neatly in the laundry basket.

Tuesday, 3 November 2009

In which I am wicked stepmother to a stinky Mutt...


In all the excitement of the move to 'deepest' I forgot to mention the little matter of Vile Husband becoming Vile ex Husband. Apparently it all happened on 6th October, but due to the postmen having a hissy fit I didn't find out until the moving day of 26th October, which, incidentally happened to be birthday of aforementioned Vile ex Husband. Result! Offload one hubbster and immediately begin training a brand new one!I really should be thinking about becoming gainfully employed but am currently revelling in new found housewivery and growing positively more Dozzer like by the Day. (Doris Day a la check hair ribbon and pinny - with singing of course)
Darling Bloke and Lovely Moi sashayed forth to dear old Wivey to clean Rice Towers in preparation for lovely little new tenants on Sunday. We requested a visitation from the Pink Ones for final removal of shed loads of crap and collection of remaining baggsied items.
Mrs P was fair tanked up from the night before having consumed her own body weight in Thatchers. Mr P was limping, either from recent knee op or having to haul Mrs P home on the previous evening - who knows! Best not to ask!
Mrs P had obviously been retouching her tresses with Magenta emulsion or such like. Clearly there'd been a power cut in darkest Milverton or the shilling had run out before she'd caked it all over, as her entire neck, hands, arms and most of her fizzog were an alarming shade of puce!
BF called in briefly to oversee operations but seeing Bloke was happy to leave him in charge of Lovely One. I tell you dear reader, it's as if BF and BFP have been seeing off a very old child as One has been leaving to take up residence with Bloke. Well, I suppose I have faffed about over it for rather a while, after all I'm not exactly a child bride!
Met up with Boy for lunch, mid clean, who releived me of all the ready cash about my person. Was pleasantly surprised at the state of Vile ex Husband's abode and how he's made an adequate home for Boy and the morbidly obese pussies.
I now am the wicked stepmother of Bloke's mutt. A stinky thing but rather sweet. The Mutt - not Bloke.

Friday, 30 October 2009

In which I am a domestic effing goddess...


I am being held prisoner in Deepest Devon by a sex crazed burger man! Under no circumstances attempt a rescue, darlings!
It is, however, rather strange to have to actually 'pay' a proper man to come in and show me how to access my internet account so as to blog and let all you dear readers know that I haven't snuffed it. Boy is unavailable for his darling Mama and her computer problems.
I have begun unpacking and injecting a little much needed style into my new home. The previous 'she who must be obeyed' clearly lived a different life to the delicate pink coloured world of Lovely Moi. Still, Bloke is under a new regime now and appears to be rather loving it. He is the warmest human being I have ever encountered. Body temperature wise, that is. I have been able to jettison the hot water bottle that I usually have stuffed down me jim jam bottoms from September to June. I tell you, darlings, I'd marry him even if I didn't like him, he's so hot.
Somehow I appear to have given the impression that I am something of a domestic goddess, a la dear old bouncy Nige. Wishing to live up to this accolade, I embarked upon the creation of a Christmas cake to gladden the heart of my dearly beloved Bloke. Sadly I fear Delia may have f****d up! Lovely One followed the instructions to the letter, I tell you darlings. Well, apart from the part where One puts the mixture into a cake tin. I couldn't find mine and the previous Mrs Bloke clearly wasn't the Martha Stewart/Bree Hodge delicious Housewifey type that Moi is, and hadn't left me any, the selfish bastard! Thinking laterally, I hit upon the idea of utilising a catering sized baked bean tin. I tell you dear reader, my problem solving skills are so finely honed that I think I shall pack in administering to the needy and bonkers and put myself up for Prime Minister. Or at least Prime Minister's wife, then we wouldn't have to look at that Sarah's fat knees on telly any more. (I bet she hasn't got a twinkle triangle with those thighs!)
Anyway, I digress. I wopped the cake goo into the bean tin and whacked it into the oven for the requisite four and half hours. Sadly, on inspection, it remained stubbornly goo like. A further two and a half hours later it began to resemble a cake and pink cheeked and preening, I liberated it from the oven and set it regally on a cooling rack. After much swishing about in me pinny I resolved to release it from the bean tin. It stood proudly for a mo and then collapsed into heap of brown stinky goo. Not to be defeated, I shoved the lot back into the bean tin and had another bash at 5.30am this morning. Following yet another stint in the stove I liberated the bloody bastard cake yet again!
'When he sees this I'll be in for something sparkly in a small box for Crimbo', thinks Moi!
'Oh no you won't' squidges the shit-faced bastard cake, as it flops into a brown heap YET AGAIN.
At this point I took a pic of it with my phone for posterity and then man handled the slimey goo into a glass bowl. I toyed with the idea of putting it about that Nigella had decreed that Christmas cake would be served by the spoonful this year, but worried I might get grassed up, I bunged the shitty mess in the microwave. Et Voila, following an entire day and night of kitchen based faffing about a Christmas cake was born, albeit in the shape of a dome.
Unfortunately, dear little Lovely One's efforts were met with ridicule by Bloke.
I took another pic.
You decide...

Friday, 23 October 2009

In which I get a pussy jammed in a flap...

OMG Vile Husband seems to have actually taken on board that Lovely One is vacating the P on Monday and shearing to Deepest. A monitor box has mysteriously appeared in Boy's sty and yesterday, wonder of wonders he arrived at the security gate with a cat flap. 'I need to fit a morbidly obese pussy through this hole', says he, brandishing a flap fit only for the most delicate feline. BF and One were sitting on bath mats on top of sodden garden furniture having a sneaky fag and taking a well earned rest from packing up all Lovely Moi's goods and chattels.Well, darlings, not exactly packing, rather bagging up everything I posses to hand over to the Pink One.
'Do you want a ...' says Lovely One to the Pink One, and before the words can charge out of my gob, Pink has baggsied anything and everything that I'm offloading. Even as I report these doings Mr Pink One is carving up everything in sight with his new electric carving knife (a strange gift I once received with a case of wine) Well, I ask you, neck a case of wine and go on a rampage with that couldn't One? Mr P has also his very own steam cleaner now and has begun steaming the kitchen with a vengance. Apparently his entire life has been spent longing for his very own Soda Stream, and now he has one of those as well! Happy to oblige Pink Things! After all one Lovely One's junk is a Pink One's treasure.
I did receive a missive enquiring 'What are the nylon bloomers for? Are they a joke?', from Pink. Foolish goon that she is, she didn't even recognise a trouser petticoat/slip/undergarment! I filled her in on that one, but would suggest she doesn't actually wear said item until thighs have melted away a smidgeon, since the friction could well start an undercrackers fire dans le trousers, and ignite the whole of Milverton. Still, I guess Mr P could put her out with the steamer, or the Soda Stream, come to that!
But, darling readers, I digress...
As I reported, Vile Husband paid a courtesy call earlier in the day to fit a pussy through his flap...
As if the morbidly obese ones will go through a normal sized cat flap! I ask you! He shoved Tigerboy through said flap, which fitted just below his neck and he shot off up the garden wearing it like a tutu. (Tigerboy that is, not V Hsbnd) On recapture, he was despatched to the Garden Shop to purchase a dog flap from the Cruella De Ville lookalike assistant.
May he live in interesting times with his morbidly obese pussies.

Thursday, 22 October 2009

In which I recover my Bad Fairy wings...

Well, dear reader, the deserving poor now have glamour in their miserable lives by virtue of the many sacks of Lovely One's accumulated 'junk', as Bloke calls the wondrous collection of stuff that was depostited at the charity shop by me and BF yesterday.
BF made me part with the fabulous McDonald tartan velvet slip dress that I acquired from French and Teague when I was the size of a Moose. Granted, it was the size of a four berth tent and could be comfortably worn over all my clothing, and still provide shelter for three or four big issue sellers, but it was divine! I never wore it. It was bought for the Wilkie May and Tuckwood Christmas dinner of a few years gone by and it didn't fit! I must have been the size of a bus for goodness sakes! BF and I were viewing our lovely selves rather critically whilst packing and have decided that we must have been absolutely gross! After all, we're not exactly slim now and we've collectively lost the weight of a small ugly crowd.
We found our fairy wings, wands and halos that we used to dress up in for the art shop's Christmas party and, I tell you darlings, I'm flippin' well wearing mine this year. I think a tasteful outfit for Bloke and Lovely Moi's first Festive Frolic should involve me in the 'Bad Fairy' black wings, a Blackpool supporters pinny and a 'come hither smile'.

Wednesday, 21 October 2009

In which Lovely Moi makes an important medical breakthrough...

Well darling readers, Rice Towers is in the process of being packed up in velvet lined treasure chests to be ferried in horse drawn glass carriages to 'Deepest' within the week. Sadly, dear little Lovely Moi has injured her back falling out of bed, don't ask, and BF is masterminding the whole scenario. Ok then, do ask! I was about to leap from the satin sheets the other evening to go on one of my nocturnal wanderings, when I realised, all too late, that I was rather closer to the edge of the bed than I thought and in the attempt to save myself, in fact did rather the opposite.
I've found a rather satisfactory solution to keeping myself in a firmly upright position whilst tottering around and shall share this important new medical discovery with you darlings before I telephone the BMA.
Wear power panty spanx under your skinny jeans - et voila! One is encased in the modern day equivalent of the wasp waist corset. Walking is a tad difficult, as is sitting and standing, but I can direct operations from my chaise lounge by pointing my dainty fingers at my darling helpers.
Dear old Big is still keeping Lovely One informed of all his millionaire doings. The Big old show off! I do hope he is as happy in his Mill House as I shall be in Deepest.

Wednesday, 14 October 2009

In which my fabulous fripperies are wrenched from my tiny hand...

The grand chuck out has begun. The fabulous fripperies of Lovely One are now beginning their migration into the lives of the deserving poor via the local charity emporium. Above the dressing table where the face of Moi is painstakingly painted in every a.m. there is, what is now, a boring pine shelf from somewhere as exciting as B&Q or some such Do it Oneself place. Just yesterday it was festooned with a runner of handmade lace celebrating the something or other of George the (insert no. can't remember), an M&S wreath of frosted leaves and fake berries, a pink candle, a pewter and amethyst trinket box,a very elderly Hermann mini bear, a gothic candelabra with fabulous dried wax trickles giving it a Hammer House of Horror persona and a Wedgewood vase complete with the stagnant water of some long dead blossoms still in the bottom. For some completely obscure reason, Darling Bloke has indicated that his abode would not suffer unduly from the lack of my 'junk' as he so eloquently puts it.
JUNK! darlings, indeed 'tis not! However, having begun with the shelf, Lovely Moi anticipates several more skip loads of treasured possessions winging their way to ebay land or the scavenging wombles of wivey! You know who you are!

Tuesday, 13 October 2009

In which I have a twinkle triangle at last...

Many things are occurring at the moment, but there is one wonderful piece of news I have to impart to you darlings - I have a TWINKLE TRIANGLE. that little triangle of light between the top of one's thighs and one's twinkle. Something that has eluded Lovely One until now. I noticed it whilst trying on a short jacket. Yes, dear reader, a short jacket, showing One's bottom and thighs to fullest and most delightful effect. and there it was, a Twinkle Triangle of light between the tops of Lovely Moi's newly slenderer thighs. Oh the excitement.
Hold the front page darlings.

Wednesday, 7 October 2009

In which I bid 'adieu' to my morbidly obese pussy...

Vile Husband must have undergone some electric shock therapy and has exhibited a slight erring toward the side of humankind. He has cordially offered to re-home the morbidly obese pussies. 'Well bugger my hat' I hear you say darling readers. 'Bugger it indeed', says Lovely One.
Darlingest Bloke has a brutish beast dog that would make short work of the furryboos. I also cannot let them rip anyone else's possessions to shreds. Vile Husband is having custody of my beautiful chesterfield sofas so that he and Boy won't have to sit on discarded office chairs, which is the habit of the Rice dynasty. Don't ask, dear reader, they are weird, weird, weirdsville in the extreme.
The Mother being one of the weirdest. Well, she can swivel on her office chair with delight now, knowing that I am no more, and before I shuffled off I had the decency to provide her with yet another peculiar Rice Male.
I can see them all now...
Sitting round the one bar electric fire reading aloud from the Chinese Takeaway menu before pooling their benefits and slithering off to purchase three spring rolls and a fortune cookie for tea.
I can tell you what the cookie will reveal...
YOUR LIVES WILL BE POORER FOR THE ABSENCE OF LOVELY ONE

Wednesday, 30 September 2009

In which I put fairy lights round my Twinkle...

What is it they say, 'sharper than a serpent's tooth, the ungrateful child'. Boy is discontent with his lot. Lovely poor old worn out One has worked herself to a premature old age in the pursuit of a better life for Boy, yet he languishes in bed seemingly unable to summon up the enthusiasm for life. I worry for him. He is the son of Vile Husband, so what do I expect I hear you groan.
Well, Boy and Vile Husband are about to find out exactly what Lovely Moi has done for them over the years as I am preparing to shear to Deepest within the month. Yes, darling readers, the dithering of Lovely One is at an end, I accept that lovely Bloke is my destiny and I'm off. There is, of course, the little matter of gainful employment to consider, and consider it I have. Currently languishing in my sickbed suffering from overwork, a new hairstyle, and stress, I have decided that the world can no longer function without divine Moi working full time as a proper painter. I have a gallery interested in my work in Deepest and it was the first one I went in! So that looks promising. I have knocked off a number of masterpieces lately, having been in a particularly emotional state.
Yesterday I crumbled under the pressure of Lovely D and BF egging me on to change my hairstyle. I have gone from long and sleek to layered and curly. Not quite sure about it, but had made a start before the restyle by managing to yank out several yards of blonde locks with my hair straighteners, so the change was inevitable.
I wonder what Bloke will say?
In order to draw his attention elsewhere I plan to enter NS&I Towers wearing just my fluffy and throw it open to reveal my Twinkle bedecked with fairy lights.
Oooh all his Christmases will have come at once. Rearrange those words however you see fit darling readers.
Off back to bed with some strawberries. Nighty Night.xx

Wednesday, 23 September 2009

In which I am a cowardy custard...

Well dear reader, I am in a quandry. What do I do? I could float off in a cloud of Chanel to Deepest, or I could stay here a little longer. Staying would mean I have to tend to the needy for three nights per week. Going would mean trying to make it as a full time painter with delicious Bloke.
What to do? I am a cowardy custard at the best of times. Do I let the flat? Do I sell it? I think Bloke thinks Lovely Moi has gone stark staring bonkers because dear little me keeps changing my plans every five minutes.
Bloke says 'we've got to get it right this time'. and he's right about that.
I had a successful exhibition and got 'real' money for some of my paintings. It is just so scary though, the thought of actually being an 'artist'. I know I'm good enough now, so what's the problem? You may well ask darlings. Me, moi, Lovely One is the problem. Afraid to do it. Afraid not to do it. What if I fail? Where will I go? Who will scoop me up and save me? No one.
What do you think dear reader?

Sunday, 20 September 2009

In which I smoke my last fag...

It's the last day of the Festival, darling readers. Outside it's completely still and the sun is shining over Rice Towers. Just as well it's quiet because there's a grumpy old bear asleep in my boudoir who hates to be disturbed. I ushered the morbidly obese pussies out to the veranda for their morning feast of quails eggs and asses milk and them placed them on their matching velvet cushions in the centre of the lawn.
It would appear that Big has alighted in his Mill House in deepest. I wondered where he'd gone. I expect he's been chasing scantily clad, outrageously too young women all around Portugal. Such is the privelidge of the old and wealthy male. I wonder if any of them let him catch them?

I really muat sell some paintings today. Everyone has been making the right noises and telling Lovely One what a genius she is but not many of the stingy blighters are dusting off their pocket money purses. Much interest in 'South Street Dusk', incidentally the one that Big wanted to buy. 'Brixham Dusk' has had many admirers too. Please don't think, dear reader, that I have some romantic association to dusk, it's just that I'm so utterly penniless that I only have blues and purples left so everything is currently portrayed at dusk.
I have had some commissions. A couple of stately residences and a picture of Bridgwater, so that should pay for some of Boy's college stuff.
I, however, in a moment of madness chucked in my appalling day job and now have to work WAKING NIGHTS. Can you imagine, Lovely Moi losing all her beauty sleep in the pursuit of the needy and bonkers? No, me neither. Not that I need beauty sleep, but all the same, I am in a right pickle, up the creek without a paddle once again darlings.
I wish I had the courage to throw my hands in the air and shout 'I HAVE HAD ENOUGH' and paint all day long. But that might mean Vile Husband would have to compromise his principles and get a job in order to support Boy and that would never do would it darlings?
Today Lovely Moi smokes her last fag. I shall have some sort of ceremony outside my exhibition, which is in the North Street Garage Gallery, Wiveliscombe, if you want to come. I shall smoke it, neck a vodka, have a lovely big cough and disappear to my easel in a cloud of Chanel.
Catch me if you can...

Friday, 18 September 2009

In which I let you into my private morning heaven...

I watched him in the half light this morning. That man I've grown to love more than anyone else in the world. I could make out his shape in the shadows going about his morning routine. His slow methodical movement about the room, not needing light to find everything he needed to begin his day. He is a big man in every sense. His strong body silhouetted against the breaking light of day is all I ever want to see when I open my eyes every day for the rest of my life. I can't imagine a single day without him there. I expect he knew I was watching him because he knows the pattern of my breathing and would instinctively know I wasn't sleeping. He is beautiful. He leant to kiss me as he was leaving and I touched his face so that I had the scent of him on me as I went back to sleep. I always move into the place he has been sleeping and lie with my head on his pillow. I know I tell him that I love him too much, but I do! He loved me first, and I suspect he is used to be the one who loves more.
We both had things to do - he in his daily work and me in the radio studio and then on to the art gallery. I, with my reckless spirit, would just put my life in the car and alight on his doorstep forever more, not thinking of any consequence, but he, with a sensible thought for the future, wants to 'get it right this time'. I know he is right, but all the same I just want it NOW!
I have spent almost twenty years without emotion and now I have it I want it every day. I am childish in my need for reassurance, I know I am, and my insecurity must be boring and annoying, but I hereby excuse myself for love.
I had a whole day with nothing to do yesterday and set about a bit of housework in his house. I love housework! I cleaned and scrubbed the dressing table under the window in the bedroom and in doing so found a mountain of cards that he'd sent his wife number two and she'd sent him. I so wanted to look at them, but did't. Never the less it was like wandering through someone else's life, like a living history museum. It's all in the past and I want it to go away. I am the future for him. I know he loves me and that is the most warm and soft feeling. And I love him, more than I could ever tell him and more than he will ever know.
and now on to lighter moments in the day...
I intereviewed a fellow painter today for 10radio, the comfy little M. It got rather hot in the studio and I took off my coat and scarf. For a moment I couldn't figure out what was poking out of my t shirt and then, horror of horrors darling reader, I twigged it was the underwiring from my bra! I tried to shove it back in in a swift movemet, but alas, no joy. So I've been wearing it as a head band. My dub dubs are quite obviously the same size as my head! But sadly one of them is nearer my twinkle than the other!
My twinkle is positively radiant!

Sunday, 13 September 2009

In which it is my birthday...

Well, good morning darling readers, it's the actual birthday of Lovely One today. Obviously I have an official one as well, during which my adoring public are permitted to shower me with gifts. I do allow some of them to even touch the person of Lovely One, but only following a quick going over with the antiseptic handwash BF has thoughtfully put next to the till in the gallery.
BF thoughtfully went right over the top in the organisation of everything, to the extent that she managed to end up hospitalised thorough stress. The BPT and Lovely Moi are feeling guilty because we just fronted up, chucked our exhibits in, necked a few and legged it. 'Buy it, don't buy it' that's my attitude. I only do it for a giggle and we certainly have a few of those. Anyway, I've bucked my ideas up and intend to stay in dear old Wivey throughout, instead of shearing to Deepest for the week to be locked in the embrace of a great big bear. Still, darling readers, one's twinkle mink sees plenty of activity these days and shall shortly have to be retired to the Home for Elderly Twinkles in Devon where the forgotten and discarded Twinkle Minks roam free range all day over the rolling hills until they nestle down to slumber in their Tena Lady sleeping bags.
Champers and nibbles in the gallery today for Lovely Moi. Do come bearing expensive gifts!
I'm off now to wake up the lovely big furry bear that's asleep in my satin sheets. I wonder what he's got for me this lovely morning. My Twinkle's trembling with anticipation even as I blog...
Ooh, I almost forgot, I had a whim for a honeydew Melon whilst manning the gallery yesterday, and the divine Bloke actually found one for Lovely Moi in the middle of sleepy little Wivey on a Sunday afternoon. What utter devotion, darlings, but then you'd expect nothing less would you?

Saturday, 12 September 2009

In which I Bloke is allowed to take me from my adoring public...


An absolutely divine day darlings. The weather, the crowds, the artists, and of course, Darling Bloke, who was met with approval from Lovely One's adoring public. Sales were good and everyone sold or was commissioned.
The PHT was allowed out on her own and came back wearing a pair of shoes last worn by Lily Savage when he dressed as Dorothy. By mid afternoon she clicked her heels and wasn't in Kansas anymore but in the Bear garden necking enough Thatchers Gold to re-float the Cutty Sark.
Bloke was positively saintly, and adored Lovely One visibly, just enough to gain the mass approval of the Wivey public. He was interrogated regarding his suitability to cherish Lovely One until the end of time and aquitted himself with style.
BF was the clear leader, sales wise, and obviously Lovely Moi congratulated her through gritted teeth. To celebrate she kept disappearing down the back passage clutching her inferior 'other materials' Primark 'shopper' and her location could only be vaugely pinpointed by the clouds of smoke emanating from behind a skip.
Went to Bear in evening with little M to meet PHT and her adoring hubbster. Don't quite know how we did it but completely missed one another. Still, necked a few and mosied home to get poked in the ribs all night for snoring. AS IF!

Friday, 11 September 2009

In which I shall miss lovely old Wivey...

Gladys and her pips got it right... 'I'd rather live in his world, than live without him in mine'. Lovely Moi may not be 'Leaving on a Midnight train to Georgia', but she'll be shearing to Plymouth rather promptly. But, my darling readers, IT IS GOING TO BE REALLY HARD to leave Wivey and all my lovely friends and admirers.
Spent yesterday with the Pink Haired Trollop and BF along with posh C setting up at the gallery.
Note:
BF - You may have sold a book
BUT
Lovely One - HAS SOLD TWO ORIGINAL PAINTINGS ALREADY AND AM THEREBY THE BEST!!!!!!!
Much interest from the great unwashed of West Somerset. Ruddy faced farmer types with their strawberry noses pushed up against the windows soaking up the culture through their Hunters.
Nipped into the radio studio to address my adoring public just to ensure that there's no one out there who isn't fully aware that divine Moi has knocked off a few new masterpieces. Of course there'll be posh C's exquisite flower paintings and cards, BF's unbelievable textile creations, and boy are there a lot of them! She must have been out in that shed day and night for bloody ages! The great big old Pink haired trollop has been sitting there felting for months on end looking like some old gyppo enchantress sat outside the junior school needle felting voodoo dolls. Only in Wivey. Anywhere else she'd be a 'care in the community' case!
We have a new exhibitor in the shape of A, who has squillions of silk scarves all hand painted in fabulous colours and as light as a whisper.
Darling P was f*****g incandescent, because some horrible old woman had phoned the council to complain about our festival banners, so the highways men had come out and taken the lot down! What a mean thing to do! It's fun, it brings visitors to our sleepy little heavenly town, and provides a little invisible income to the likes of the desperately poor, see: Pink Haired Trollop and Lovely One.
We did repair to the pub a couple of times throughout the day since BF was getting a little stressy and red faced with her glasses sliding down her perspiring nose. Obviously, Lovely One remained serene and only had to nip out for a couple of fags and Solpadeine once or twice.
In a few hours Bloke will be here to see me in my natural habitat and meet my adoring public. He will see exactly what I'm giving up for him.
I love it here, but I love him more.

Tuesday, 1 September 2009

In which I return to you darlings...

I am getting really nervous! I have chucked in day job with no means of self support, abandoned Boy to the tender mercies of Vile Husband, am looking to re-home morbidly obese pussies and am selling Rice Towers!
I am absolutely certain about darling, darling Bloke, darlings, so why am I getting scared? Lovely One has fulfilled her duties to Boy. Some say that is never over, but I have given Boy the opportunity to sashay off to deepest with moi and he had opted to bunk in with Vile. As I've said afore, I give that two weeks at the most. For a start every time I go away for the weekend I have to leave enough food for both of them so heaven knows how they'll fare when left to their own devices.
Darling Bloke is the very model of perfect husband material. He cooks for me and just generally looks after me. He is considerate, affectionate and all round wonderful. I'm just so used to doing everything on my own that I find it quite alien to ask for help or even accept it when it's offered.

This has been in draft form for a couple of weeks and my my how things change...

Vile old hell hags at Rice Towers have made lovely One's divine existence pure misery over the prospect of one letting her abode to a, wait for it darlings, YOUNG PERSON. 'We don't want YOUNG PEOPLE in the Malthouse', they bleat. 'They'll be walking around the garden eating pizza and smoking'.
Heaven forfend, I hear you cry, fags and pizza, whatever next, eating babies and shagging kittens?
Anyhow the upshot of it all is that I shall have to remain here until the flat is sold and then point the Pontiac toward deepest and darling darling bloke for a life of middle aged holding hands and sighing. Well, eating chips, ice cream and giggling actually which is what we did last time.
Bloke has the utter temerity to be as funny as Lovely Moi! Now, dear reader, I DO THE JOKES, doesn't he know that?
Since I am always droning on about how fit I am the little dear took me to Kingsbridge and parked about as far away from the river as you could get without entering the next county! Not only that but the way ahead was up the steepest steps ever built in the history of step building. Now, those unlucky ones of you out there who haven't had the utter pleasure and joy of seeing Lovely One in the flesh won't know that she has little short legs and therefore the climbing of said steps was rather like sodding Ranulph Feinnes scaling the North Face of whatever mountain he's currently sauntering up.
Then when at the top a veritable cliff face to hurtle down to the town. Then, and I couldn't believe it, Bloke steered me toward a muddy hole with some boats stranded in it and told me the river had gone out! Gone out! So after a luke warm over priced cup of coffee we donned our crampons and scaled the high street. The very steep steps in reverse were even more difficult for Lovely One's little fat legs to climb down. Cruelly, darling Bloke was laughing his head off and set Moi off into one of her giggling fits.
One's pelvic floor is more like a basement now and sadly I'd left my Lulu Guiness changing bag in the back of the Bentley.
White jeans, middle age, giggling, no Tena Lady pants...
WE WENT HOME

Tuesday, 25 August 2009

In which I am the luckiest Lovely One ever...

Back at Rice Towers for a brief visit. Now when I drive into Wivey the rolling hills before me don't have the same effect. I remember when I couldn't wait to come home and thought I would never leave, but now it's just a reminder that I want to be in deepest with my one true love. I wasn't going to go this weekend but find I can't stay away. Rice Towers is now for sale and I'm not letting it as I shall never come back here to live. The matrons of The Malthouse have made themselves rather unpleasant with the prospect of my letting the flat and saw fit to harrass me whilst I was away last weekend with threatening phone calls regarding their requirements to vet any prospective tenants. When I first came here I infiltrated their ranks in order to offer a more reasonable opinion of matters arising, and now I'm on the receiving end of their vitriol for daring to make my own decisions about my own property. So be it. I shall leave and live a life of happiness with my lovely Bloke. It's taken a lot to find him and we both realise how lucky we are to have one another. A new adventure beckons with all that holds and I can't wait for it to begin. Boy is happy to be spending time with Vile Husband and I think they'll muddle along just fine. I shall be in snuggle heaven for the rest of my natch and what a fabulous time we shall have together.
Have met offspring and they are perfectly charming too.
All that's left to do is organise move and begin my new life with the one I love.
Oh lucky, lucky Lovely One.

Wednesday, 19 August 2009

In which I am utterly special needs out...

Well darlings, what a day! The mentally challenged have driven me completely bonkers. I shan't miss them one bit when I sashay off to deepest. There were two tattooed articles erecting a fence in the garden whilst I was attempting to bring some art and culture to the afflicted this afternoon. Sadly the afflicted were intent on spooking the fence men and trying to dive into each fence post hole that was dug. I tried sweet talking, food, being stern and finally lifting the little blighters off the grass and depositing them inside the building. Oh my, it was a divine afternoon. Then, an exciting trip to Asda before making the darlings some supper. I am absolutely worn out with it all. Most of the minders are a good thirty years younger than Lovely One and this afternoon it certainly began to be come all too apparent. Anyway, dear reader, I shall be shearing in a very short while and never ever want to administer to the afflicted ever again. I do salute those who do, but tis not for Lovely One!
I fear I may encounter Mrs Bloke numero deux on Saturday when she comes to collect her mail. I shan't hide, or go out this time, after all we are all adults and lets face it she can't be as lovely as Lovely One, can she?
I shall of course be beautifully groomed and dressed and creating another masterpiece when she arrives. I shall remain serene throughout. I hope she's not one of these women who 'don't want him, but don't want anyone else to have him' types.
Also meeting offspring this weekend. What to wear? What to say?
'Hello I'm your new Mummy' maybe not!
Am so looking forward to seeing lovely Bear again. Who'd have thought it? Lovely One finds Lovely Lovely Love! How utterly divine!
Before that having lunch with BF since if forced to go to vile day job once more this week will expire with exhaustion. Big Wobbly One will be beside it's nasty self with rage but so be it. I've had enough this week darlings.

Monday, 17 August 2009

In which I plan my departure...

In the grey, greatcoat my life has been cloaked in thus far, a little pink silk pocket of happiness has been discovered. I have had a lovely long weekend in deepest Devon with my Bear yet again. It was really horrible to be wrenched away and have to go back to my ghastly day job. However, one bright spot on the horizon is that I have given in my notice and will be leaving on 10th September. I have tried to make the best of what has been a bad situation, but can honestly say, I HAVE HATED EVERY MINUTE OF IT! Someone else will have to devote themselves to the care of the afflicted, I'm off! I shall spend my time looking after Bloke Bear and painting.
The poor dear has missed me during the long and silent night and I am required to return as soon as I can.
Boy is de-camping to Vile Husbands with great haste and I am packing up the apartment for the new tenants.
Oh my, dear reader, the end of an era. Hopefully, the beginning of a new and lovely, divine one in deepest.
all starting tomorrow when the decree nisi arrives. what is that? Is it a period of time during which one may change one's mind? Not bleedin' likely, darlings!

Wednesday, 12 August 2009

In which I whinge and whinge and scoff berries...

Simply cannot continue attending to the needs of the afflicted on a daily basis any more! I do not want to be grabbed, slobbered over, kissed, groped, have my hair pulled or be generally ordered around like a skivvy ever again. Another fifty eight page document arrived today outlining the various rights and requirements of said afflicted which must be adhered to. What about the rights of the poor sods who work for a pittance to administer all that nonsense? The idiotic twits who come up with all this piffle should be made to spend a few weeks at the coal face with the rest of us and see how they like it. Rant, rant etc...
Soon this should all be a dim and distant memory when darling Bloke rescues Lovely One from her purgatory. I shall sit serenely at my easel and paint whilst great big bear bloke holds my brushes and gently soothes my fevered brow. Well, dear reader, when he gets home from feeding the great unwashed of deepest Devon, that is. Not that Lovely One actually needs rescuing, since have always been entirely capable of looking after self in manner of skinhead from Luton, by administering a swift left hook to anyone who severely tests one's patience! Ask Vile Husband! He's been on the receiving end when I could stand no more.
'I don't find that kind of behaviour very attractive', says he staggering to retain his vertical stance. Nor do I, believe me, but it doesn't half make one feel better!
Alluding to Vile Husband, darlings, you'll never believe this! I telephoned him to ensure that he would be able to spend time with Boy this weekend whilst I go and get worshipped in deepest Devon, and he ummed and aahed about it. It would appear that the unemployment office have made an error in his claim and he's not getting any free money at the moment. Now, dear reader, call me old fashioned, but why doesn't the lazy, pathetic reptile get a job? Anyway, the upshot of the conversation was that I should leave sufficient funds to feed Boy. Oooh, I wonder if I'm going to be bankrolling the weekend meals of a certain Vile Husband too?
Am currently suffering from scoffing blackberries whilst walking home up the hill and have just consumed a box of cherries and one of strawberries which hasn't helped.
Lovely One is feeling rather sorry for herself, as you may have gathered, and shall therefore head off forthwith, to Bear's furry arms for some much needed pampering.
see you next week!

Tuesday, 11 August 2009

In which I am very, very lucky...

Off to see Bloke Bear on Thursday after day job. Asked Vile Husband to keep an eye on Boy and he said that might be difficult since he had no money. I said, like last time, I would give Boy money. I fear I may be feeding Vile Husband too!
Every day spent without Bloke is a day used up, not lived. He is adorable. I shall marry him asap. Then I will be Mrs Bloke.
I really never thought I'd want to leave here, but now I can't wait!
I do have a slight concern that Bloke is buying EAR PLUGS! Surely the birds in Plymouth can't be that noisy! I simply cannot believe that Lovely Moi SNORES. It must be a joke. He has also said that at various times throughout the night he has to get up and sit on the edge of the bed, since I sleep like a starfish and shove him out. It's all filthy lies I tell you, dear reader. A little angel like me - NO!
Soon I shall go and never come back and I can't tell you, darlings, that it will be anything other than the best thing I've ever done. Isn't it lovely to have lovely, lovely love, even when One is rather past one's best.
Lovely M says that she hopes Bloke knows how lucky he is. Well, darlings, I am the lucky one!
Bloke doesn't realise how successful I've been with my painting and has indicated that he doesn't want me to be disappointed. How surprised is he going to be when he is kept in a style to which I hope he can become accustomed.
Clever, clever Lovely One, to find such a divine bear.

Saturday, 8 August 2009

In which we take the night air...


Sssh, be very quiet, dear readers, tiptoe around like tiny mice, please! There is a big cuddly bear asleep in my bed.
'Who's that sleeping in Goldilocks Lovely One's bed?' I thought as my baby blues took in the first light of day through their double row of long curly eyelashes.
'Ooh, it's a lovely great big Bear', One smiled, snuggling up.
I think he may need to be left alone in there for some time since he prefers to stay awake all night watching over Lovely One as she lays in a dreamy cloud of honey coloured curls on her pink satin pillow. The gentle rise and fall of her voluptuos chest mesmerising him into a protective trance.
Big Bloke Bear says he can't sleep because Lovely Moi snores like a Buffalo after sixteen pints of Guiness and a Moose curry, but Lovely One KNOWS this is just what passes for humour in Deepest Devon.
Yesterday evening we sashayed into darkest Wivey town centre in order that Bloke could take in the night air and sample the local hostelry, 'The Bear'.
Utter commotion occuring, as usual for a Saturday night. Smokers spilling out of The White Hart onto the pavement, and that means the pub's almost empty, since nearly everyone is a fag hag.
We opted for the Bear garden, where fat tummied teenage girls were practically devouring lanky, skinny boys all over the show! One rolling a cig behind the back of some callow youth as he burrowed deep into her enormous chest and very nigh suffocated, darlings! They occasionally came up for air, a slug of snakebite and a lungful of golden virginia.
Inside was thick with the aroma of farmhand and rosy cheeked country girl, cow pooh, fresh sweat and Spar value soap. The noise was utterly unbelievable, dear reader! Comes from having to shout over the racket of the tractor all day, I expect.
We took the long way home in order that I could point out the local attractions. Sadly there didn't appear to be any, other than dear little darling Lovely Moi, who got snogged like a teenager under every available lamp post.
They'll all be freshly scrubbed and in their Sunday best singing praises to the Lord in an hour or two, and leave cleansed and forgiven to do it all again next weekend.
Ho hum, pass the cider, me ol' luvver!

Friday, 7 August 2009

In which I lunch with a recently savaged dear old A...


Had lovely lunch with dear old A, who had to dash off after about twenty minutes following several messages on Blackberry, to the doc's since had been savaged by abnormally gigantic dog type animal yesterday. Dined at 10 The Square. A little haven of sophistication in the middle of tractor driving, horse pooh shovelling, alcohol fuelled Wivey. Oh, I shall miss it, and all it's wonderful people, who made me so welcome just when I needed them most. But I love Bloke and wherever he is, that is where you, darling readers, will find Lovely One. Utter, utter bliss!
Back to dear old A...
We sorted out a schedule for tomorrow's radio show. Co-incides with Taunton Flower Show, which will be organised to the last petal by darling P and the Wing Commander, so of course many songs about flowers. Lots seem to have 'roses' in the title, ever noticed that, darlings? Anyhow, I digress, yet again. Have read local papers and picked out one or two stories to warble on about, but, since in such utterly lovely mood lately, can't think of anything to rant about. Following A's hasty departure to have, no doubt, many, many stitches and an injection in the bottom, I espied the PM's scarfing down a carafe or two in the sunshine. Had lovely chat with them and tried to put off PM, female, from working in 'care.' PM, male, had tried unsuccessfully himself and was glad of someone from the 'inside' to have a bash. I imagine PM, female, had visions of self in some divine, crisp white, Flo N, get up, holding a frail old wrist and perusing a little silver watch stapled to her left tit.
Well, let me tell you, PM, female, you will be sworn at, spat at, generally abused and up to your tiny pink elbows in poop! Your work colleagues will be the, otherwise unemployable, young, thick, foreign, drunken, tattooed morons. You will be an exquisite tropical fish out of water. AND, as PM, male, has said you have a myriad of other talents. DON'T DO IT!
Had lovely chat with darling Bloke who loves Lovely Moi 'more than anyone in the world has ever been loved'. Well, I should hope so! Can't wait to see the big old bear!
But before then...
Shall take up residence outside Whelans after my radio show, with the big gang of bonkers old menopausal women and their dogs, and BF, of course, smoke fags, drink coffee and generally have a big old laugh until we fart! Well, BF will, Lovely Moi won't, OBVIOUSLY

DIVINE SOPHISTICATION DARLINGS. DON'T YOU JUST LOVE IT?

Picture of BF scarfing Scrumpy at Tarr Steps. Boy and Lovely Moi tried to dash off and leave her there when the Tena Lady pants could no longer cope with the overflow, but she's quite fast for a fat girl!

Thursday, 6 August 2009

In which I bid adieu to Big, for now anyway...

The end of an era. Big is moving. Big has been with me on the journey of discovery that has been going on for what must be around eight months now. We have never met, spoken a couple of times, but have emailed one another every day.
At first, Big wanted to go and live in Portugal when he'd sold his house and divorced his wife. It now seems he is moving to Devon to live in a mill house.
I was, and have always been, looking for love. I had absolutely no idea what form it would be in, but was obviously looking in all the wrong places. All my life I've been searching for Bloke, and I didn't even know it!
Anyway, darling readers, I hope you all wish us both luck as we begin our new lives in deepest Devon. I'm sure Big and me will keep in touch when he's email capable again because he's been threatening to buy a painting lately and I'm never known to miss an opportunity. Goodbye, or au revoir, Big, for now at least, and I hope you find what you're looking for.

As for Rice Towers, the first to look around wants Lovely One's taseful, little heavenly home for their very own. I shall meet with dangerous rich boy again on the morrow and read him the riot act. I can't dissmiss him entirely, even though his reputation goes before him, as believe it or not, dear little angelic Lovely Moi used to be a bit of a hellraiser in her youth. It is absolutely not the case that one gets the face one deserves since if that were so, I'd look like Iggy Pop.

Then the next thing will be to find homes for the morbidly obese pussy terrorists. I know, I know, dear reader, I am a child abandoner and a pussy murderer. They can't come with me darlings. They are too old and too prone to destroy all in their wake to expect another, particularly one with a dog, to take them on. AND, in my defence they are Boy's pets and Vile Husband and Boy DON'T EVEN WANT THEM.
As for Vile Husband, decree nisi on 19th August and divorce six weeks later.

Lunch tomorrow with dear old A to talk about Saturday's Breakfast Show on 10radio. I am in such a divine mood I can't think of a thing to rant about. Although having said that, Bloke has been complaining about Lovely One! The sharp intake of breath is audible, dear reader, as I hear you gasp, 'This cannot be the case. What can possibly have happened?'
Well it is thus...
Bloke has, wrongly I am certain, accused Lovely One of SNORING! and, furthermore, with such gusto that the great big Blokey Bear can't sleep!
I have questioned him as to whether the sound isn't possibly more like the gentle footsteps of an enchanted fairy skipping across a dew drenched meadow, but he says no, it's more like a TRUFFLING HOG! Well, imagine it, Lovely One, in the land of dreams, looking serene with her beautiful blonde hair framing her angelic slumbering face on a scented satin pillow. No, I won't believe it, I can't believe it, he'll be telling me I fart in my sleep next.
AND EVEN IN THE REMOTE POSSIBILITY THAT I DID I EXPECT THE SOUND TO BE OF DISTANT BELLS.

BLIMEY, BLOKE MUST REALLY LOVE ME!

Wednesday, 5 August 2009

In which I parade with me frock stuffed down me pants...

The day of the garden party. We had a duck colouring competition which was well attended and enjoyed by everyone. The raddled old kitchen harridans did us proud with what looked like kit-e-kat vol au vents and puke pizzas which went down a treat. There's always the odd 'Prada Willi' personage who hurtles toward any plate of food within and arms reach and has to be wrestled to the ground by some Wellington teenage tatooed young 'lady'. I'm sure they employ these enormous Vicky Pollard lookalikes on purpose, since it is one of the requirements of the job that one is able to put a six foot, nineteen stone, challenged person in an arm lock. An ordinary member of the public chancing upon a gathering such as happened today would retreat in horror. In fact, Boy came last year and vowed never to enter such an establishment again.
Lovely Moi made a right tit of herself by sashaying and entire circuit of the house and grounds with me frock tucked in me knickers! Was alerted to situation by large, loud voiced girl shouting, 'Oi, Claire, you've got yer skirt stuffed down yer pants'.
Even 'She who must be obeyed' was in a reasonable mood for a change. Still, I shall book Monday as a day's holiday when she's not there.
Darling Bloke was tired and in need of some tender loving care from Moi this evening. I am looking forward to mopping his fevered brow and generally pampering him to within an inch of his life on a daily basis.
Isn't it divine, dear reader, to love and be loved in return!

Tuesday, 4 August 2009

In which I am a pink pepperami...

Hello darlings, from deepest Somerset. Soon to be deepest Devon. What an adventure for Lovely Moi, and at such an advanced age, not that you'd know to look at One, obviously. It shall be my last 'bolt'. Well known as a 'bolter' in my youth, I regularly sheared rather than attend to any unpleasant situation that may have reared it's ugly. Remained shackled to Vile Husband for far too many years in the manner of some Victorian housemaid in order to train Boy to be like everyone else. It is entirely possible to train the mildy Autistic to blend into society. The only visible difference now is the aloneness and constant Star Trek watching. Anyway, dear reader, Lovely One is now rather tired and in need of care and attention herself so shall leave Boy and Vile Husband to their own devices at least until Christmas in order to surrender to the arms of Bloke who is like a delicious cuddly bear.
I shall sink into his furriness and not come up for air until the winter frosts have abated.
I feel I should tell you about Bloke now, since he is clearly the love of Lovely One's life. Fancy that, darlings, finding true love so late in the afternoon!
He is A MAN. Obviously, I hear you all chorus. Not so, he follows on after a long line of excuses for manhood. Look at Vile Husband for heavens sake! Anyway, I digress.
Bloke is big and handsome and when he wraps his muscular arms around tiny one she very nearly struggles for breath. And following a slathering of ylang ylang scented oil all over the baby soft skin of Lovely Moi, one almost shoots straight out of Blokes arms in the manner of a divine, pink, scented Pepperami shooting out of it's skin.
Those things always worry me, dear reader, sliding out of their little sheaths like mummified willies! But I go off at a tangent, yet again. Back to Bloke.
Bloke is exactly that. He does all Blokey things, like watching football and cricket. I fear I shall be required to watch football in bed wearing nothing but an orange bobble hat and a 'come hither' smile. But, anything for Bloke.
Bloke is hard working and actually wants to look after Lovely One. One shall, of course, be knocking out artistic masterpieces at a rate of knots instead of attending to the needy and bonkers so shall probably be looking after Bloke too. But that's how it should be. BF says that I might feel a bit sad to think that my life should have always been like that, but One is just serene in the knowledge that we shall have all of the rest of our lives together.

In order to facilitate the move to deepest Devon I have decided to let divine apartment instead of selling it and to that end, showed two delightful young men around. Feeling that the Malthouse may not be the ideal place for two funloving teenagers, I imparted the information that the Malthouse is a very quiet sedate block run by a gang of middle aged and elderly harridans, of which I am one.
'We aren't looking for a place to party, but somewhere to make a home together' they said.
Now, I realise that Lovely Little Blonde Moi looks like an innocent Angel that's fallen to earth from a heavenly cloud, but really, boys, one wasn't born yesterday!
Unless they can front up with enough cash deposit to cover complete re-decoration, new kitchen, new bathroom and garden overhaul, they can 'set up a lovely home' elsewhere.
Honestly, I'm not as daft as I look, darlings!

Bloke - I love you more than anything in the world, I surrender.

Monday, 3 August 2009

In which I may not be what I seem...

Bloke has just asked what I consumed for supper. He is always rather concerned about my lack of food itake, bless him! I told him I'd had a nutritious meal of fish fingers and jelly babies. Sometimes One just has to pander to the child within, doesn't One dear reader?
Well, on imparting this exciting news, I went on to tell darling Bloke that when I was a little girl the milkman used to give me a box of sweets every Friday. One week it would be Jelly Babies, in the days when they were packaged in a little cardboard box, and the next week it would be Dolly Mixtures. I then recalled that Mr Toyer in the village hardware shop would also give me a box of fruit gums on my regular visit with dear Mama every Friday. I have since recollected that almost all the purveyors of produce in the village would present me with little gifts on a weekly basis. Now, I'm sure you will understand, darlings, having seen the photo of divine Lovely One that as a child I was an absolute angel of a thing with bouncing blonde curls and peaches and cream skin. Not unlike today, I hear you chorus. But, and Bloke drew this to my attention, no one, not even lovely Moi, can have been that cute and irressistible. He has ventured to suggest that Dear Mama may have been, at the very least, parading her wares in a provocative manner to all and sundry. Bloke has suggested that I am given first, two pints of milk and thence a hammer, nail and piece of wood to conjure with in order to ascertain my true parentage.
The very idea!
I am sure I am the foundling offspring of pre-raphaelite beauty and a member of the landed gentry at the very least!
But, then again, no one gave me a pony, did they, darlings?

Sunday, 2 August 2009

In which I make Doormouse Wellington...


Well now my darlings, Lovely Moi has found TRUE LOVE at last. It just kind of snuck up on one without one noticing.Have just returned from deepest Devon, where I shall be residing as soon as Rice Towers has a purchaser. According to estate agent man, one's apartment is worth more than one paid for it and has completely bucked the trend. Hoorah! Am currently researching statement handbags since, obviously, Bloke will want me to spend wisely.
I shall retire from assisting the needy and bonkers and devote myself to painting. I have investigated the galleries on the Barbican and yippee, nothing and no one as wildy talented as lovely one. I did have a small quiver re: leaving Wivey on Saturday, but BF put me straight. Bloke says she sounds much more sensible than Lovely One. What a cheek! I am the model of common sense and restrained behaviour. Well maybe not 'common' sense, maybe stylish, uncommon sense. Yes, that sounds much better.
NS&I Castle will do very nicely for Moi, and Boy, who is warming to the idea of Plymouth. Previous incumbant had rather uninspiring taste, so have mentally gutted and refurbished entire residence. Bloke is happy for this to go ahead as has completely fallen under spell of Lovely One. Fabulous light room shall be used as One's studio. In fact, completed masterpiece of Brixham harbour whilst in residence this weekend.
Vacated castle briefly in order to avoid ex-wife coming to borrow dog. Yes, he has a dog. Have always avoided furry pooh machines, and indeed, don't like sharing house with anything that can lick it's own bottom, but even 'dog thing' is rather sweet and not stinky at all! Shall have to re-home morbidly obese geriatric pussies though, since cannot imagine all being harmony there!
Back to visit from ex...
I booked a cab and headed off for the big city and all those lovely shops.
Bloke had said to me that he 'always leaves some food out for her'. How very odd, I thought, but maybe the poor darling has hit upon hard times? Not wishing to offend anyone as up and coming third wife I set about creating something special for the poor discarded waif.
I located a nest of edible doormice in the grounds and knocked up a doormouse wellington in no time at all. Scrambling down to a babbling brook I hand picked some wild rocket and washed it in the clear spring water. Gathering blackberries, yes they were named after my phone, what fun, into my Chloe tea dress skirt, I positively scampered back into the staff kitchen and laid out my goodies on tray with a lovely muslin cloth.
The cab driver who picked my up asked me,
'Where to, Darlin'?'
'Shopping, obviously', I replied. He shot me a quizzical glance in his rear view mirror and shook his blue collared head. I expect he was grateful that his Ford Cortina, or whatever it was, was carrying such a divine out of town creature as Lovely One, rather than the fat tummied, alchopop soaked Saturday night harridans who usually rested their Primark clutch bags on his shelf and farted into his puke stained upholstery.
Shock, horror, no Chanel to be had anywhere! Hardly any shopping to be done, so after about three hours I made my way back.
Upon my return Bloke enquired what I'd done, since wife no 2 had asked why there was a tray of, in her words, 'Pie and dandelion leaves', next to the dog lead in the staff kitchen.
'Well you said you leave food out for her', I indignantly replied.
'I LEAVE FOOD OUT FOR THE DOG, DARLING, YOU IDIOT', he laughed.
Oh dear, once again, Lovely little kind hearted One, gets hold of the wrong end of the stick!

Wednesday, 29 July 2009

In which I will not eat a pie...

Well, darlings! Well not well, actually. One's delicate throat is sore and one has the most horrid ear ache. Dear little ear is a lovely shade of pink, sadly more suited to T shirt, not a body part. I shall relocate to Bloke's and let him look after Lovely Moi. I hope I haven't got that, and I can hardly bear to type it, Swine Flu! Apparently one of the symtoms is that one smells rather stinky. Well, dear readers, fragrant One is NOT HAVING THAT. I shall have fluffy pussycat flu and be delicately scented with Chanel No 5, as per usual.
Will Bloke still love me when I am a child abandoner? Boy seems delighted for me to vacate the premises for a few days. Heaven only knows what ruins I shall find upon my return. I know Boy will be alright in the tender care of Vile Husband. In fact, Boy will probably be looking after VH. The general level of mess is rather high on my daily return from work so what four days of Boy/Vile Husband detritis will resemble is positively horrifying for Lovely One.
VH thinks I am bonkers and for that matter so does BFP. They think it's all a bit quick to be so sure about Bloke and me wandering off into the sunset together. I would have said the very same thing to anyone else. But, I JUST KNOW IT'S THE RIGHT THING TO DO. My problem was, I was looking for a Primark handbag in Harrods. Not that I've ever been in Primark, obviously. Well, maybe Matalan, even Lovely Moi and BF have ventured in there. I suppose when I began my quest, I thought how lovely it would be to meet someone of social standing and plenty of handbag/shoe spends. Well, dear reader, I did. On more than one occassion. But how very boring they all were, and with no sense of fun whatever! I did like sailing and I do like big draughty houses, but they had big draughty hearts and no twinkle in their dull eyes. Now, darling Bloke, is the model of perfection in these areas. And I must say, even though I think it's horrid, I do agree with aged P that there's something wrong with a chap who doesn't like football. Wait for it, darlings, I would even be prepared to go to, what I believe is called, a FOOTBALL MATCH with Bloke. Obviously I wouldn't be able to wear a nasty orange scarf, or eat a PIE, or wave at a Mexican, I think you call it, but I would go, if lovely Bloke wanted me to. Anyhow what would be the point of dropping him off and going shopping in bloody, sodding Blackpool! I ask you, darlings, Moi in a 'Kiss me Quick' hat. I THINK NOT!

Tuesday, 28 July 2009

In which I fashion my Twinkle-Mink...

It has come to my attention that some of you poor darlings think I shall be ceasing to titillate you all with my derring do.
Fear not, dear readers, many moons shall pass before I shove off to deepest Devon. And anyway, think of the exciting life of an artist able to fleece all those holiday makers! They'll all have spends, and someone's got to relieve them of it!

I shall begin the pampering of lovely moi forthwith in preparation for my inspection of NS&I castle.

Off to Champneys to get my Twinkle-Mink fashioned into the shape of a burger van.

In which I surrender...

Well, dear reader, isn't it strange that you find what you've been searching for just where you weren't searching for it? I have been looking in all the wrong places. I have fallen in love, darlings, and what's more HE LOVES ME. Now that's a departure from the usual story of Lovely One's life. The most perfect man on the planet has fallen into the clutches, sorry, I mean arms, of Lovely One! It is utterly divine and has had no equal in the history of Planet Claire. Both being past the first flush of youth we have decided to throw our lot in together and just, I believe the saying is, go for it!I shall be deserting Rice Towers, with or without Boy, at the earliest opportunity. Boy hasn't yet decided whether to shear to Vile Husband's or to head into deepest Devon with Lovely Mummy.Haven't yet informed aged P's who will doubtless shriek in horror at current plans. I am expected to remain celibate until such time as Boy deserts me and leaves me to be eaten by the cats. NO, NO, NO.
There is life out there, and we intend to live it, together!
In my little narrative about my requirements for Bloke - 'A job and a pulse', how was I to know Bloke would have the most beautiful face, piercing blue eyes, steely grey hair (and beard), wonderful hands, a lovely smile, a voice that has one's thumbs gravitating toward one's knicker elastic and just about every attribute known to man.
LUCKY, LUCKY ME, DARLINGS.
Thank you to all the many contributors of advice...
Lovely D 'Under no circumstances wear the Cat Pyjamas' I did, again, so there!
BF 'You have gone mad and need HRT' - I didn't so up yer Bum!
Big - 'Drag someone off the streets' - as if!
PO - 'I can get you some Ann Summers stuff from a boot sale' - are you mad!
Little C - 'Go for it, Claire', - sensible advice, darling.
Polish A - 'Your hair is f*****g dreadful, straighten it' - YOU WERE CORRECT.
H - 'For goodness sake stop wearing baggy clothes', Yes, you were right too!
AIL - 'Play the field, don't get played', - Indeed!

Thank you everyone - I listened to all advice and ignored it!

And the biggest thanks to Bloke - I love you, you are the best thing that has ever happened to me.

PS - Bloke.
Your clothes will all be set fire too!

Monday, 27 July 2009

In which...

The selection process is complete.


More on that story later...

Thursday, 23 July 2009

In which I am ambushed and 'Made Over'...

Oh my giddy aunt!
I have been ambushed by lovely young care assistants at day job and dragged kicking and screaming into the twenty first century! Darlings, I kid you not, they literally pounced upon lovely one as I was occupied with my dear little hand shoved up a partially sewn up teddy bear's arse! Obviously, I was multi tasking at the time and delivering an interesting lecture on how to make felt beads, so was unable to resist or escape. I did however manage to disengage a pair of kitchen scissors from the clutches of a rather voluptuous Polish girl as she made fiendishly for my fringe.
'You are not haffing a dotter Claire and cannot f*****g know how to dress or have f*****g your hair', she shrieked as I manhandled the scissors out of her clutches. Her tenuous grasp of the English language is peppered with every obscenity known to man and sounds really rather disturbing when delivered from the lips of someone so young and lovely!
My students looked on in bemusement as H, owner of the enormous rabbits, came at me with some straighteners. Eventually, as they were mid discussion as to where I,
'Could f*****g get some f*****g clothes that fit', I gave in to pressure and allowed myself to be straightened.
I tell you darling readers, having lost such a huge amount of weight and looking, or so I thought, rather babe-licious, I wouldn't have thought there was much room for the improvement of lovely one.
BUT I WAS WRONG.
I now have very straight hair and look even more lovely than previously Lovely One!
BF and I are hitting the sales in order to,
'F*****g buy some f*****g clothes that don't hang on me like a sack.'
Straight hair, clothes that fit and nursing a very, very bad, red wine hangover, I shall point my Aston Martin in the direction of Plymouth and show Bloke how much fun can be had with Lovely Moi, for the entire weekend.
Don't panic, dear readers, morbidly obese cats and Boy will be cared for by Vile Husband. Yes, actually, having re-read that - DO PANIC!

Oh, and lest I forget, try to gloss over the fact that I couldn't speak without falling over me teeth, when Bloke telephoned to wish me goodnight!

MORE ON THAT TRAGIC AND DISGUSTING STORY LATER...