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Wednesday, 30 March 2011

In which I have my glorious hair cut...

Having a quiet day today...
Shall, of course, create something wonderful, either on paper or in the kitchen. But, presently, am listening to the absolutely ghastly Libby sodding Purves on dear old radio 4. What a complete twat that woman is. She has her very own language and pronounces words in a manner unknown in the English speaking world. I could choke the bat until she croaks! However I must listen to her since the annoyance is good for my system and gives me an artistic ferve not previously seen. Listening to Terry Wogan induces feelings of wanting to cuddle up in a blankie and eat a pie. Chris Evans makes one want to take to the streets and castrate any 'gingers' one might come upon, in case they procreate, and as for John Humphries, well he should be despatched by having a state of the art laptop shoved up his chuff box!
Mmmmm, feel better for that Darling reader!
Now - any of you out there who would like a piece of Lovely One should speak up right now, since I am just about to commit my flowing golden locks to the dyson.
Yes! Dear Ones, I have had my innapropriately long hair cut!
Obviously, I still look divine, and ordinarily I would say 'Don't mess with perfection', but the time has come for Lovely One to make some small allowances for her age and begin to look and dress like a grown up.
I shall still behave in the manner of a petulant teenager though, so don't panic.

Thursday, 10 March 2011

In which Birmingham should be walled in...

There is light at the end of the tunnel darlings. Bloke has agreed that a move back to Somerset is the thing to do. Not until we've offloaded chez mildew, and sold the business, but nonetheless, I can start planning. Dear little tenant in maison Lovely One need not concern herself as yet, since I can't see us getting rid of the ghastly homestead in the near future. I just hope I make it home before my pussy dies of old age. My remaining pussy, that is, since one has already gone to the great radiator cushion in the sky. But dear old Tigerboy is still around, biting and scratching anyone who dares to try and stroke him.

Many moons come and go...

I am back...

Been confined to satin sheeted fourposter ackled up with furry hot water bottles and smelling salts as have had some ghastly virus thing that attacked me with such vigour that I couldn't even put me face on, let alone amuse the great unwashed down on the Barbican.
Anyway, back to Lovely, Lovely normal now so holed up in gallery being annoyed by stupid men making stchoopid remarks to impress their bespectacled, short haired, fat arsed wives.
This very morn Lovely One has had to converse with several species of pond life out for a stroll. Are these people specially delivered by the bus load to annoy the sensibilities of Lovely One? Do they appear as if by magic from their fetid holes in the ground when they catch a whiff of the scented Lovely Moi?
This mornings first offering, that would have benefitted greatly from a thwack about the cranium from a lump hammer, was a strawberry nosed tosser who strolled in, hands in pockets, with anoraked BHS supplied 'Mrs' in tow...
'How much is the picture in the window. It must be free. There's no price on it.'
Well, I very nigh had to clutch me tena lady pants into twinkle zone for fear of pissing meself at that hilarious joke!
'Oh we give those away each day to the first customer who says that' I retorted. Then, with one of my works in his grubby, sausage fingered mitt, says,
'This one should keep off the scrumpy, the skyline's crooked'
Well! Not in the best frame of mind first thing on a Monday morning I'd have liked to poked the wanker in the eye, but if that's the way pond life from Birmingham choose to while away the hours entertaining their fat, badly dressed wives whilst on their break from the factory, who is Darling little Lovely One to spoil it for them.

I'll tell you who Darling Little Lovely One is, Dear reader..

Talented, famous, fragrant, gloriously fascinating, beautiful artist, who should be feted, admired, Nay, worshipped and lauded by stchooopid holidaying twats. Especially ones from Birmingham.

Saturday, 5 March 2011

In which I am analysed by Amazon...

What sort of person are you? If you ever shop on Amazon, and let's face it, who doesn't, you may find some insightful information about your dear little self.
I was looking for an interesting book to read - or shoes - (how come amazon sells shoes) well, who cares they do, and I love 'em.
'Welcome Mrs Claire E Rice' the pooted tooted, or 'if not Mrs bla bla - sign in'
'we have recommendations for you'
Started off inoffensively enough ...
Complete Series of Upstairs Downstairs DVD - got that
Complete Series of Duchess of Duke Street DVD - don't wannit
How to paint abstracts dont know what to say to that!
Love from Nancy Mitford - reddit
Charleston - A Bloomsbury House - got that one - I see a pattern emerging here
The complete letters of Lytton Strachey - reddit
Autobiography of Frances Partridge - reddit
The Dukan Diet - OOOh haven't done that one
A rush of blood to the head, Coldplay - NOoooooooooo
Easy Learning French - Let the miserable gits speak English
Snug Sofa Blankie - mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm want one
Match Annual - Surely an error
Six pack of bodywarmers - I'd need three per body warm
Brown chunky sports sandals - I going to sue Amazon for inferrring I'd wear such an item
Bloomsbury something or other - flippin 'eck I must be obsessed!
I can make you thin Paul McKenna - You filthy liar
Psyllium husk powder - we won't go into that!
A sub zero factor two thermal neck warmer - WHAT
A pair of sling back crocs - SLING BACK CROCS - WHATEVER NEXT DARLINGS
GCSE maths - I fear Boy may be hacking into my account
Warcraft - Boy IS hacking into my account

The Bolter - surely a self help manual - I'm buying that one

A picture of a fat woman with constipation and a very cold neck has emerged. A penchant for the faccile upper class bohemians of the Bloomsbury set. A massive desire for any kind of warming clothing and a vauge interest in boxed sets of tv programmes featuring the upper classes and their servants.

The only two items that are of any interest are the 'brown' BROWN, I kid you not, sandals. Litigation will follow.
and
The Bolter - a handbook that could have been penned by Dear Little Lovely One.

Friday, 4 March 2011

In which le chat is out of the bag...

Le chat is out of the bag!
It has become widely known that Dear Little S has told the Alkie and the Corpse Bride to shove their mount cutter where the sun don't shine and has huffed off and started his own business!
Goodo me thinks! Imagining massive chocolate pie and bitching sessions william nilliam. But No! She Who Must be Obeyed has said, nay DEMANDED, that dear little Lovely One is under no circumstances to throw me chapeau into the ring with Dear Little S or I can consider my association with Armada Gallery at an end.
Now, I know where I'd rather be, darling readers. Let's think, shall I spend my days eating chocolate cake pie, (cat pie when Mimi buys it) and bitching about all and sundry, OR shall I spend it being bored shitless by Lenkie lookers and holidaymakers from Birmingham who want an original for ten quid. And surrounded by septagenarian shop assistants who couldn't spot a masterpiece if it infiltrated their eighteenhour corselette.
Hmmmmmm Dilema indeed!
But it's not as simples as that. It never effing is, is it!!!!????
I currently work three days in the gallery. THREE FULL EIGHT HOUR DAYS - MIND - FOR ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY QUID. and I'M SELF EMPLOYED.
Work it out dears. Less than the minimum wage! And me a one time captain of industry no less!
Any road up, I need the paltry sum to keep the wolves from the door. Well, not really, but to pay my massive credit card bills, at least until I can remortgage the old homestead.
This current economic state of affairs really is a sodding nuisance to the likes of Dear little Lovely One. I've spent the greater part of my adult life running up huge debts and then moving to a smaller house to pay them off with the proceeds. That's how I ended up in Wivey. A massive downward spiral from Hampstead village to Wive-soddin-liscombe. But now, with the state of the property market I can't get my dear little self out of the shit without the little matter of a bit of hard work. How boring is that? I don't like them bananas!
So, whilst it would be divine to dish the dirt with all at Art Frame Solutions, I shall have to remain here, chained to me easel, flogging rattled off paintings of the Barbican to earn a meagre crust. Not that I'd be able to eat it since I've removed solid food from my intake at the mo in an effort to stop the expansion of my fat arse.
Talking of daily bread...
Yesterday I deployed the breadmaker and constructed a loaf for Bloke. Fair delighted with me efforts I emailed him a pic.
'Who threw that through the window?' was the reply.
It has to be said that the loaf did exhibit a resistance to the breadknife not normally associated with say, a Mother's Pride. But in fairness to moi it did look the part.
Anyhow, I shan't be complaining quite so much about Bloke since he has started murmering that maybe it wouldn't be so bad to live in Wivey.
Oh to leave this abomination of a place. It's grey, boring and everyone is thick.