Google+ Followers

Follow by Email

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)