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Saturday, 27 June 2009

In which I am puked on...

Just drifting off to sleep when Fat Sally decides to puke all over my vintage quilt. Luckily Boy is pussy puke monitor. One of the reasons it took me so long to jettison Vile Husband was the loathsome prospect of clearing up cat sick. Still, Boy does a sterling job, even 'febreezing' the room.
So, there we are, Gnome sunning himself in Spain, Big getting lashed at a BBQ and me being puked on!
BF says I should make a list of the points I require in my ideal man, since it would appear that amalgamation of three contenders would be the perfect mate. I would really like to be looked after in an 'adult' 'child' kind of relationship. I used to know a couple like that when I was a young professional and they used to make me gag, but now the prospect seems rather appealing. I need someone to stand idly by while I mwa mwa at art events. I quite like the idea of a blokey bloke too. Though someone who dresses in sportswear wouldn't do. I do, of course, adore the Gnome, but is the feeling mutual? Who knows? Even he doesn't.He has telephoned me three times already, having said that he would only communicate via email. Is that because he is a little bored? We shall see what happens when his friend turns up and they can hunt as a pair.
He was bemoaning the fact that he couldn't quite reach the small of his back to apply sunscreen. I'm sure he'll find someone to oblige!
I am almost finished the school package, thank goodness! Then I must start painting for the 10 Parishes festival.
I shall be starting my own radio show on 11th july at 8.00am. Forgot to ask how long it will last. Still can rant on and on and on and on indefinitely.

Friday, 26 June 2009

In which I wish I had 'pocket money'...

Have had quite a productive day. Almost finished the teaching package for school holidays. Had afternoon nap, which was lovely. I really like the feeling of waking up in the late afternoon and thinking it's morning and time to go to work, and then, the lovely realisation that it isn't!
Went along to a new amatueur dramatic club meeting this evening. Would love to act or sing, but expect to be painting scenery!
Gnome went to a Pink Floyd tribute band evening. He wore the kaftan! He phoned me at the end of it moaning about the cold. Probably a blast of fresh air up the kaftan! When he is living under my regime, the kaftan will have to go! I can just about sanction the shorts although quite why he insists on wearing such vile clothing is beyond lovey, elegant one.
Have spent a goodly part of the day attempting to reorganise finances. If only that irresponsible vile ex husband of mine would support his son, I wouldn't be in this crap. He now owes me around eight grand in payments.
'Take him to court' say Big et al. What's the point he doesn't work so I won't get anything. Don't even have mortgage money this month, so am taking 'payment holiday'. Why should I have to though? Anyhow, no point in waking up in the middle of the night worrying about it is there? Oh, too late, that's why I'm sitting at the pooter at 2.15am, blogging!
All day long I look after 'those less fortunate than myself'. Or so one would think. I find out that as much as two thousand pounds per week is paid for the daily living expenses of people in assisted living homes. How on earth can it be as much as that? And - dear reader - most get £95 pocket money! I know, I know, we shouldn't begrudge them, but for goodness sake, I am paid just above the minimum wage and my flamin' tax not only pays for them, it pays my own pitiful salary! I wish I had £95 per week to spend on lovely moi!
Anyway, I feel a bit mean now I've ranted, so I shall moan about Gnome instead and that stchoopid bloody kaftan. He is, in fact, so diddy, that it's made from a tie die big boy's hankie!

Thursday, 25 June 2009

In which I embark on another feeding frenzy...

Can't sleep tonight - Monsoon Maureen careering around back garden. Also, sooo hot, I chucked my hot bot out of the bed! I always have a hot water bottle stuffed down the back of me jim jam bottoms, well but for the odd occassion I have company 'dans le lit' I think that's it - shitty at Francais. Hence the heliotrope 'corned beef' markings on the top of my arse! I like to think it makes me look like a trill, see Star Trek, but Boy says it makes him want to puke if he catches sight of it when I suffer slight 'Builders Bottom' when sitting on the piano stool.
Mmmm, just having a cup of lemon and ginger tea, divine darlings! Aids the digestion. Just as well, since having wagged off fat club I trawled the kitchen for 'things I've forgotten the taste of.'
The sorry saga so far:
3 stale slices of Hovis (including crust)
4 and a bit squares of Galaxy, Boy must be ill if they survived!
1 burnt, and cold, sausage
1 packet of those stupid little Ryvita minis. What's that all about? Just because Fern pie face Britton eats them, we're expected to pay hugely for what is essentially one bloody Ryvita that's been snapped into squares and rolled in some radio active cheese dust! And, dear reader, they taste CRAP.
Half a bag of 'Truly Irressistible' nuts. 'Truly Irresistible' my bony arse! Why did you eat them? You may well ask, darling reader. They were there in my feeding frenzy hour of need.
1 bag of 'snack a jack' popcorn that tasted like, and looked like, used kitty litter rolled in candarel.
concluding with a piece of licorice found in the bottom of me basket, I know, I know, SOME people spell it like that, with fluff and hairs stuck to it, some of which looked positively pubic!
I wish I had some kind of system flushing mechanism, although judjing by the sound of my stomach rumbling I don't think I shall need it!

Wednesday, 24 June 2009

In which I am a really annoyed diseased rabbit...

Have caught conjunctivitis from one of my charges. I look like a diseased rabbit for heavens sake! AND am now in really bad mood! First of all I email Big to tell him I have my decree nisi, which isn't right actually, because I read the paperwork wrongly and have to take it to a solicitor to 'swear'. I don't need a solicitor to swear about Vile Husband, I can do that in an empty room in the dark! Then suggest to Big that he might like to come to my divorce party, to which he replies some utter bollocks about 'failure' and 'lack of endurance' and says he will 'gracefully decline.' I've seen pictures of Big, he couldn't 'gracefully' any bloody thing!!
THEN, I get Gnome on the phone telling me, ONCE AGAIN, about his packing for the holiday to which I am cordially uninvited! Gnome, I don't care how many pairs of shorts you take, or how many horrid T shirts with writing on them! All I currently care about is that I am tired, worn out, fed up with being tired and worn out and am in dire need of a holiday myself, and so I shall be having one! So there, Big. So there, Gnome!
I continually find myself at the bottom of the list of priorities. An example: Before I go to work, and this all actually happened, dear reader, on Monday, I try to log on. Oh dear, a message telling me I have run out of internet access time. How can this be, I wonder, all I ever do is work, email and blog. BOY, comes the resounding reply. Since leaving school he has been glued to his computer and presumably downloading like a demon. So, I think to myself, I shall have to go to see Vile Husband, not knowing his password to BUY MYSELF SOME MORE TIME TO WORK ONLINE. So I get up at 5.30am, work out, go shopping, go to Vile Husband's, all this before job number one, AND HE IS STILL IN BED. There is an idiot around here, and it would appear to be me!
Gnome has me fitting in with his plans and timetable already! I need, and not necessarily in this order'
A holiday
either a business manager or wife
someone who actually cares about me
a new job
a new car
87 new pairs of shoes
thinner thighs
a padded room in which to bang my head against a wall

a little note to end on;
Gnome has sustained what may only be described as a 'fondling injury'. I told you it wasn't me that you needed to worry about, but him!

Monday, 22 June 2009

In which I recall my Festive Vibrator....

It's been a very dull and boring day in the day job. Hence, have spent quite a lot of time texting Gnome with various risque suggestions so as to give him somewhere to prop up his ticket machine. Hot weather always makes me feel a bit rude! Following a few semi pornographic suggestions Gnome asked me if I have a vibrator. The only rabbit I have is in a hutch at the bottom of the garden! But it did jog my memory of when I had a vibrator bought for me one Christmas in the dim and distant past, dear reader.
I was having a pleasant little fling with a chap at work, when I was working in Harpenden at a design office. The office was owned by a shady character who used to have to lock himself in his office to avoid being bashed up by people he owed money to. He was guarded by a formidable Chinese woman known as 'Foo Woman Choo'. Anyhow, I digress. I was inoccently unwrapping my Christmas presents with 'The Borilla' my flatmate. Known as 'Borilla' since she was deemed to big to be a bear and too ugly to be a gorilla. Well, I ripped through the paper and confronted what I thought was a candle in a box. The Borilla was in hysterics, but I had no idea why. I took it out of its box and viewed it from all angles. Seeing it had a kind of screw top on it, an unfortunate turn of phrase, I presumed it must be a dimpled container of bubble bath. Unscrewing the cap to have a sniff of the scent it went off in my hand and I threw it across the room screaming. By this time the Borilla was in dire need of Tena Lady pants, which hadn't yet been invented.
I was absolutely mortified when she told me what it was, threw it immediately in next doors dustbin, and never went out with the swine again!

Sunday, 21 June 2009

In which I host a barbeque, and discover Gnome is sneaky...

Hosted the AGM barbeque for the Malthouse in my garden yesterday. Jolly good fun! Attended by the very scary Grandthistle Ladies, of which I am one. Well, I say ladies, there is ofcourse CB, who is a chap and a very big chap at that! The ladies have a reputation around town for being a bunch of middle aged, bossy booted harridans, which indeed, we are! When BK found out I was going to live here, he gave me chapter and verse about them, but undeterred I came here to live, and joined them. I am the youngest, and I don't think anyone would disagree, the least scary. We have CB as our minder, towering over our enemies and looming menacingly above anyone who commits the heinous crime of say, parking in one of our spaces or having the temerity to allow a tree to drop leaves in our garden. He may look formidable but CB is a pussy cat and in a punch up I expect we'd have to defend him.
CB turned up early in the afternoon with the barbeque and encountered lovely one in one's fluffy. (My fluffy is a pink robe by the way) Poor CB charged off mumbling something about 'coming back later', but I grabbed him by the BBQ and shoved him into the back garden.
Anyway, after the meeting we adjourned to my garden and had a lovely time in the late afternoon sunshine. Glamorous 'Yah, Yah, R' came dressed up like a ninepenny dinner, sporting seriously orgasmic shoes with killer heels. With every step she took she managed to get a heel stuck between the paving slabs on the patio, so I had to follow her around so she could liberate her foot, and I could liberate the shoe. When everyone had gone we sat around drinking the last of the wine and I told her about my aquisition of Darling Gnome. She seemed very interested and together we concocted a plan to stage a huge Ball, invite all our single girlfriends and all the available male huntin', shootin', fishin' totty around Exmoor. We can then engage them in deep conversation about shoes and bags, find out exactly how much they deem too much to spend thus, as if there is such a figure, dear reader, and log their suitability as husband material on a pie chart. (whatever that is)
Woken up this morning by aged P thanking me for heraldic shield and bookmark, every home should have one, which was chosen by adorable Gnome.
Adorable Gnome, however is proving to be just as devious as other men, on the quiet. You recall, dear reader, how I told you he issued me with an invitation to Spain next week, which is impossible for me to accept due to work committments, which was cruelly withdrawn as soon as one of his reprobate Gnomish chums became available for annoying women and late night drinking sessions.
It has subsequently come to my attention that, in fact, Gnome is going to relish this holiday, and the reason is, it will be without LOVELY ONE! I have told Gnome that my favourite holiday occupations are shopping, I even said, not necessarily for shoes, just to get him interested, and wandering around galleries, with a view to buying of course. With that, comes his cooking for me, slathering my lovely self with Chanel suncream and generally making sure I'm pampered and thoroughly spoiled. How, dear reader, can he be more interested in drinking in bars with his mate and making suggestive remarks to girls young enough to be his granddaughter. He has also informed me that the second week will be spent in solitude and complete peace and quiet, apart from listening to 'Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy' on his ipod, whatever that is, do Chanel make those? He will be making a video diary in which he will be recording his last solo, peaceful holiday on which he will be able to do exactly as he pleases.

Friday, 19 June 2009

In which I take you to fat club with me...

Come with me to Fat Club, dear reader, and step inside the world of the Wivey Wobbly Women...
Every Thursday evening squillions of little Somerset fat ladies come out from behind their pinnies, change out of their wellies or riding boots, or in my case, stub out their fag and put down the paintbrush and waddle off to Fat Club.
Fat Club came just in time to Wivey as there are vast quantities of wobblers who could do with laying off the pies for ever!
The trouble is, round here, there is a culture of scoffing and drinking to excess. All very lovely if one is young and nubile, but positively dangerous for the older divine beauty, such as moi and BF. Well and the Pink One, but we'll draw a veil over the consumption levels of that one for now!
On entry into the community centre, the only venue with a strong enough floor to take the weight, one queues in an orderly manner to be given one's 'weighing in sheet' These are handed out by the husband of FP who runs the group. He sits there wearing a 'Slimming World, Because You're Amazing...' T shirt, supposedly retaining the secrecy of everyone's weight. This is because 'weigh in' is private.
Private, my lovely arse! Whislt he's sorting out the money and taking the 'six week countdown vouchers' my weight record sheet is sitting in full view on the flamin' desk! Call me paranoid if you like, but I can just FEEL the wobbler behind me reading my weight, upside down, and logging in her memory banks to tell everyone in the Pub! It's not like they haven't noticed I've got fat, but I'd be utterly mortified if everyone knew how much I weighed. If word got out...
The bloke at the cafe would rush outside when he saw me coming and take in his flimsy metal chairs. Well, for your information, bloke, I am no longer afraid of small garden furniture with arms. I slide neatly in and out of such inferior outdoor items with ease now! Sitting outside cafes, pubs, and at barbeques no longer entails a trip to casualty to have a plastic garden chair surgically removed from one's arse!
AND, wait for it, when FP is busy she co-opts one of the fatsos to do the weighing! This week it was LM. Now I'm not saying she's a bit gobby, but when I was 'mwa mwaing' everyone at darling P's garden party and behaving in an exceptionally orderly manner, she rushed up behind me shouting,
'Your arse is looking flamin' lovely today', and promptly grabbed it in full view of all manner of local dignitaries! In order to counteract the event, I offered her hubbster to 'cop a feel' but he'd sloped off into the undergrowth.
LM is not beyond the usual,
'Oi, Rice, it's one at a time only', as one steps precariously onto the scales.
Anyway, whan weigh in is over the serious business of 'image therapy' begins.
This involves FP standing at the front and going through everyone's weight record.
There are currently almost fifty members in the group, but a lot of them don't stay for the meeting since we have two BFL's, one of whom loves the sound of her own voice and never shuts her big fat gob, thereby making meetings GO ON FOR EVER.
'Where's Tracey?' says FP, gazing around the room until her beadies alight on a seventeen stone farm girl type.
'Tracey's lost another two pounds. Well done, Tracey. Let's give Tracey a little clap.'
Everyone claps Tracey who shuffles her outsize behind on the plastic chair.
'Is there anything you want to say to class, Tracey?' says FP
'Well I'm really pleased 'cos I 'ad to go to my sister's birthday party and we 'ad loads of cider!' says Trace.
'Well, lucky you used your 'flixible sins', says FP
'Would you like to set a little target for next week?'
'Two pounds' says Trace.
'That'll take you to your two stone award then', warbles FP.
Another little round of applause for Tracey then, girls. TEE HEE, oh and boy' she revises gazing longingly at Mr FP, obviously planning to rip off his slimming world T shirt the moment class is over!
This scenario continues until we get to me.
'Where is Claire Rice?'
I tentatively put up my hand knowing what is coming.
'Have you been doing anything different this week, Claire, because you've lost six pounds! Go on do tell us.'
BF starts snorting and laughing setting off a mexican wave like wobble throughout the assembled lard arses.
'Take no notice of the fat trollop on my right.' say I. Knowing full well that now everyone knows my self imposed sex exile has ended.
'Oh my goodness, enough of that', says FP and consigns my sheet to the back of the pile.
Throughout this debacle, dear reader, one of the fatsters has been knitting away like a maniac, what looked like a 'Dr Who' scarf. For some inexplicable reason we are required to knit a forty mile long scarf. Fat Club is weird, Wivey is weirder, so best not to ask the reason. Maybe we can keep the deserving poor of the world warm all at the same time with our scarf. Who knows?

We slope off to the co-op to stack up on vodka, fags and nuts and perambulate to my back garden for the weekly booze up.
Poor little Gnome is probably crouched in a corner of darkest Eastbourne somewhere counting the days until he has to do it all again. HA HA

In which I feel VERY SORRY FOR MYSELF... and Big

Take a good look at the face accompanying this blog, dear reader. It is the face of a surplus person in the grand scheme of things. It is still quite a pretty face, I think you'll agree, has been lovlier, but then I'm not young any more. And, as we all know, youth is the best beauty assest.
Let me take you with me on a journey into the past.
Vile Husband and I hooked up for good when I was expecting Boy. I could have stayed in my idylic little cottage, continued with a successful career and been a single Mother. Oh, how I wish that I had. What would life have been like now? Well, at least I wouldn't be working one exhausting low paid job after another, now would I? I expect I would have been at the top of my tree by now and doing very nicely, thank you very much! There is no reason to suspect otherwise since I was very successful at an early age. But no, what do I do? I set out on a destructive life of misery with Vile Husband. What I mistook for an intellectual and studious character was in fact an empty thoughtless shell of a man who didn't love me. In fact, when I was around six months pregnant he actually said to me,
'You do realise I don't love you, don't you?'
Wow, that was a showstopper and probably one of the numerous reasons I suffered two years of debilitating post natal depression, during which I came home to find the flat repossessed, had a bailiff come and take away the car, and had my amex cut up in front of me and rarely had enough money to pay the bills and buy food. Not to mention, being abandonded in London whilst everyone went on holiday and then sent back to my cottage with Boy for almost a year on my own because Vile Husband couldn't face a thirty minute drive to work each day.
That time in Eggington, in little cottage, was lovely. I made some friends locally who had small children and we had a blast. But my husband didn't love me. So I was never given special treatment like the others were and my life fell into a pattern of caring for everyone around me. So it went on, and on, and is now almost over. I look back into the distant past and can't ever remember being the most special thing in anyone's life. What can that be like? My friend C, had forty three blissfull years of marriage to the love of her life. Lucky her. I'd like forty three days of that! I clearly am a person that doesn't fit in anywhere. I have lots of friends. I have family. What can I change? Nothing. It's too late for me. Poor choices and settling for second best have led me to this. No one is to blame, but me.
'It is what it is'. Who said that? It was either Big's mum or Henry Kissinger.
'Count your blessings' is a phrase that annoys the hell out of me. But I suppose that is what I shall have to do.
1 have lovely Boy
2 am lovely one
3 am good painter
4 still have both parents
5 have lots of lovely friends
6 am almost rid of vile husband for good
7 have exceptionally good health
8 live in lovely Wivey
9 the world isn't ever likely to run out of vodka or fags
10 someone might love me one day...

think Big thoughts today, dear reader. The Big one is sick.

Thursday, 18 June 2009

In which Gnome has yet another clothing dilemma...

I can't believe it, Gnome has clearly taken leave of his senses! He telephoned me this morning, twice, after emailing me to ask me what to wear to go to watch cricket! I favour the red pointy cap, buckled shoes and plus fours for the run of the mill Gnome, but he went off sporting, tailored shorts and the linen shirt I specifically told him not to wear until he goes to Spain. For goodness sake, I was in the process of deciding whether to go curly or straight and then moving on to what 'goes' with curly or straight, and then the added dilemma of shoes and handbag, and HE THOUGHT I WOULD BE INTERESTED IN WHAT HE IS WEARING. Is the man demented, or what, dear reader. Doesn't he realise I'd had a lie in until 6.00am and had to leave for work by nine! How could he think I'd have time to spend on the wardrobe of a Gnome. He is proving to be very high maintenance in the clothing department. When I am in total charge he will find himself under a very strict regime indeed. Firstly I shall get out the bin bag and use the selection method favoured by dear old DH. It won't take as long as she used to though, since ALL items owned by Gnome will be given to the deserving poor, if they want them. Special treatment will be given to the dreaded Kaftan. I shall insist he wear it, then set fire to the hem, so in the process of atempting to save himself he will have time to fully take on board the fact that no clothing of any sort will be purchased without the prior inspection of Lovely Moi!
Not that it would matter what was donned today since I have no doubt whatever that it will all be covered with red wine stains and vile runny goo that has escaped from whatever bun/pitta/kebab housed his lunch!

Tuesday, 16 June 2009

In which I am set a series of tasks in order to win the hand of Gnome...

Once again I have been informed that Gnome will need a year to decide whether I am 'the one' or not. I have asked if he can be absolutely specific as to the date because I'd like to wear a statement frock and a pair of obscenely lovely shoes. Obviously I shall have to make a prior booking to have my eyelashes dyed so that when I dissolve, either from rejection or acceptance, I shan't be plopping huge mascara filled tears all over me Chloe frock. I shall pull a Victorian, hand embroidered lace hanky from my Chanel bag and very prettily dab my eyes!
Or, if the verdict doesn't fall in my favour, I shall chin the bastard and leg it to the nearest Vodka boutique.
Big thinks I've taken leave of my senses. He thinks Gnome should be auditioning for a job as 'Speaker', 'Order', 'Order' etc. He thinks I need a bit of disciplince, sounds interesting, but definitely no order. I am an artist after all.
I'm rather more interested in this 'seeing one another through the seasons' issue. I think I may have come through Spring alright. A fitting pun though rather tooo vulgar por moi!
Summer's tests begin in July. What will they consist of? Will I be required to barbeque anything. The mind boggleth verily!
Shall I have to parade in a swimsuit or undertake seasonal sporting activities? Who knows? Gnome knows, I expect. He's probably got a tick list for me!
I'm a little concerned about Autumn as that colour palatte doesn't suit moi. I'm an early Summer pinks girly, as you know, dear reader.
Can't really think of any Autumnul tests. Maybe I shall have to apple bob without smudging my makeup, or take a tumble in the Autumn leaves, who knows?
The season of mists and mellow fruitfullness should be rather snuggly with Gnome and hopefully he'll have put those ghastly shorts away for the season and be wearing longs!
Winter will prove interesting. Maybe driving over ice? Cooking a Lancashire Hotpot. Lancashire is in Yorkshire, isn't it? I got a bit confused over that and these persons from north of Watford get all uppity! I would have thought one pidgeon loft looked much the same as another, still there one is!
Maybe building a snowman or having a snowball fight will come into it. I shall, of course, look divine in my Ugg boots and Fastnet, specially made, short wide alpaka coat. I shall dab a bit of blusher, just in case it's not cold enough and my cheeks don't 'pink' up in the expected manner.
Then, Christmas. Will I get a certificate of achievement or an engagement ring...

Monday, 15 June 2009

In which I begin the tale of 'week of bliss'...

Just finished leaping around the sitting room with RC. As I often say that woman isn't human. Colgate smile, bouncy castle hairdo in place - her. Red face, dishevelled frizz - me.
Anyway just time to recount a story or two about the 'week of bliss'.
G and I like the same things. What a lovely thing for me, well and for him too. We set off on many outings together and did all the touristy things. G loved it down here in the west, where we are like England used to be. I can remember when I first came here and felt the same. Well that's not exactly true, I hated it to start with since I couldn't get used to the leisurely pace of life. But, I grew to love it and would only move for love.
It was wonderful exploring together and as if we'd known each other all our lives. We were very comfortable in one anothers company all day long and at night of course! In the afternoons people of our age need a little lie down so we went to his apartment in order not to alarm Boy any more than we already have.
I have never in all my life met anyone who requires absolute organisation of every event in such detail. The funniest thing I've ever seen was G rushing back and forth, half naked, clutching little piles of gnome sized t shirts and shorts in a desperate attempt to organise the weeks outfits into colour coordination. Let's face it one hideous pair of shorts teamed with, wait for it, a coloured t shirt, with writing on it, looks much the same as another.
He really was such fun, but I am worried about the 'time planning' and 'risk management' that goes along with everything - even lovely one!
Apparently, an entire year has to pass before it will be known if I am 'suitable' or not. Blimey, it's worse than my sailing and cooking proficiency tests with Boat, and we all know what happened there, don't we, dear reader!
G seemed rather keen on me nipping out to Spain for a few days, but on mention of the possibility has rather gone off the idea, or so it would seem. Apparently a male friend is going. So I expect two over the hill articles like them will be necking the local vino and annoying innocent young girls trying to get boffed by Spanish waiters. I well remember how annoying it is to be chatted up by someone who reminds one of one's aged P. Let's hope Gnome attaches that to his fishing rod and casts it!!

In which I am stuck on my Gnome...

A very stressful day in the 'day job'! One of my charges' father died last night and since she and I have a very good, close relationshp she wanted me to spend the day with her. Of course, I was happy so to do, but also had all my other needy little souls to contend with.
Following the 'week of bliss' with Gnome I fell into a state of decline and was feeling very lonely and sorry for myself. I do, however, darlings, bounce back very quickly (with my bottom it's inevitable). Today I decided that if Evil Wobbly Woman said one thing about my absence last week, I would quit immediately. I was further advised about this by G when we spoke at lunchtime. He and BF are concerned that the two previous incumbants of my job have had nervous breakdowns. You and I, dear reader, know that I am made of sterner stuff than that! After all how could I have survived all those years with Vile Husband, complete with strange Boy to contend with and emerged still looking like a Fifth Avenue Model! Well, alright then, maybe a catalogue model. OH OKAY, one of those fit old birds who appears in adverts during Countdown, having a bath with her bathing suit on! Those ads fascinate me, it would appear all we have to look forward to is weeing ourselves and snogging blokes wearing false teeth.
I digress somewhat, my dears, from my point, which is, that I am a survivor, I am tough. I may be all pink and fluffy and girly on the outside. Well, like a pink fluffy Amazon, but I have a steel rod running through me!
I grant you, I was bereft at the departure of my Gnome and that's as it should be. After all, if I didn't miss his lovely little self, what would be the point of it all.
We know one another well, but there is still much to discover and I'm looking forward to that. My problem is that I can deal with any amount of other people's distress and yet am a complete baby about my own! So, Gnome, BF et al don't worry about me. Care about me, be concerned (I like that) but please don't worry.
I miss my Gnome and shall think of him often until we meet again, because I am stuck on him. Well I plan to be anyway!

Sunday, 14 June 2009

In which I fall into line...

One long day has passed without my Gnome. I have filled it quite satisfactorily. I mosied off this afternoon in the sunshine to do some sketching. On passing my friends house I was lured in with promise of wine and spent a lovely afternoon in the sunshine. Then, after she'd gone off to do horsey things I nipped in for a cup of tea with BF. Boy spent the day with Vile Husband and came home for supper. Popped in to see S to fill her in on the 'week of bliss'. Had a few chats with G throughout the day which was lovely and now when I tell him where I've been and where I'm going he can picture it.
'Big' has emailed and of course is sceptical about G and me. Has he no soul? We really are compatible in every way. How many people could you spend an entire week with in such a state of contentment, dear reader? Only time will tell what happens next, but it is lovely to contemplate the thought of spending all our time together in the future. Until then I shall paint, paint, paint. And of course write, write, write.
It's so easy for men to compartmentalise their lives. I just love the idea of taking a leap into the unknown, but this time I shall be sensible and follow the 'risk management' plan of G. After all, some things in life are so wonderful they are worth 'risking' the wait for, aren't they?

In which I discover a gnome wearing trollies on his head is a complete turn on...

Well hello there, dear reader. I feel myself again. I beg you to excuse yesterday's appalling self piteous behaviour as the raw emotions lovely one has due to being an artist. G (NLI) says it's too much red wine and curry, but what would a sensible gnome know, I ask you?
I have just been severly rebuked for telephoning G at 8.00am. Well, what was I to do? I awoke, in starfish position, no G, just two morbidly obese pussies purring contentedly on the bed. There should have been another.
Excuse me - telephone
It was G instructing me on how to remove myself from the KS dating website. I wasn't even permitted to have a crafty squizz at the FOURTEEN men who'd peeked at me this week or the TEN fans I have currently. Hey Ho, pass the gnome.
I feel I should begin at the beginning and divulge snippets of information daily. That way I can treasure each memory at a leisurely pace. So...
Last Sunday I kept on getting emails from BF indicating how many hours it would be until arrival of G (NLI). Eventually I telephoned and spoke to BFP.
'For goodness sakes tell her to calm down', says I.
'Oooo?', says BFP in his what I now know is a Lancashire accent.
‘She’s more excited than I am for goodness sake!’, says I.
‘Well she don’t get mooch excit’mnt in ‘er life’, says BFP.
I, of course darling reader, remained serene throughout the evening. I scrubbed up rather well for an old girl, even though I say so myself, and was a picture in black lycra and lace. Well, things did deteriorate somewhat when tiny butterflies took up residence in my stomach, and indeed, my gusset.
All I did was nip outside for a fag and a vodka. How was I to know it would be sub zero temperatures in June with Hurricaine Herbert blowing round the grounds. Obviously I needed more than one to warm myself up, which meant another couple of fags, which meant staying outside, which meant, lovely hairdo rendering one a dead ringer for the mutant progeny of Bette Midler and an Old English Sheepdog.
Then……A phone call.
‘I’m in Wellington’, says he. I confess, I can’t actually remember what I said, but the position of G meant time for heated rollers and another quick puff at least.
Then, before I knew it, another call…
‘I’m outside’, says he.
I opened the door and draped myself provocatively against the frame.
‘Welcome to my world’, says I, suddenly noticing I have a heated roller left in my fringe.
Ever the gentleman, G pretended not to notice as I lugged it out and shoved it in my trouser pocket. I can’t tell you how good lycra leggings look with a heated roller bulge as an added attraction.
Anyway, following a bit of polite shuffling around to ascertain who would walk through the door first, G (NLI) did indeed enter my world.
Exchange of gifts, exclamations about how divine lovely one’s apartment looked, hugs, standing back staring at one another, and then, having had in depth telephonal knowledge of moi for some time G says…
‘I expect you’d like to nip outside for a fag to calm your nerves.’
So, dear reader, we did, complete with a bottle of champagne, for which G had kindly brought glasses, having knowledge of my inability to keep glassware intact.
I knew G was utter perfection when, unable to find his hat, he kept his darling little head warm with a pair of shreddies.
There’s not much wrong with a chap who puts his trollies on his head on the first date, now is there?!

And thence bedward. Don’t worry about me S. It’s him you should be concerned about.
More on that story later…

Saturday, 13 June 2009

In which I and happy and sad about my gnome...

Counting in the opposite direction now, he's been gone for almost seven and a half hours. He called me when he got home to say he'd arrived safely and I remained restrained on the telephone since BF was with me. I'm not quite sure how I feel. It's so quiet in the flat. One can grow quite used to having a gnome around the place. When I came back from my lecture yesterday I could hear the sound of snoring coming from my boudoir. I kid you not, dear reader, even his snoring is attractive. I called out to Boy,
'There's a gnome in my bed having a nap. Is it yours? I don't remember putting it there.'
I wish it was there now though. Isn't it strange how one doesn't realise what's been missing from one's life? I guess I just 'shut down' my emotions throughout a miserable marriage and just got on with what I had to do. Now I have found what would appear to be my perfect partner. No, really! We 'fit' together in every way. We both have obligations that require fulfillment and so shall meet as and when we can until aged P's and offspring various are accomodated. And of course his job.
I hoped this blog would be a big giggle about all the fun we had, but an enormous tear has just plopped onto my keyboard. Now I'm REALLY lonely. I want my gnome and I hope he wants me! Half of me is joyous with what I've found and the other half sad because I won't see gnome for a few weeks. I expect I shall buck up tomorrow and tell you about my fabulous week and the beginning of a wonderful life for gnome and me.
Until then, dear reader, I'm going outside for a fag. No vodka or any other kind of alcohol though as far too much champagne etc has been consumed this week!

in which I introduce 'Gnome'...

Well, dear reader, he has gone! What a fabulous week it has been. Now I have that horrible sick feeling in the pit of my stomach knowing that it will be many weeks before we meet again. Am I in love? Am I over emotional? Did I eat too much curry and drink too much champagne last night? All three I suspect.
We had masses of fun and laughs and when I feel a little more settled I shall share it with you. I recommend internet dating because, frankly, I wouldn't have looked at him twice. Nor he, me! Because we grew to know and like each other mainly over the telephone by the time we met it didn't matter to us what the other looked like. Obviously, it was fine for him, since, as you know dear reader, I am gorgeous. He, however, looks rather like, and is the same size, well next to me anyway, a garden gnome.
Much 'gnome maintenance' has taken place this week, and Boy says if he hears the word 'darling' once more, he will vomit!
Although, as you know, I am an Amazonian Valkyrie, he has the temerity to refer to me as 'wench'.
Actually, I rather like it, but don't tell him, will you?

Monday, 8 June 2009

In which I sing in praise of Cat Pyjamas...

I shall be issuing a short statement from the Town Hall steps later on today.
However, If you are out shopping I suggest you dash immediately to the first Cat Pyjama shop you see.
I wore mine last night and if that happens I'm wearing them EVERY NIGHT and quite possible DURING THE DAY TOO.

Sunday, 7 June 2009

In which I put flea powder on my pussy...

BF is more excited than I am and keeps emailing me with how many hours it is before NLI gets here. I tell you what, even if he doesn't like me I bet he offers me a job as his cleaning lady because the flat has never looked so fab! I've been at it since 5.00am and the bedroom looks like a tart's boudoir. There are scented candles everywhere and the champagne is on ice.
I am exfoliated, waxed, oiled, blow dried and dressed in black lace and chiffon. Not bad even if I say so myself.
I'm off outside now to down a few vodkas and smoke some fags.
I've ironed my cat pyjamas and put flea powder on my pussy, so there's no more I can do.
Wish me luck!
I may be gone for some time dear reader.

Saturday, 6 June 2009

In which I embark upon a life of crime...

I have embarked upon a life of crime, dear reader. Yesterday I was waiting at the end of the mews to let M in and espied a glorious peony bush. I have to wait in the mews to let people in as we have a locked gate to keep out the marauding rif raf element. Anyhow, back to the peony. In my defence it was pouring down with rain and Hurricaine Herbert was whipping up a storm, well a bit anyway. First I thought, 'Oh, one of those would look pretty gorgeous in a lovely jug next to the bed, setting the scene a bit'. Then before I knew it a little demon had taken possession of me and I'd stripped the entire plant of all it's luscious blooms. Who should come round the corner but horrible old dog woman, and, following years of scowls and generally not speaking to me, wanted to stop for a flamin' chat! Well, that's not quite true, she did start speaking to me after I parted from Vile Husband, maybe it was him she took objection to. I can run with that!
I was caught red handed and looking as guilty as sin! There didn't seem any point in denying my foul deed, or indeed, ignoring it, since I was standing next to the naked bush with a still dripping bunch of flowers clutched to my ample breast.
A look of demonic glee flashed across horrible dog woman's face as she realised the worth of a piece of information such as this! I muttered something about the flowers being battered to pieces by the rain, but to no effect. We exchanged pleasantries about the weather and such and she shot off to her place no doubt to inform all and sundry of my criminal activities.
I can see it now...
'Woman, you stand accused of the heinous crime of ruining Lovely Gordon's holiday home front garden. How do you plead? Guilty or Not Guilty?'
Lovely Gordon will be in the front circle, is that what you call it in High Court, with his manservant 'shiny little man.' Lovely Gordon will drop his Greek God head into his hands and shake with emotion. Whereupon manservant will squeeze his hand and mop his brow.
Horrible dog woman will take the stand and seal my fate as the jurors are shown pictures of the stripped peony bush.
Exhibit one, the peonies, will be brought into court in the jug I got from the junk shop at the top of the road. Yes, junk shop harpie, it IS a junk shop and not an antique shop. So come out from up yer own bottom!
The judge having been issued with a resounding GUILTY from the foreman of the jury will place the pink hankie on his wig. They use a pink one for nice lady criminals like moi, not the black one that is used for revolting, common, council estate criminals!
Obviously I shall get 'life'. I will be taken 'down' by some big lezzer prison guards and made to leave my lovely Lanvin shoes, Chloe frock and Agent Provocatuer shreddies in a nasty bag, not even wrapped in scented tissue, for goodness sake!
Then, after being forced to wear some exceptionally ghastly penal pyjamas I shall be taken of to 'bunk' in with some big fat lezzer criminal who will obviously spend her entire life trying to snog lovely, pink, fluffy moi!

Friday, 5 June 2009

In which I defy popular opinion and decide my cat pyjamas are the cat's whiskers

Have just awoken in starfish position again. Only one more night with the possibility of that. How has starfish position evolved, I wonder. From cat avoidance, perhaps. Or, maybe in a past life I have been shackled to all four corners of the bed at some stage. It certainly wasn't in this life, the most adventurous position enjoyed by Vile Husband was sitting up eating a biscuit. No, not during, instead of!
Went last minute shopping with BF. Have now got essentials - Chanel No 5, Champagne, strawberries, Ylang Ylang oil...
Will give apartment massive clean on Sunday and then begin the long wax, exfoliate, oil, make up programme on self.
Hairdresser D was attempting to get me to change my hairstyle. I wanted to but I shall leave major change until later. I shall plod on with blonde curtains. So easy to hide behind! Very retro 1960's and rather nice methinks. However, when curtains part they reveal the face I've actually had since the 1960's, and frankly some time before that! I think I shall have enough new things to get used to this weekend! I was telling D about the level of excitement about my up coming adventure that's been generated by the young girls at work and all the advice about what not, and what to, wear.
'You wear whatever makes you comfortable', says she.
However, on discovery of the 'cat pyjamas' her advice about being 'comfortable' and 'wearing what I want' went out of the open window!
To emphasise the seriousness of the situation she left attending the back of my head, walked around to face me and said in a very grave manner,
Now, I grant you dear reader, I haven't had any new 'man' experiences for twenty eight years. Oh blimey, it really is that long, I just worked it out. I don't mean no S-E-X, I just mean with someone new. Before I hooked up with vile husband, I used to live with my boss. Well he was my boss to start with. That lasted seven years, the first two of which we didn't live together, he was married to someone else. No wonder my emotions can't be trusted. I just don't have any experience of stuff like this.
I seem to remember setting the scene for Vile Husband once with DH, my then BF, in the sitting room of my little cottage in Eggington. We thought we'd light a real log fire in the inglenook, which the previous owner had very kindly left all the fire lightingy kind of stuff in.
We didn't realise that we should have turned the fire basket up the other way so that the logs could go inside the thing and left it in it's unused position of a hump shape.
I duly got into my current seduction outfit which at that time was a white victorian lace floor length nightdress with my dark pre-raphaelite curls cascading down to my waist, and we set about stacking the logs.
We must have spent about two bloody hours trying to balance the logs on top of the wretched thing, eventually, when it met with out satisfaction, we set fire to them and sat back with our dry martinis.
All we succeeded in doing that night was, smoking out the entire cottage, since some brainless nerk had put something up the chimney to stop draughts, getting lashed and setting fire to the rug in front of the fire! And - to top that Vile Husband's Bentley broke down on the way from London so didn't show anyway.
Let me tell all of you right now -
I won't be setting fire to anything, or getting lashed - but I shall be wearing -

Thursday, 4 June 2009

In which I put on half a sodding pound...

Sat in the garden with BF last night comisserating over the fact that I'd PUT ON half a pound at fat club. How did that happen! I've been lumbering around the sitting room at 6.00am every other morning with Rosemary Conley for goodness sake. That woman is not human! She completes the entire workout whilst, talking, smiling and never losing control of the bouncy castle hairdo. I, being an Amazonian type woman, who also happens to be very clumsy, flail about, making all the right moves, but not necessarily in the right order. I thwacked the chandelier in the middle of the sitting room ceiling yesterday and it swung precariously over my head rattling it's crysals in a menacing manner for quite some time. It can also be a life threatening past time whilst negotiating my way around four stones of big fat cat!
The whole way through the excersise tape, RC just goes on and on about how much weight various members of the team have lost.
'Here's Tracey who's feeling a whole lot fitter after losing almost three stones', she beams. Then you get a shot of smiley Tracey, the smug moo, in her lycra leggings and little top.
I spit upon your 'almost three stones' Tracey, and frankly, looking at you, your money would have been better spent at a decent hairdresser.
I, old, worn out, knackered, (but still hopeful) me, have lost four stones and cured myself of type 2 diabetes. Beat that Tracey, bloody thin thighed, moo faced, smug legginged excersise video person!
There is also a bloke in the excersise team.
'Here's Dave, who's lost an incredible five stones', says RC and Dave leaps about with a smile on his face that could curdle milk at twenty five yards. He has the sort of face that would benefit from a short sharp squirt of Mace.
Rant, Rant, Rant! HOW DID I PUT ON HALF A SODDING POUND! BF says it must be muscle. NLI says it must be alcohol.
Now, I ask you, dear reader, how was I supposed to know Vodka had calories! It's see through for heavens sake!

Wednesday, 3 June 2009

In which aged P brings me down...

Have come home from work in wonderful mood after spending another glorious day in the garden with students. Made fatal error of calling aged P to ask if she'd tried to contact Boy and me over the past couple of days since we have been without a phone.
'I thought he was there this week so I daren't phone', says she.
'No, next week', I answer.
'He must be a midget' says she.
'I don't think so' I reply, beginning to boil inside since I can see what this conversation is going to be like.
'Have you seen a picture of him? Has he got hair?' she ploughs on.
'Of course I've seen a picture of him. I've seen lots of pictures of him, and yes, he has got hair'.
'How come he can afford to buy you presents if he's only a **** ****. Has he ever had a good job?' she asks.
Now, dear reader, over the years I have had many similar conversations with aged P. She is probably the most negative person I have ever met. Every time I pick up the telephone to speak to her I intend to say when Boy and I will visit, but after about thirty seconds I go right off the idea.
She just doesn't get it! She is so rude about, and to almost everyone!
I attempt to change the conversation and tell her I'm just about finished with the horse picture commission.
'Oh I'm still painting the collage', says she.
So I try again with, 'Won't it be great if it works out with NLI?'
'Why?' says she.
'Well, I'd have someone to go travelling with and do stuff with.'
'Huh, you're taking after your Father', she huffs.
'Correct me if I'm wrong', say I, 'But wasn't he working away?'
'Huh, that's what he said', she says through obviously clenched teeth.
'I'm not interested in talking about that', I say, since we trawl through that one on a regular basis, and lets face it, they're both seventy nine now and have been divorced for twenty bloody years for goodness sake!
AND, 'take after your father' for heaven's sake, I'm almost fifty flamin' two!
So now, dear reader, I'm in a miserable frame of mind and NO VODKA in the house!
Have coffee and fag instead, yum!
Finished horses though.
Strange email from Big a couple of days ago feigning hurt feelings because I 'misunderstood' what he was trying to say. How, I ask you, can I misunderstand the instruction to 'drag a bloke in off the street'. What is it with these people? Doesn't anyone want to be happy? That's all I want.
Big says 'Let us all know how you get on.'
Does that mean Big is removing himself from my life?
I wonder.

Tuesday, 2 June 2009

in which I am encouraged to go all Carol Baker... and Thumper came to visit...

What a lovely day again. I could get used to this! Took JW and MH to town with PO to get some summer clothes. PO insisted on holding all manner of baby doll type nighties against me in an effort to get me to glam up a bit in the evenings. I fear the pink satin baby doll ship may have sailed from my particular horizon some years ago, but she wasn't having any of it! Anyway I can't see me wriggling around in anything made of such polyestery type material that might ignite the poor chap in his sleep. I did tell her I'd deferred to BF and abandoned usage of the now infamous black jim jams in favour of some white cotton ones with ginger cats on them.
'You can't wear them!', she shrieked!
Finally I was pursuaded to aquire a misty grey three piece ensemble consisting of satin trousers, a camisole top and a pretty little jacket thingy. I just tried it on and it does look ok but, it has to be said, I am more the pussy cat jim jams type. Anything vaguely lacy makes me look like an all in wrestler dressed as a fairy!
F dashed out into the garden when she saw me today. She doesn't like animals and circled Thumper the giant rabbit cautiously before shouting at me.
'What are you doing here?' she enquired. 'I thought you were on holiday this week.'
I told her that next week is the week of NLI's visit and she was horrified since she's then on holiday for two weeks and would be beside herself for news of my adventure.
I suppose it's rather nice that they're all so interested and I don't mind providing a bit of light entertainment.
However, it has been isisted upon that I attend a training course on the Friday afternoon of NLI's week, so I expect there'll be a lot of questioning then.
Fat club and vodka club on Thursday, so shall question vodka girls on anything I may have forgotten and make a list.
Friday, hair to be attended to. Saturday apartment to be attended to. Sunday, during the day, nerves, skin and nails to be done and as for Sunday night - well!!

Monday, 1 June 2009

In which I leave a trail of custard creams...

What a fab day, weatherwise, and everything else wise, come to that. Day's like today make my usually unsatisfactory day job an utter joy. Imagine, dear reader, being PAID to sit outside in the sunshine making bead bracelets and doing a crossword. Not to mention, having refreshments delivered on a regular basis and sneaking the odd puff behind the hedge. It must look as if someone is sending out smoke signals so to that end I blew 'sod off, I'm having a fag'.
In the afternoon I took little c out for some shopping and a coffee. I really like taking her out, something always happens to make us laugh, usually down to my incredible clumsiness and accident prone-tivity! Today it was that we got rather too much shopping, I've never been able to resisit the 'bogof'. So with bargains various we set off back down the High Street with numerous carrier bags hanging off little c's chair handles. Poor little c was barely visible behind the 'must have' bargain bog rolls I'd piled up on her lap, when she said 'Claire, what's that noise?'
I thought her wheels just needed oiling, but on closer inspection they'd been gradually wearing holes in our carrier bags as we went along and we were leaving a trail of custard creams all along the High Street. Little c almost fell out of her chair laughing.
Little c had measles as a child that left her physically disabled, though not mentally, which is the worst of all worlds, it seems to me. I too had measles when I was five in my inner ear and everyone thought I'd be deaf. I just had earache for years and virtually one whole year off school, but little c had a really bad hand dealt to her. It is a salutory lesson working with her and the others.
Am nocturnally wandering at the moment. Boy can't sleep either, so we've got up and decided to have a drink.
Boy, spying my fetching new, freshly delivered pussy pyjamas, says, 'I see you've finally accepted that the black jim jams are unnacceptable at last'.
'Not at all', says I 'I merely thought I'd look cute in pink ones with tiny pussies all over them'.
Boy, raising eyebrows and rolling eyeballs says,'I'm saying nothing.'
Having been sunning meself all day I asked Boy to scratch my back and do you know what? He refused, saying he had to get some sleep since he has an English Literature GCSE tomorrow morning.
'What sort of teenager are you?' I ask.
'Think yourself lucky I study and don't hang around street corners drinking and taking drugs', says he. 'I'll be able to give you pocket money when you're a little old lady'.
'YES, RESULT' says me punching the air!
'You could be a little more subtle Mum', says Boy.
Maybe so, but why change now?