Google+ Followers

Follow by Email

Monday, 30 May 2011

In which I slip back into my little family...

I fuelled up the ferrari and sallied forth to Wivey on Saturday to see Boy. He appeared at the door almost before I'd taken my hand off the bell, since last time he was still in bed upon my arrival at 12.30pm.

I had taken with me my grooming kit, consisting of a hair clipper and various other items to improve the appearance of teenage males. I was thwarted in my attempts to groom either Boy, or indeed, Vile ex husband, who could have seriously done with a bit of attention in that department. He, as usual, enquired for the wellbeing of Bloke, since he lives in constant fear that with his demise I might return!

I had to bow to their wishes re grooming, however, Boy being an adult, and Vile ex husband being exactly that, - ex.

It was, nonetheless, a successful visit on all accounts. Having lunch made for me and a new pooter procured from the internet.

Tigerboy was on good form for an elderly pussycat and brutally savaged me as I attempted to stroke him. Bloke thinks that Tigerboy is a savage creature, but as I've said before, I abandoned him and I deserve to be savaged. He still attacks vile ex husband though. Tigerboy that is, not Bloke. All I have to do is shout 'seize him' and the claws are out. So much so, this time that blood was spilt and bandages had to be administered.

It's quite satisfying how I slip back into that little discarded family and it was quite a sad little farewell when I went 'home'. I know I've droned on about it all the time, darlings, but I really thought that Boy would come and live with me in Deepest Devon - AND HE DIDN'T!

Oddly enough, even vile ex is companionable company on these visits and though it would be quite de riguer for him to vacate the premises, or even to deny me access, he stays and we have a lovely time all together. I suppose that now I'm not married to him and don't have to accept his foibles, re unemployment and general apathy, I can only see the kind and pleasant individual that he is and always will be.

Boy will be losing all his companions from college as they go up to Uni following the summer break, but due to his illness he has to repeat his final year. I do hope that now he's aquired the art of making friends that he'll make some more next term.

My lovely new Art Cards are in the gallery - so flock in your droves!

Wednesday, 25 May 2011

In which I despair of 'My Aunty Mary'...

One simply cannot choose one's relatives. Well, in this case that is not actually true. Dear Little Lovely One is having irritating problems with One's Aunty Mary (no not a euphamism) in Scotland. And, One's Auntie Mary is an adopted addition to the family deemed a good idea by Aged P's Aged P.

It has always been the story that Mary, Hilda actually, or Marie or Mhairi as she is known to herself, was a foundling. The story goes that she was left under a tree in a park by her prostitute mother and duly rescued and adopted by One's Nana Harris (mother of aged , now deceased P)

Aged P was never keen, saying that he didn't request this faux sibling and was toddling along quite happily with his imaginery playmate when the less than welcome sister Mary turned up.

She was a problem child from the outset and grew into a problem adult.

Placed in front of a psychiatrist at an early age to determine her odd behaviour' the learned one deduced that she had 'delusions of grandeur'. A little unfortunate, given that good manners in the Harris household consisted of saying pardon having let one rip, and the height of sophistication was having carnation milk on yer tinned peach slices on a Sunday.

Anyway, Mary, Marie, Mhairi, whatever, set off on the hunt for a minted hubbster early on and shagged her way around the sons of moneyed Luton families until gaining a reputation for loose living, signed up for the air force and vowed not to leave until a husband was procured.
'Tug' (nickname, though apt description) was duly snared and whisked off for a honeymoon in Clackers before settling down in Edinbugh.
'Good' thought everyone, that's her off our hands - but now she's back and wreaking havoc.

We foolishly let her act as executor for Nana's will, a complicated drawn out trust issue, in which she left her flat for Aged P to live in and then to be sold on the event of his demise and the proceed to be split amoungst seven remaining beneficiaries.

At every turn of the road she has questioned the solicitor, often phoning or turning up drunk and abusive.

Currently we are in danger of losing our latest buyer, whose mortgage offer runs out on 31st, as M has just sent a 20 page letter to said solicitor demanding answers to yet another tranche of irrelevant questions.
She has completely failed to register that her remit is to carry out the wishes of her adoptive Mother, not to hold up proceedings and cost us all money!
Not to mention the long and drawn out saga that she has seen fit to make the death of MY DAD.

Sunday, 22 May 2011

In which I rip it up in a paddy...

Just sold two originals to the same personage. Goodo! The money off notice is working, that's two originals and two limited edition prints since I threatened to end it all.

However, just had the tits bored off me by some git looking for a painting that bloody Lenkie bloke did of him about a squillion years ago. They come in here in their droves, not to buy anything, oh no, just to glaze me over with yet another effing drivellish conversation about that sodding pervert painter bloke.

The Bounty is in Sutton Harbour at the moment and today a Johnny Depp looky likey is marauding about the streets looking for maidens to rape and pillage.
I nipped out and rolled up me trouser leg in order to lure him over but never even got pillaged. Just trampled in the rush.

At present am attempting to paint a new view of Smeaton's Tower for 'She who must be obeyed' to use as a card. Sat here weilding paintbrush not actually doing anything whilst a great big fat old trollope was deliberating about spending a couple of quid on a card. I couldn't just get on since SWMBO has insisted that that picture is done in acrylics and I can't affort to get half way through something and then have to stop to serve a customer.

I wait

And I wait

And I wait

In the end I risk it and as soon as I get halfway across the sky with a deft brushstroke the lumbering great oaf wobbles over with her sodding card.
By the time I am liberated the sodding paint's dried and the whole bastard painting is shagged. So in a fit of pique I rip it up and shove it in the bin.

That's it - no more painting today - blogging and internet shopping for moi!

Friday, 20 May 2011

In which I have had to eat a whole box of jaffa cakes...

Huh! - No comments I see - even though I have threatened to extinguish my dear little self. Have you people no heart? There you all are going about your beeswax, totally ignoring my gloom. Well, bollocks!

Anyway, since I'm still here I shall vent my spleen further!

Those utter bastard, gas works sodding gits are still digging up the road to the extent that none but the intrepid explorer can find his/her way down here to the Barbican. Consequently I have had to eat an entire box of jaffa cakes and have thus ruined my diet! So not only are the shitbag gasbags responsible for my lack of sales but are now also guilty of expanding my arse!
I have put the following sign in the window;

Claire Rice

Due to the wholly inadequate signage to the Barbican throughout the current digging up of the road by Gas persons my income has fallen to the degree that my children are shoeless and starving. Therefore anyone who has persevered and made their way to Armada Gallery will be rewarded with 20% off any Claire Rice original or print.

Much sniggering and pointing has ensued. Well, I say MUCH, but much, in as much, as there are so few bods abroad.

As yet no sales.

Stingy f*****s


Wednesday, 18 May 2011

In which I consider ending it all...

I am currently in the gallery. The Gas Board, if that's what one still calls them, have seen fit to dig up every single road leading to the Barbican so no shoppers can get here unless they park in town and WALK all the flippin' way! So, consequently, no bods about, not even browsers. I am suffering my worst ever month for sales. Needless to say, this is not enhancing my already gloomy mood.
I think I've been in a bad mood for about 48 years now. Two incidents mark the beginning of my gloom.

Incident number one: I am 8 years old
Whilst sitting in me granny's front room minding me own business, I hear her say to the Mother;
'Look at the size of that child's thighs'.
This incident not only spurred the Mother to take me to the doctor to enquire;
'Why is this child so fat?'
But also started me off on my life time of self loathing, which directly led me to make poor and disastrous choices since I value myself very little.

The other incident which happened regularly was:
When at junior school I, and I expect all those of a similar vintage, had to wear the vile and ghastly gaberdine mac. This hideous item of clothing covered all weather and was particularly unsuitable for rain (for which it was primarily invented) since it soaked up water like a sponge and slapped itself against one's ever increasingly red thighs on the long walk home. I recall with alarming clarity, especially for one with virtually no recall for anything else, how in high winds and accompanying rain I walked the five miles or so to and from school with the blasted soggy mac slapping against my bare thighs.

Both these incidents involve my thighs, which I still hate with a passion and which when I realised their ugliness, I believe mark the beginning of me being in a very bad mood.

Why do I bother being falsely cheerful and pretending I enjoy anything about life? It is all boring and pointless as I sally forth with my enormous thighs crashing together.

And, to cap it all, Bloke is heading into one of his black periods. It all began yesterday when he refused to eat his tea or watch the football.

So there we are - no sales, nothing to look forward to and effing great thighs.

Wednesday, 11 May 2011

In which I am judged and found wanting...

And so, dear reader, off we sashayed to the Aged P's at the weekend to doss down whilst Bloke scuttled off to the smoke to watch Blackpool play in the premier division, whatever that is.
I dropped off Bloke at Luton station and on the way back stopped at the shopping area of the salubrious council estate where Aged P resides. Indeed where Lovely One resided many moons ago. I bought a newspaper and a french stick. Then the absolutely unbelievable happened. The dusky maiden at the checkout stuffed the newpaper in a carrier, looked at the french stick, assessed it's unliklihood of fitting into said carrier and promply folded it in half to ram it in!! I decided there would be little point in attesting that this was not an acceptable practise and legged it.
I, perhaps foolishly, opted to entertain the Aged P rather than slog round the smoke all day and going to the footie that didn't start until 5.30pm
I had nightmarish visions of being dragged round markets and steered away from 'posh' clothes and shoe shops, so Aged P it was.
We sallied forth to Stony Stratford in pursuit of a Box 2, that was apparently mythical. There were, however, many, many charity shops. All of which Aged P rummaged around in as if on behalf of the Po-leece with a search warrant.
A purchase was made in Oxfam.
'I wonder' methinks 'How long will it be before all and sundry are informed that aged P worked in there for 22 years.'
I didn't have to wait long - during the purchase of a delightful pleated 'nearly new' skirt, having of course entertainted everyone with the;
'course, I can't wear anything that shows these things I have to wear' speech, whilst hoisting up trouser legs to reveal support knee socks that to the rest of the world just look like ordinary stockings, the octaganarian biddy on the till made an error. Well, who wouldn't being confronted with Aged P hitching up her attire during the transaction?
Anyway, the old biddy calls over a senior old girl to attend to the mistake. Aged P does no more, but shoves old biddy out of the way shreiking, in her best telephone voice;
'Ey'll do it. Ey worked at Oxfam for 22 years you know.'
Well, senior old biddy, of course wasn't having any of that and a general scuffle for mastery of the till ensued.
I confess, dear reader, I hid in the rare books department.
All this time Bloke was texting me to tell me of all the foodie delights he was treating himself too 'up the smoke'.
Aged P and Moi had a coffee and toasted tea cake in an establishment that existed for the employment of persons with 'special needs'.
On the Sunday we rather rashly decided to take Aged P out for lunch at a nearby carvery. At the bar, where one collects one's ticket for the scoff extravaganza, Aged P orders a Pimms No 1. It is duly delivered, without fruit and without a straw. It only cost a quid, so I'm not surprised. However Aged P interrogated the sorely afraid young barmaid as to the whereabouts of said fruit and straw. The unfortunate young thing was unable to rectify the situation so Aged P says, out of the corner of her mouth, to me,
'The girls in 'ere are useless'.
Why is it that old ladies think no one can hear a remark made from the corner of the mouth?
As we were sitting at our table a further girl brings over a piece of lemon, lime and orange for Aged P's drink. A lovely gesture I thought, since I'd have shoved it up her knicker leg if it were me!
Throughout the ensuing scoff I was treated to tales of seemingly, every single one of Aged P's friends' offsprings having various villas in far flung places to which all said friends are spirited away for the summer.
'Well so and so's son/daughter's got ever such a good job you know,' being the phrase of the day.
Clearly, Lovely One is judged and found wanting, yet again!

Made it back to Deepest Devon in record time in sparkly new vehicle, which, incidentally, is a magnet for bird shit! Any seagull with a bout of jippy tummy for bloody miles makes a detour to crap on Lovely One's shiny car!

Anyway, Aged P enjoyed her outings and Bloke enjoyed the footie.