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Friday, 31 December 2010

In which I reflect upon a year in grey horrid Plymouth...

This evening Vile ex-husband and Boy are to be entertainted (not a spelling error) by Very Dirty Diddycoy Woman and equally repulsive, rotton toothed, offspring. Do I text them to remind them to don clean undies?

Never one to let a prospective customer slip through One's tender grasp, I am currently holed up, snuggled in uggs and pashmina, on the Barbican. Fully intending to regale my Dear Readers with an overview of my first full year in Deepest, I stocked up on mince pies and seasonal fare at the Co-op and took up position next to the till...
Only to be interrupted by my first three Lenkie Bores of the day...
Bore No 1
'I've got a Lenkiewicz in the loft.'
Me - 'Oh lucky you! Why isn't it on the wall?'
'Haven't got the wall space. Is there a market for them?'
Me: 'Is it an original?'
'No. A limited edition print.'
Nurturing a strong desire to pull a large one off the wall and brain the ugly bint with it I replied...
'The limited editions are rather large, but you may be lucky and find a buyer.'
Enter No's two and three...
No two wanted to tell me about how she'd lived around here once and seen him in the street. Also, of course, the usual 'is there a market for it', and 'how much are they worth.'
Number three, thankfully struck up a conversation with number two which enabled me to rush outside and smash my head against the pavement until I passed out for a couple of minutes. Upon my return they had all effed off, thanks be to whatever!

Anyway, back to something much more interesting, Lovely One. A full year has passed since I've been here and I don't like it any more than I did when first I alighted on the grubby pavements. Plymouth is grey in the extreme. It is overpopulated by dull, miserable grey people too. The architecture is some of the most unnattractive and boring I have ever seen in any part of the country. In fact, Devon has a reputation that it does not deserve. I always expected it to be beautiful and lush therefore spawning a content and attractive people. Nope. In the main it's a mean, inward looking county that is unwelcoming and unhappy. Endless row upon row of grey uninspiring bungalows house an ageing population waiting to croak.
Somerset, however, is full of happy people who form cooperative communities and live life to the full, laughing and enjoying themselves.
I would be back there like a shot if it were possible. I miss everything and everyone.
I have made a life here in the gallery and a couple of chums therein, but it's not for me. Maybe Tamerton Foliot will be better. Who knows? It can't be any worse for heaven's sake! I shall attempt to immerse my dear little self in the local community and join things.
In Wivey One could always walk up the road and meet a friendly face for a chat or an impromptu coffee. Whatever was I thinking? There can only be one place like that!
It takes a massive amount of discontent for Lovely One to lose her Pollyanna outlook, but I fear the hour is approaching...

I shan't be alerting Boy and ex to the fresh shreddy requirement. Where they're going skid marked undies are de riguer.

Thursday, 30 December 2010

In which I sell sell sell AND IT'S ALL MINE...

I take it all back Darling Readers, the great unwashed Barbican shopper is a creature of exquisite taste. Dear Darling Lovely One slithered her poorly little self from between the eau de nil satin sheets this very morn to be met by an unusually large ugly crowd of shoppers seemingly intent on purchasing art. And, dear lovely ones, the art of Dear Lovely One!
There is nothing, in my opinion, to match the restorative qualities of a large wedge. I scoff at yer whisky in hot milk and yer Lemmington Sip. Give us a hefty bundle of greenbacks to whiff and me passages are cleared without delay!
Gone a bit quiet now, so having a bit of a scoff. Vast quantities of sausage rolls and chocolate must be consumed by midnight tomorrow night or I shall have to chuck them out for the birds, and a rather hoooge Rattus Rattus that has been sniffing around the patio of late.
Had some Lenkie bores in already. Make a bee line for the back of the shop and then drone on about having sat next to his sister's late husband's cousin's dentist or some such mind numbing drivel. I don't care. This is a shop. Buy something or fuck off!
OMG another one!
'I've got loads of Lenkie prints and an original', says this one.
So help me I shall silence the next one FOREVER.
Give me a Beryl Cook fan any day. At least they are a laugh! And they're usually female, whereas the Lenkie fan is predominantly male.
And therein lies the truth.
The bar is set that much lower for the male of the species.

Wednesday, 29 December 2010

In which I want to murder all and sundry AND I'm not well...

Two blogs in one v boring day! I spoil you dear readers!
Under gallery arrest on the Barbican. Some window shoppers and one or two with a bit of Chrimbo dosh to spend. Mainly windowshoppers though, sadly.
Managed to offload a ghastly framed print of Polperro to a moustachioed septagenarian spending her fat son's wages.
A couple of Lenkie books and a Liz Jones calendar went to a delightful bint with a couple of v impressive coldsores.
And, of course, some weirdos...

Weirdo number one...

'Hello Darlin' I bet you're glad it's not snowing any more have you got a picture of concorde?'

me: No I'm sorry we don't have that kind of thing here. Perhaps the photography shop along the way might be able to help you.

weirdo one: 'How much is a picture of concorde?'

me: We don't have any.

weirdo: (brandishing a picture of a deep sea diver from one of the browsers)
'This big I want it. How much is that'.

me: 'we don't have any pictures of concorde.'

Eventually he f****d off only to be replaced by weirdo two...

'I used to live in a big house.'

Me: 'How lovely.'

weirdo two: 'Do you want to buy my paintings. I've got loads of them.'

Me: 'Try selling them on the internet.'

Weirdo: 'They're by Bla Bla. Have you heard of him, he's really famous?'

Me: 'No I haven't. Would you like to speak to the gallery owner? She might want to take one in on sale or return.'

Weirdo two: 'I live in a bungalow.'

Now, I've been back here all of two hours and I could cheerfully carpet bomb the entire area.

Ancient red haired woman just popped in to tell me that she's 80 and her sister's are 83 and 91.


In which I am glad the season of not very much goodwill is over...

Well, Dear Readers, it's all over for another year, thank goodness! Boy graced us with his unwashed presence for three days and sat playing on his I phone or computer for most of the time. He and Bloke circled round each other, and Lovely One, for the entire time making One feel uncomfortable in the extreme. I would go as far as to say there was real hostility, though I shan't lay the blame for that at either's door.
No conversation passed between the two. Lovely One took refuge in vin rouge, something I hardly ever do these days. I longed for Wiveliscombe and my little cozy flat.
I had no idea how fraught step families can be. I nursed some stchoopid idea that everyone would be chummy and we'd all have lovely times together. Some hopes!
I know that Boy is alright with ex and is getting along ok, but I bitterly regret leaving him there. I always thought that he'd get fed up and come to deepest Devon, but now I can see that is never going to happen. I will never be happy whilst he is under the tender care of vile ex-husband. Their standards are way below what I consider to be acceptable. But, it has to be said, they are like pigs in pooh!

Blokes grown up children came on Boxing Day. I am nice to them.

A very alarming piece of information was passed to me by Boy.
Apparently, vile ex-husband is being pursued by the woman from whom I rented the Red Hat shop. Lovely One always suspected she was aiming her soiled gusset in his direction. How positively ghastly!
She is grubby in the extreme. As are all her many and variously fathered offspring. I well remember, whilst working at the estate agent in Wivey, attempting to sell her vast cavernous dwelling. Incidentally, after she'd taken £2000 from me that I'd borrowed for her to pay her mortgage in order that I could keep the shop open, which was misappropriated, I imagine, since we were bunged out of the shop when her gaff was repossessed.
Anyway, dear reader, I dragged many a punter through the filthy dump that was liberally sprinked with soiled, gusset up, shreddies and the like. Ducks and rabbits paraded through a hole in the kitchen door which had been shredded to sawdust by something that simply cannot have been a mere domestic dog!

A catering business was run from this hell hole!
Anyhow, I digress, Boy and vile ex-husband are cordially invited to her current des res for New Year's Eve doings.

Oh to be one of the very many flies on the wall!!

Sunday, 19 December 2010

In which I am front of house in a three ring circus...

Everyone in this establishment has special needs of one sort or another...

Yesterday a customer came in to collect a pic that had been framed and, of course, it was still at the Elburton Drop in Centre. Miserable Old D was immediately seconded to deliver said pic to the irate woman. Irate woman had a v nasty cold and was snotting all over Lovely One as she moaned and carried on in an unattractive manner. Dear Little Lovely One as 'front of house' gets it big style for all the things that go awry in this three ring circus. Irate woman huffed off eventually to await delivery with a massive gilbert on the end of her red nose that I chose not to tell her about because she was horrid!
Anyway, I digress, as per...
Miserable old D was furnished with Irate Woman's post code in order that he could
a use satnav
b a map
c get a printout from multimap
but no...
He phones Irate Woman and gets a load of unintelligible instructions which he couldn't hear anyway since She who must be Obeyed was yelling instructions into his other ear. Eventually SwmbO grabs telephoning device out of his rheumatic grip and takes over the 'how to get there' conversation.
Mis old D huffs off down the road to see his 'oppo clutching the order form with the post code written on it. Comes back without it some minutes later.
'Where is the postcode' inquires Lovely One.
'You've got it' replies Mis old D
'I haven't. I saw you go off with it', say I. 'Give it to me and I'll print you out the way there from Multimap. Or would you like to take my satnav?'
Wondering why She who.... wasn't joining in I discovered the main reason was that she'd fallen asleep in the chair. She awoke with a start when he stormed out of the door yet again, clearly having realised that he had indeed left the order form somewhere on his last expedition. Arriving back some minutes later I saw him screw it up and drop it on the floor, whereupon he alighted upon it crying..
'Here it is. I told you that you'd got it', pointing a gnarled digit in my direction.
I pointed out that I had, indeed, seen the cunning old git drop it on the floor, but he wouldn't have it and huffed off to make the delivery.
That's the last I saw of him.
I hope she wiped her gilbert on him.

Sunday, 5 December 2010

In which I am wounded in the service of art...

Under gallery arrest on the Barbican today. Elburton yesterday. Sold an artist's proof of the Barbican first thing this morning, so that's cheered me up after having to get out of me snuggly pit and disentagle meself from a bear.
Yesterday was crap! Didn't sell much. A few framing orders and a rake of Chrimbo cards, mine of course, and that was about it. Spent most of the day taping up frames for Dear Little S. Well, in between painting a pic of stinky dog for Bloke's Chrimbo pressie. Completely shagged it though, by dropping black ink on it, so tore it up in a paddy, and bunged it in the Indian Takeaway bin next door in disgust.
So it's shreddies and socks for him again!

We have here, at the moment, a gang of Lenkie observers. Oh goody! THIS IS A SODDING SHOP, NOT AN EFFING MUSEUM. BUY SOMETHING - OR F***K OFF!

No - I don't want yet another bloody six hour discussion about Lenkie sodding vich!
We do now have lots of Beryl Cook stuff on offer and her admirers seem a much nicer bunch. Don't mind a chin wag with them from time to time.
There is just too much stuff in this shop. It confuses the browsers who can't be arsed to wade through the thousands of prints and originals stacked all over the place.
It's flamin' freezin' in 'ere again! Lovely One is ackled up in a long sleeved thermal vest, two big woolies, a thick scarf, winter trousers and uggs, and I'm still bloody freezin'
Many, many window shoppers yet again, but sadly no one getting any money out.
Back again on the same blog two weeks later...
And guess what? Under gallery arrest again on the Barbican. Today my work seems to be generating most interest. I say interest, since people are oohing and aahing at it, standing back to admire it, picking up prints of it and then sodding well putting them back for God's sake!
Only the intrepid adventurer out today though. Icicles hanging off everything and persons skidding about william nilliam.
Have put Black and White Hoe painting back in the window since everyone stops to look at that.
Every time I come in here I bung it in the window and every time C comes in here she takes it out again and replaces it with the lesser work ' A feel of the Hoe'.
Why? Who knows, who cares.
Yesterday being incarcerated in the Elburton Drop In Centre I resolved to cut my own mount for the latest masterpiece 'Plymouth Cityscape 1'. Dear Little S had shown me how to do same only last week. He shows me everything too quickly and I can't keep up so I made a bit of a dog's breakfast of it. But that wasn't the worst of it I held the blade upside down and sliced a rather large flap off me finger. Well, 'Texas Chainsaw Mascara' or what! Litres of Darling Lovely One's blood gushed forth all over the shop. In a flagrant disregard for the 'workers' She Who Must be Obeyed hadn't replenished the Winnie the Pooh sticking plasters so thinking on me feet, I wrapped the distressed digit in bit of framer's tape and shot next door to the Charity Shop for a bit of first aid.
Well, suitably bandaged and with me arse in a sling, I plodded on with the mountcutting. I did it - albeit the wrong size, colour and shape, with creases and blood all over it. Not to be defeated I shoved it in the window with a disclaimer and a promise to re-do it when a grown up comes to work.
More people looking in - Come in - Come in - my child needs new shoes!

Wednesday, 1 December 2010

In which One 'Comes Dine with Mimi'...

Following the disaster that was Friday's open evening at the exhibition, Saturday saw Lovely One sell her most expensive piece. Oh joyous day! So that's another good month. Now, catch up with She Who Must Be Obeyed, and get the spons for it all before I fill up the overdraft yet again.
The first meeting of the 'Elburton Drop in Centre Come Dine with Me' club was held at the Polaroid Swinger's gaff on Saturday night. What fun. What Larks Pip! (See Great Expectations)
Dear Little S inhaled the best part of a bottle of Vodka and then sheared to go down town to imbibe even more laughing water. I sloped off home at the same time and snuggled down with me blankie and hot water bottle, and me Bear of course.
Anyway, I leap ahead, TPS lost marks for not providing a menu and not topping up the drinks quickly enough. But having said that, Dear Little S could have used an intravenous drip rather than a glass!
The scoff was tip top! Prawns, smoked salmon, fillet steak creme brulee, chocolates, wine, vodka... In fact, Lovely One heaven!
TPS put on rather an unusual floor show, singing, dancing and generally showing off to the degee that she has now been re-christened and shall henceforth be known as 'Mimi'
Her long suffering hubbster and assembled sons just ignore her blatant exhibitionism and desperate attempts to attract attention to herself and carry on much as poor Vile Husband and Boy used to when ignoring the antics of Lovely One. However, One pales into insignificance in the face of Mimi and her
A classic case of the youngest child yelling, 'Look at me mummy' Mimi whipped out the childhood photo album to entrall us all with pics of her in various 'show off' poses with ponies, other assorted friends and animals and even Robin Cousins doing a skating show off thing. Anyway, she's cleared off to Wales taking pics in a Loony Bin. Wants to watch they don't keep her in!
Cranked up the Bentley and visited Vile ex-husband and Boy on Sunday to vacuum them. Filled up me dust bag with one swipe over the rug, but it has to be said they had cleaned the kitchen and bathroom in honour of my visit. Boy visiting for Chrimbo this year. Will eat me out of house and home, relieve me of any spare cash and then vanish into the distance methinks. Still, will be lovely to see him.
Have dropped off the 'Stones' portrait at the printers and am plodding on with commission piece down on the Barbican today. Dear Little S in charge of flogging exhibition pieces today.
Wish us luck...

Friday, 26 November 2010

In which I am disillusioned with everything...

Good Morning darling readers. Or should I say Bad, Bad morning. You join me as I am severing my right hand with the tiny blade from my girl's Swiss Army knife. If last evening was the shape of exhibition openings to come in Deepest Devon, I may as well go back to arse wiping.
Dear Little S had pulled out all the stops, including for some obscure reason, dressing up as a 1920's gangster, TPS turned up too late to prevent me from descending into a pit of gloom, and, well, it was an unmitigated bloody disaster!
Terry and Goon were scarfing down the wine, which I paid for, and floating around like they knew a Warhol from an arsehole, with her looking like the bride of Dracula. Still, I imagine shovelling six foot of earth off yerself every morning does render one with a greyish pallor.
To be fair, I hadn't inited anyone myself, since I don't know anyone around and about in Deepest. Near neighbours don't look like the types who'd be interested, so I was relying on the supposed hoardes of She Who Must be Obeyed's chums. Huh! Fat chance. Slimey N fronted up to critique my efforts like some kind of ghastly Mancunian Brian Sewell.
'I like that. It's good intit', says Slimey N 'But I 'ate them ones'.
'Well, don't buy them then', I replied with a deadly grimace smeared across my lovely visage.
JV, who was exhibiting with Lovely One, mwah mwahed all her chums from Wembury. In fact it was rather like a Wembury Christmas Party.
I positioned my dear little self behind the counter to observe, since those of you who know me personally will attest, I am a shy and retiring critter.
I would say that a good eighty per cent of the assembled ugly crowd didn't even look at JV's paintings, let alone Lovely One's and were intent mainly on inhaling alcohol and free scoff.
I should have nasally detected a rodent when I got there with Darling Bloke, since in my experience, elderly persons wearing anoraks and wooly hats are not avid buyers of art.
At one point a stooped little old lady wearing a Celia Johnson (Brief Encounter) styly mac shuffled off with me tin of Quality Street into a corner with a grisly gathering of Octaganerians and spent a good half hour gumming up their dentures with green triangles, which just happen to be the favourite of Lovely One. Then they put the wrappers back in the tin. A sin that is up there with farting during oral sex, let me tell you dear reader!
Even JV's guests didn't buy! I did see one reduced print change hands for some money and a couple of cards, but that was it.
By Nine O'clock I'd had my fill of standing there like a spare one so telephoned Dearest Bloke to collect me. I shall clear up the devastation of the Wembury Over 80's Christmas Party this very morn, since I am under Drop in Centre arrest for the day.
There is one other really annoying story to report...
Dear Little S, who thought I would laugh, told me that She Who Must be Obeyed, when told that I was off buying the drinks and scoff, said - and get this -
'She gets around for a Big Lady'


If she'd said something like, 'She's nippy for a fat tart', I would have positively howled with giggles, but that made me sound like some kind of mutant Mrs Mills dragging meself about and I am MAD, VERY MAD.
Dear Little S was quivering in fear of what I might do, and I did indeed exact my revenge, verbally, at every possible opportunity, and, again, those of you who know me will attest that I am alway the victor in verbal warfare!

Anyhow, I have vented my spleen and feel a little better. Only a little though and have almost finished severing my hand...

One more thing...
I felt sure Big would come, but once again he let me down.

Sunday, 21 November 2010

In which I go all Lady Gaga...

Trundled off to Plymouth Theatre Royal yesterday evening to see 'Chekov in Hell'. He wasn't alone, darlings, Lovely One spent an arse-numbing couple of hours foraging for skittles in me coat pocket and trying to get comfy on the cheap seats. Was there a message in it? Who knows? The basic premise of the tale was to explore how Anton Chekov would have fared had he been confronted by our modern world - computers, self help groups, people trafficing, celebrity culture et al...
It was one of these affairs where there's no scenery and no one changes their outfit when they change character. Well, dear reader, Lovely One had the devil of a job following the plot of Cliff Richard's 'Summer Holiday' so you can imagine the pickle I got in! Most of the audience, including Darling Bloke (a strangely cultured being for a purveyor of fast food off a van) regularly burst out laughing at jokes that sailed highly over the pefectly coiffured bonce of Lovely Moi.
There was an inordinate amount of shuffling from the row directly behind us. Couldn't quite figure out whether they were in danger of dropping off to kip like moi or just uncomfy. Why go to the trouble of attempting to bring culture to the masses and then sit 'em on circa 1950 flip down seats with no room to fart.
Anyway, I thought it was the interval, and Glory Be to Elvis, it was the end!!!! I shot off before we could book up for anything else.
'What was that Bollocks about?' I enquired of Bloke.
'Bollocks', he repeated, 'You are an uncultured old trollope' he went on 'You have no imagination.'
That, dear reader, is unfair. I DO have an imagination. In fact, I spend a goodly amount of my life daydreaming and wishing I was anywhere other than where I actually am.
Sadly, the upshot of the evening was that I am no longer invited on the trips to the theatre.

Am currently under gallery arrest on the Barbican. Today's masterpiece is...
Have just been rudely interrupted by the most annoying of non-customers. Yet another Lenkie enthusiast, not buying of course, just wanting to know what Lenkie painted on and if I knew how many layers of paint were on his pics.
'I must strive not to get bogged down in the detail', says the plonker.
I just wanted to get down to the bog, but he wittered on for ages...
Just buy something or shove off, I thought, but I smiled sweetly and had a scintilating Lenkie chat for the seventeenth time to another git intent on not buying anything. He turned out to be a painter who is renting studio space round the corner, so he's on my hit list now, along with Kill Phil with a Dangerous Pill...
Don't worry darlings, I've tipped over the edge.

It's not enough for me to suceed. EVERYONE ELSE MUST FAIL!!!!!

Anyway, can't get on today as have forgotten most of stuff, so shall have to go on youtube and watch people squeezing their boils. I know how to have fun!

Much deliberation has taken place, particularly from Dear Little S, and of course, the nosy old swinger's stuck 'er twopennorth in, over what Lovely One will be wearing for the opening night of the exhibition.
I very much favour a little number in the manner of Lady Gaga. Only not meat. We thought Nelson Slices (chocolate cake pie) or the newly discovered Christmas Truffle would fashion a delicious gown pour moi.
Only trouble is I'd have scoffed it before doors open and be starkers up a corner with chocolate round me gob and semi comatose.

Thursday, 18 November 2010

In which I admit to being a Jinx as well as a Minx...

Lovely One is a jinx. No, dear reader, it's not a typo. I didn't mean minx, which of course, I am, as you well know. No, it's sad but true, I am a jinx. Reclining on One's chaise lounge the other evening, surrounded by packing trunks, with, as yet, no forwarding address, it just came to me in a flash. I have been rendered homeless rather more times than is satisfactory in one's lifetime. I hate to say this, as it makes me sound like I'm in denial, but each time has been at the mercy of others. I, therefore, am some property Cassandra, jinx, bad luck charm, unlucky rabbit's foot, the albatros of the property market, the rabbit to the Cornish fisherman etc. Speaking of the lucky rabbit's foot, I've never quite grasped that one...
Poor dear bunny with a foot lobbed of for some daft bint to use as a keyring, handbag charm et al - don't get it.
Anyway, I digress, as per.
Have sold stately pile, as previously blogged, and found tiny but lovely residence in which to grow old and even more crochety. Fronted up to some fourteen and a half year old 'broker' to acquire funds to purchase said homestead and you wouldn't believe the hoops One has had to jump through. As yet to no avail as the blighters haven't said yes, or indeed, no. Poor dear Bloke is suspended above the pit of despair by the finest of gossamer thread. One slight tweak and he's a goner. Lovely One, however, has had a life of such uncertainty and is therefore slightly more sanguine about matters. My attitude is 'couldn't give a kipper's dick, or f**k the lot of them.' I'd just huff off into the distance and join a travelling circus. Would prob get a job, as world's fastest growing arse, or something.
Anyhow, I'm sure you're on the e of your s's desp to know the history of such nonchalance in the face of doom. Let me take you back, way back...
One's dear departed Papa was something of a chancer and moved in latter day celebrity circles as a manager and promoter. Amoungst other forays into the limelight he 'discovered' Howard Goodall - he of 'Vicar of Dibley' themetune fame, radio 4, big buds with luminaries such as Stephen Fry etc. Much excitement in Harris household when Lovely One was chubby teenager. Dear Papa funded the ungrateful Howard's first 'record' and pumped money into his promotion. When dear HG was on the cusp of fame, Dear Papa was offloaded as manager, being none too posh and all that, thereby rendering entire family homeless with massive debts. Our sad little troupe wandered off to live in a rented flat in Luton, with Dear Mama bemoaning the scant proportions of said homestead with every intake of breath. She should have kept her trap shut as worse, far worse, was just around the bend...
The owner of aforementioned tiny flat didn't bother paying the mortgage with the rent money and so we were uncermoniously chucked out of there...
Anyway, to cut a long story short, Dearest Papa had legged it to the USA to seek his fortune and Lovely One was left to administer to wilting Mama and teenage brother. We ended up in a ghastly council house from whence Lovely One escaped eventually and sought fortune in the drawing offices of the South East.
Move forward some considerable time to the era of Vile Husband...
Turned up at flat in Hampstead one sunny morn with Boy under arm to find residence boarded up. VH not payed mortgage. 'Oh shit' - methinks - off back to cottage,(mine) which I'd kept, fortunately. Legged it in volvo, since Bentley repossessed, incidentally on same day as Amex unceremoniously cut up in front of One.
Plummeted down social scale over the next few years until ended up in Somerset with Boy and VH. Lovely One and Boy nested in Rice Towers until advent of Bloke upon which Lovely One sheared to deepest.
Now, to be homeless again. Oh how BORING. One is seriously arsed off with it all. As you can see, dear reader, it's me! I am bad luck, and a JINX.
If you have a bargepole - don't touch me with it - that's my advice.
Doing the decent thing, I told Big not to keep on being chums with One. For so doing, he might have taken pity on One and have rendered himself Jinxed.
Can't have that!
One little spark of light at end of tunnel though...
Still have Rice Towers, but dear Bloke hates it!

Sunday, 14 November 2010

In which a salutary tale is told for the benefit of the Polaroid Swinger...

Spent a dull day at the Elburton Drop in Centre yesterday, and today, incarcerated in the Barbican Gallery. Will shortly be retiring to the Bahamas on the strength of the two postcards and one Lenkie book I've sold thusfar. Sold a biggie of mine the other day though. Can't remember if I've blogged that before, but what the heck, it's the first thing I've sold for six festering weeks - so BLA!
Dear Little S is beside himself with the impending arrival of the Odd Couple at the drop in centre. Pinnie and badge wearing are to be the order of the day, and that's just for starters. They swung by on Friday, Lovely One missed them yet again. I'm positively desp to see the Terry Thomas looky likey, twirling moustachio an' all. I am always deeply suspicious of the younger male of the species sniffing round the elderly female. The scent of cash MUST be what does it. I know, dear reader, it's not suffragettish or liberated to admit that an old geezer with a young popsie is ok, but really, what on earth, apart from financial gain, can a younger bloke get from an older woman. It's not clever. It's not nice. It's ghastly, nasty and dirty.
Whilst they were there, Dear Little S says they both went for a wee. I can't imagine why he found it necessary to tell me that, but on further reflection, I think they were marking their territory - yukk!

This week with not much to do, sales wise, I've been researching my family history and have found that Lovely One is descended from the Russian Peasantry. Oh, the shame and disappointment of it all. Not a Tzar or Tzarina in sight, just some smelly old toothless, headscarf wearing baboushka!In fact have unearthed a folk tale still told around a blazing fire on sub zero snowy nights to the Riceski clan. Baboushka
Irina Riceski was a Hero in the Motherland, holding down a job biting off the top of Vodka bottles in the local working mens club by night and digging turnips from the parched bitter earth by day with her gnarled bare hands. At the end of a brutal winter with not even enough turnip to eek out into a soup Irina set off, muffled against the biting winds and snow to beg for food at the roadside in the big city. Staggering past the glitterati necking down Vodka shandies in warm and cosy bars she espied a sign...
SELL YOUR HAIR - European women pay top roubles for human hair
Irina tugged off her headscarf and shook free a tumbling mass of red locks.
Ivan lobbed the lot off with one swipe of his scythe and offered a mirror in which to survey the results. Irina, tears cascading down her weatherbeaten face, pushed the looking glass away, covered her stubble with her headscarf and pocketed the meagre payment.
That night Baboushka and her family slept the sleep of the nourished.
In a salon in darkest Manchester...
A scraggy haired bint is having hair extensions glued in.
'Oooh it's lovely intit'
'It looks lovely duntit'
With absolutely no thought for the suffering of the starving, bald peasant.

Friday, 12 November 2010

In which I vent my spleen...

Lovely One is in an absolute quandry this very morn! I had an absolutely ghastly evening of silence from dear Bloke. In fact, not even any eye contact. I have committed yet another misdemeanor for which I must be punished with no cuddles and kisses. I seem to spend a verily amount of time apologising for being Lovely One! I am fully aware that I am:-
An atrocious cook
A clumsy old bat
An annoying old harridan
fat thighs
an ever expanding arse
hair that is far to long for a person of my advancing years
But to be fair
Anyway, enough of that, darling reader, you don't want me washing me dirty shreddies in public. I know you'll all be shedding a tear for Lovely One and wanting to shower her with Jellington Bambinos etc to pacify her, but hell I'm nipping out to smoke a fag or two and pull the wings off flies. Should feel better then.
Purchase of new residence and offloading of current stately pile a bloody nightmare at present! Stchooopid people who want to move into our pile now want us to move out in order that they can move in and their buyers into theirs. Sod off! Why don't they move out. Oh no, I forgot, they've got a tribe of, and I loathe the expression, 'kids', so I suppose that since Lovely One and Bloke have long since offloaded their offspring we're supposed to shuffle off to some dire B&B for the forseeable. I THINK NOT.
As for obtaining a mortgage these days - flippin' 'eck! I remember the days when you just had to SAY how much you earned and that was it. Now, you have to have written proof from a responsible adult and a note from yer Mum before they'll even consider lending any dosh!
It's all getting too much for Lovely One's delicate equilibrium and, for two pins, I'd shout 'BOLLICKS' and stamp off in a huff!
Just to add even more gloom to today, I'm stuck on the Barbican and can't even gain succour from the Elburton Drop In Centre.
The Polaroid Swinger had the audacity to question my 'tonal values' in a recently completed masterpiece.
TONAL SODDING VALUES. What the arse are they? Doesn't the folically extended old trollope realise that the only training I've had was an adult learners painting morning in Milton Keynes!
Anyway - feel much better now I've vented me wassname. Shall shove a couple of wet ones in the window and hope for the best...
A disgusting oik has just flobbed onto the pavement outside gallery. A sign of the day to come methinks...

Thursday, 11 November 2010

In which Contents may Vary in lovely One's chocolate egg...

I cannot imagine why, darling reader, but I had a strage vision of gonads from the past the other day. I feel it may be since encountering The Polaroid Swinger, not that she has any gonads, of course. It's just that in deepest darkest history, before the advent of digital cameras, when one had to front up to Boots the Chemist to have one's snaps developed, there was a device actually called the Polaroid Swinger. It was a large cumbersome article widely advertised on the 'telly' as we then called it, for photograping one's projeny in the act of, say, sport's day, or opening their Chrimbo pressies. Needless to say, dear reader, no one ever, ever used the imaging device for such ventures, instead, much frivolity was enjoyed by persons taking amusing, in my case, or downright vulgar, in other cases, pics of many and various twinkles and winkles.
And so it came to pass that one Easter I was awoken by A, a long passed husbandito, precariously perched on the end of the four poster, polaroid swinger in hand, and gonads nestling in half a Cadburys Easter Egg. Frankly, darlings, on opening One's china blues, I'd rather have had a cup of tea and a fag, but bless him, the elderly and increasingly dull A, was attempting to inject a smidgeon of excitement into our stale coupling. I dutifully snapped the unusual Easter offering and bid him remove the items from the melting chocolate delight, making a mental note to only consume the egg if I was utterly desperate for a chocolate injection.
The picture sadly no longer survives and has gone the way of all such frivolities, and indeed further discarded husbands. In fact, I expect A, complete with chocolate covered gonads, has shuffled off this mortal coil, being twenty years older than dear little Lovely One.
Rather foolishly, it turned out, I recounted this saga to Bloke, who, I think it's fair to say, had his flabber well and truly gasted. I fear Mrs Bloke No's 1 and 2 never indulged in the bedroom hilarities that have always been a feature of Lovely One's allure.
He did however, snigger some hours later, having recalled the story, and my assertion that in order to perform the same feat with his bodily parts we'd require one of those enormouse Easter Eggs one sees for display purposes.
'What did it say on the Easter Egg box?' he guffawed.

Sunday, 7 November 2010

In which I yearn to be shut in me room...

Well, here I am again, darling reader, on the Barbican. Small ugly crowds peering in the window, mainly at the 'Beatles on the Hoe'.
'Two pictures in one', I hear myself warbling as I wrap the blessed thing up, 'The Hoe, AND, the Beatles.' Whoopdi effing do!
Been open for four and a half minutes and already had two lots behind the counter, clearly marked 'Private' for a closer look at the Lenkies that they have zippo intention of buying.
'You can really tell which ones are his', bleats a fat old trollop in a fake fur coat.
'I've got one' brags another, 'I don't want to sell it though'.
Just as well, methinks, this is a SHOP. We sell things to you!
Looks like it's going to be another Sunday of window shoppers.
I am smiling serenely at all the browsers and offering help to those who want it, when secretly I'd rather stick me feet up on the desk and OD on licorice allsorts until I comatose.
Speaking of scoffing and the disastrous effect it's had on my arse, I found an old copy of the Mayo clinic diet on the internet the other day. Not just a copy but an actual scanned in diet sheet that I remember doing the rounds in the drawing office at Kent Instruments in Luton when I was office junior. In those days I was like a filleted fart so didn't join in but I recall several fat old birds doing it for two weeks and indeed losing the promised 20lbs. Well that's it! I'm doing it! And, so, little does he yet know, is Bloke!
I simply MUST - as the exhibition is looming and I want to get into my favourite outfit without busting at the seams.
I shall have to be fumigated before the preview evening though, as due to my bizarre life, I'm dishing out burgers from the van to the great unwashed during the day and mwah mwahing for all I'm worth in the evening.
If I don't sell anything I'm packing it in and going on the checkout at Morissons. I did have a brief foray into supermarket chechoutry in my youth before going to college. I was sacked from Tesco Home and Wear in Luton Arndale Centre.
'Why are you sacking me' I cutely asked the manager, 'I haven't done anything.'
'That's why I'm sacking you', says he. Fair play I thought laughing me head off whilst ripping off me overall and legging it.
Morissons is calling... Oh no, I forgot, I couldn't even get employed there, for goodness sake! Dear Little S and the Polaroid Swinger think it's because I have a problem with authority. Sadly, darlings, that is true, I well remember every school report with 'Claire will not be told' written on in being brandished in front of me as pocket money was withheld until I conformed, which of course, I never did. I must have spent about six of my formative years banished to my bedroom. Well, bring it on, I'd love to be shut in my room now, with a hot water bottle, a blankie and re-runs of Come Dine with Me, until I shuffle off this mortal coil...

Friday, 5 November 2010

In which I am v confused...

Boy is my absolute computer wizard helper. He set me up on that facebook thing. I just don't get it! I go to my 'page', illustrated with a choice pic of me. Oh, ok, it's been doctored by dear little S to make me look young and thin again. I was imaginging to my little self that I actually looked like that yesterday when L, the old polaroid swinger, took a horrid horrid likeness of Lovely One that made me look like a special needs prada willi article 'doing art'. Just because I had two pairs of specs on me 'ead and was eating wax crayons! Honestly, some persons don't realise the pain and suffering I endure to make my 'art'. Actually that's absolute bollicks. I'll paint anything for cash and couldn't give a kipper's dick about expressing meself.
Anyhow, dear reader, I digress, I just don't understand facebook. I went to 'me' fired off a missive about being bored out of me incontinence pants, thought I'd sent it to L and Dear Little S sent a message. AND, there was a whole load of other stuff from someone I'd never 'eard of. Do these messages just float round in the ether until some old online saddo hoiks them onto their pooter?
I am worried about the impending offloading of the Elburton drop in centre/gallery. What will it be like when the odd couple front up? I can't see it being a haven of chocolate cake pie and fags. More like Sanatogen and the bog blocked up with tena lady pads!
I definitely have 24hr Prada Willi. I've just inhaled an entire village of jellington bambinos. I'm just scoffing to pass the time and I can feel my thighs expanding. Another couple of sizes and I'll be so fat that I'll be able to get prescription pants a la Homer Simpson.
Must go and get a cup of tea to wash the bambinos down, six sugars of course.

Wednesday, 3 November 2010

In which Lovely One is on the move and been adopted by Terry Thomas...

Spent all day waiting to hear if an offer on house had been accepted, when, stap me vitals, the other blighters came back full of contrition and lowered the price back down to the one we'd agreed.
I liked first house.
Bloke liked second.
We are having first.
Not entirely certain about little village - Tamerton Foliot -but hey ho, new adventure and all that...
There are 198,000 too many people in Plymouth for my liking, having acclimatised myself to Wivey where there are only 2,000. Speaking of, sallied forth in the Daimler to visit Boy and Vile ex-husband. Upon entering their lair Lovely One was appalled at the state of the place. I was, however, put firmly in my place by both when I offered to clean up whilst visiting. I told Boy that I'd force him to bunk in with me and Bloke if I found him living in such squalour again and he rightly pointed out that I can't since his isn't 'Boy' any more he's 'Man'. So, against all that is holy I got hold of my own business and minded it as requested.
Today am painting in gallery, Hooe Lake. Exhibition looming and more masterpieces must be created. This particular gallery is changing hands shortly and will be run by an old lady and, from what I can gather, a Terry Thomas looky likey. Not that anyone has had the good grace to elicit my opinion on the doings! The unlikey duo, having done a three day framing course, now think they're equipped with the knowledge of 'She who must be obeyed', who's been beavering away selling art for 672 years. By all accounts the odd couple think that Lovely One is benevolently bequeathing all her masterpieces, all BF's fabric lovlies, and indeed the wonderful self of Lovely One to sit in the place painting, all for free!! I think not, dear reader. Filthy lucre will be changing hands before they gets me in there, no danger!
She who must be obeyed may think that she's had One and Dear Little S adopted by these odd beings, but frankly, we have other ideas!
Lovely One can just shear into the sunset but it's Dear Little S I really feel for. If TT looky likey doesn't put out for old lady I fear she may chance her arm with him and pin him up against the glass cutting machine to steal a kiss.
Poor little dear. Maybe I should front up just to protect him from the peculiar little pensioner - all toe rings and tena lady...

Saturday, 30 October 2010

In which I meet my favourite ever customer...

Act One - Scene One
The action takes place in an Art Gallery somewhere on the Barbican...
The exceptionally glamorous in-house artist/salesperson/general DB is poised at her easel creating yet another masterpiece...
The door opens and in lopes an old git...
OG - I am 'aving a bowel operation next week.
Me - Gosh how awful, is there something I can do for you?
OG - No it's all organised at the hospital.
Me - (ploughing same furrow, with beatific grin on chops, and gritted teggies)
Anything in the art line, then?
OG - Can you give me an insurance quote? A picture fell off my wall onto some antique vases and the frame is all smashed up.
Me - Do you have the picture with you?
OG - No. I'm having a bowel operation next week.
Me - Do you have the size of the picture?
OG - I can't carry it I'm having a bowel operation next week.
Me - Do you know what kind of frame you want?
OG - It's an old one. Can you tell me how much it would cost?
Me - (Indicating our frame samples) If you'd like to choose one and tell me the size of the picture I'll give you a quote.
OG - I want an old one.
Me - (again motioning toward our frame samples) Is there one there that you like?
OG - How much is it?
Me - (losing the will to live) I can't tell you how much it will be unless you choose one and tell me the size of the picture.
OG - I'm having a bowel operation next week so I can't bring it in.
Me - If you let me know the size and your choice of frame I'll give you a price.
At this point I went back to my easel and smashed my head against it until I passed out.
When I regained conciousness Old Git had gone, presumably to have a bowel operation.
Act One
Scene Two
The action takes place in the very same gallery...
In strides a geezer
G - I want that picture in the window.
Me - I'll get it out for you.
G - How much?
Me - £520
G - Cash alright?
Me - Choice!
The curtain comes down.

Friday, 29 October 2010

In which I am fed up with moving, not moving etc...

I know 'times is 'ard' dear reader, but, really, I ask you, bugger my 'at and all that - THIS IS A SODDING SHOP. YOU COME IN - YOU BUY STUFF - I DON'T BUY IT FROM YOU. If one more person comes in here with a ghastly print that they've 'ad under the bed for years' and 'is it worth anything' I shall chin 'em!
Just to make today even more effing wonderful, I put in an offer on a divine little cottage in a cute little village along the river. Following some toing and froing they got me up to the asking price, so I cancelled all other viewings for today and arranged to see the broker yet again. Then - and I can't sodding believe this - I had a call from the agent to say that the vendor wished they hadn't marketed it at that price and wouldn't move unless we payed another £10,000! SO THEY WON'T BE MOVING THEN. I don't care if it's the only house in the whole entire universe I will not be blackmailed. I hope they get deathwatch beetle in their willies!
So, with permission from 'she who must be obeyed' and with me having sold the most stuff this week, I am closing early and shearing to look at somewhere else. Wish me luck dear reader...

Wednesday, 27 October 2010

In which I sulk in the dungeons...

And so dear reader, we are stuck in the draughty castle for yet another winter! I can't believe it!!!!!!!!!! Bloke has dug his ample heels in and said no to an offer that is but a few groats short of the required hand changing amount. Still, nothing to do with Lovely One. Castle owned by Bloke and the elusive, soon to be ex, Mrs Bloke number two. According to the prospective buyers the roof is coming off, the moat is clogged up with effluent and there are coypus in the dungeon that would frighten their ghastly offspring. They really were the most annoying, uneducated riff raff who were embarrassed by one of their progeny who liked to read etc instead of mindlessly pulling wings off cats or whatever they do for fun!
Anyway darlings, the upshot of it is - Lovely One remains in limbo. No home to call one's own and no, oh elusive thing of my dreams, SECURITY.
I see Bloke's point, re house, but nonetheless I was looking forward to leaving here. I am of the opinion that life is short and if a solution pops up out of one's handbag, one should grab the blighter, whatever, and plod on through life's tortured path. Anyhow, as I whined, Nothing to do with One, and One's comments are not permitted, or solicited, on the subject, so stalemate, I believe it's called!
As for gallery, utter shambles as usual, but Lovely One plodding on like a thing possessed, producing masterpiece after masterpiece for dear little S to frame. Preview evening is in the Elburton Gallery in Plymouth, 39 Springfield Road, on 26th November. Do come and buy all your Christmas presents. Bloke says no one will come as I don't have any friends. And I expect he's right since no one has been to see me in deepest Devon and I've been here a whole year as of yesterday. Yesterday, 26th October - one year ago - Left Wivey, Vile Husband's birthday, divorce final, deserted one and only Boy, abandoned Tigerboy, best cat in the world. Got what I deserve One might say, and One would be right. Fancy, me thinking I could have it all at my age - stupid old bat! Stupid fat old bat! Arse shrinking again by the way - goodo!
Anyway, must sign off - Stinky dog just farted and left the room, and I must away to the studio and bribe dear little S with chocolate cake pie to frame yet another MP.
Off to see Boy on the morrow...

Wednesday, 13 October 2010

In which I my equilibrium is off centre...

All who are lucky enough to be aquainted with dear little self will know that One is a cheery sort of specimen prone to smiling, giggling and general bonhomie to all. Well, let me tell you, darling readers, I could bite a nail in half today! I am up to the gunnels with house selling goings on, and it isn't even my house!
Stupid people wanting to buy this gaff have huffed off due to one or two minor points mentioned in survey. The fact that they have had twenty bloody two thousand pounds knocked off the price has evaded them and they are miffed in the extreme!
Ok, so there are one or two porous roof tiles in the west wing and the moat is riddled with Russian pond weed that's strangling me pet newts. Well, and every time one plunges into the bath the entrace vestibule fills up with water. What of it?
Anyway, suffice it to say, they've legged it pretty sharpish so that's that!
So now, off we go again, and even as I type there are another two prospective inhabitees giving the old homestead the once over.
The fourteen year old 'estate agent' is taking a back seat and directing all enquiries to Lovely One. Money for old rope springs to mind.
Have taken my flat off the market and given my tenant a bit of breathing space until after Christmas. Don't really want to say au revior to the Malthouse anyway. I know I probably won't ever live there again, but I do love it, nonetheless.
On an entirely different tack, what about those Chilean miners?
I do feel that the extensive counselling that they're receiving for being holed up under ground is rather odd given that is what miners do - hole up underground. Anyway I expect they'll be living off their stories from now on, so good luck to them. The most interesting facet of the whole story - geddit, hole story, is that they were fed a healtht diet during their incarceation in order that they would fit into the escape pod.
This has given Lovely One a marvellous idea...
I am investigating the possibility of being sunk into the ground and force fed salad and the like until I can fit comfortably into the tiny little house we'll be able to afford when we finally offload this millstone.

Tuesday, 28 September 2010

In which VSB huffs of in his silly car...

Have been complicit in the removal of vile Saturday 'Boy'. A retired teacher, need I say more, darling reader. He annoyed Lovely One to the point of making me spill my masking fluid all over one of me masterpieces. He just kept on poking his oversized hooked beak into my delicate workings with interesting remarks like,
'If you stuck the paper down properly it wouldn't cockle. You do know what cockle means don't you?'
'I never use masking fluid. I use copydex. Cheaper and just as effective. Would you like me to show you how to use it?'
Then we fell into a conversation regarding another of the artists in the gallery. The sophisticated and glamorous JV.
'She's improved a bit', says VSB
'Oh, I really like her stuff', says me 'fabulous perspective'.
'Linear or Ariel', counters the smartarse VSB
'Flippin 'eck' I countered, 'people come in and say things like, 'Oh I love that. It would go lovely with our wallpaper Dave.'
That is how most people buy pictures, not with an eye on the bloody perspective. They buy things that compliment their surroundings. I used to get all uppity about that, wanting them to take account of the artistic merit of stuff, but frankly Darlings, if they hand over the moolah, I couldn't give a kipper's dick why!
He went on...
'I see I can't have a conversation about art with you.'
I gave him a hard stare and wobbled off for a chocolate cake pie.
Then he committed an unforgivable sin...
He badmouthed Dear Little S!
I simply cannot sanction anyone saying anything horrid about my little S.
VSB went off in a hissy fit following a list of instructions left for him by S. I was in favour of copydexing his cockle.

Wednesday, 15 September 2010

In which I make two important discoveries...

I had a lovely b/day, and thank you for asking, darling readers!
I spent the greater part of it working in the Elburton gallery with dear little S, who is referred to as 'My Boyfriend', by Bloke. Poor S shrieked with horror at the suggestion. No need to be quite so rude!!
I had intended to work from home but I am far too easily distracted by a magical device knitted into me telly that lets you watch things you've missed. I got up at 5.45am with a view to finishing the set of Christmas Cards that I've been painting all week. I was galvanised into action to produce said cards when She Who Must Be Obeyed, (Gallery Owner) uttered the terrifying phrase,
'I wonder if I should get another artist to design the Christmas Card?'
So now, everyone knows the way to motivate Lovely One is to issue threats!
Anyhow, by 10.15am I was still sitting glued to re-runs of 'Come Dine With Me', with dripping wet hair, still in me jim jams and with wet nail polish.
There was nothing for it but to hop in the porsche and hole up at the gallery, where there's nothing to do but work and bitch about the Saturday Boy. More about that ghastly individual another time...
I produced what can only be described as several masterpieces and made two v important discoveries...
I scoff at Captain Cook and Snott of the Antarticals, Lovely One has discovered the Nelson Slice.
Dear little S and moi oft nip out the back for a coffee and a cake and I espied the aforementioned slice in the bakers. I tell you dear readers, the personage who thought it a good idea to sandwich a chocolate cake in between two bits of pastry/shortbread type stuff should be knighted forthwith! Never mind world peace and all that bore snore old bollocks - let's hear it for the Nelson Slice inventor. He or she, which is more likely, gets my vote every time! A chocolate cake pie. You can't get better than that!
The other discovery was: One simply cannot live a glamorous life on the edge in a two bedroomed bungalow.
Bloke was positively salivating at the thought of himself and Lovely One encsconced in said bungalow. We sashayed forth to investigate and were met by a lively octagenarian in a flouncy summer frock who proceeded to guide us round in the manner of Phil and Crusty, waxing lyrical about the blown vinyl wall covering and the patterned carpets. The kitchen reminded me of my previous mother in law, which is not good. I'm just not ready to be old. And bungalows scream old to Lovely One. Anyway we progressed to the garden which overlooked a sort of Serengetti wilderness.
Next door I could just make out a barely alive biddy propped against the window having a peer at us. Spotting her, our host said,
'Everyone keeps themselves to themselves round here. It's very quiet.'
VERY QUIET peruses Lovely One. I want the neighbours popping in for Vodka and fags regularly!
And then, darlings, the veritable peace was shattered when our octagenarian guide let out an enormous fart! Rather than apologise or even ignore it she flapped her flouncy skirt about in the manner of a flamenco dancer.
Bloke, ever the gentleman, said'
'Ave that one on me Missus.'
I turned tail and fled muttering something about a one way ticket to Bogota.

Monday, 13 September 2010

In which I encounter a ninety year old streaker...

Well, Bonjour dear readers. It's my birthday. I am officially nearing the end of my fabulous good looks. I look as if I've got me face on inside out this morning. To be fair to Lovely me, I am feeling a bit under the doctor today due to the nightmarish day out 'enjoyed' by moi and Bloke yesterday...
Because my idea of a good day out is visiting galleries and buying back catalogues to nick ideas from, followed by buying shoes and handbags, then scaling the north face of cliffs in order to get photos of interesting things to paint, I added into the day a little treat for Bloke. I had 'done' this particular touristy thing afore with Vile Husband and Boy, many long and waned moons ago and imagined that Bloke may enjoy the trip. So, off we meandered in the Hummer to Seaton to avail ourselves of the tram.
'See Seaton and die' is the welcoming greeting on the sign as one enters the town. Well, if it's not, it should be! The ghostly silence is occasionally punctuated by the dull thud of an octagenarian dropping dead on the pavement. Coupled with that, it would appear that yesterday was official 'Special Needs Day Out' day. There were enough mobility devices in a 360 degree vista to knock a large hole in the social security budget of the most affluent of Governments. And, let me tell you, the shopping bag is alive and well and holidaying in Seaton. I have no doubt that it contained pilchard sandwiches on white, a packet of cheese and onion and a fondant fancy, since most of the little rotund darlings appeared to be suffering from Prada Willi syndrome. Google it - it isn't a designer Dick!
Anyhow, I digress, as usual...
We parked in the most enormous car park I have ever seen, which was one of many in the little seaside town, none of which were even halfway full. 'Quelle surprise!' I hear you squeal. Such a divine setting and no visitors!
After being fleeced of the best part of twenty quid we joined a rag tag queue of po faced tramsters and stood for twenty minutes in Hurricaine Herbert force gales and that West Country rain that soaks one through in a mist of sea spit.
Being hardy types, well Bloke is, we sat on the uncovered top deck. We hurtled along through bog lands heaving under the weight of one or two scraggy looking birds and were entertained by a police helicopter, three vans, a car and several fourteen year old officers, shouting into radio devices, since one of the local elderly gentlemen had thought it a good idea to wade out into the bog and stand there starkers for the entertainment of all and sundry.
One of the Special Needs old ladies had a stroke - the others couldn't reach.

Thursday, 2 September 2010

In which I find a willing mechanic to do my bidding...

Well darlings, disaster seemingly averted today...
Yesterday I was utterly quivering with fear . Me Chloe tea dress was flapping about like a butterfly in a tumble drier. The Bugatti started making a horrendous banging noise as I was driving to the gallery. The cavalry arrived in the shape of gallery owner's cast-off husband and the little dear followed me to the garage and delivered me back to my easel before you could say 'Lenkeiwicz's are overpriced'.
Stupid garage men huffed about all day just mending one ridiculous headlight and informed me that said banging noise could only be dealt with by a 'main dealer' whatever the hell that is. Any road up - on my way to collect fusion cuisine for supper (fish and chips with curry sauce) the annoying banging appeared to have ceased. Oh joy methinks, having to return AP to Lutonistan after work on Saturday. I simply cannot comprehend another day of her 'holiday' with me and Bloke, who incidentally are barely exchanging a civil word due to the stress of our house guest being omnipresent.
Local garage man took pity on Lovely One when banging returned today and fixed car for free. What a darling grubby mechanic!
Now I can spend a delightful day in the Barbican gallery tomorrow and yet another in the Elburton one on Saturday before driving for six bleedin' hours to return the extremely high maintenance OAP that is Mama to Lovely One, to her homestead.
I shall then put all my efforts into cosseting Bloke who is smarting from the unwanted spiteful attentions of Mrs Bloke number two. Even Vile Husband and Lovely One managed to part company in a more civilised way than that thin haired, overbiting jawed harridan intends to conduct proceedings. Poor darling Bloke isn't the first husband she's tried to destroy and no doubt won't be the last. I really do hope she gets hers...

Tuesday, 31 August 2010

In which I remember I am a famous Bolter...

Another day of my life that I can't get back, spent in 'the shops.' Oh the thrill of it all! Off we went to the local shops (for local people) to get pension for AP, and for me to pay in the takings for Bloke and my latest painting sales. Sadly, the queue was too long for AP to stand in at the Post Office. So, off somewhere else. Having 'done' the city centre and any other shops within reach, I found myself at something of a loss. Deepest Devon is full of quaint little harbours and sleepy villages to look at and meander through at one's leisure, but with an avid shopper in tow, their delights fail to amuse. We alighted upon Newton Ferrars. I knew there was a little cafe there that might pass an hour for lunch. The Bastards who run it had chosen to close! How dare they! Didn't they realise I'd be desperate for something to amuse AP?
On we go to the harbour, a delightful little cove, tide in, lots of boats bobbing about, and do you know what? NO SHOP. Obviously we left immediately for Sainsburys in order to return yesterday's too small sweater and aquire another pair of beige trousers.
We alighted at Riverford Farm Shop for lunch...
Sitting on a rustic bench we payed way over the odds for a thimble full of cold soup, a wedge of dry bread and a gristle and slime pasty, with a couple of raisins and a carrot top masquerading as a salad. When still water arrived, insead of the sparkling that was ordered,the po faced veggie bint that served us almost fainted when I complained.
Jocasta and Piers at the next bench were tucking in to what looked like a flip flop in cheese sauce that tasted 'amazing ya'.
Anyway, I digress, yet again, off we go to a discount warehouse, in search of today's must have item, a fish steamer. WE FOUND ONE! Oh joy, Oh bliss! and it was £3.50, which falls well out of the 'I'm not paying that' range. I tell you darlings, I almost wept as I flung it in the basket.
Home for tea at last.
Tomorrow the gallery beckons - yippee!
Bloke is uber miserable today and not even speaking to Lovely One. He must have forgotten that I am a famous Bolter.
Or, maybe he hasn't...

In which I go on a black cardigan hunt...

And so, dear reader, yesterday's thrilling trawl through 'the shops' took place in Totnes.
Totnes - larger, more affluent version of Wivey with more weirdos per square inch.
The day's must have item - a black cardigan. Many, many black cardigans in Totnes. Some too thin, some too thick, some too modern, some too old fashioned.
'Who's been wearing my black cardigan?' said Goldilocks, as she held it over the elderly person's gob and pressed down until she stopped struggling! Aah, let me dream.
Bloke in vile mood as he tags along. Not entirely sure if he's fed up with AP or just fed up with Lovely One being fed up with AP. Anyway, no matter, we're off to a splendid soap and smelly stuff shop...
Dartington, our next port of suffering, has a lovely scent and soap emporium.
'Do you want to have a look in here, AP?', said Lovely One
'Don't mind', retorted AP
'Well do you, or do you want to look somewhere else?', LO
'Not bothered, I'll go in if you want.' AP
'It's a lovely shop,you like Crabtree and Evelyn, don't you?' LO
'They haven't got what I want in here', says AP before she's across the threshold.
'I want something that's made in Covent Garden', says AP
'What about this?', beams Lovely One, proffering a delicious looking bathtime preparation from Neals Yard.
'Huh, I'm not paying that!' scoffs AP shuffling off, a haze of tottering beige into the distance.
Lovely One had a quick squirt of India Hicks fragrance that was sublime and toyed briefly with the idea of abandoning Chanel No5 in favour of said unknown smelly, but had to leave to ascertain the whereabouts of Bloke, sitting in the shade, and AP, hunting black cardigans.
The journey home...
'Seafood pasta ok for this evening?', enquired Lovely One
'What's that?' asked AP
Bloke shot me a glance that begged me not to say 'Pasta with seafood', but well, what can one say?
'I don't eat prawns. I only eat langostine', says AP
I grip the steering wheel and bite my tongue for the squillionth time of the afternoon.
'Anyone want to go elsewhere?' I enquire, by way of changing the subject.
'I need to go to Sainsburys to buy a black cardigan', says AP
'Phew! I can still smell that scent you tried' says Bloke, 'I don't like it much, did you plunge into a vat of it? It's horrible and overpowering!'
'It's half the price of Chanel', I tell him.
'I love it', he squeals, as I pull into Sainsburys car park...

Sunday, 29 August 2010

In which I hide in the Gallery...

I am now 'unknown woman' in a divorce case. How utterly thrilling for Lovely One! Flamin' cheek, actually! Mrs Bloke had cleared off long before I appeared in Deepest Devon. The arrival of said divorce documents have rendered Darling Bloke in a bit of a mood, which is not tempered any by the constant companionship of Aged P.
Today I am under Gallery Arrest, which is fine by me. Billie Holiday whingeing on about some bloke havin' done her wrong in the background and Lovely One chomping through an individual washing up bowl full of Alpen. Oh joy, Oh bliss! Just Lovely One, and hopefully some holiday makers with cut-offs fat with cash!
If anyone else comes in here, marches past me, and fronts up to the R.O Lenkiewicz (for goodnes sake google the weirdo) self portrait, shows off about how they once spoke to him, and then clears off, so help me I'll chin 'em!
I'm sick of the sight of the bloody thing, and all the other offerings from 'Bob the Painter'. Let's face it, if you paint the same flamin' picture two hundred times, you're bound to get it right in the end! Any road up, we're here to sell stuff, not as a museum.
And... Speaking of selling, not a bad month for Lovely One. Sold two of the popular Poppies, One of Noss Mayo and the Klimt inspired Bristol suspension bridge. That will fund Boy's 18th birthday.
Visited Boy and Vile Husband (ex) yesterday with Aged P in tow. Asked permission of VH to bring AP to his lair. He wasn't keen when we were married, but was ok about a visit with Boy.
There's not much to do in Wivey apart from lunch in the Bear which is where we met Boy. We sat down at a table outside.
'Wouldn't that table over there be better?' said Aged P.
'Why?' enquired Boy and Moi in unison.
AP 'The chairs look more comfortable'
LO 'Do you want to move then?'
AP 'No. Only if you want to.'
LO 'Well I'm OK. Are you OK Boy?'
B 'Yep.'
AP 'Well I can't sit here.'
LO 'Let's move then.'
AP 'No, I'll be alright'.
I secured a table inside.
Now, dear reader, I hear you admonish me for losing patience with the Aged One. Let me assure you these foibles are not present due to the passage of time. Aged P is legendary for her obtuseness. BF will back me up on this one, and now, having spent the past week being huffed at, scrutinised, picked fault with and generally found wanting, will Darling Bloke.
So, here I sit painting and somewhere in the depths of Deepest, Darling Bloke is hiding in his burger van.
Big has gone quiet. Obviously shut in the bathroom with a copy of my new up-dated photograph...
Must sign off now, another 'Bob the Painter' bore has arrived.

Wednesday, 25 August 2010

In which Aged P goes on a cup and saucer hunt...

Set off on another voyage with Aged P and Bloke. This time since the Bloke was suffering from a bad back we didn't go too far. Well, we didn't intend to go too far. Drove to Modbury, an affluent village Lovely One spent many a spare hour idling time away between visits tending to the sick and needy.
The vital aquisition of this visit was a navy cardigan and a cup and saucer. Despite my extensive collection of blue and white, which includes a splendid set of spode mugs, nothing was deemed adequate to imbibe AP's tea from.
As usual, many, many charity shops were patrolled in the pursuit of said cup, until a suitable one, IKEA lime green, was aquired. Unfortunately the aquisition of a navy long sleeved cardigan wasn't quite so simple, so a pair of stone coloured linen trousers (that didn't fit) were purchased instead. Go figure...
Onward to Kingsbridge, which very fortunately housed several small ladies outfitters suspended in time, circa 1969. The navy cardigan hunt began again in ernest and this time a pair of cut off denim trousers were tried on.
'I can't wear these or everyone will see these dreadful support socks' shouted Aged P to the shop assistant, holding up her trouser legs so that everyone could, indeed, see them!
BF will stand testimony to the 'support sock' stories. Everywhere we go petrified shop assistants are treated to a view of socks with the usual accompanying,
'I don't want anyone to see these dreadful things.'
Lovely One and BF, plus the occassional brave shop assistant, have pointed out that if she didn't keep flashing them to all and sundry, no one would know they were there.
Anyway, dear reader, I expect you think I'm an intolerant, ghastly Lovely One. Well I don't give a Kipper's Dick!
Today I have escaped to the gallery and am going to paint a masterpiece, which will no doubt sell for thousands and I'll be richer than Big...

Tuesday, 24 August 2010

In which I take you out with Aged P...

I spent a scintillating day shopping with the Aged P yesterday. Devon - lovely beaches, pretty villages etc., where do we go? The shopping mall!
This weeks unavailable item required by Aged P is a pair of 'tencil' trousers. Said trousers are owned by octagenarian chum of Ma and are a summer garment, not readily available when the Autumn/Winter collections appear. However, life as we know it can't continue without the acquisition of 'tencil' trousers (whatever the hell they are).
Getting ready to go out:
Aged P - 'Which room is the kitchen?'
Me - Practically severing tongue with sharp teeth 'The room with the cooker/fridge etc in it'.
Aged P - (Pointing at toaster) 'Is this the toaster? Where does the bread go? How does it work?'
Now, darlings, those of you who know me will understand how difficult it is for me not to make smart arse remarks at every available opportunity, so will appreciate why it's such a trial responding to Aged One.
Breakfast over we sashayed forth, Aged P enquiring as we left the house via the front door,
'Do we go through the door?'
Following the close examination of many, many retail establishments, we alight upon 'Hotel Chocolat' in the pursuit of 70% cocoa chocolate. Not 80% or 90%, it must be 70. Standing in the middle of Hotel Chocolat:
'There's no bars of chocolate in here, what have you brought me in here for?'
I steer AP toward vast quantities of bars of chocolate with a firm grip to the elbow. Said chocolate is exquisite -
'I'm not paying that' says AP in loud voice and storms off.
Too many incidents of this nature occurred for me to relate in one go, but before I go and take six Prozac with a pint of Vodka shandy, I shall tell you one more, dear reader.
At the end of the day I offered to drive around the Barbican so she could have a look around. On the way back with Bloke in tow I asked if anyone would like a McFlurry.
'Where do you get those?' enquires AP
Bloke slams his hand over my mouth as I drive into the McDonalds in Morisson's carpark.
'I'm not eating that disgusting blue ice!' says AP 'I want an Express to read'.
I park next to the entrance of Morissons.
'How do I get in?', says AP
'Through the door', says Bloke, getting into the swing of things.
'Where is it?' says AP as she's standing next to it getting in the way of all the trolleys.
'It's the hole in the wall', says Bloke.
I rest my case...

Monday, 23 August 2010

In which the Aged P comes to stay...

I must have taken leave of my senses. I have my Mother here to stay. Thus far, she is scared of the toaster, it has too many buttons, daren't pull the curtains in case they fall down, doesn't know which room is the kitchen (should have thought the cooker/fridge/microwave was a clue) but no matter. And frankly her incessant humming is driving me insame already. Every time I eat/drink anything she huffs and says things like 'I never eat/drink x,y,z', or whatever.
Currently 'This Morning' is showing on my TV. Never in the history of Lovely One has that tripe assaulted my peepers! No doubt Jeremy Kyle and Emmerdale will follow later on in the day and I'll be found hanging by my Hermes scarf in the orangery.
I have attempted to explain to her that I shall be working in the gallery but this has been received badly. However, nothing I can do about it, since pics are selling, whoopee!
Bloke is in a huff because I'm in a huff and has indicated that I shall be chucked out if I don't cheer up. He hasn't spent time in the aged one's company before. Watch this space...

Sunday, 15 August 2010

In which I rise like a phoenix from the ashes...

Hello darlings, I am back, complete with a more realistic photograph. One too many of my devoted fans likened the last one to Myra sodding Hindley, no less. I was still labouring under the misapprehension that I looked like Seven of Nine's mum: see Star Trek.
Anyway, I expect you're all dying to know what I've been up to and why I haven't been letting you all in on my exciting life. Well, that's because it just hasn't been exciting lately, until now, that is...
So read on, dear reader, and live vicariously through the thrilling derring do's of Lovely Moi...
I encountered one too many pooey bums in my erstwhile career as a carer and sheared without explanation to the pooey powers that be. I did tell them on numerous occassions that my 'clients' were too much for delicate One, but they just ignored me and continued to press all the dire cases on me. I expect it was the glowing reports from all my old persons that did it. Either that or they's heard that I'll do almost anything for cash. Anyway, I tipped over the edge and sheared.
I did come up smelling of roses though...
I am now the in house artist in a gallery on the Barbican in Plymouth - no less! Oh the excitement! Oh the glamour! So here I sit on this Sunday morning selling prints of the Beatles on the Hoe and the Pub Stops of Plymouth (like the underground map) The window is heaving with my masterpieces and all I am selling at the moment are endless paintings of poppies. Every time I do one it's snapped up! I'm getting rather good at it now!
Part of the week I paint in our other gallery in Elburton. The customers up there are a more discerning lot. They buy 'art' whilst the ones on the Barbican are 'shoppers'. There's a massive difference. Down here there are holiday makers strolling without purpose, scoffing ice cream and trying not to spend any money. Up in Elburton there are persons with significant disposable income who are looking to buy art and the lovely darlings want to 'invest' in local artists. Fortunately I'm not usually there when they 'invest' as I'm pretty sure they think I'm a young up and coming item, not a jaded old worn out biffa who's hanging on to her looks by the skin of her (loose) teeth!
BF is also suffering the economic downturn as her stuff is being studiously ignored by the masses at the mo. I do, however, have a good feeling about the festive season in that department. She has wasted away down to the size of a normal human now and is often to be seen lurking in the Per Una department of Marks in Taunton. I, however, haven't dropped a size in six months! Disaster! Bloke is a gut bucket and is leading me astray. I swear, following the inhalation of a sizeable amount of chocolate covered peanuts, that I could actually feel my arse growing! With that in mind I am now leaping from between the satin sheets at 5.30am and charging round the wood with stinky dog on a daily basis.
Big is still standing in the wings awaiting my attention. Poor deluded fool. Does he think Lovely Moi would be swayed by a life of lux. No chance! Bloke may be poor and needy, but he's won the heart of fair lady, even though I haven't had a new pair of manolos for twenty minutes and have run out of Chanel etc etc...
Please note newly small BF Re: Per Una (target age range 20-35)

Saturday, 6 February 2010

In which I am no longer serene...

Lovely One, generally serene whatever, is peed off big time! I dragged my poor little sniffly snuffly body out of bed at five o'clock this morning to attend to the sick and dying and when I got to my first patient two other nightingales appeared. One was the one I should have been working with and the other one was the one I should have been working with, according to the obviously incorrect rota.
'Oh is this the first time it's happened to you?' enquired one of the cheery little blighters. 'I used to be a fisherman for six years' she went on. Though quite what that's got to do with the price of fish is anyone's guess. No, dear reader, it HAS everything to do with the price of fish, doesn't it? Anyway, it appears that 'the office' are forever getting their rotas wrong and double booking or cancelling without so much as a text. And speaking of texts, when I challenged 'the office' about the mix up they said that they'd been attempting to telephone and text me all day yesterday, which is absolute rubbish! I had both phones next to me and my pooter switched on for emails, so someone is covering up their faux pas by telling porkers! Then, one of them said I had to front up at the office for a 'back to work interview' before I could continue working. Flippin' 'eck I thought, I've only had a day off for a cold, which incidentally I couldn't have worked through (company policy) in case I infected anyone and caused them to shuffle off this mortal coil. So I sheared down there immediately to put them in the picture.
'Oh you needn't have come in' said the fourteen year old 'on call' girl.
My personal opinion is that my weekend calls were reallocted in error and forgotten about. Oh well, I feel rubbish anyway, which makes it even worse that...
The last Mrs S is on her way round here, even as I blog, to pick up more stuff. So I look like a dog's breakfast, with a big red nose, bloodshot eyes and a hacking cough worthy of 20 woodbine a day. And speaking of Mrs S, she can have Mr S back too if he's in the kind of mood he was in when he got home from work yesterday!
No, darling reader, I don't mean it, but does anyone out there know why men are such moody gits?
I miss my pussy.

Friday, 5 February 2010

In which I disgrace myself - twice...

I am at home today as I have a really horrible cold and the poor blighters that I minister to could do without any more ailments. If I had a normal job, like sitting at a desk etc., I could front up and just sit there sniffing and sneezing and take the money, but having to haul bodies around and wipe up this and that, I took to the duvet and snuggled up with a hot water bottle.
Yesterday was all willies and today would have been all feet and bums so lying around on the sofa listening to the birds tweeting in the woods was just what the doctor ordered.
The delights of yesterday were something of a circus act. Operating a hoist with one hand and making sure the airborne octaganarian didn't sit on his gonads with the other was quite a feat.
I can just hear the ringmaster now:
'For your entertainment today we have Lovely One flying through the air with a handful of geriatric gonads and moistened wetwipes, and all without the aid of a safety net.'
A little far fetched darling reader, but the day in reality did hold a couple of unfortunate faux pas.
The first occurred when dealing with a particularly stinky lump of rotting flesh hanging off someones nether regions. Lovely One has a finely tuned gag reflex and after failing to breathe through my ears I began retching uncontrollably which in turn released a little bottom burp. I blamed it on the poor unfortunate gentlman who we were ministering to at the time, but I don't think I got away with it!
A word of advice dear reader, when dealing with anything foul smelling, rotting flesh, not my bottom burp, obviously, which had the aroma of lily of the valley, stick your tongue to the top of your mouth and breathe through your nose. That way you don't inhale it.
The second in the day's series of unfortunate events was visiting her Ladyship. One is not allowed to use the facilities in Her Ladyship's castle, the servants quarters being adequate for the likes of Lovely Moi! However, as usual being in a tearing hurry and desperate for a wee I nipped into the regal throne room whilst the kettle was boiling for Her Ladyship's morning tea. She was still safely ensconced under the counterpane so couldn't chase me off and whack me with her walking cane. I read in her notes that she's belted someone the day before and chased them out of the castle.
The beautiful stone mullion windows, which are huge and not fitted with obscure glazing, look down over the sweeping lawns and landscaped grounds that meander down to the lake and the village beyond. Yesterday they meanered down to the gardener who had been standing, resting on his spade, watching Lovely One struggle in and out of her leggings. Flushed, I left the room and waited on Lady M.
On taking Her Ladyship down for breakfast I was complimented by another serf on how well I have been looking after Herself. In that, I always ensure she is well groomed and wearing her pearls, and has her hair dressed nicely. I was rather pleased by that and hope they report such findings to the Mothership.
Getting back to base exhausted I was regailed by Ma with tales of falling out with estranged Brother over aged P's funeral. Oh goody, following a full weekend of arse wiping I've got that lot to contend with.
Hey Ho pass the vodka.

Tuesday, 2 February 2010

In which I reflect on a long life, enjoyed...

Aged Ma says that she thinks aged Pa knew the end was coming and practically engineered his own demise. Aged P had an aortic anuerism since his early twenties. It shows up on his medical for national service and for some reason the examining officer chose not to mention it. This, since Pa found out about it relatively recently, has always been put down as being exceedingly wise, since Pa had a 'sporting' life and would probably had a sedentary one had he been armed with the actuals. Anyhow, recently he'd been offered an operation to attempt to correct the flaw and both he and I had taken the view that he'd had it for such a long time and lived life to the full, he'd take his chances. He'd been told not to drink to excess or smoke and apparently was doing both when at estraged brother's over Christmas. Bloke and me had been asked not to visit by Aged Ma, since Bloke had a cold. We were due to either go this Sunday, his 80th Birthday (Pa, not Bloke) or the following week when Ma will be 80. Anyway, it wasn't to be. We kept in reasonably close contact via telephone and email and knew each other very well. I did wonder if something was up since he had sent me an email to say he hadn't been keeping up with the blog since it was so cold in the computer room. This was followed by a declaration of feeling which is most odd from one of 'us' since a traditional show of emotion from my part of Luton is more likely to be a 'watcha mate' or a punch in the kidneys! It's still horrible to think of him dying alone on the bathroom floor and being there for two days until brother found him. But - we come in alone - go out alone and if we've done the best we can in between that's all there is. I shall be raising a glass or two on Sunday and having a fag in honour of aged P. He'd have really liked Bloke, you know!

The needy and desperate of the 'bleak and desolates' have had to make do without Lovely Moi this week, until tomorrow that is. Monday, I had a day to myself, Tuesday and Wednesday are my days off so I shall be aproned and gloved from Thursday to Sunday this week. Have got two hours sandblasting and scrubbing bungalow and grotty inhabitant on Thursday. I don't have much sympathy for people who are stragers to personal hygeine. This particular one is a bit of a 'Lou and Andy' type in that she is perfectly capable of manouvering her way to food or anything else she wants but seemingly incapable of making it to the bathroom.
One of my elderly gentlemen has turned out to be an erstwhile spy for MI6, no less! He has been regailing me with tales of 'derring do' from the war and post war years whilst I forage about in his undergrowth. He has written his memoirs, fortunately, as should a lot of my ancient charges, especially Her Ladyship. But, the events of ordinary people's lives will never be unknown again courtesay of the good old blog!

Well, darling readers, I thought you might like to know that Big has reared his ugly again. He seem content in his massive millhouse with his little dog, so all well with world.

Thursday, 28 January 2010

Dedicated to Ron E Harris 1930 - 2010

Well darling reader, have been busy sorting out the purchase of NS&I Towers in order to pay off one of dearest Bloke's ex-wives, of which there are many. Still, save the best for last, that's what he says!
Obviously, this will mean that she will have to remove all her ghastly cheap tat from MY house without delay.
Have had lovely week adventuring across the bleak and desolate moors to tend to the sick and needy. Lady M on her best behaviour yesterday, a pleasure to slave for. However, we shall see what today brings when I attempt to lure the aged aristocrat into her claw footed and vast bath. I imagine that suggestion will be met with a sharp whack on the legs with the walking cane!
Had surreal experience outside the pub at the top of Mountain Hill the other day...
Just arrived back at trusty Bentley Coupe, parked in aforementioned pub carpark, when a flock of shire horses meandered along and blocked Lovely One's passage. It wasn't so much as the horses that alarmed One, but the fact that they had with them a herd of strange locals dressed as cowboys and indians. Darling Little Lovely One looked rather incongruous in the middle of that lot, all angel faced, flaxen haired and done up in me nurses uniform. Still, the indigenous population out there on the bleak and desolates are a strange bunch so I bid them 'good morning', sauntered slowly over to the vehicle and legged it!
Went to great big stone lodge house again to wash and brush up a rather sturdy old woman who resides there with her offspring, who bears a remarkable likeness to Herman Munster. Sadly Herman has taken something of a shine to Lovely Moi and chose to plant himself in the front parlour during the entire grooming session of his aged P and carried on a conversation throughout the entire strip wash, top, bottom, undercarriage and all. V strange thought Moi. Still, maybe more than one traditional family relationship exists under one roof on the Bleak and Desolates, just like in the Somerset Hills. We didn't sanction that sort of behaviour in Hampstead darlings!

Had extra six calls today. Dementia is a frightening and sad way to end life and I have a few old ladies to call on today who suffer it. My own father is, or as I now know, was, in the very early stages.
I came home to a call to tell me he has died. Just one week short of his 80th birthday. Now the trip home to celebrate that will be for his funeral.
He lived his life. He didn't just use it up. I wish I could have seen him one last time and that he could have met Bloke.

Saturday, 23 January 2010

In which I can't find me lippy...

News has reached deepest that Mr Pink is an Avon Lady. What ever next darlings? It must be bad enough opening the door to Mrs Pink - but MR PINK - Bugger my hat, is all I can say!!
Been out since 6.00am humping pensioners around Dartmoor. I find it very alarming that I am required to minister to elderly ladies who live with their families, sometimes three generations under the same roof. All women, and girls with babies living on benefits and all lying around in bed watching state of the art tellies (better than mine) whilst I wash, dress and feed their grannies for a measley wage, the tax payable on which goes to support them. It's all wrong! WRONG I TELL YOU dear reader. Not that any of them are bad people. In fact most are very nice. It's just a very strange society that we've created where it's ok to breed, not work, and just take take take from those who do an honest day's toil!
It's also alarming, the level of squalor some people live in. Carpets caked in discarded food, cat crap and hair, fur etc. Window sills thick with filth, windows you can't see through and filthy, smelly sinks and lavatories.Not to mention overflowing commodes. And yet, even these ghastly abodes boast enormous up to the minute flat screen tellies, all big and bright and new and clearly the only item to ever be cleaned.
The other side of the coin are the rich who are funding their own care and what a pleasure it is to tend to some of them. Their cash cushioned existences can't shield them from the ravages of dementia or the debilitating results of strokes, cancer etc.
Their warm, safe worlds have to depend on the likes of Lovely One, just like the council flat dwellers.
Mrs Brigadier insisted on climbing down from the bath seat and reciting poetry whilst splashing about in the water. Still, she seemed quite cheerful so I let her get on with it whilst I laid out her clothing.
'Don't slide down the plughole Mrs T', said I.
'Oh wouldn't that be an adventure', she replied.
We finally completed the toilette and descended to the drawing room where a blazing fire had been lit.
Brigadeer informed me that he once had a Latin Master who used to turn off his hearing aid and recite Greek poetry when he was bored.
On that note I legged it to tend to a particularly unpleasant person who insists on peeing herself rather than trundle to the lavatory. It would be alright if she availed herself of the available Tena Lady products, but no, why bother when there's a 'nice lady' to come round and clean one up?
Lovely One shot round that place, cleaning, washing etc without breathing over much. Just dug me teeth into me lip and got on with it. Heaved a huge sigh on leaving and delved into carpet bag for a bit of lippy. Can't find it...
Calling Mr Pink - ding dong

Thursday, 21 January 2010

In which Lovely One fails with her Ladyship...

First call today on the moors in little village. V old lady who didn't really want to get out of her warm and snuggly bed. I hadn't wanted to get out of mine at 5.00am but did, since Bloke has been a 'bear with a sore head' for a couple of days now and is severely testing Lovely One's naturally sunny nature. One word answers and precious little eye contact is unusual for darling Bloke, so something's up, but I know not what! Anyway I shall remain serene and wait for the black cloud to drift away. I had meant to make a big fuss of him this evening, but dropped off to sleep on the sofa clutching a hot water bottle instead. I found him at 6.15pm sitting forlornly on the edge of the bed watching the news.
My second call to a remote farmhouse delayed me for the rest of my clients since I had to abandon my mission temporarily to wait for the district nurse to do her bit. Why can't social services organise it so that two different services don't turn up at the same time. The nurses 'doings' take priority over mine, so that means time is ticking and all my subsequent calls are late, meaning I get a severe ticking off from Brigadiers whose wives are waiting for a bath and grumpy carers who's mums need a hairwash.
Today's farming lecture from farmer's daughter has left me in possession of adequate knowledge to deliver a baby lamb, should I be required to. In a former life, Lovely One would have fainted at the very thought of such pastimes, but I imbibed all this information whilst continuing my new career as the 'Pooh-meister'.
Anyway, farmer's daughter seems to have taken a shine to Lovely One and clearly relishes a chat to the extent that there are no donkeys on the farm complete with hind legs! One eventually escaped leaving fellow caring person A to finish up whilst I sheared to Lady M's.
Unfortunately on arrival to rouse her Ladyship from her slumbers she clearly had other ideas.
Lovely One - 'Good Morning Lady M', opening the curtains.
Lady M- 'What did you do that for! Close the curtains immediately!'
Lovely One - 'I've brought you a cup of tea. Would you like me to help you sit up.'
Lady M - silence
Lovely One - see above.
Lady M - 'Leave the tea on the table, I'll have it later.'
I left the room with the intention to return and have another go. A v nice woman had just set about cleaning the sitting room so we had a little chat. Apparently thus far One has been phenomenally successful in the Ladyship department, having roused said Ladyship, abluted, coiffed and dressed and delivered to the dining room in record time. In fact most 'serfs' such as Lovely One are dismissed forthwith with a sharp tap from the walking cane, and don't as much as get her out from under the quilt. So it was that I ventured back into the bedchamber and had another bash. Sadly, 'twas not to be, so after a while I reported in and aborted the mission.
Tomorrow is another day methinks.
Then a lovely new lady. Wing Commander something or other, complete with moustache and cravat, led me along endless portrait lined walls to lady wife who was a delightful, though rather confused lady.
Briefly visited a garage and frittered a weeks pay on two new tyres, made a fish pie, exchanged three words with Bloke - up the wooden stairs to Bedfordshire!

Wednesday, 20 January 2010

In which Bloke grows his own earmuffs...

Having lovely dream about being posh ladies maid in India when passing untouchable prodded Lovely One in the small of the back with a broom handle.
Opening one clear, blue, twinkling eye and espying '5.00am' projected on the underside of the overhead cupboard I twigged it was almost time to alight from the four poster, and realised it wasn't a broom handle in my back...
Today Stinky and Lovely One are having a day of rest. Someone else shall have to tend to the sick and dying on the Moors, I'm shagged! Quite literally - see 'broom handle' - above.
Spreadeagled like a starfish, with the face of an angel, obviously, I regarded Bloke as he lumbered around the bedchamber readying himself for the hungry masses.
A vision of perfection, as always. I do like the larger male of the species. I can't imagine what I was doing spending such a long time with Vile Husband. He was like a filletted fart, but it was fairly simple to repell his advances with a swift arm lock and baring of the gnashers. Hey ho - history!
Bloke is perfect in every way. In fact, there's just one small improvement possible which I shall attend to upon his return from the burger van.
I have permitted it to grow rather long over these past winter weeks as the poor blighter has been freezing his gonads off feeding the great unwashed from an unheated, roadside bistro. (Van)
On closer inspection this very morn it has become apparant that his beard and hair have meshed and he has grown his own balaclava!
Some time last week he entered the 'Kenny Rodgers' phase of hirsuteness. Sadly this has been replaced by the 'Willy Nelson'. Not a good look at the best of times!
'Willy Nelson' - sounds like an illegal wrestling hold, doesn't it darling readers? In fact, the next time Lovely Moi is assaulted by the 'broom handle' I may well deploy it in my defence!

Tuesday, 19 January 2010

In which I am livid...

Lovely Moi sashayed forth onto the moors at 6.00am this very morn, and flippin' cold it was!
A nice short day with just three ladies to 'do' for thinks I. No, 'twas not to be! Fancy phone (no idea how it works) went off twice and added two more ladies to my list.
Clever phone keeps taking pictures of Lovely One by accident. Due to closeness of fancy phone dear little lovely one looks as if she's trapped in a fish bowl. Anyway, no matter, off I went to her ladyship, one of my extras.
A sharp tap on the door was met by,
'Oh my goodness what a very loud knock on the door!'
Now, under normal circumstances Her Ladyship says she can't hear anything I say.
'Speak up, for goodness sake girl. I can't understand anything you say.' That's what I'm normally met with, but not today!
Lady M - 'Don't open the curtains, I don't want them open.'
Moi - 'Let's just have one open a bit to see what sort of day it is.'
Lady M - 'Huff, tut.'
Moi - 'I'll just make you a cup of tea and some toast.'
Lady M -'Soap! Soap! Who's brought me some soap?'
Moi - 'Toast, Lady M.'
Lady M - 'I don't have to get out of bed.'
Moi - 'It's a lovely day let's get you up and dressed.'
Lady M - 'There's a child outside calling Granny.'
I feign a peek outside and report back that there's no one there.
Eventually, cup of tea drunk, ablutions over, hair dressed we meander to the dining room.
Lady M settles down to her cornflakes.
'There's something a bit orf', says she.
Oh Blimey! I've gone and forgotten her flamin' teeth.
I belted up the three flights of stairs like a thing possessed and nabbed the gnashers from the bathroom, bunged 'em in a tissue and slid down the bannisters at breakneck speed back to the dining room.
The next time she opened her mouth to issue an order I bunged 'em in.
'Oh that's much better', says she and chomped merrily away on her cereal as I picked up yet another call on fancy phone and legged it before any more assistance was required.
On arrival back at home a letter from G P awaited me. The management company that 'looks after' the block in which I have my apartment. The company is made up of a number of frightening old harridans who have such an appalling reputation around town that I infiltrated their ranks in order to bring a measure of calm to the proceedings.
I have heard from my Estate Agent, solitcitor and bank that the secretary of this nasty little coven had been trying to find out my new address in order to send me a 'surprise' letter. (I had incurred their collective wrath by considering letting the place to a 'young person.') All concerned were horrified by their behaviour which we all agreed was tantamount to stalking. My solicitor wanted to 'send a shot across their bows' but I remain serene and have ignored them.
I have had the temerity to let my own property without asking their permission, which incidentally, they are not allowed by law to withold.
The ring leader of this spiteful, mean mouthed, anal group of busybodies is a particularly unpleasant old hag who has a penchant for litigation. Now, I like things to be done properly but am fed up with having my exhorbitant maintenance charges spent on futile legal actions entered into by a filthy toenailed slug who just likes making other people's lives miserable.
I fear she is in dire need of either a good rodgering or a punch in the gob - or both. One of which I'd be happy to oblige, but since there's such a long queue (for the punch) that is, I'll remain serene and ignore the vile bint.