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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...