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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!

Wednesday, 10 August 2011

In which I peruse my demise...

Well here I am again and I note that three of my masterpieces have sold in my absence. That will annoy the anal one, oh goody goody! It also means that, like last month, I have sold one EVERY DAY. It seems sooo unfair on everyone else doesn't it? And that makes it EVEN BETTER.

I had Boy with me on Sunday when I was in here and he has begun to organise me into a proper business person by putting all my takings and expenses on a spread sheet, whatever that is. I always prefer to throw all the cash in a bucket under the desk and just dig in when needs must. The visit from Boy was a resounding success with Bloke being genial and amusing. Usually he is surly and uncommunicative and being confronted with this genial being I was flummoxed and really rather unsure how to react to it all. The upshot of all this rapidly changing behavoiur has left me in a quandry as to whether I am in fact falling out of me tree. With my drug induced short term memory failure to contend with, every day is something of an adventure and not always a pleasant one. However, I have once again fallen into a calm routine and am making dried grass whilst we have clement weather, so to speak.

It came upon me that I don't much care whether I exist or not now. The only thing keeping me afloat is the proliferation of drugs bestowed upon me from the quack. Taking them makes me numb. Not taking them makes me all too aware of what a ninepenny breakfast I've made of my miserable existence.

The tin hat was put firmly on the situation by the refusal of She Who Must be Obeyed to reign in her dog in the shape of the ghastly Anal One. When I complained about her odd behaviour and her naked aggression to Lovely One, She Who bla bla merely said that she would make sure we weren't both in the gallery at the same time. I really do think that the Anal One must have some kind of hold over her, as surely she should be admonished for her peculiar behaviour. They would both do well to acknowledge the situation as I feel most uncomfortable now and given that other galleries are making advances toward me, I may well review the situation as regards who becomes my lucky new owner.

Until I wash down the sleeping tablets with the vodka, that is. Which won't be long...

Saturday, 6 August 2011

In which I am a bit, well a lot actually, pissed off...

Ding ding! All change!

Well, dear reader, what a week! Culminating in yesterday, a foul and horrid day. Not of my making, I hasten to add.

It all began with a very quiet, more quiet than his usual self, which is of the grave. The odd intervention from moi enquiring as to the reason for the latest prolonged period of silence.

Any road up, so as not to bore you with the details, it culminated in the fact that having had two weeks off work and not having made enough to realistically keep things afloat, the overdraft was in use bigstyle. Myself, having been used to living on an overdraft facility, wasn't to perturbed by this, but darling Bloke was!
It all rather put me in the mind of dear old Grandpapa and Grandmama. One doesn't normally like to draw anyone's attention to the charming old ancestrians, being as they were, 'in service' so to speak, but well, it was the general theme of things. You see, and those of you from working class stock like dear little lovely one, will recall the days of the mantra 'we're not 'avin it if we can't pay cash'
And that, dear reader, is what it made me think of.

Since moving lock, stock and Manolos into chez Bloke (me casa et su casa) Moi has picked up the tab for scoff, treats, holidays, clothing, white goods, entertainment, tax bills etc...
those of you who are fortunate enough to be familiar with Lovely One will know that I am not stingy in any way shape or form. In fact, quite the reverse. Hence, usually skint!

But I am now required to pay rent. No more treats or holidays or outings or even eating together - just rent. Which is fine, or would have been if it had always been the arrangement.

Poor dear Bloke is quite beside himself with worry, what with the state of his business and his poor limpy leg and his perpetual pessimism. But the ferocity of his request was all out of proportion and really rather frightened Lovely One. One was left feeling like a guest that had outstayed their welcome.

It really MUST be moi. I must be sooooo difficult to live with and annoying that eventually everyone wants rid of me.

Speaking of which...
Sashayed into the gallery in order to have me photo taken for the newspapers and was met with an unsolicited outburst from Anal C. Who is definitely in need of urgent counselling.

Minding own business having conflab with She Who bla bla...
'Guess what' says me 'Slimey Normey from over the road (a rival gallery) came in here to ask is he could sell my stuff'
'What did you tell him' says She through gritted porcelain gnashers, that look a bit silly in a septagenarian gob.
'I told him that you'd batter me to death' says me with an impish grin.
'correct' says she
'Anywyay' I plough on 'I think we should up the ante...'

At this point Anal C positively launched herself across the gallery floor and flew into the conversation with..

'I know you think I don't try to sell your stuff, but I do' followed by other unintelligible babble.

'What on earth are you going on about?' says me

'That comment - up the ante' spits the Anal one.

'It's not all about you' I reply 'We weren't talking about you'
But she wouldn't have it and went on and on and on....

I found it necessary to draw her attention to the defensive stance that she takes on every matter with myself and She who must be obeyed, but it is becoming quite clear that she has lost the plot.

Anyway here endeth the day...

What a pisser that was!!!!

Wednesday, 3 August 2011

In which I return to the gallery...

Well, dear reader, would you Christmas Eve it? I glided elegantly into the gallery. Bronzed, rested, worshipped and raring to create, following my luxury mini break ooop North, and what do I find?
The effing chicken in pride of place with a hand written, HAND WRITTEN, I tell you, notice - Good Buy - was £450 - now £245. This sophisticated note was scribed on a random piece of cardboard in the hand of an eight year old. Undeniably the work of the Anal One. But that wasn't the best bit, she'd seen fit to take my easel out of my studio space and, WAIT FOR IT, display someone else's painting on it!!! I say 'painting' because, as you know, I'm a generous soul where others' work is concerned, but I use the term very loosely indeed.
It was a horse's head. Well is was a horse's arse actually! It had all the features of a horse's head but not necessarily in the right order.
In front of it resided She Who bla bla looking like a pink and wrinkly Mafioso Donnette complete with said horse's head.

Why oh why, when I'd left a piece of work on my easel complete with my paints out and the area in suitable dissaray, does the Anal One feel the need to effing well move every sodding thing. I tell you, I could nip out for a wee and she's pack everything up, the ridiculous old crone!

Another one of the octagenarian olympic muff diving team was in discussing the laundering of a king sized quilt that had been shat on by an elderly infirm husband - so sitation normal then! Numerous prospective customers came and went clutching their vomit bags. After all who wants to listen to two old crones discussing terminal turditis.

I'll be back...

Just had to go outside to move on some ridiculously clad, smoking article who was parked on the windowsill just in front of my most fabulous masterpiece, yelling into his i phone about work, whilst leaning on my 'A' board.
'Excuse moi' says me 'where do you work?'
'Why?' says he
'Because I'm going to come and sit on your desk so no one can see what you're doing, you tit.' And with that I wobbled off back inside. Even my arse was pulling a face!

Oh, and by the way, I didn't have a fantastically sophisticated mini break, I am not worshipped and Bloke has inferred that I should be packing my Luis Vuitton and vamoosing. Well, he did retract the statement, but One is clearly on oueff shells now!

I should live on my dear little own with cats.