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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.