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Tuesday, 27 December 2011

In which I ramble on for days...

'Deck the halls with dead relations, fa la la la la la feckin' la'

Aged P has performed to her utmost all the amazing and irritating habits that we have all come to loathe. All gifts were ripped into with the ferocity of a vulture tearing at it's prey and then given the 'sniff' of disapproval before being cast aside with a disparaging comment...

And the comments are so thick and fast and hilariously funny that I simply can't record them all...

At the mo we are listening to Woman's Hour, the one listing all the funny tweets of the year, and everyone who has spoken thus far has had a reception non too favourable from Aged P.
The current subject, the reaction by some women to a hot horse, has been totally misread. Interviewer obviously alluding to the sexual connotations of the hot steaming beast is illiciting comments from various contributors. Aged P, as usual, misreads the situation and chimes in, 'I like donkeys. I used to send £10 a year to some woman who looks after them. She's dead now so I don't send it.'

Another object for derision is in the ad breaks of 'Deal or no Deal', some inane tv programme where factory fodder shout out box numbers and that twat Noel Edmonds pretends there is an element of skill in it. Any road up, it would appear this drivel is sponsored by a bingo game and advertised by puppets, one of which is supposed to be Barbara Windsor.
'I hate that effing cow' spits Aged P, stabbing a digit in the direction of the TV.
'It's a puppet' I interject.
'You know what I mean' hisses Aged P, 'That effing bitch BW. She's had 8 abortions. You lent me the book.'
Up comes another ad with some footage of Grace Kelly and Marilyn Monroe.
'She shagged everyone in Hollywood, that one', says Aged P sniffing with disapproval at Grace Kelly, 'and the other one's a stupid cow'.
There really is no answer to any of this so we sit back and await another brain numbing interval with Noel Edmonds and pea brained contestants.

days pass...
More of same...

Imagining that things can only improve, fool that I am, we meander back to Maison Moist only to learn that ex wife number two has lost the effing hound...
Bloke was poised on the edge of the sofa for two days, perched right on the edge. hitherto I had assumed that the 'wringing of hands' was a mythical thing, noted only in literature and headlines a la,'phew what a scorcher' etc
But no, the phenomenon exists.
He brooks no comfort, not that Lovely One is in any kind of position to offer some, and abandons himself to grief.

Sitting there with eyes streaming into snot meandering its way through the bearded chin and splopping down onto the threadbare item that still goes by the description T shirt, though is in fact more of a gossamer thin rag.

A veritable sight for sore eyes, with beads of perspiration dotting the sparsely barnetted dome and copious nose hair flowing into a mustache and neatly trimmed beard grown to cover a profusion of chins, but merely resembling a grow yer own balaclava...

Well I'll be doggone, or not, as it turned out.

Thursday, 22 December 2011

In which I wish upon a washing machine...

Just as I had settled into the 'silent night' treatment from himself, he comes home almost in the manner of an ordinary cove. A brief conversation ensued during which he uttered more than the usual one word answer. How can this be? I felt sure he would have plummetted into the depths with the news of the house sale being postponed, yet again. Maybe it's the thought of a few weeks off work that lifted the spirits? Who knows? Who cares? Just be thankful that I'm not sitting in absolute silence every night.What I can't figure is - if he's that miserable with me, why prolong the agony? He always says, following the question, that 'it's not all about you.' But surely we should be on the same side. I don't get it! It must be me. I should live alone with cats and be done with it.

Yesterday, sallied forth upon the Barbican to check up on sales. Not too bad, considering the town is positively heaving with massive discounts on everything. Anal C and Don the Dump were in situ positively oozing festive bile and gloom.
'Are you still alright looking Sir?, is the stock enquiry from Anal C. That soon shifts 'em out the door.

In my recent experience, Christmas Cheer exists only in supermarket adverts. Not the Sainsbury's one though - 'Happy go lucky Me' with Panto Dames and the cod-gobbed Jamie Oliver. That is just downright sinister! I don't think I'd care for any festive fare from the hands of that Oliver goon. Looks like he picks his nose and eats it, to me!

It would be divine to be in Wivey and in my little flat, but it can't be. How I would love to saunter up the Co op and invest in some over priced mince pies and a bottle of something mind numbing.

I have reaped what I sowed and have no one to blame but myself.

And so to wash Bloke's shreddies for the season...

In which I summarise...

Made appointment at docs for today, but not going. What's the point? I don't have anything to say, I can't be medicated against getting on with my life, can I?

Last night was a bit fraught. Silence and one word answers again. Earlier in the day a copy of an email sent from Bloke's solicitor to everyone down the line had been sent to me and the upshot is that it is highly unlikely that contracts will be exchanged for the purchase of this house until the new year. It would appear that the solicitor at the end of the line is Chinese and only contacts all the other solicitors via email and not telephone. Being Chinese is the excuse/reason given for this strange mode of communication. Bloke has taken this news of the delayed exchange with his customary mood of gloom and doom. I hate to think what will happen if it all falls through as he has mentally given up his business. He laid off his assistant some time ago which wasn't the right thing to do since it is never a good idea to do anything until exchange. I know he's had enough, but he's just given himself yet another reason for despair.

My sales seem to be trundling along without my being in the gallery so that's good.

She Who bla bla is off to the hospital today for investigation and it doesn't bode well. Everything would appear to be crashing down round our ears.

I do hope Bloke will be able to summon a modicum of Christmas cheer when we decamp to Aged P's.

Boy has taken to his bed yet again with a gloomy mood.

I really will be glad to see the end of this year.

Wednesday, 21 December 2011

In which I drone on about bog all…

I need to get out of maison moist today, if only for a while.  I am a bit dubious about dipping me dainty little toe into the outside world for the first time in over a week.

Why do I always think that something lovely will happen? Like someone sending me a card or some flowers, or coming to see if I’m alright.  Even after all the soul destroying and unpleasant things that have gone on here I still harbour a glimmer of hope down deep in my Pollyanna soul.  Ridiculous!  I know!  I suppose that’s why I’ve never really grown up.  I keep trying to get one bit of  life to a satisfactory conclusion before moving on to the next, and well, frankly, I’m still struggling with adolescence!

Yesterday, Dear Little S, brought round a couple of masterpieces that I’d completed before my head exploded.  Observing them now, they are completely different to my adopted ‘style’ and are in fact painted ‘properly.’  He waited at the bottom of our two flights of stairs with them and phoned to say he was here.  Now, dear reader, I am old, I am tough, I am optimistic, but I cant scale two flights of stairs carrying myself, let alone anything else!  Anyway, he very kindly brought them to the door and now they await transportation to the gallery.

I imagine Anal C and Don the Dump have been doing a sterling job in their way, of depriving the odd passing Janner of their benefits, but I can’t help feeling that sales would be boosted by the fragrant presence of Darling little Lovely One.  After all, the tingling thrill of buying actually from the genius is a service only I can offer.

I had an absolutely ghastly nightmare in which my face was old and wrinkly last night.  Now, now, I cannot sanction silly jokes about it, Dears, because we all know how divine Lovely One’s largest organ is.  SKIN, dears, for the stchoopid amongst you.  I am of course, restored to my state of beauty upon waking, and shall administer the scented oils forthwith.  In fact, as a Seasonal treat I shall re-apply the ordnance survey mapping and allocate each of you an area of exploration.  This offer is only available throughout the festive season, mind, so get in quick!

Bloke was marginally better last night and attempted one or two words before bedtime.  We are of course, by now, in separate rooms.  This was embarked upon as  a measure against him losing sleep to my unacceptable nocturnal wandering habits, and the arrangement has endured. 

Quite what Elderly P will make of his glum state is anyone’s guess.  I do try and jolly him along, but frankly am becoming seriously teeed off with the whole ghastly business.

Surely someone out there would like a nice little old elderly painter as a companion to help pay the bills?  Then I could flee Bloke and take the heavy burden that is Lovely Moi off his shoulders for good.  I’m sure that would crack his face!

Monday, 19 December 2011

In which I tell it like it is…

OK I have had enough now. Because I have no after effects from my petit foray into the illnesses largely enjoyed by octagenarians, they now want to scan my neck and give me a lumber puncture. I  was all for leaving fairly sharpish, but no, so I have just...

Well, had lumber puncture and now so full of holes that I am leaking diet coke from numerous orifices, old and new.

Imagine, if you will, time passing in the manner of a desk calendar from an old movie...

I am home!  Well, not my home, this nasty, uncared for damp maison that housed Bloke and Mrs Bloke no2.

He came to collect me at the end of visiting time, not yet knowing whether we could leave or not.  To say he had a pained expression on his face is to underestimate the situation.  I usually hold back a bit in case he reads this and I get to suffer another week or so of the silent treatment. But, hey, look where putting up and shutting up has got me.
I asked him to talk to me whilst he sat in the chair and I lay on the bed completely flat and still following the lumber puncture.
'Whatever I say will be wrong,' was what I got for my trouble.
'Well tell me a story about when you were in the Navy,' I plodded on.
'Haven't got any stories'
He just stared straight ahead with the look I have come to dread, that dead eyed glazed look of utter hatred and malevolence.

Enter a nurse to take my blood pressure...
We had a little giggle about the husband of a woman in the corner bed who was making the most of his captive female audience and embarked upon a 'Gaw Blimee, apples and pears' tale of his time on the funfairs.
'I wonder if he realises his wife is in hospital?' I said 'And not it's all about ME ME MEEEEEE.'
This remark was greeted by a look of utter contempt by Bloke and a 'huh' in my direction, clearly to indicate that I was starting to think that the situation we too are currently in was about me.  Well IT IS.
Lest we forget, I am in hospital having had a stroke, but no, the house sale, the winding up of the burger van et all are far more important.

I try again to illicit some conversation when the nurse has gone and I ask about Heather his assistant on the van.  He always has plenty to say about her life since she is very talkative and I get to hear the lot, every week.  It is all remembered and relayed with such clarity as is never given to any information I may pass on.Under other circumstances I would thereby assume that the two of them were 'en amour' or something like that, but I really don't think so.

Cast your mind back to the desk calendar...

Here I am a couple of days later.  All seemed relatively ordinary. The heating has been put on without my asking and a relative calm has been restored.
Until today...
My requiring some shopping has proven something of an issue and having been told to,
'give me the fucking list' he then slammed (literally) out of the house only to return several hours later without enquiring for my wellbeing.

I went back to bed in order to 'give him some space' I believe is the current vernacular.

Any road up, it's now half past ten and I am up again, alone, having spoken to Boy who is coming to visit tomorrow.

I am not one of life's victims and shall engineer the situation in my favour as much as I am able. 

No grand sortings out or discussions can happen at the mo since the stress could, quite literally, kill me.

Do have a jolly Xmas, one and all...

Thursday, 15 December 2011

In which I am a Lovely One of little importance...

I know you are getting ready for Christmas dear reader - but not one message of hope for poor anuerism struck Lovely One? Shame on you!!!!

Wednesday, 14 December 2011

I which I am leaving the building...

oh dear, don't panic, dear reader I am incarcerated in the hospital with a bloody effing stroke. well, first I had a headache then a MASSIVE headache, got all clear after scan - dressed to leave THEN THEY CHANGED THEIR MINDS said I need another. That was 24 hours ago and i am stuck in here getting cross. HAVING NOT GIVEN ME any of my usual BP meds I am at a loss to know how to get better and OUT


Friday, 9 December 2011

In which I rant on again about my dear little customers...

Imagine the scene, if you will, dear reader...

Lovely One in her studio is laying a wash of darks for a dramatic sky over Kingsbridge...

Enter Mr and Mrs Pea Brained Janner...

'You used to be down the road?' she enquires, barging into my easel.
'No, we have always been here', I reply, attempting to disengage her from my equipment.
'We dun wen in down the road an they sen us up yere' she whined on.
'How can I help you?' I smiled.
'We wanna know how much ar picture's worth.'
'Do you have it with you?' I enquire through gritted teeth. Maybe all the gritting is what's making them drop out!
'No we done 'ave 'em. We got two of 'em.'
'Who are they by and are they originals?' I ask, feigning enthusiasm.
'They'm got numbers on em.'


I finally ascertain that what the twonks actually have is two unlimited prints of the miniscule, nicotine scented JM's Guiness Clock.


It is soooo difficult not to frog march these morons to the door and lecture them about wasting my time!!

I am then interrupted by another so called 'artist.'
'I am an artist,' he begins 'will it be ok if I bring in my work sometime next week?'


The next delightful browser comes in with seemingly the sole purpose of emptying the contents of her nose into, an already, over filled and soggy kleenex, and then proceeds to wipe her disgusting, germ ridden paws all over me stock!

I don't remember the inhabitants of Somerset being as nauseous as the populus of Plymouth. There are notable exceptions to this rule ofcourse, those lucky enough to be in the orbit of Lovely One, for instance. Clearly I have a positive effect in my own darling little way, but those perambulting abroad on the Barbican are, in the main, a bunch of unwashed, educationally challenged factory fodder.

Thursday, 8 December 2011

In which I mourn me molar...

Back again for the afternoon in order that Anal C can supervise Moist Bob and his partner ginger in the relocation of a comfy matress up Auntie Wainwright's back passage. How many weirdos does it take to bla bla....? springs to mind.

Any road up, the upshot of the goings on renders Lovely One on duty trying not to stab the Plymouthians to death as they sashay hither and thither annoying Moi.

The pressing business of the day is to decide what to do with a body part that has recently dropped off. No, Dear Reader, don't distress your little self, it's not an essential limb, or a fingernail, it's a wibbly tooth. The Wiveliscombe dentist who filled said molar, was on a youth opportunities programme having previously been employed as a road digger upper, complete with pneumatic drillington. He attacked the poorly masticating device with such fervour that I still bear the scar - even of the injection! As for the operation to fill the darling little cavity, the ham fisted blighter knocked the other half of the teggie out and henceforth 'tas wibbled to and fro william nilliam.

Eventually, having gnashed it back and forth verily and having been threatened with pliers by Dear Little S, the offending pearly white popped out.

I have had it displayed on the mantleshelf like a mini Matterhorn, for all to admire. Bloke, even though I've offered, has declined to examine it and refused point blank to look at my hole. I have it with me nestling in a silk pouch in me make up bag for fear of him trying to dispose of it. It is, or has been, a part of Lovely One and thus, must surely be of keen and deep interest to my legions of followers.

In the manner of Van Gogh I may indeed parcel it up and send it to one of my many admirers, or adverise it on Ebay. I expect the £5000 reserve will be met almost immediately and Moi shall be languishing in retirement on the Beeharmars forthwith.

Wednesday, 7 December 2011

In which I offer my advice to Posh J...

Here I jolly well am again Dear Reader. In the gallery, on the Barbican. Not many intrepid Chrimbo shoppers about yet since we are being buffeted by Hurricaine Herbert accompanied by horizontal stair rods.

Oooh, local tourettes sufferer just perambulated past in a positively profane manner, not befitting with the season of goodwill to all chaps! Shame about him. He's a not too shabby looking individual, smartly dressed and obviously educated, given the vast extent of his vocabulary. Shame it's all shouting and swearing really! Still, he is just voicing the general sentiments of the rest of us who are too anal and repressed to yell it all out in the street.

Have hardly got any originals left at all! So better get going and knock off a few masterpieces tout sweet, Caruthers! Speaking of my phenomenal sales...

Dear Little S and Posh J are having a winter sale. Incidentally beginning on December 13th, coincidentally the wedding anniversary of Dear Little Lovely One and Vile ex Husband. We all know how that went, don't we!!
I shan't bother telling you where it is since nobody could be arsed to go anyway! But, there is a teensy silver lining dans the cloud that is Posh J's sales figures, and that is ...
They can re-use all the invites that we produced for the sale Lovely Moi had with Posh J two years ago. All they need to do is to write SOLD accross all Lovely One's masterpieces on the invite because all Posh J's are still languishing for sale! Isn't that lucky! Do you think I should go and share this idea with them Dear Reader?

Exchange due to take place next Wednesday...

Friday, 2 December 2011

In which I have an unpleasant altercation with Shirty Arsehole...

Still no exchange of contract on Maison Moist. Pity, since it is really living up to it's monika and late last evening I was whiling away my time sitting on the downstairs toiley boiley when I discovered a MUSHROOM GROWING OUT OF THE WALL. The offensive fungi was located next to what I euphemistically term 'the weeping hole' a crack in the wall out of which seeps the most revolting black goo. Now, dear reader, I don't want you to think I usually reside in such abject horror. Indeed NO! I am living in someone else's gaff and it's literally draining the life out of me.
Darling Lovely One, as you know, is rather more used to residing in sartorial elegance, surrounded by tasteful and beautiful items of furniture and veritably cocooned in luxury. Sadly Mrs Ex-Bloke had rather a more 'cut price' approach to life than Lovely One, and having been on the cusp of vacating the prem for so long mine own divine possessions are still lovingly encased within bubble wrap and plastic lidded boxes. No nasty cardboard for Lovely One!!

OOOh have just been interrupted by Japanese tourists itching for a phototgraph of Darling Lovely One creating a masterpiece and then, relieving same of vast quantities of cash for 'one I made earlier.'

Rather a good start to the day considering the three hours of my life that I won't ever get back that I spent last evening on the 'Open Galleries' event, which nobody was ever intending to attend, given that it was the first late night shopping event 'up town' in the dry and with masses of exciting entertainment. Our USP was a visit from Auntie Wainwright, her grandson, her estranged hubbster, her gay (moist) hanger on, her pet hound Anal C, her seriously annoying squeeze (with yet another three resin birds) (that beak'll 'ave somebody's eye out!) and - Wait for it - a bread basket lined with napkins from the chinese filled with Quality Street! The evening was further enhanced by Anal C heating up some foul smelling soup in the microwave and slurping it behind the counter. Oh goody, I thought, now we'll all smell of onion soup too!!!

Shirty Arsehole put in an appearance which was purely for my benefit given that we'd had, what might be termed, an altercation earlier at Dear Little S's.
Let me explain...
Shirty has been bad mouthing Lovely One all around town, saying that
'Claire Rice is not the sort of person who should be around Sonia' and things like that. And 'Don't talk to me about HER' which is a bit rich since I don't even know the woman and had only met her once.
I gave her every opportunity to aviod me by ignoring her and carrying on with the business of getting my latest masterpiec framed, but no, she pursued me and insisted on licking up to me, the two faced old harridan!
So, I challenged her about what she'd said and told her that I didn't want to hear any more. Rigorous denial ensued until finally she admitted where the offence had taken place and to whom she'd dissed moi. Any road up, she obviously went straight round to Auntie W's to protest her innocence and then chose to front up at the open evening in an effort to distress your own Lovely One.


Ma James was amused by the recounting of the incident, in which one could hear a pin drop, by Dear Little S.

I shan't be mentioning it to Auntie W. Thus spoiling the moment for Shirty Arsehole.

OOOh just been interuppted by another little Dear wanting ONE OF MINE.


Wednesday, 30 November 2011

In which I plan to crawl away and die...

Am firmly housed dans le maison de chien once again. Have inadvertently offended Bloke and am in for at least two weeks of the staring straight ahead, one word answer treatment. If the recent past is anything to go by that is.

It all began, dear reader, when Bloke was emailed by the estate agent with the incorrect amount that I'd paid for the Home Information Pack for the sale of HIS house.

'Are you looking through my bank account?' I enquired, and all hell broke loose! Let me explain...
A couple of years ago I added Bloke to my current account so that the proceeds from the house sale didn't go into the account he still had with his ex-wife. The sale fell through, he is still on my bank account and yet he chooses to continue use of the account with his ex-wife. Only my earnings and dealings are passed through what was, after all, my bank account.
I am not interested in money, all I want is to work, paint, pay my bills and survive. I don't mind him looking at my account, I have nothing to hide. I only asked the question and now I am informed that he is,
'used to being in a relationship.' and that I 'only want to do my own thing', whatever that means.

I don't think he really wants me at all and I just don't know what to do. I feel really sad about it all, but it seems to be that I have a negative effect on everyone around me.

I should crawl away and die.

Friday, 25 November 2011

In which I am the recipient of a smidgeon of good luck...

Bugger my 'at! Could it be a stroke of luck at last, dear reader? This very morn I took a call from the estate agent who very apologetically told me that the buyer of our buyer, the cash buyer (keep up, keep up) will incur some sort of financial penalty if they complete the transaction before January, BUT they want to exchange contracts ASAP.


That is exactly what we have needed all along and I have told everyone from day one! Because we have travelled this path before and have spent, and lost, rather a lot of money, I won't make any arrangements for our onward move until we have exchanged contracts. When that's happened everyone is tied in and can't get out of it without paying up!

So, with luck, I shall be in my 'beloved gallery' as Bloke calls it, for Christmas and beyond. My enthusiasm for all things artistic is seen as me 'showing off'.

No annoying Janners with crap to sell have been in yet, but the day is young.

Had a lovely big sale last time I was in - on the cusp of shearing as the streets were almost bare of punters, when in sashayed a mother and daughter combo waxing lyrical about Lovely One. The little dears bought my 'Carousel' so moi is a contented article - but for how long?

Wednesday, 23 November 2011

In which things are bleaker by the day...

There are some kind and generous people out there and they know who they are!

Still no word about the exchange of contracts on Bloke's gaff. He is, however, planning to stop working at the end of this week, so I hope it all comes to fruition!!

In the gallery today. The first twatticus with something to sell has been in...
'I've got a painting by *******'
'Not someone I'm familiar with' I say through gritted teeth.
'I can't believe it!' says he 'he's a really famous, well known artist from Cornwall.'
'Well I've never heard of him' I continue 'what is it you want? To sell me something?'
'I was hoping you could tell me about him' he went on 'I've looked him up on the internet and I've got this painting of the twin towers he did.'
'Well, if you've looked him up on the internet you must have found out everything there is to know and I can't add to that. I suggest that if you have something to sell that is where you do it, we are in the business of selling art.'

Although he'd barged into the gallery brandishing his painting without even looking at what we have on our walls for sale, he looked affronted that I wasn't interested in buying his wares. What is it with these people? I imagine the rest of the lucky gallery owners have had the same conversation with him as he's been traversing the street for quite some time now. Next port of call - the auction house and dear little S, no doubt.

Boy is in the doldrums again. I wish I knew whether he was really depressed or just clutching at some reason for not wanting to go to college. I should be with him in Wivey looking out for him. Not down here living someone else's life. I deserve every bad thing that happens to me, for leaving him there with his father.

Have had a very generous offer of sactuary which I would love to accept, but I'm not fit for human company. Why should I spread my misery around? I only have myself to blame.

Sunday, 20 November 2011

In which I, at last, wise up...

Well here I am again then! Sunday morning on the Barbican. What will today bring? No doubt the usual steady trickle of idiots wanting me to buy their worthless old tat.

Yesterday was rather fruitful in my absence. A commission for a land agent's boardroom. Big bucks for that one methinks! Plus two little ones sold. It all adds up.

I sashayed into Dear Little S's on Friday evening to collect some more small framed pics that had sold out and 'stap me vitals' the idiotic woman who attempted to sell me the worthless print of the Hoe by some unknown, had fronted up at the Auction House and attempted to get them to sell it! With flea firmly positioned in ear, rather than sod off home and bin the thing she then tried to sell it to Dear Little S. These people are unbelievable!

FFS was there wearing yet another child's frock stretched to it's limit across various ample areas of her torso and sporting a new and intriguing hairstyle. Well I say hairstyle, it looked more like she's been hung upside down for an hour or so and had super glue sprayed on it in the manner of Jeddward. A pair of Santa Claus boots completed the eclectic outfit, not to mention of course, the obligatory vast wooly poncho. Somewhere on a hillside in Wales there's an entire herd of sheep shivering following the completion of that vast item!

Lovely One, naturally, was the epitome of fragrant elegance in me uggs and big fluffy wooly.

Bloke has been rather pleasant company of late. Methinks the end being in sight of living in Maison Moist has lifted his spirits. I can't wait to put plan B into action....

I'm keeping it to my dear little self though, as if I open me gob, it'll all go tits up!

It is still a constant source of surprise to me regarding those who have offered to come to my assistance, and indeed those who haven't. I have always thought myself to be a reasonable judge of character, but it would appear not. I do recall some time back several persons questioning me rather gently about the company I was keeping, but I paid them no heed. It won't change me though and I shall still have a tiny bit of the Pollyanna about me.

Stchoopid? Perhaps? Who knows? Who cares?

I shall be keeping my own council from now on.

Friday, 18 November 2011

In which I am surrounded by idiots...

Sales are going well! That's good isn't it dear reader? Perhaps I'll be able to afford somewhere to live soon.

This morning I have been irritated by two items of stab fodder thus far...

The first, a woman who wanted me to buy a print of the Hoe by an unknown artist. It is really difficult to enter into a conversation with these morons without employing the words 'off' and 'fuck'

A print - I ask you!

I gently attempted to explain to her that we are in the business of selling, in preference to buying, art. AND Why is it that people think that just because they have a print/painting it is worth money? She didn't even bother to survey the scene and see what we actually have for sale in here, before launching into her schpeil. I did what I usually do and told her to either sell it on ebay or put it in the dustbin.

The second twat was brandishing a pencil drawing produced by his Father.
'He does drawings like Salvatori Devli,' says the plonker.
I inspected the folded sheet of A4 print paper with abject horror.
How does One address these issues without punching people in the gob? I told him that we don't deal in this kind of art and he very sternly told me that 'someone in London' was interested in it!
'I should pursue that line of enquiry then,' I retorted.
I would have been ashamed of it if I'd done it when I was eight years old!
It must be special needs outing day on the Barbican today. Either that or a vast amount of the Plymouth populus is thick!


Just had a visitation from another twatticus...
In it lopes - shorts, sandals, sunglasses. Correct moi if I'm wrong, but it is November is it not?
'I was ripped off by you' was his opening gambit.
'How so?' I reply.
'I own hundreds of paintings' he goes on 'I'm sixty now and I want to sell them.' And on he goes listing the various art he owns. Incidentally, nobody I've ever heard of.
'My accountant says if I get over £3000 I shall have to pay capital gains tax. But then you should know all that' he says, stabbing his finger into my face.
'You know that don't you?' he continues.
'I had no idea' I reply 'I'm not the owner, I'm the in-house painter.'
'Where's your stuff?' he demands to know.
I point him in the direction of my studio and he makes agreeable noises before alighting upon my 'Shape of the Hoe' framed limited edition print.
'I want that' he exclaims 'But I'm not paying that for it. I'll give you a hundred cash.'
'No' I reply. (Frankly I'd give it second thoughts if the ghastly stinker offered me five hundred)
'I'll be back to discuss it later' he says over his shoulder as he shuffles off into the distance.

Can't wait!

Friday, 11 November 2011

In which my hands are shaking...

In the grip of pure terror today. No sleep, not even scoffing, which can only be a good thing. On Monday we will find out if Bloke can go ahead and buy a shared ownership flat. Not ideal. In fact, far from it. Beggars can't be bla bla...

I know I shouldn't expect him to be any stronger than me, but it just seems to always be me who's trying to sort everything out. Such is life, well mine anyway. It was the same with Vile Husband.

It seems to have been one long stroll from mistake to mistake.

Pring Pring...
Excuse moi, dear reader...

Oh I didn't see that one coming...
It was the agent marketing the shared ownership flat. The vendor has taken it off the market. What can I say?


I never pulled wings off flies or anthing horrid like that. I have done my fair share of charity work. I am quite a nice person. So why does everything go tits up for me?

Anal C, who hasn't quite grasped the situation says that 'moving is very stressful.' It's not. I rather like it. What is stressful is that when I do move I actually don't have anywhere to move to. It's a hard world out there and with no mortgage offer and no chance of paying private rent, I am stuffed all ends up. I don't even have a plan and that's unusual for me. I can usually get myself out of a situation but not this time. I'm not sure if it's age or lack of enthusiasm or just plain grinding misery. Whatever it is I just can't do it.

Thank you to the Abbster and Dear Little S's Ma for the offer of a roof over my head and indeed, She who must bla bla and FFS, but I'm not fit company for other humans at the moment and regardless of my instinct for bolting, I must stand alongside poor Bloke who is in grave danger of crumbling.

Wednesday, 9 November 2011

In which I run for home, run as fast as I can...

Raining chats and chiens on the Barb today.

Many moist Janners coming in to shelter from the rain, but sadly not purchasing very much. One twonk just asked me how much my cupcake painting was. An absolute steal at £145 and the stigy bastard legged it!

Have just had long chat with the Abbster, an old chumster from the Leighton Buzzard days of picnics and toddlers. EEEE them were the days! Who'd have thought she'd have off loaded the Bazzer and had her stomach stapled and lost twelve and a half stone - and she's still not happy! She also had her own Mr Stone who sauntered off into the ether with an exdirectory phone number and the contents of the bank account. And I think I've got problermos!

Speaking of which...
I had a brilliant idea to solve the current housing crisis. No, dear reader, not the national one, Bloke's and mine.

Shared ownership housing. Apparently he's eligible. So off we meander to Stoke, a very acceptable older suburb of the vast and ghastly city of Plymouth. Bloke doesn't like it though - it being...
'alright for you, you like old places.'
Rather a nice flat in an attractive block. But small. I have visions of being too close to the unnerving pong of onions, cheese and all the associated aromas of the mobile catering cove. Not to mention the plethora of drying cloths liberally distributed on any vaguely warm surface.

Oh I know I sound like a miserable old bat.
Well I am!
I long for the smell of fresh linen and pussy cats and Chanel and new shoes and vodka and the sound of laughter and having a nice chat and moaning at Boy and being answered back and getting up in the middle of the night to blog and then moaning about work and doing the garden and filling up the bird feeders and throwing snails over the garden wall and parking too close to Evil L so she can't get out of her car door and banging the gate to annoy Shirley's dog and going round to moan at Vile ex husband and just

Friday, 4 November 2011

In which I am medicated...

Enter roly poly man with miniscule wife...
'how much are your small framed pictures?'
Now, dear reader, bear in mind that these are 6x6 inch mounted and framed prints of much larger originals.
'£30' I say
'Are they originals?'


It would appear that they do, so after trawling through my very fairly priced prints and originals, they grab, and purchase a seascape, 20x36 inches, for £95.
Now then, you may think they've bagged themselves a bargain, but no, dear reader, it's a production line painting from China, painted by Chinese foetuses and bought in for less than a fiver!
They then proceed to entrap Lovely One in a v boring conversation about their equally boring lives.

There goes another half hour of my life I won't get back!

I feel like chasing them down the road and shouting...

'Oi you morons! You've just passed up the chance of owning a piece of genuine art in favour of, what you think is a bargain, but what is in fact a worthless piece of shit.'

I was hoping not to have to stab anyone today, but it looks like blood will be spilt before the day is out!

Yesterday, and don't worry darlings, Lovely One went off to the doctor to be investigated re: complications various. You will all doubtless be delighted to register that I am in blooming health, physically at least.
But apparently I am a basket case mentally and in need of medication and the intervention of a professional.

Well, wouldn't you be if you were about to be made homeless?

How on earth do I consistently end up in the K rap?

Poor judgement? Bad luck? Who knows?

Sunday, 30 October 2011

In which I surrender to the demons...

Positively reeling from the goings on last week I sat and painted a Gothic Masterpiece, complete with bat, and let the world go by. Until...

Pring pring....
'Is Mr Stone available?'
'Not on my mobile, no' I reply
'I just thought he might be with you' went on the moron from the estate agent's office.


I explained as calmly as I could that I was, of course, in the gallery and that, no I don't take Mr Stone to work with me.

'What is it you wanted?' I enquire.
'We can't tell you, we need to speak to Mr Stone' was the reply.
'Well why are you phoning my mobile yet again?' I ask.

They are all over me like a rash when they can't be bothered to carry out an accompanied viewing and want me to do it, but for anything else, forget it!

Any road up, I'll go to the foot of our stairs, would you Christmas Eve it? etc etc it transpired that somewhere down the neverending chain of buying and selling a cash buyer has appeared and the whole festering thing is back on again.

Me being in a stable of artists has come just at the right time methinks. Back to Wivey and my lovely garden flat - but no - Bloke has pulled the hand knotted Turkish floor covering out from under Lovely One's Manolo clad size 3's. He now DOESN'T WANT TO GO TO WIVEY. Instead, he wants to rent here and just keep on keeping on til one or both of us drops dead from boredom or overwork.

I am finished. I don't have the inclination or the energy to carry on.

But before I hurtle off the nearest cliff I shall have to get the puncture fixed and the passenger window put in that thoughtfully popped out causing £300 worth of damage.

Fuck Fuck Feckety Fuck - what a mess!

Friday, 28 October 2011

In which I am buffetted in the maelstrom...

In the maelstrom that is my existence, my masterpieces have been selling like mad. How gratifying that is and positively confirms my taking up of space on this mortal coil.

However, homelife is pretty dire, with Bloke more down in the doldrums than usual and me not really helping by being seemingly unable to lift the general gloom.

Sinking deeper and deeper into debt by neither of us earning enough to live and Maison Moist falling down around our ears, we sit in silence, punctuated only by an odd, long quivering sigh or the occasional dog fart.

I 'got my affairs in order' yesterday so that in the event of my demise, others can be left in some comfort. I am not planning on checking out - well not quite yet anyway, but I fully intend to be master of my own fate and not hang on like some vast quivering blob requiring spoon feeding and arse wiping. I imagine that my own experience of doing just that on behalf of others has led to this cavalier attitude to mine own alloted time.

Whilst I am favouring you all with my fragrant presence, I shall be EVEN MORE FAMOUS shortly as 'an agent' spotted me and added me to his stable of artists just this week. How exciting, I hear you all gasp, and yes,you may prostrate your dear little selves in front of the alter I know you all keep in your drab tiny homes.

Boy hasn't fronted up this half term week, having been out with Alice on most days. Alice is a girl, which is a great relief to Vile Husband and Lovely One. If he is avoiding Maison Moist in favour of skirt chasing, long may it continue! I know, I know, I shouldn't make unfavourable remarks regarding our gay brothers, but life is difficult enough for dear Boy without adding sexual proclivity mores.

The most pressing of my immediate circle of no hoper's problems is currently taking up rather a lot of my precious time in the rotund shape of the depressed Bloke. What can be done that excludes bodily contact? I know - food!

Isn't life immesurably dull when one is over 50?

Big has been cluttering up my inbox again of late. The first missive was to enquire if I was 'well and settled' to which I am sure the reply 'no' and 'no' cheered the bastard up no end! Why can't he sod off as requested? I really do consider him a vampire, feeding off my misery and growing fat on it, of late. I know I put it all out there for consumption, but you don't have to read it, I'm only doing it for myself, to spare everyone my vocal moaning.

Anyway - off to stab a Janner or three!

Sunday, 23 October 2011

In which I keep on keeping on...

Dearest Lovely One spent all day on Friday trying to find a place to lay my beautiful head, and Blokes, obviously, he being too 'stressed' to do anything other than bung stuff in the skip.

The morning brought with it the refusal of the mortgage that we'd been 'agreed in principle' with the helpful explanation that:
'You don't meet our lending requirements.'

If someone who has never defaulted on a payment in her life and has an exemplary credit history 'doesn't meet lending requirements' then heaven help the rest of us.

Bloke has come to the conclusion that it's because I don't have a year's worth of accounts, having been self employed for just 11 months, and that I have a hefty credit card bill. So there we are, my fault, obviously.
We were clearly 'unsuitable' at the beginning of the process, six weeks ago, but, hey, why not drag it out, and cause havoc for everyone, BECAUSE THEY CAN.

So, onward and upward I traversed on Friday, looking for a place to rent. Then, another blow that I didn't see coming. Apparently one can't even rent anywhere now without a year's worth of accounts or a responsible person to act as a guarantee that the money will be paid by someone. Puhlease.... I am fifty effing four, I don't need anyone to guarantee my credibility! Eventually I found a letting agent who helpfully informed me that I would have to pay six months rent in advance, have credit checks, for which I should have to pay (non refundable of course) and then someone might take a chance on my honesty and uprightness.

Bloke was concerned that we didn't spend out too much. ie
'I'm not paying bla bla' even though I shall be paying half and I would prefer to pay a bit more and be somewhere pleasing for a change.

Any road up it all became academic when the stchoopid eejit from the estate agent called...
'Helluy huy are yuy?' in that ridiculous voice they all adopt. And anyway when they ask after my wellbeing I could cheerfully shit in their handbags, the smug little pea brained twats.

And then having ascertained that I was indeed straining up under the bear, they delivered the hammer blow...


Bloke has not taken this news well. He has been off work for two weeks now tidying the house up and generally being tres stressed.

I have kept on working because I enjoy my time in the gallery and I just love painting and going to see the printer and the lovely little framer.

So now I find myself living out of packing cases once again, with a very unhappy man, in someone else's ugly home, out of pocket to the tune of two grand (skip and tidying money) with no hope on the horizon.

I shall carry on carrying on - I hope Bloke can find it in himself to do the same.

Wednesday, 19 October 2011

In which I rant for the sake of it - and MAN IT FEELS GOOD...

By rights I sould weigh seven stone. What with the rushing around and the packing and the problems with Boy AND the unbelievable stress of being days away from leaving Maison Moist and STILL HAVING NO EFFING IDEA IF THE MORTGAGE IS GOING TO BE APPROVED.

Have called the broker, Chris Pascoe of Bradley Financial Management on Mutley Plain, on a daily basis. Usually everyone in the blog is unidentifiable, but in his case I am making an exception since, whilst not being unhelpful, he has most certainly NOT BEEN HELPFUL.
Having told me on each occasion in the past two weeks that we have spoken that
'We will know for definite tomorrow', I remarked on Monday that
'I have never known anything of this nature take so long',
his reply was,
'Have you not?'
That is an exceptionally unhelpful, rude and supercilious remark for someone who stands to make a large sum of money out of me by pressing a few buttons on his keyboard to make!

I was recounting this saga to Dear Little S, and laughing at the Art Frame Christmas card featuring 'Brian the Red Nosed Reindog' this very morn when in burst the pnuematic sister of Dear L S, who shall henceforth be known as Full Frontal S.
To remark that Full Frontal S has a large chest is to miss the point, although it has to be said that missing those particular points is impossible. It's magnitude lends description rather thus:


Very strangely attired she was this morning given the rain and plummeting temperatures, in the usual Clint poncho/Smeaton's Tower frost cover, teamed with the straining black leggings and gem set flip flops. An outfit not out of place on one of the diddycoys currently being ejected from Dale Farm.

What is it with these hardy types? Don't they have temperature gauges? When we were all sweltering in the hottest October days since time began FFS was ackled up in woolies and fur lined boots. Faux Uggs, obviously, not the real thing like Darling Lovely One! And here we are with frost bitten twinkles and she's out in flip flops giving all and sundry a flash of her cracked grey hard heel skin - yukky poo!
On removal of said bobbly, moth infested poncho a Primarni delight was revealed that would have been more suitably worn and filled out by an eight year old. It's amazing how much give there is in some cheaper fabrics these days.

THEN - WHEN I GOT HERE SOME ABSOLUTE BASTARD WAS PARKED IN MY SPACE. So I have had to eat a whole packet of saffron buns now! I hate the bloody things but there weren't any all butter croissants in the Co-op and it's too early for a pasty. Well it's actually NEVER TOO EARLY FOR A PASTY but I should be farting all day and it does tend to put the customers off!

Sunday, 16 October 2011

In which I feel much improved by a good rant...

Am in Gallery on Barbican. First customer, or I sould term her as a visitor, called in to ask where she could get batteries for her camera, and proceeded to tell (bore) me about all the pictures she already owns.
Just for the record...


Ooooh back in a mo, I reckon she's gonna spend a fiver!

Wrong! A quid - the Caribbean is calling.

Fired up the Bugatti and sheared to Wivey to visit the errant Boy yesterday. Spent the afternoon quizzing him about his plans and combing fleas out of my aged pussy. Boy, as afore blogged, has spent his first night sleeping at a 'friends' house. He was amazingly cagey when mildly questioned about this by Lovely One, and on subsequent investigation, he had given an entirely different story to Vile Husband and Moi.

VH had been told that he was going to a party and staying there, whilst I had been told he was staying with 'Dave' who he'd met in Taunton and wasn't a member of the college crowd at all. Obviously alarms went off in Dear Little Lovely One's troubled mind and visions of internet chat rooms et al loomed large.
VH and me, and for that matter Bloke, who can give an outsider's view, came to the conclusion that there was nothing to be done as Boy is 19. VH says that Boy is 'streetwise' and he'll be ok. I'm not convinced, since he's not yer average 19 year old in any way. AND, I am now informed that 'Dave' is,
'Sort of my boyfriend'.
Oh - I was holding out hope that the lovely Alice from college might jump him one day and put paid to all this gay stuff. Not that I have anything against alternative lifestyles, it's just that life is hard enough to get through and will be even more difficult for him now.
I'm afraid I have been clinging on to the idea of Matthew Paris's mother in that, one day he'd 'get better'. And tres selfishly,


So, to the current homelessness crisis looming large over Maison Moist. The purchasers are positively aching to take possession and want to know when we'll be out.
I'd love to oblige with the information, but as yet the brokerage firm are dragging their heels with the lender and have spent four effing weeks deciding if we're creditworthy and can afford the repayments.


Oh how I long for the days when they used to say,
'How much do you earn and how much do you want to borrow?'
That was about it and then they fronted up with the cash and all I did was PAY THE BASTARD BACK for pity's sake!

Now, since Banks have got us all in the shit by lending vast amounts of cash to persons who could ill afford it, we all, especially the self employed, have to suffer. It seems to have escaped everyone's notice that if I get the loan I will be able to afford to repay it - and if I don't I'll be forced into rented accomodation that will cost me three times as much - and will be difficult to pay!


If I don't find out by tomorrow I shall have to eat cakes.

Friday, 14 October 2011

In which I say three Mail Hairies and hope for the best...

Chucking things in a skip is tres theraputic, darlings. Thus far I have disposed of masses of arty stuff that I shall never use and rather a sizeable amount of Bloke's detritis. I do find hoarding a very unattractive trait. Yet it is practised by lots of persons I have walked alongside for varying periods of my charmed life.

BF and BFP are positively obsessive in their gathering of stuff. Not only do they hoard in a Womble-esque manner, but they raid skips of other people's discarded crap in the dead of night and take it home in their little trailer rubbing their hands with glee.

I just don't get it! Bloke has insisted on keeping truck loads of LP's and tapes of the Top 20 from yonks ago. WHY? He's never going to listen to them, but apparently, they're 'part of his past.' Darling Little Lovely One is accused of not caring about them because they're nothing to do with Moi. Well, I suppose there is a bit of that in it, but the main reason is that I do not wish to be crushed to death by a shed load of Moody Blues albums as they plummet down through the bedroom ceiling from the loft.

I am really quite ruthless about turning stuff out. I imagine it's because I am totally incapable of contentment and crave change. Oh well, cest la vie.

Have primed Aged P for the imminent arrival of Lovely One et al, if the mortgage goes tits up. Her main concern was the usage of her combination oven by Moi and the fact that one can't lean on the kitchen worktop in case it tips up. Quelle horruer! At the mo Lovely One has bigger poisson to prepare in olive oil!

I was treated to a monologue about Aged P and her BF's trip to Oxford...
Apparently the coach driver gave the aged biddies the option of hopping off at Bicester Village for a spot of retail therapy instead of doing the sights of Oxford. The dreaming spires have no aesthetic pull for the likes of Aged P, so they duly alighted at 'the shops.'
'It wasn't like when we went' complained the Aged One.
I thought for a bit and then remembered we had been there about 20 years ago with Vile Husband and Boy.
'It was all designer places with nothing under £1000', she plodded on.
'There was Pravda, and all stuff like that.'
I had no idea that the Russians had taken over Bicester!
A long diatribe followed about how many times Aged P's BF went to the loo throughout the day. After another twenty minutes of strange information I was fit to tear off my own arm and batter myself to death with the soggy end.

How long will it be before I throttle the Aged One if I have to stay there for any length of time?

Who Knows?


Off to see Boy on the morrow, who is being very cagey about staying out for the night tonight. Vile Husband and Moi have been given different stories. Nothing can be done about it though, he being 'of age' so to speak.
But it has to be said he's not yer average 19 year old and I hope he hasn't met anyone on a website.

Wednesday, 12 October 2011

In which I label and log everything...

Raining and deserted outside the Gallery today.

Left Bloke festering in his pit after a long day's hauling masses of ghastly inferior interior shite into a skip. His 2nd wife has the right idea. Every time she gets bogged off with her current husband she just totters off and leaves them to clear up the detritis of the relationship. Well, this time it's me clearing up after her and her two offspring. And I'm paying for the flamin' skips!!

I can't for the life of me see how those two ever went their separate ways. Their hoarding habits alone should have rendered them unsuitable for future partners. I spent the better part of yesterday standing holding a dustbin bag open whilst Bloke trawled through twenty odd years worth of married trash and a further mountain of stuff from the neolithic age when he was in the Navy.

I mean, I ask you, WHY did he still have the pencil written note that he used to stick on the end of his bunk when he wanted an early wake up call?
A piece of tatty lined paper with 'Shake at 5.45am Ta' scrawled on it. I did relay this story to Anal C who, not very helpfully, suggested that was the sort of thing one put into a scrapbook. I did inform her that if she mentioned that in Bloke's earshot that I would head butt her!

I organised the day into manageable bite sized chunks of crap clearance so's not to alarm Bloke to the extent that he began refusing to ditch the detritis.

In the meantime Lovely One went off to unload unwanted items at the nearest Charity Shop. I then set about folding all my designer wear and laying it carefully between tissue paper in me Chippendale chest.

All my priceless items are neatly stored in lidded plastic containers that are carefully marked and logged in a ledger. Blokes stash of Blackpool Football Club memorabilia and assorted biros and unused notepads along with various unidentified cables and computer discs are shoved William Nilliam into re-assembled cardboard boxes that he scrounges from a car parts firm to line the floor of the burger van. These aforementioned boxes will be making their way into either the shed or the loft!

It made me recall the time when Vile Husband, having lost his flat, moved into my charming country cottage, and I had to force him to jettison shoe boxes full of labels that he'd cut off every pair of Levi 501's that he's ever owned. What is it with these articles? Do I just attract them, or do all Blokes hoard rubbish?

I wish to formally state here and now, that Lovely One never ever keeps anything that is neither use nor ornament. Also, every two years I throw away my entire life and start again, including husbands!

Take heed.

Sunday, 9 October 2011

In which I enter a parallel universe...

OK - Where is everybody?
Has something happened overnight to deplete the populus of the Barbican? Or is everyone staying indoors today?
Well, I do tell a slight fibbington, two lots have been in thus far.

Lot One -
'You used to 'ave the place down the road?'
'No, we've always been here.'

Lot Two -
'You got that Beryl Cook one with the English Bull Terrier.'
I look for it.
'No, sorry we don't seem to have that one.'

Do you know, I think I really have been in a bad mood for most of my entire life, for goodness sake!
Why can't I take to these festering Janners? The over-made-up women with their almost clean, just out of date outfits and their clippy clop shoes? And their associated menfolk with their too tight sportswear, tatooes and bored expressions. Not forgetting their ghastly screeching offspring being dragged from one shopping opportunity to the next with promises of 'chips' for good behaviour.
Mind you - I'd behave if someone plied me with chips.
What did I say that for? I don't even like bloody chips.
I guess I've fully morphed into the miserable old bat I've been working up to being all my life.

In a parallel universe somewhere there's a Family Rice living in a 1930's semi with a tidy garden. Ma and Pa are listening to the radio waiting for Boy to come home with his girlfriend for tea before they head back to University.
There's a sensible car in the driveway and a caravan on the hardstanding.
A ginger cat purrs and stretches out in front of the open fireplace.
Can't see any more, they've drawn the curtains...

So here we are back with two people who don't even like each other very much, packing up a house that neither of them like, to move, who knows where ...

Friday, 7 October 2011

In which I am in yet another pickle...

Prospective purchasers of Maison Moist, (it's a little on the damp side), want to move in by the last week of October. Oh flamin' 'eck! That could mean that Bloke and Moi are holed up at Aged P's for at least a month.

NO NO NO Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo

I am already clinging onto sanity by the merest thread. That will tip me right over the edge. Not only that, it's coming up to the busiest time of year for me in the gallery and where will I be, in Lutonistan, for pity's sake!

Of course Aged P is looking forward to the company and planning tasty suppers of wet chicken wings with flabby loose white skin (sounds like me!) with yummy salads of ancient origin. Last time we stayed there Bloke had to have a secret stash of Porkus Pius in the bedroom for goodness sake!

I have been in some desperate states during my poorly planned and executed lifetime, but this one takes the Victoria sponge!

I know, I know, it's only what I deserve, given that I came down here with stars in my eyes thinking that I'd found true love. Oh what a stchoopid woman I am!!!

Where to go from here - Answers on a postcard please!

Wednesday, 5 October 2011

In which I shall be the sleeping beauty....

I think the Barbican must be shut off at both ends. Nobody about. Well, I lie, two visitors thus far.

The first was following a telephone enquiry about our opening hours.
The jannering began thus...
'I 'ave bin past ur shop this morning and your sign in the door say that you are open at 11am on Sundays and Bank Holidays. Aren't you open at any other times?'

GIVE ME STRENGTH. Are these people completely thick!

I explained to the pea brained bint that those were the opening hours for Sundays and Bank Holidays.
Any road up she duly fronted up and actually bought something, so I shouldn't moan.

The next visitor was a charity shop worker wanting information about an artist whose painting someone had donated.
'Do you know anything about 'Joe Bloggs'?' says he
'Never heard of him' I say
'Well he lived down here in, oh I can't remeber the street, you know!'
'No I don't know. I've never heard of him wherever he lived.'
The nonplussed article just stood there gazing at me.
'I have never heard of him' I repeat 'I suggest you ask elsewhere.'
Off he trundled with a dissatisfied air.

And that was it!

No point in painting anything - no one is buying.

Yesterday I collected my paintings from the Brownston gallery in Modbury. Six pieces have been on display there for the month of September. Well, I say on display, but since four of them have been wrapped up in the back room and one of the two on display in a rear room had been given the wrong title, I suppose it's not surprising that nothing sold. My work always sells well when on display in a prominent position or in the window and this was borne out by the fact that as I was carrying one up the road to bung in the car I was pursued by a chap who wanted to buy it!

Anyway that's the least of me gripes for today...
I have a mortgage offer and have found a house. Bloke isn't any more cheerful and so I asked him once and for all if he wants to buy a house with me. He says he does, but then why does he sit staring at the TV not speaking to me every night? Why is everything I say ridiculed or dismissed? Why has everything gone wrong?
I am buying some sleeping tablets online in case things get even worse. At least Boy will have some cash then, instead of a useless excuse for a Mother.

Wednesday, 28 September 2011

In which I shall never ever email BIG ever.....

Oh my giddy aunt! What a palava! 57 sodding Libby arse-face Purvesing minutes to get here. If the council in Plymouth see a bit of road without a hole in it - they dig one.

The Germans didn't do as much damage to the effing place in the war for heaven's sake!

AND If I have to sit in the traffic with a spotty little shitbag in a £4.50 car doing their level best to pretend not to see me as they trowel on their makeup in the rear view mirror, I shall ram the bastard!

Any road up, finally I get here and my first contact with the pea brained Plymothian public is a menopausal old hag brandishing a rolled up piece of paper that looks like it's been under the bed for fifty years. And lo and behold, IT HAS!

'I wondered if you could tell me if this is a painting or a print?'
Calling it a painting would have led to prosecution under the trades description act, but it was indeed, a hand crafted piece of shit.
'It's a watercolour sketch', says Lovely One.
'Is it worth anything? It's signed.'
I ponder the heap of crap with what I hope is an interested look on me lovely face.
'Hmmm. I haven't seen that signature before,' I muse.
'Well it was done in the 1950's' says woman sharply.

Why is it that everyone and his chien think that just because something is quite elderly it is worth something. The old bat in question didn't look particularly stchoopid, well no more stchoopid than most of the no hope Janners that annoy Moi on a daily basis.
'I should just put it in a frame and enjoy it.' I smiled, handing the offensive scribble back to her.
She huffed off out wobbling in a threatening manner to her bored looking hubbster saying in a voice loud enough for me to hear,
'It's not important enough for her to look at.'
Lady, I don't give a Rat's Fat Arse, or the proverbial Kipper's Dick, just piss off and let me paint a MASTERPIECE.

On a lighter note. Anal C managed to sell the effing Chicken picture that's been littering up the place for eons. So I suppose I should stop moaning about her now she's done that AND taken the Lenkie gloom off the walls.

But will I? Will I bollocks!

ps for those of you who have been reading this diatribe for the past few years, you will remember Big.
He was made flesh some months ago. In the past few months I have been in dire need of some moral support. He knew this and stopped emailing me. What a dissapointment people are.
Then out of the blue I get-
'I hope you find alternative accomodation.'
I have NEVER asked anyone for help and I never will, but to just go AWOL rather than offer the hand of friendship is unforgiveable.
It would appear he is of the calibre of some of my other so called friends.

Sunday, 25 September 2011

In which I wallow in the thrilling miasma of adoration...

Here I am again, darlings, positively wallowing in the seductive and thrilling aroma of adoration. The little blighters in here this morning have been worshipping at my altar and within twenty minuets I'd sold three.


Read it and weep you other inferior painterists!

I am reduced to blowing me own wossname in print at the mo, since Bloke went absolutely ape poo at Darling Little Lovely One the other day, shouting into my peaches and cream fizzog:
'You think you're the big I AM. All I hear about is - I'm off to the printers/framers etc etc.'
Well, of course, I AM always off to the printers etc, an occupational hazzard when One is a painter!
I had absolutely no idea that he harboured such unfavourable views of your very own Lovely One. Well, I keep quiet about me doings now, so there's absolutely eff all to talk about now, given that my interest in the sordid little goings on of his 'assistant' on the van are really not to my taste. He waxes lyrical about her binge drinking and rows with her 'boyfriend'. Since I know neither of them my interest is miniscule. I do tend to listen with a rapt look given that it's the only subject that animates Bloke to the degree that he excercises his vocal chords beyond the usual grunted reply.

Any road up, news reaches me shell like that Shaniqua's dear Mama has a member of the opposite in tow and rumours of a wedding are rife. Hawaii has been mooted. The disturbing vision of the James gang lined up on some tropical beach somewhere, smoking fags and swigging Vodishka makes one quake with terror on behalf of the locals.
I can see it now - Sister of Dear Little S (mother of the bride) in a knitted sarong, fashioned from twinkle hair gathered from the James family plugholes, and a 'ley' is it? made of dandelions.
Poor old Ma James will have trouble staying upright on the sands, methinks. That tottery old trollope has centre of gravity issues.
But then, given that the female members of the James gang have frontal appendages that are the size of a couple of Volvo Airbags to contend with, it's no surprise that none of 'em can stay upright for long. Well that, and the alcohol intake.

Friday, 16 September 2011

In which I offer you all a salutory lesson...

Lovely Dear Little Luddite One has just discovered the 'wall' on facebook. Lots of persons have left birthday wishes for Moi. Wenesday it was. I didn't 'do' anything as I have been slowed down quite significantly with a painful, painting related injury. Before you all rush to my assistance, fear not, I am improving, slowly but surely and the brush has been removed under general anasthetic.

As I'm sure you will be aware, Dear Reader, I have been captured by the paparazzi and plastered all over the Plymouth Magazine for your delectation.

NOW, despite being warned to the contrary, Sister of Dear Little S has seen fit to 'diss' the image of your very own Lovely One.
Regardless of the fact that D Little S shook his head and sucked air through his teeth in a manner to defer the antics of his sister, she went ahead and decided to pass comment on the saintly person of Moi.


Foolish virgin. (I use that term loosley)

On first viewing the charming, smiling picture of Darling Lovely One, I was compared to She Who bla bla (Auntie Wainwright). NOW - Not only is Lovely One, Lovely in the manner of an Angel and extremely youthful looking, but Auntie W is Seventy effing two.
It was also suggested that Lovely One was in possession of a more than sufficientcy of 'super-floo-us' facial hair.

I feel I can't let it pass without offering a window into the life of the offending member of the James gang...

She has of late been brought to book by the Gang Gran who attempted to point out the error of her ways in the food inhalation department re: the aquisition of a fatty liver.
'Mmmmmmm Fatty Liver,' said Sister and bogged off to fry onions.

We shall find her reading this in her bed, methinks. Quite often with a rake of Special Brew and a bag or three of Pork Scratchings. Since bags of scratchings have become smaller, or so she says, (personally I think it's her Cumberland Sausage fingers) she's had a spit roast installed in the bedroom so's she can roast a whole porker of an evening. One or other of her many offspring take it in turn to rotate the 'snack'. Now you may think this is an abuse of small children, but, let's face it she's got twenty seven of them, all under five.
Lovely One has picked up with her very sensitive radar that Sister has made some concessions to her increasing girth.

It should be noted that she does, indeed, have lovely skin. It's just that there's such a vast surface area of it! Currently records of it are available mapped by the Ordnance Survey Department.

Any road up, she's started wearing leggings which One can only assume should reach her ankles, but given the acreage that they have to cover are poised half way up her calves and stretched to the consistancy of gossamer across her thunderous thighs.

Now that the Autumn months are upon us we shall be further treated to her encased in what looks like a vast poncho, with afore mentioned leggings crashing together sticking out of the bottom. Surely a fire hazard given the fear of spontaneous combustion with the friction factor.

This ensemble has rendered her a dead ringer for the mutant love spawn of Demis Roussos and Clint Eastwood.
Somewhere on a Welsh hillside there's a flock of sheep shivering to death, having been shorn merely for the production of said peculiar poncho garment.

Plymouth Council have put out a request that 'Poncho' may be used as a cover for Smeaton's Tower on frosty evenings.

Now I've brought you up to speed, Dear Reader, with the calibre of Articles who choose to take the name of your Lovliest One in vain, I hope you will all take heed and simply continue to worship at my easel - IN SILENCE.

Tuesday, 13 September 2011

In which I am emotionally boarded up by the council...

I owe D the Dump an unreserved apol re: the dent in new frame. Twas not he who carelessly slammed me A frame up agin it, but Moist B. Moist B is monikaaed thus as he's one of those persons whose skin looks damp at all times. Not that the silky hand of Lovely One has ventured to touch the organ, mere observation is quite enough, let me tell you, Dear Reader. The moist one, whose sexuality is under review, is the 'Boy' of She Who bla bla... He and his 'partner' keep house for her.
Moist is continually velcroed to an annoying yappy hound that is carried around like a baby. They are further hangers on who regularly visit what I laughingly thought a place of work, but has increasingly become a drop in centre for the dispossesed.

A far more fragrant and desirable drop in is the lair of Dear Little S. In fact, Lovely One is oft to be found plonked on me piano stool just inside having a bit of a moan and whinge. Said piano stool is known as the 'ranting chair' since the Meemster et al are wont to perch upon it and unburden themselves to Dear Little S and Aunties J and Sh. Yesterday's visit found the aunties quivering in their corselettes over a young gentleman in Naval attire. Lovely One was sore afraid that one or both of them was about to depart to the bogs with a tube of KY and a dibber. Lovely One was deemed a peculiar article in that One hadn't even noticed the Navel personage.
The ensuing interrogation of Lovely Moi concluded that Lovely One is not normal. Apparently One should regulary be reduced to a quivering mass in the presence of beauty. Whereas J and Sh are certain that they would slime up in the face of their first loves, I can't even remember mine, if I ever had one. I suppose I must have and that in all probability I quivered with delight at some point, but I don't recall the moment I shut down emotionally. Now the only thing I get aroused by is a chocoate cake pie.

Sunday, 11 September 2011

In which I am not amused by the antics of Twatticus...

I am holed up in the Gallery again. What is the first thing my baby blues alight upon? My whacking great 'A' Frame board leaning against my freshly framed masterpiece 'Spirit of Plymouth'. Obviously that twatticus Don the Dump has just thrust it William Nilliam 'wherever' and has mortally wounded the beatiful frame that Dear Little S bunged on it only two days ago.


Stupid old fart! He broke me effing easel, and denied, it not long ago and I expect he'll be blameless on this occassion. On the plus side the old fool has managed to sell a print of aforementioned masterpiece in my absence.

Honestly, we must be a flamin' laughing stock down here amongst serious art purveyors what with Don the Dump ligging around with his dyed hair looking seriously like a deceased pussy has been superglued to his shrivelled head. Not to mention the fact that even though he'll never see eighty again he totters about in the garb of James Dean, blue jeans and white T shirt. The complete 'Rebel without a Corset' look.
And then there's 'Auntie Wainwright' counting the takings with her bent and twisted digits poking out of her fingerless gloves.

Of course, Lovely One does add a frisson of elegance to the proceedings by wafting ethereally about in a Chloe tea-dress and a haze of Joy.

On another tack - I have located a lovely new home to call One's own. Granted it is on the edge of a military estate which appears to be peopled by articles with scary looking dogs on bits of string and horrid looking children hanging around in shoals. But, Dear Little Socially Mobile Lovely One has plummetted down to such levels over the past few years that One has seriously had to re-evaluate One's existence. The house itself is lovely and cosy and has fantastic views over the Brunel bridge into Cornwall.
Various members of the James gang have recoiled in abject horror when I mention some of the areas in which I have been viewing houses. But - this is what I am reduced to, so I'd better get used to it.
Over the road from said dwelling is a twenty foot stone wall with coils of barbed wire on the top. As yet I'm unclear as to whether this is to stop persons getting in or out!

Any road up, I'll go to the foot of our stairs, bugger my 'at - Dear Little S says that under the huge mound of grassed over earth behind the wall, are buried explosives, so when they go off it's curtains for moi!
So I guess that puts an immediate stop to me 'Apres Tea' entertainment of lighting me own farts.
Still - I may not be able to pull a rabbit out of a hat, but I can pull a hare out of me twinkle!

Saturday, 10 September 2011

In which I wish I could divulge more information...

Oooooh a bit of goss this am on way into gallery/shop/money laundering emporium...

Obviously, Lovely One being the soul of discretiono and all that, One cannot possibly name any names etc...

But, all is not harmonious in the world art. Oh, what a surprise, methinks! They all scamper about trying to outdo one another in the importance stakes whilst Dear Little Lovely One merely floats serenely above it all in an effortlessly superior state of ethereal being. One simply doesn't need to engage with all the silly schoolgirl squabbling since One's limitless and abundant talent does the talking.

It would appear that tears were shed by two opposing gallery owners over the opening of a new art space in the area. Some persons, obviously cannot name them, are so utterly obsessed with their own importance that they find it difficult to engage in a harmonious fashion with their fellow galleristas. We never had any of that at Red Hat. Or did we? I do recall that in The Hat's second iteration, there was a bit of annoyance from one or two difficult old trouts. Funny how One forgets about that isn't it?

Anyway here I am working on a Saturday for goodness sake!! I don't expect any thanks for it though, which is just as well because I won't get any.

Dear Little S made himself chunder by scoffing the fabulous cupcake and washing it down with vodishka - silly boy!

Friday, 9 September 2011

In which I am slighted by an inferior old trollope...

Well darlings it's Dear Little S's birthday. Lovely generous Lovely One commissioned a special over the top ginormous cup cake. Other D little S admirers had bought him inferior cupcakes, mentioning no names (the Meemster) or vodka.
D little S said he'd be a fat alcoholic, but I reassured him that it's never done me any harm.
Being a fat alcoholic that is!

Sister of D little S was jannering loudly into her moby and stamping about for all the world like an SS officer with a silk flower behind her lug. She was fairly fragrant so Lovely One enquired what manner of scent she'd immersed herself in. As you know I favour Cilit Bang Grime and Lime, it masks the scent of fully loaded Tena Ladies coupled with the whiff of desperation. S of D little S had been soaked in something called 'Toilet Door'?

I have been mildy perturbed by a fellow artist bad mouthing me. I realise that you, my adoring public, won't possibly be able to believe it, but some old harridan called Shirty Arsehole, or something like that, has had the infernal cheek to diss Moi!
Apparently she's got an entourage of deceased husbands to her credit (died on purpose, methinks) and a list of ailments as long as Hugh Jorgan's willy.
Any road up, having never encountered the ailing old trout, I should be mightily interested to find out what she bases this totally inappropriate character assasination upon. I sniff the doings of the food stained one, or her hound. But perhaps I am mistaken, maybe I've been found out for the poisonous trollope that I am at last.


Ner, Ner, ner ner, Ner

Sunday, 4 September 2011

In which I am on the move yet again...

Oooooh at last we have sold the rancid stinkpile that is Chez Bloke et ex Mrs Bloke. The most annoying part of it, however, is that, for the very first time I revolted and insisted that S was there when the agent came to show them around, and the bastards bought the effing place!
Of course, Bloke, who is doing his level best to annoy me at every turn of the road, said
'Obviously S said all the right things.'
Oh bollocky bollocky bollocks, I thought, whilst grinning through gritted teggies.

Any road up, the greedy gits were still toying with the idea of asking the prospective purchasers for more money, but luckily, Bloke saw sense at last.

So, off we go again. Hopefully to some bijou seaside homestead which I shall furnish with my usual style and taste rather than the 'sale rail' style of the previous encumbant at Chez Bloke.

In the in box today...
A missive from the vile and spiteful LF, secretary of the residents association at Lovely One's other homestead, requiring Lovely Moi to return some documents that she never sent me. The reason given that she 'has a flat sale going through.' The woman's ridiculous self deception is staggering! She actually seems to think that she OWNS the flats! Stupid old bint! She's made herself so difficult and unpopular that people are really quite uncomfortable in their own homes!

Changing tack rather...

Sales are up up UP!

Sold five yesterday!

Eat my dust!

Wednesday, 31 August 2011

In which Eileen has custody of the cucumber...

I feel I must unburden more of my visit to Aged P..

As one of life's passengers, Aged P, is not conversant with the demands of driving and as I'd had the worst drive of my life to get there I wasn't particularly keen on venturing out the very next day. None the less we sallied forth to MK to acquire a shower head, Boy having broken the one in situ. Having spent many hours in the past attempting to get Boy into the shower, it was with some pleasure that I found he had showered with such gay abandon he'd broken the wretched thing.
Aged P, who is jolly keen on wearing a hair shirt, greeted the news with the retort:
'Don't worry about it, I'll manage without.' As per, I had to practically beg to take her to get another one.
'Where else would you like to go,' I asked when we'd traversed B&Q accompanied by grumblings about having to pay £15 for the showerhead. Which was a bit rich, since the wrong one had been fitted in the first place and the shower was practically unusable in that the water fired out with such uncontrollable force that it was akin to being stabbed with red hot needles. Anyway, I fitted the blasted thing and she wouldn't use it in case I hadn't done it properly, so we had to wait for Bloke to arrive so that my handiwork could be inspected by a 'Man'. Ho hum!

Off we sashayed to many, many dress shops whereupon Aged P regailed various shop assistants with tales of her support stockings and the fact that she hadn't been able to wear any of her summer clothes because of the rain. Completely oblivious to the fact that it's actually been raining on all of us, not just her!

Bloke arrived back rather late and starving, very unusually not having availed himself of various ethnic scoff-ups throughout the day. I had already been brought to the point of suicide in the Co-op when attempting to ascertain exactly what Aged P wanted for 'tea'.
'Would you like lasange?'
'I'm not eating that muck'
'How about a sausage and mash ready meal?'
'I can't eat a whole one'
'You could save half'
'I've got pizza and sausage rolls'
'Is there enough for everyone?'
'Yes, if you have salad and a jacket potato with it'
Now I know that Bloke won't scoff that and I also know that 'enough' for Aged P is not the same as 'enough' where Boy and Bloke, and for that matter, Darling Moi, are concerned. So, at the risk of incurring the further wrath of said Aged P, I took the Bull by the wossnames and grabbed a couple of ready meals.
'Would you like garlic bread with your pizza?' I ask
'Please' says Boy
'I've already eaten three slices of bread' says AP
AP is unable to utter the words Yes or No, so I buy a small GB for Boy.

We get home...
Two pizzas the size of saucers are heated to a warm floppy consistency and slapped on the table for consumption.

AP ate a whole one and half of the garlic bread.

Bloke arrived and requested salad with his.
'Do you want lettuce and tomato?' enquired AP
'I bought a cucumber, but Eileen's got it' she went on.
Now, I felt that I would abandon the line of enquiry as to why Eileen had possession of the cucumber, and advised Bloke to request a couple of slices from the end with the fingerprints on!!!!

Saturday, 27 August 2011

In which I am shat upon from a great height…

So here we are at Aged P’s. ..

Bloke has gone off to the smoke to see a football game and Boy et Moi are festering quietly at Maison P.

But it is yesterday’s antics that I wish to offload upon your shell likes, dear reader…

I sashayed along to the gallery and was having a most productive day saleswise and indeed paintingwise. I sold two large framed prints and an original and completed yet another masterpiece.

It was raining chats and chiens so it was some time before I put out the A frame advertising dear little Lovely One’s wares.  On shuffling out with it my beady was drawn to the opposite corner of the window to where my own dear masterpieces delight passers by. What do I see?   I’ll tell you what – a painting not dissimilar to mine own, for sale, undercutting my prices.

Now, as you will all be aware – well those of you from the world of art – it is an unwritten law that

A      I won’t put any of my work in anyone’s gallery close enough to interfere with She Who Must bla bla’s sales


B       She won’t get in any artist’s work likely to affect my sales.


A painting that cost less than one of mine, the same subject matter, a not dissimilar style, beautifully framed and for sale in direct competition with me!

I ranted on at Anal C for a while, who informed me that when my sales were taken from the daysheet there weren’t any others of any significance, and, she put it…

‘I don’t know what people want any more’

Au contrare – we do know what they want – they want what I’ve got.

And it was with this in mind I contacted the gnarled, evil smelling entity that is She Who…..  who  incidentally is fast turning into Auntie Wainwright from Last of the Summer Wine.

I registered my displeasure at this slight which was received in the manner of a bag of pork scratchings at a Jewish tupperware party.

Any road up – the fingerless knitteds are now well and truly off!

I expect that before not very long I shall have joined the endless stream of past business associates who are forever consigned to the

‘I was so good to her/him, did everything for her/him, taught he/she all they know etc etc bla bla… and now look at what they’ve done to me.  Poor me, lovely me.’

Let it be recorded here that I have stuck to my end of the bargain.

ps  The Lenkie pics are down – Hurrah! No more Lenkie bores!

Friday, 26 August 2011

In which I am relishing my final hours of solitude...

Just half a day today in the dear old Gallerista. No, dear reader, don't think I'm going to go 'home' (well, Bloke's house) and recline on the chaise longe, no, am driving squillions of miles to the homestead of aged P, along with Boy and Bloke. Oh joy of joys.

Bloke will be schlepping 'up the smoke' to see a football game and so I suppose I shall be dragged around some vile shopping mall with aged P, dragging a reluctant Boy.

I have already had an annoying phone call from aged P.
'There's a bus stop outside my house now, so don't park the car at it, will you?'
Oh shit, I thought, I always park at bus stops! What on earth am I going to do?
But I say...
'No, of course I won't park at the bus stop.'
'Well, next door and two doors up have got some kind of thing on the kerb so that they can drive onto the front to park their cars. You won't park there will you?'
'I'm only saying', she goes on.
Already I am dreading the thought of seeing her. It's not because she's old. She's always been the bloody same.

Ten minutes pass during which I wash down a handful of Tamazepan with a chipped cup full of vodka....
The phone goes again...

'You might be able to park on next door's front. Shall I go and ask them?'

'I'm only saying, there's no need to get annoyed.'

Any road up, to change the subject somewhat...
Bloke and me were watching the TV the other evening and some old trollope was regailing some other old trollope explaining that she was
'Built for pleasure'
'That's me' say Moi 'I'm built for pleasure'
'Yeah - like a bouncy castle' says he.

Saturday, 20 August 2011

In which I accept culpability...

What an absolute waste of a day. I opted to go to visit Boy on Tuesday instead of today since I need to inspect the flat and didn't want to disturb the tenant on a weekend.
Boy, on contact, who was still slumbering didn't sound any too miffed, or indeed, any too happy considering his fabulous accomplishments in the A level results. No thanks to me, I expect you're all thinking, given that I abandoned him to the tender machinations of Vile Husband.

And that, Dear Reader, is what's at the bottom of all this angst and dissatisfaction in my dear little existence...

In a fit of God know's what, be it too many prescribed happy pills, middle aged graspings for love, or plain and simple menopausal madness, I destroyed what little happiness and normality I have ever known by coming here.

Now, you may say, and you may well be correct, that I'm not concerned about Boy, but that I might be culpable in his dissapointments and unhappiness and thereby trash myself even more.

I have made my bed and I am lying most uncomfortably in it since I have nowhere else to kip.


I attempt to cheer up Bloke by having a fish and chip picnic up on the cliffs watching the boats sail by. We were entertained by a peculiar cove seated on a bench on the opposite side of the road singing his head off. I was sorely tempted to nip over and give the pub singer an outdoor airing but was restrained by Bloke who doesn't appreciate raw talent.

Anyway, later that very same night I was to be found availing myself of both the porcelain bathroom fittings at the same time. Given that they're on opposite sides of the room I now have a bad back from the angle in which I was required to evacuate.

Obviously someone with my aristocratic sensibilites simply cannot digest food of the plebs.

Friday, 19 August 2011

In which we attempt some evening trade...

Greetings from the Barbican.
'Weather here...Wish you were lovely'

A new plan has been thunk up by She Who bla bla. The premise of which is, if we stay open later in the evening, maybe all the stingy bastard holidaymakers/Yachtsmen/general hangers around who have been fingering the merchandise with their sticky little paws all bloody day and not buying anything, will come back and buy something later in the day.

Half a plan, One might think. However, those of you familiar with this neck of the woods will know only too well that after five in the evening we become swamped with overly made up and partially naked bints being sniffed after by football-shirted oiks intent on downing their own body weight in lager, barfing it up in the gutter and then giving any old trollope one up the chuff box.

Oooh, there goes the first one...
Their mantra should most certainly be 'just because it comes in my size, it doesn't mean I look good in it.'
The acreage of lycra employed in the fashioning of the, and I say this with a grimace on me gob, 'Little Black Dress' is positively alarming. I know lycra stretches to accomodate most things but across the arse this yard or two is taking on the properties of a cobweb.
All this atop gargantuan, thunderous thighs, clad terrifyingly in FISHNET TIGHTS that are heaving across the cellulite to such a degree that the upper thighs are dimpled in the manner of a Chanel handbag! When they are removed I imagine the horrifying trollope looks like an enormous quilted eiderdown.
The stilleto heels create a tremor that is registering on the richter scale as she stamps in the general direction of the nearest watering hole.
Crowning the lot is an over made up mask with the usual ironed and bleached scraggy barnet.
As she wafts on by the smell of cheap scent comes in like a fug - and what is that I detect - Cilit Bang Grime and Lime, up her Aunty Mary I shouldn't wonder!

They're all out now, swaggering, tottering and screeching like banshees.

I shall hang on in here until I start feeling like stabbing someone, which usually signals that I should go home.

Wednesday, 17 August 2011

In which I am a Boil in the Bag Hippo...

Well, well! Rather a splendid month already for Lovely, Lovely talented darling One. And don't I deserve it? Yes, of course I do, what with the vagaries of the rest of my life being tiresome and difficult to bear.

It must be a source of constant wonder to you, dear reader, when you're deep in reverie, in the, not inconsiderable amount of time, you set aside each day, to think of Lovely One and her doings. You must marvel at the tenacity of One such as Lovely One and long to fashion your loathsome self in my image. Well, it cannot be! There is but one Lovely One and you'll just have to content your meagre self by prostrating yourself at my (no doubt you have one at home) shrine.

Any road up, I digress, once again....

I have totally slaughtered all the opposition down the street with the addition of my fairly priced local souvenir framed pics. J and all her cohorts must be forming an orderly queue in Netto for their weeks groceries now that their incomes have been slashed by the growing clamour for absolutely ANYTHING produced by Lovely One.

AND Brixham, which I favoured with a personal visit on Monday, is now under my spell and shelling out it's collective pocket money on Moi, Moi, Divine Moi. Now, you may imagine that I've gone over the edge with all this self congratulation, but I care not a jot!

The little pics of which I blog are in such demand that every day or so I wobble off to see Dear Little S to have him frame up some more. Now they need to be sold in bulk to make anything from them as She Who must be bla bla, has her gnarled hand out at alarmingly regular intervals and shoves the wads of cash up the leg of her bloomers, or down whatever manner of garment is under the food spattered cardi she constantly dwells within.

In a mad dash the other day I sashayed off to D little S in such a hurry that I failed to notice the liberal sprinkling of sandwich pickle smeared down the front of me greying Matalan T shirt, so had to spend the entire session zipped up in me unflattering raincoat which gave me the air of, and the liquid content of, a boil in the bag hippo. Anyway they've all sold now so I shall be going back tomorrow.

The weekend was marred by the addition of She Who Must be Obeyed's hangers on. In they trooped...
The Gay cleaning boy, complete with toy spaniel that he has clutched to his breast every effing time I see him and one of the many grandchildren who seem to be following in the arse prints of Don the Dump and seemingly call in for a pooh!

Any road up, I'll go to the foot of our stairs! That lot were mere bluebottles on the excrement of the Sunday afternoon compared to what fronted up close to closing time...

That irritating oddity, the ertwhile Elburton Drop in Centre, Saturday boy.

Now, even though he is no longer in the employ of the education department and on permanent 'playtime' he appears unable to resist giving all and sundry the benefit of his 'learned opinion'

Strolling nonchalantly into my little studio his opening gambit was...
'Your colour combinations have improved'

I could, at this point, cheerfully have smacked him on his smug, misshapen fizzog, but being mid honeycombe waffle cone heaven, I chose to take it on the chin.
However, on he ploughed, sauntering in my direction, hands in pockets and with the look of a man about to deliver a lecture... Which indeed he was.

'I think she's improved, don't you?' he says, drawing She Who M.... into the conversation.
'Oh yes I do' she answers
Now, I should tell you that She Who Bla bla... hangs on the every word of any T D or Harrington. She is an appalling judge of persons and this is born out by the number of times she is hoodwinked and dumped on.

Shoving the last few inches of waffle cone in me gob, I sneer in their general direction.


'your mark making has improved' says he
What the fuck is he on about, the tosser, methinks.

Seeing my glowering gob he says
'I'm trying to pay you a compliment, your mark making IS improving.'

What on earth makes the twat think his opinion is of any interest to me or indeed anyone else, because, lets face it he dishes it out to everyone.

I am still seething and had She who Bla bla not been there I would have let the little bastard have it verbally and possibly phsically since I have never been met with a situation that violence couldn't remedy.

Still, I expect there'll be a next time!!

Sunday, 14 August 2011

In which people have the cheek to die inconveniently...

Well, here I am again dear reader, just opened up and already had a bizarre conversation with a mightily strange personage from Doncaster.

'ah rite lov?' was the opening gambit
Even though I am patently 'not ah rite' having damp hair and a hole in me trousers from getting caught on a gate in the car park, I reply...
'Jolly fine' putting on one of me beatific smiles 'how the devil are you?'
'I were wonderin' if you could tell me 'ow to tell t'difference between a print and an original?'
'The price would generally be a bit of a giveaway' says me in an attempt to be jovial, even though I already want to stab someone with me paintbrush, such is my ever gloomy mood.
'well I'm manager of a charity shop and I can't tell t'difference lov.'

By now there are a few actual customers littering up the place, so I'm not that interested by the fortunes of a charity shop in effing Doncaster,so I sidle over to the small ugly gang leafing through the 'views of Dartmoor'.
'Me wife's looking for a picture to replace the one in our lounge,' says one.
I am too polite to inform him that only hotels and airports have lounges, but offer my assistance.
'We want to use and old frame, but we haven't measured it.'


The things you see when you've left yer Kalashnikov in yer other 'andbag!!!

Any road up another fatel blow to the enjoyment of what I laughingly call 'my life' occurred recently and I fully intend to bore you with it, dear reader.
It has long been my ambition to see a Lucian Freud work whilst the artist was still living.
On the coach trip from hell that I took Bloke on to give him a rest from feeding the unwashed, one of the trips was to Liverpool. When we got there, on the day after we should have gone, I was utterly beside myself to find a portrait of Leigh Bowery by Freud in the Tate.
It just made my day, my month my entire measly existence, in fact. Since for years I'd begged Vile Husband to take me to an exhibition - one being around my 40th birthday and I felt sure that he'd got tickets as a surprise. What an absolute idiot I am. Short of pinning him down and shouting into his face
'take me to the exhibition you selfish moron', no hint dropped would ever be acted upon.

Anyway it came and went, without me...

So, it was with utter horror that I subsequently found out that Lucian Freud had died the day before I went to the Tate. If the itinerary hadn't been changed, at least I'd have been there viewing the painting on the day itself, but look on the bright side - he might still have been warm!