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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.