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Monday, 31 December 2012

In which One is busily flogging a deceased cheval…

So here we all jolly well are then.  Well, One and Boy actually and not exactly jolly.

Aged P is more concerned about Boy not having brought any PJ’s or a clean towel than actually seeing him.

The hospital visit is this afternoon so today seemed like a good time to once again approach the subject of moving to a more suitable gaff.

‘They get priority,’ informed Aged P with a swift digit indication to next door.

‘No they don’t’, I opined.  (They being the evil foreigners)  Who, incidentally came round yesterday with home made cakes for her.

‘They do here,’ she went on, meaning the council actively assists immigrants rather than the indigenous population.

I know, I know, utter nonsense. 

‘What about the places that are being built at the top of the road?’ One ploughed on.

‘They’re crap!’ was the sensible retort.

‘Oh you’ve been in one then,’ I countered,

‘No, I went past there in a car.’

How on earth does One attempt to get any sense out of an attitude like that.

Peace brokerage has failed entirely on my part between Aged P and the Brother, who now has added ‘she ruined my childhood’ to the list of surprising calamities. 

I give in. 

I wish someone would move me out of my unsuitable old broken down gaff into a nice new warm modern apartment.

But that’s just silly old One for you!

Happy New Year

Saturday, 29 December 2012

In which One is undertaking a day of nappage…

Today One shall be having a day of rest.  No! Don’t try and stop me!  One is utterly exhausted from the reassembly of the Underground Lair.

Boy, as per, has been consp by his abs, being a bit of a chocolate teapot when practicality is required, but V ex H has proven to be rather a gem.  So now, the old homestead is gradually reverting to normal. Mind you, One has actually paid him cash to do One’s bidding.

Unlike Lovely One who is crumbling under the pressure of all things horrid. 

The only hope is to win the lottery, cash that is,  not the lottery of life, in which One’s ticket seems to have been left out of the draw.

V ex H says that statistically One is only very slightly more likely to win the lottery if One has a ticket than if One doesn’t.  How can that be?  Surely ‘you caint winnit if yer aint innit’

Any road up he will insist that the likelihood of the numbers coming up in sequence is just as random as any set of numbers.  That just can’t be. Can it?

So One shall ponder that as me roots turn grey whilst One sleeps.

For tomorrow – visit to Aged P



Thursday, 27 December 2012

In which One has a short moan…

Back at the underground lair again.  All alone and flamin’ well cheesed off to boot!

What a miserable Chrimbo!  No tree, no decs, nothing! 

A £3.50 red berry curiosity and a green glass elephant from the charity shop just isn’t the same as a real tree with lights and a fairy.

Have been religiously rubbing the elephant for luck.  Uncle Bert says he’s been rubbing his for years and it’s never worked for him.

Anyway, have positively exhausted One’s little self with clearing up and moving furniture.

Am leaving the broken bog fiasco until I’ve made the pilgrimage to Aged P’s with Boy.  That’s planned for Sunday to Tuesday.  After that the gaff will be ready for the return of Uncle Bert and the flea-ridden shite machine Montgomery.

Not to mention the re-acquisition of the furniture from storage.  At present, sitting on the footstool v uncomfortably.

Drove home with a flat tyre and the driver’s side window rattling and half hanging out of the door.

Shit shit bugger bugger, life’s a drag.

Roll on next year – go on 2013 – hit me with your worst! I can take it!!

Tuesday, 25 December 2012

In which One goes all Phil is Offical…

Impossible to sleep in the attic tonight.  The wind is battering the shutters back and forth with an angry vengence as if to get inside.

In a few short weeks the turquoise calm on the shore has been whipped into a frothy brown frenzy sucking the old year out to sea.

There really is no need, as a malevolent icy cloak has settled inside and no amount of wintry weather could render a frostier chill, or indeed, whip it away.

Early in the day a patch of sunshine fell upon the place, making the windows creak and groan for a while before black clouds blew in and sent horizontal sheets of sharp rainy needles buffeting through the struggling trees.

Lovely One snuggled under her fluffy and watched A Christmas Carol.  All alone, of course, whilst Uncle Bert lay prone on his single bed in the cellar dreaming of Christmases that might have been.

There isn’t anything so lonely as being with someone who wishes you ill. But One struggles on knowing that you, Dear Reader, are out there making merry with one another.

As this most unusual, unsettling year draws to a close One is hiding under One’s blankie with a warm snuggly package of memories One made earlier and every now and then One lets one go and basks in it’s warmth for a moment or two.

So, Dear Reader, my Christmas message to you is to think long and hard before you cast your beadies onto pastures new in the coming year.  It takes the passing of many a moon to build up a comfy layer of ‘do you remember whens’.  And the seemingly green shoots of the grass in the next meadow will soon turn to dried up dust that you just can’t kick off your shoes, no matter how hard you try.

Monday, 24 December 2012

In which Aged P hasn’t done anything…

LO     Hello

Aged P    It’s me I haven’t seen those children and I put £20 in a Christmas card.

LO    What children?

AP     ‘is!

LO     Well, I told you what he said to me, that he’s not coming round because of what you said to him.

AP     I haven’t done anything!  sob, sob.

LO     Well, I’ve texted and emailed him and there really isn’t anything else I can do is there? Why don’t you phone him?

AP     I have phoned him twice.

LO     Well phone him again!

AP     Mary thinks he’s gone doolally.  She phoned up the other night and went on about property and all that and made me miss me programme.  There’s nothing on the bloody telly.  It’s all repeats.

LO     Well, you’ve got masses of channels and watch again, why not use that.

AP     I’m not doing that, that bloody Eileen has to watch Eastenders before she goes to bloody Tesco and I have to wait up until quarter past ten to get me shopping.

LO     What time do you go to bed then?

AP     Oh about half past eleven.  And anyway I’ve got loads of presents.  I always open them on New Years Eve, don’t you?

LO     No. Christmas morning.

AP     I haven’t spoken to a soul all bloody day and I am still limping about with a stick and having to bring all me stuff downstairs in the morning.

LO     You know what to do about that don’t you?  Go and live in one of those lovely warden controlled flats and you’ll have company as and when you want it.

AP     I’m not doing that, that bloody Eileen still lives up the road and anyway she wants a piss every time we go out.  I’m bloody sick of it!  We went up that garden centre and had fish and chips and she just want to go to the toilet all the bloody time.  The doctor told me…   ‘Mrs Harris I can’t believe you’re 82 and you’ve got the most enormous bladder I’ve ever seen.’  How about that then – Ha!

LO     Perhaps Eileen has got a normal sized bladder?

AP      That’s it!  You take her side!  I’d like to see you with her wanting a piss all the bloody time, and as for ‘im – I’m sick of it.  I haven’t done anything….

LO    We’ll see you at the end of the week then.


I bet she has done something!


Sunday, 23 December 2012

In which One has laundered me pudden…

So here it is Merry Christmas, and nobody’s having fun….   bla bla fecking bla…

Well, at least Lovely One flamin’ well isn’t!  What with me smashed up toiley boiley and incarceration in flaming Salcombe, One’s now gone and accidentally laundered me Chrimbo Pudden.

The Pinkster made it long ago and far away, out of felt, and every Christmas since, One has had it strategically pinned about One’s person throughout the Christmas season.

Not so this year!  Now it’s taken on the proportions of a shrivelled reindeer turd.

And that has just about put the tin fecking hat on the year from hell.

One shan’t bore you with the entire details as One is planning a special Christmas Broadcast to you, my public.

It has just come to One’s attention that Uncle Bert is manipulating aforementioned pudden with a view to knocking it out.  One fears that the exercise will prove pointless!

Any road up, given that we will be sitting on opposite sides of the banqueting table for Christmas lunch, and no doubt hurling insults hither and thither, I suppose watching him bashing the pudden will at least put me off having seconds.

Tra la la la la feckin’ la

Saturday, 22 December 2012

In which One is up shit street without a khazi…

Oh my giddy aunt!  The shit is about to hit the fan…

The shit will have to hit the fan because one of the unidentified morons who’ve been letting themselves in and out of the underground lair, William Nilliam, has smashed up me toiley boiley!






It’s hardly surprising, given the brute force required to dig up the concrete floor that it has poleaxed the pedestal, but perleeeeese, why didn’t one of the eejits OWN UP TO THE ERROR

Now, having had the cleaners in, who meticulously cleaned round the broken bog and the, unidentified floor laying fairies, who laid the bloody wooden floor around it, I am left with no contact at the insurance company who will sort it out.


Well, until after Chrimbo I do and then….

Christmas leftover recipe…







This all started with that festering old hag with the inappropriately long hair for a hag of her years.

One wonders…  Is there a hairdressing wing of the Taliban whom One could deploy with a sharp pair of scissors to trim the bint?

Boy says One should stop threatening actual bodily harm to persons who have annoyed One as he doesn’t have the cash to bail me out.

One may turn over a new leaf in the new year


Tuesday, 18 December 2012

In which FFS makes out she’s not a thug… yeah right!!

Plymouth wiped her neck with a damp flannel, flossed her gusset with a briny anchor chain, dabbed a squirt or two of Cilit Bang Grime and Lime on her wrinkly d├ęcolletage and opened for business…

Mar and me had broken our duck with a flagon of Pinto Grigio when FFS tottered in on an impossibly high heels clutching one of those pretend cigarette things.  It has to be said FFS does have remarkably pretty feet and they looked a picture in the Freeman Hardy and Willis numbers poking out the bottom of her size 24 Primarni leggings like two little splayed out babies hands.

It was a shame!  She had tried her best!  It seemed obvious to Lovely One what had happened…

Someone had given her an old Plumbs two-seater sofa cover and she’d had a go at making a frock.  It looked for all the world like she’s used an old Butterick pattern of Mar’s that had got torn in the mists of time because she’d ended up with a shift dress that just covered her arse and what’s worse, the right sleeve had been torn off so her anchor tattoo was on show all night.

She looked for all the world like the mutant offspring of Fred Flintstone and Joan Collins.

Already having been given chapter and verse on the Posh J incident…

‘I don’t never do no swearin nor nuffin.  It makes yer look like you ain’t got no vocableree, dunnit?’

Apparently she’s launched herself at PJ making the delicate Dear Little S leave the ground in fright.  There she was jabbing her chipped nail polish (black of course, what else!) digit in the wrinkly visage of PJ, with her buy one, get 47 free bangles jangling menacingly.

Any road up, PJ had fled, teary-eyed from the building leaving the pneumatic FFS attempting to convince all and sundry that she’s not a thug.

The scenario was repeated at full volume for the assembled ugly crowd at Les Sombreros Mehican Scoffage House…

The trouble was…  Every time she made like ‘I don’t never swear nor shout or do no fightin’ like,’ another tale of banshee behaviour was added to the story… 

This pattern of behaviour had obviously started early, as the first couple of stories were from when she was being taken in the armed vehicle to  approved school and she’s battered the living shite out of some poor sap who’d given her brother ‘evils.’ The other concerned some innocent child who’s DNA had to be scraped out by Mar from under FFS’s fingernails upon her return to the barn where the James gang holed up.

By far my favourite, however, was the one about the poor old bint who’s hair she ripped from it’s follicles.  Apparently the drunken slapper had offended Mar by oggling one of her offspring and FFS had taken it upon herself to prise the rampant lush off the child before he lost his cherry to the addled old bill-poster’s bucket.

What ensued was a bizarre tug of war between Mar, FFS and some other passing inebriate with the sodden slapper in the middle hanging on by her hair.

Eventually FFS was removed, still clutching handfuls of the tart’s tresses.

‘Ooooh, me ‘air, me ‘air,’ trilled the trollop, dramatically inspecting her bald patches.

‘’ere! ‘Ave it,’ countered FFS hurling the hair at her.

With that they staggered off up Union Street dragging the barely conscious, drunken object of desire, who, by all accounts (geddit?) turned out to be a mutant - a normal family member.

Any road up, having regaled the assemblage with these tales of terror whilst inhaling 47 fajitas and an individual washing-up bowl full of guacamole, she does no more than…

Stands up, picks the frock-wedgie out, farts, burps, rattles her keys and says..

‘right then Mar and Nana, you ready to go ‘ome?’

Sunday, 16 December 2012

In which One looks forward to the Christmas Cheer…

LO    ‘Hello, Boy and I are coming sometime between Christmas and New Year so that we can take you to the hospital.’

Aged P   ‘I’ve got to wait until after 10.00 o’clock for that bloody Eileen to bring my shopping!  Why do they have to go to Tesco in the middle of the bloody night?’

LO   ‘You should be thanking them for getting your shopping, not complaining about them.’

Aged P    ‘Why? they’re going anyway.  I like to see what I’m getting.’

LO   ‘Why don’t you let me get your shopping delivered? It would be a lot easier.’

Aged P   ‘I said… I like to see what I’m getting. Anyway, I’m going to buy a bed frame for that futon mattress for when Boy comes.’

LO   ‘Do not buy a bed frame!  I shall be bringing the futon mattress back with me and anyway you don’t want to buy things like that when you should be thinking about moving to a smaller place, shouldn’t you?’

Aged P   ‘I’m not looking into that now.  I’ve had enough.  I can’t live in a place with no windows in the bathroom and no garden.  What about all my furniture’

LO   ‘Get rid of it.  You don’t need it.’

Aged P   ‘I’ve left the contents of the house to you, you know. He’s not getting any of it!’

Oh goody, methinks, ‘He' has had all your savings and lucky One gets to spend out a fortune getting rid of all of your crap!

LO   ‘Well, anyway, we’ll give you a ring before we come.’

Aged P   ‘I haven’t got any white bread.’

LO   ‘I have never eaten a slice of white bread in my life.’

Aged P   ‘I can’t get out for some, I have to wait up till after 10.00 for that bloody Eileen to get back from Tesco.’

LO   ‘I will bring whatever we need.’

Aged P   ‘I have to bring whatever I need for the day downstairs in a bloody carrier bag!’

LO    ‘Well you’d be better off in a nice little flat or bungalow then wouldn’t you?’

Aged P   ‘I couldn’t fit the sideboard in. That bloody Christmas Dinner at the Ewe and Lamb was shit!  The turkey was cold and the veg weren’t cooked. And, I had to go straight to bed when I got home from the garden centre.  I’m not going in one of them wheelchairs they’ve got.  Now me legs are really aching, walking from one end of it to the bloody other!’

re:  Ewe and Lamb…That means that the sprouts hadn’t been on to simmer since October.

re:  Not using wheelchair…  Will take much longer to recover from broken leg operation.

As for Christmas present… Have a lovely pair of screw on pearl earrings for Aged P and a very fancy collapsible walking stick.  Can but imagine the scene when the walking stick is unwrapped!

Chestnuts roasting by an open fire, Jack Frost nipping at your toes…….bla bla fecking bla…


Saturday, 15 December 2012

In which the thot plickens…

One has figured it out at last!

They had the list upside down!

1   Clean gaff

2   Decorate gaff

3   Lay flooring

So – there you have it, Dear Reader!  That is the obvious answer as to why the floor has been laid!

Any road up, having had the blessing of the Insurance Company to purloin a cleaning personage and decorating bod of choice, One set about the mission.

They are clearly trying to save themselves the aggravation of a court case.


Upon securing the services of an article known to Lovely One, and yes, in the biblical sense, One made more extensive enquiries as to the whereabouts of me fecking keys!

The useless tit on the ansa (drainage company) (shite relocators) whatever you like to call them, switchboard, was a tad nonplussed by my enquiry.

‘Let me put it quite simply,’  went on Lovely One, ‘someone (* ** *) will be at your office on Monday morning to collect my keys.  They had better be there or I call the police.’

‘We ain’t got yer keys.  Asprea (the insurance claim handlers) have ‘em,’ went on the tit.

‘No they haven’t,’ One insisted, ‘and if they have then who laid the floor, since they haven’t even appointed a tradesperson?’

Such a long silence ensued that One thought the bod had fallen off his perch.  But no…

‘Well, what’s happened is this…  Your insurance company said it was ok if we laid the floor before the place was cleaned and decorated and that they would cover it up so it doesn’t get damaged.’





Friday, 14 December 2012

In which One is going to get rat arsed…

Revved up the Roller and aqua-planed back to the old homestead, via The Old Fish Shop Gallery.

Knowing that the Pinkster had an offspring home sick, One was more than a little surprised to see the lights on.  Upon entry, it was the corduroy clad calamity, WWW, just biffed in to collect the books. 

Clearly wrong-footed by the fate of the Old Fish Shop Gallery, she had her face on inside out and was bemoaning the fact that neither the Pinkster nor your very own lovely One has been manning the gaff. 

Sadly, that’s life, when your unpaid workers have things in their own lives that need to be attended to.  Good job we don’t get paid!  We might need sick pay or compassionate leave!

Any road up The Albatross Art Cafe seems to be doing well…

‘Because I’m there,’ according to the intrepid entrepreneur.

Oh well, One lives and learns and there is certainly a salutary lesson in there somewhere.

Upon investigation of the Underground Lair, the floor has been laid.

I very nigh filled me Tena Lady on the spot!

One called the claims handler to enquire how this can be?

‘Well we only appointed a manager yesterday,’ said Darren or Wayne or whatever the feck one of them is on the switchboard today.

‘Well who did it then?’ enquired Lovely One, ‘The fecking fairies?’

So – now I have a new floor laid on top of all the shite and detritus and the decorating still not done.

Needless to say One is three quarters down a bottle of Rioja…..



Thursday, 13 December 2012

In which One is decking the fecking halls…

Deck the Halls with ChemDry’s entrails,

Fa,La, Fecking La, La, La

Oh goody gumdrops!  Just had a call from the eejits to say that ‘I’ve emailed me boss and he’s looking into where your keys are.’



And so it was thus, the situation needs to be assessed again and again ad infinitum…

So, ‘tis Christmas in Salcombe for Lovely One et al.  And then New Year in Luton…

Sublime to ridiculous – or what!!!!!!!

Shall be making an official visit to The Old Fish Shop Gallery on the morrow to sing the praises of the good old Pinkster who has been manning the gaff on her tod.

Biffed off in the Bugatti to the Barbican last eve for to wassail with me public in Kaya Gallery.

What a splendid idea to have the Barbican late night shopping on the night before the Plymouth centre late opening.

The lottery funded waterfront bods fronted up for a peruse of the few shops that bothered to open.

It was pointed out that a Christmas Tree, at least, not to mention ‘chestnuts roasting by an open wossname’, Carol singers or even a visit from Santa himself might have jollied the visitors along.

‘Oh good point. Takes a lot of organising, ya.’

Que?  Christmas arrives at approximately the same fecking time every sodding year…




Clearly, Lovely One should be Mayor, nay, Princess of Plymouth!

Monday, 10 December 2012

In which One is spitting venom yet again…

At 1.32pm One received a long awaited call from ChemDry. 

Having sent two letters to One, both to the Underground Lair, one of which was delivered to V ex H. 

What is it with the Wiveliscombe Post Office?  Ok, so they know where he lives, but PLEASE deliver letters addressed to my house –TO MY HOUSE

Any road up, back to ChemDry…

What the hell did they send the letters there for anyway?  Did they think I was in residence sailing about in Shirleytosis’s shite?

Even though the assessor from Asprea has ‘assessed’ the fecking gaff, the ChemDry bod now wants to assess it, AND – WAIT FOR IT – pass the job on to a sub-contractor who will also need to assess it.



The promised ‘claims handler’ from Asprea hasn’t materialised and the assessor from last Thursday has gone AWOL

I can’t sleep.  I’m getting really pissed off AND I don’t think that’s unreasonable since the claim went in in fecking March, for feck’s sake!

Thursday’s bloke said he’s actually sent people off on all inclusive holidays rather than pay for temporary accommodation as it’s often cheaper.  The length of time this has taken One could have gone on a round the world bloody cruise!

And just to rouse my venom count even further…

Boy telephoned to inform me that V ex H has been helping out at the pensioner’s Christmas party at the community centre…..


Lovely One was a stalwart of that little establishment for many a moon and the selfish old git never once even enquired about it, let alone went in it!

I imagine she snapped her soiled gusset, and that was that! 

Ooooh, feel icky now!

In which One is making arrangements…

So, here One jolly well is then, just Lovely One, Uncle Bert and the flea-ridden shite machine, Montgomery.

Uncle Bert in residence, ostensibly to ‘keep me company’ but One fears it may be a return of the screaming Ab-Dabs on the horizon.

All but silence has descended upon the cottage with the afore mentioned UB lolloping about the gaff like a Pilsbury Dough Boy that’s been rolled in iron filings.

As a former keen fisherman, he has taken to flinging his tackle over the third floor balcony to ‘keep ‘is ‘and in’ as he calls it.

Heaven only knows what Jocasta and Hugo make of it when they open the curtains of a morning and are practically whopped in the kisser with a mouldy old set of tackle!

Any road up, One shan’t be too hard on the old codger as he’s given up the will to go on and has, of the passing of many moons eschewed the taking of medications various that have kept him ticking. 

And so it is thus that he sits upon the sofa like a Premier Man clad Buddah awaiting the inevitable. 

One doesn’t exactly admire the curious ability to do absolutely feck all, but One does sometimes envy it, being an industrious little being.

One has suggested kipping in an ecologically sound cardboard coffin, so as to render disposal with ease, but should the package moisten, he may well protrude through the bottom, with his bottom!

Still, it’ll save One pushing him into the cut.

Sunday, 9 December 2012

In which One ponders the state of the nation…

One can but imagine the bliss it would be to be incarcerated in Salcombe in the summer months.  The golden sandy bays and turquoise waters are inviting enough in the grip of Hurricaine Herbert, so One can but dream of the summer Mistral.

Oh well, could be worse.  Could still be stuck in that rancid fleapit in Brixham, TCP-ing me bites.

No word from those incompetent eejits who are supposed to be sorting the Underground Lair.  They should give me a job.  I’d get them organised, the pea-brained twonks! 

Any road up, it has come to the attention of your very own sensitive Lovely One that there are truly vast, nay acreages of difference, twixt the abutting towns and counties clinging to the edges of this sceptic isle.

Take Plymouth, for instance, it is dirty. (Pronounced ‘dutty’)

If it were a person, it would be a slovenly old bint, say, and it would have a tide mark round it’s neck, go to bed without taking it’s makeup off and pick the least ‘dutty’ thing off the top of the washing basket to got to work in on a Monday morning.

Whereas Modbury would be a retired actress, with a wardrobe full of theatrical, sequinned and feathered frocks gathering dust, but would go out every day wearing a ‘weathered’ Barbour and sensible footwear.  The actress would gaze wistfully into the posh shops, all owned by out-of-towners and nod the occasional greeting to a fifth generation local, who would cheerfully stab the lot of them to death with a pastry cutter.

Brixham, on the other hand, is ‘dutty’ with the honest grime of a wind-battered fisherman who cleans his fingernails and his teeth with a gutting knife and who takes a bath in front of the fire every Christmas Eve, whether he needs it or not!

And so to Salcombe…

On every single outing One has encountered a bod with a cart cleaning the roads.  Yet, there’s no recycling facility here!  Go figure!! Fallen leaves are blown into tidy mounds for the convenience of the South Hams Hedgehog, and the waves approach the shore in an orderly fashion.  In fact, Salcombe is a retired couple.  He, an architect, and she a ballerina. Their M&S morning clothes are laid out by the daily whilst they breakfast overlooking South Sands. During their daily sojourn to the village for the Times, cushions will be plumped, beds made (sheets and blankets of course) and a light lunch prepared.

Our retired couple are slender, well groomed and fragrant.  No doubt they will even vacate this hallowed soil with but a barely audible sigh and ascend to the clear night sky as a fresh twinkly star or two.

Saturday, 8 December 2012

In which One is foaming at the gusset…

Imagine the scene, if you will…

Lovely One, foaming at the gusset with indignation, parts company from the Insurance Man with the promise of…

‘Someone will definitely contact you by the end of the day with a schedule of works.’

That was Thursday.  This is Saturday.  Has anyone even farted in my direction?  Have they feck!

AND ONE KNOWS THAT FOR DEFFO, SINCE ONE HAS RENDERED ONESELF UNDER HOUSE ARREST IN ORDER TO TAKE SAID CALL! (have completed a furious masterpiece though.  So not all in vain)

Any road up, in a further couple of ridiculous twists of fate…

1     The cleaning company due to sandblast The Underground Lair, addressed and sent the letter to Vile ex Husband – AT HIS GAFF – demanding an immediate cheque for £0.00 before the work could commence.

2     The pea-brained bint at the drainage company has been leaving a series of frantic messages on the answer machine at The Underground Lair for me to ‘get in touch as soon as you can.’

Note to stupid bint…


One is now reclining upon a chaise-lounge in the manner of a pre-Raphaelite beauty, back of hand against fevered brow, cracked cup full of gin in the other!

Thursday, 6 December 2012

In which One puts the frighteners on a delivery cove…

Disembarked from the Hummer at the Underground Lair and faster than One could say ‘Why the feck hasn’t my flat been sorted out?’ up popped the insurance geezer.

He agreed all the works.  Hurrah! The claim was only made in bleedin’ March, after all!

It would appear that the ‘floor-digger-uppers’ had taken it upon themselves to organise the entire Hunt Ball, when all their remit was, was to organise the ourses douvers and dig up the floor, offload Shirleytosis’s shite and shear!

He left, promising to ‘pass me on to the next operative’ in the never ending debacle and to have a plan in place afore the setting of the sun.


But – Lovely One is serene.  Am currently ackled up to an intravenous Vodishka and Prozac drip.

Couldn’t give a flying feck what happens next and neither could Elvis, who’s just called in for a mince pie and a table-ender.

I digress, dear reader.  Any road up, One, Uncle Bert (who’d come along to add a frightening bit of muscle to me doings) and the flea-ridden Montgomery were just vacating the prem when, lo and behold, a delivery blighter was attempting to let himself in next door.

‘Flamin’ ‘eck,’ cursed the cove, ‘I’ve gotta deliver a load of oak flooring to number two, and the key don’t fit.'

Mmmmmm thinks Lovely One, I’ll bet my virginity on the fact that he’s got MY FECKING flooring in that van and it’s been sent to the wrong place!

Which, upon closer questioning of said delivery cove, IT FECKING WAS


‘Well, I got the keys from Ansa the drain people and I’ve got to take them back there.  AND I ain’t leavin’ the flooring unless they tell me to,’ continued the foolish oaf.

Imagine the scene if you will, dear reader…

Lovely One bars the exit, bears her toothy-pegs, and through gritted tegs, growled,


Lovely One is safely back in Salcombe.

The keys are in my Chloe Paddington.

The flooring is in the flat.



Wednesday, 5 December 2012

In which One is mugged by a seagull…


Fired up the Ferrari and biffed off in the gen direc of Dartmouth. 

As soon as Lovely One found Oneself in an area with a signal, picked up a message from the cleaning persons who are due to shampoo and set The Underground Lair.

‘’ello.  This is Bognasty Chemical Blasters.  I’ve got a job ‘ere that was taken in March, is that right?’

Fair quivering with angst One figured out how to return the call after about sixteen and a half hours – EN-FECKIN-GAGED

So, thought I’d call Asprea ‘The company who handle the claims and look after the insured.’ My fat arse!!

‘Well we only took the job on 27th November.  It was someone else dealing wiv it before us.’



Any road up having once again told all parties that I DO NOT HAVE A MOBILE SIGNAL HERE and given them the land line number YET AGAIN! I was informed that the ‘assesor will be calling tomorrow between 12 and 4 and we don’t know who it will be, sorry.’


Arrived in a state of hyperbole having driven round a road designed in the manner of a corkscrew –WHY CAN’T THE SELFISH BASTARDS DIG AN EFFING ROAD IN A STRAIGHT LINE DOWN HERE?


Biffed off for a crab sandwich to scoff on a bench down the front.


The handsome chappie pictured at the top, swooped down and wrenched it from me grasp, much to the amusement of onlookers.



Tuesday, 4 December 2012

In which One is Salcombed out…

Still here in Salcombe.  Wind, rain and mist the order of the day thus far.

The splendid isolation is getting on me nellies now!

From the absence of actual living persons here, it would appear that the entire town is full of holiday homes.  Apart, that is, from a few stalwart locals who open the shops and restaurants at the weekend.

When Lovely One first slipped the key in the lock and entered the vestibule, complete with window seats and aesthetically pleasing and desirable ‘objects’, One was off in a ‘mwa mwa’ type frenzy of imagining the solid, secure, ‘drinks on the balcony Jocasta?’ life that existed only in One’s dreams.

‘Twould appear that the passage of time has rendered Lovely One in need of the company of like minded painting type persons.  Or, at least someone to have a chair race with across Dear Little S’s shiny floor.

Sadly ‘tis too far to biff off to Plymouth every day and plonk meself on the ‘moaning stool’ in DLS’s gaff, so am reduced to gazing out at the winter trees swaying in the breeze and regarding Uncle Bert in his Rudolph Nureyev trackie botts.  (Don’t ask)

On Thursday One is biffing to Wiv, to rabbit punch the eejits coming to ascertain what needs doing in the Underground Lair.


Put a responsible adult in charge of the works.

Clean the gaff.

Paint the gaff.

Put the floor down.



Sunday, 2 December 2012

In which One is still under house arrest in a room with a view…


So here One jolly well is then, still sashaying around Salcombe in me best coat.

Luncheon today in small licensed establishment in the village.  The waitresses ‘uniform’ consisted of a black top, black tights and denim shorts.  The thunderous crashing together of many an adolescent thigh fair gave One indigestion.

Any road up, shall know where to come for a part time job if the painting lark tails off.

‘Her thighs are ruined.  She wants too much…’ etc etc (Leonard Cohen – if yer interested)

Had a brief biffette into Gallery 5, a small cooperative of artists in a sail loft.  Lovely One is signed up for a guest spot some time soon.

In the depths of Wivey the underground lair is mouldering away in the gloom of an unheated Somerset winter, which can only mean one thing…

Mildew on me smalls etc…

Ooooooh when One gets anywhere near a phone where one can actually make an outgoing call, or a printer where One can list all the disastrous doings re: Shirleytosis shite removal…



(back of hand against fevered brow)


Still, the above view beats the current one from the underground lair which is usually Sister Ug Numero Uno’s Clarks sandal clad plates dabbing along the tarmac.   Mmmmm  YUM

Friday, 30 November 2012

In which One appears to have strayed into a parallel universe where everything is arse about face…

In a further twist of feckin’ fate, the head man of the ‘drain digger-uppers’ has resigned due to the stress of the Underground Lair.



Any road up – to explain…

Apparently, on finally getting to speak to him this morning, he is leaving the company at the end of December because he can’t cope any more.

‘Twould appear that the ‘workers’ are instructed to do their drainy bit and then scarper without ever speaking to the policy holder.  And so, ‘twas thus that no one ever bothered to inform Lovely One that her gaff wasn’t ready for occupation this very day, or indeed any day in the near future.

Due to ‘a very nice young man’ at the insurance company, who has taken pity on the, by now, tranquilizer and alcohol dependant Lovely One, the assessors are coming next Thursday to ascertain what needs to be done next. 

They are unable to enter the building without being accompanied and as yet, no one has located the whereabouts of me fecking keys!

So, it would appear that One will be Christmassing in Salcombe and v prob New Yearing an’ all!

Yes, yes it is a simply divine gaff…





Popped out while the housekeeping service came in to clean and change all the beds.

NO SHEETS ON ANY BEDS (or any left for the use of)

I fecking give up!!


Thursday, 29 November 2012

In which One displays the Salcombe masterpiece in it’s spiritual home…



Following the shocking visit to the shite encrusted Underground lair, One has had to make alternative arrangements for the foreseeable. 

Trawling through the rentals in and around Wivey, it soon became clear that ‘twould be impossible to find a gaff nearer home and The Old Fish Shop Gallery.

It would appear that the whole world and his wife are availing themselves of holiday lets for Christmas this year, so here we are in Salcombe for yet another month.

How nice it would have been if someone from the insurance company had informed the wandering Lovely One that that the workmen had fecked off and that the next motley crew weren’t fronting up for at least another two weeks.



If anyone can answer these simple enquiries please let me know.

So, here One is.  Admittedly ‘tis a splendid gaff and indeed a near perfect setting…


And, just to put the tin hat on the whole ghastly extravaganza…

After all the digging, Shirleytosis shite removal, trashing of my flat etc…




I told you I was a disaster just looking for somewhere to happen, but you wouldn’t listen would you?

Wednesday, 28 November 2012

In which Lovely One is kicking arse…

Well Well Well.  Not the story of three holes in the ground

No.  Sadly the expletive, well, not quite actually, that One expelled upon entry into the Underground Lair.

Let me take you back to the beginning of last week, Dear Reader…

‘Hello?  Can you confirm that the flat will be ready for me to move back into on Friday 30th?’

I had no reply, so biffed off to Wivey to take some stuff back.  All my painting stuff and most of my clothes, if yer interested.

Imagine my surprise when I entered the building…

Cracked concrete floor, shite splashed as high as me favourite chandelier, no cleaning done and no effing decorating.


Several fraught phonecalls to a plethora of eejits who all chorused ‘It’s nothing to do with us’  bla bla, fecking bla





No flat ready.

No rental property to live in



Sunday, 25 November 2012

In which Aged P is returned to normal service…

AP      ‘Hello?  Claire?’

LO      ‘Yes.’

AP       ‘Well it doesn’t sound like you,’ went on the Aged P.

LO        ‘Well – ‘tis I.  Everything alright?’

AP         ‘I’ve only had three Wheetabix in the last four days!’ she went on, ‘I need a bath seat and I can’t climb over the edge'’.

One is fairly sure that Aged P went ‘over the edge’ some goodly time ago…

LO         ‘Never mind about a bath seat.  Have you done anything about moving to a more suitable home?’ One ploughed on.

AP         ‘Oh shut up! I’m not listening – La la la la (presumably with fingers in ears by this point)

Brief pause, whilst Lovely One removes telephoning device from shell like…

LO         ‘Well you can la-la as much as you like but you will have to do something about it for your own sake, or better still, let me sort it out,’ One soldiered heroically on.

AP           ‘Well I’ve had the doctor in.  I’ve had that winter vomiting virus from the hospital.  Mary (The Father’s loony adopted sibling) phoned up and I said: Mary, I can’t talk to you now, I’m being sick, I expect she wondered why I hadn’t sent her a birthday card. Anyway, you get all sorts up that hospital with all THEM all over the place! The doctor wouldn’t hang around in case she got it and now Jackie up the road’s got it so no one’s bringing me any biscuits and the landing carpet needs hoovering.’

LO         ‘Are you better now?  You sound in fine fettle’.

AP          ‘Yes, I feel fine and I’ve got £100 for you.’

LO          ‘Oh that’s nice.  Where did you get that from?’

AP           ‘I sold that gold watch that Aunt Sis left you.’

Lovely One’s rosebud mouth falls open at this point.  One ponders the mindset of a person who can not only fail to GIVE the bequeathed item to intended beneficiary, but, indeed SELL the item and then require approval!!!

‘Twould be pointless and downright foolish to challenge the action, so Lovely One changes the subject back to reality…

LO      ‘Did you hear on the news that council tenants with spare rooms will have to pay for them or take in a homeless person?’

AP       ‘Oh, that won’t apply to MEEEEE, surely?’

For some obscure reason AP has always seen herself as a special case.  Normal rules do not apply, exceptional treatment is required, flattery and bumping up to first class are seen as a right.  One thinks it is as a direct result of being an only and cherished late child, never having done any work and being at liberty to use her own time in whatever way she chose, instead of being at the beck and call of another ( in order to make a living)

Any road up, it is essential that she makes a move before someone makes the decision for her so….

LO      ‘Of course it will apply to you!  Why wouldn’t it?’

AP       ‘Well that Eileen has got a three bedroomed house to herself as well!’

LO       ‘In that case, Eileen will have to move as well, then!’

AP      ‘Well I’M NOT DOING IT!  They’ll only give it to one of THEM.’

Racist? Bigot? Or just plain stupid?


Saturday, 24 November 2012

In which One hates dogs, and cats (except Tigerboy) and humans…

Lovely One is not an animal lover!

Alright! Alright!  I know I luuurved Tigerboy, but he was an exceptional cat in every way, and his memory shall live on in my profile pic and the forever numb and useless right hand of Vile ex Husband.

Any road up, there are two perfect situations for animals…

1     In a zoo

2     In a pie

Dogs in particular are a pet hate. Geddit? ‘pet.’

They are furry shite machines, that, when not crapping everywhere are scratching themselves, licking their own smedley-bothams, or poking their nasty damp noses all over the shop.

One is sure, Dear Reader, that you are familiar with the saying…

‘Sticks like shite to a blanket.’


‘Sticks like shite to sisal matting,’ is even more ghastly.

One is interrupted by the sound of a key in the door…

Would you Christmas Eve it?  That’s the second effing time that a representative of Coast and Country Cottages has seen fit to LET THEMSELVES INTO THE GAFF in the past couple of weeks.

What’s the matter with the idiots?  Am I not paying enough for the privilege of hiring the place?

‘Just doing a winter check,’ came the excuse this time.


If this carries on, One will have to sashay about the place with more on than the radio and a dab of No 5.


Wednesday, 21 November 2012

In which One makes an important scientific discovery…

Did you know, dear reader, that people have a special area inside their tummletons that only accepts puddings?

No?  Well, it’s a recent discovery, made by Moi, who is, of course, expecting the Nobel Prize for Tummy-ology, following this remarkable find.  The Scientific American have got hold of it, and it’s being called ‘Rice-Pudding-Tummy.’ (That’s me that is – Mrs Rice)

It was discovered following a HUGE roast dinner that entirely filled up Lovely One to the point of ‘having somebody’s eye out’ with me trouser button, whereupon One espied a pie.  A socking great apple pie with cream AND ice-cream. 

Clearly it would have been rude in the extreme to dismiss the offer of pudding and so it was that One made the scientific discovery of the Pudding Tummy, because even though full to bursting, One inhaled a goodly amount of pie!

Just come back from Plymouth having dropped off a load of masterpieces and picked up some spons.  Then, on the way back, offloaded a further load of stuff in Modbury.  Fingers crossed there then!

Painting in the KAYA gallery on the Barbican this Saturday, so do come along to worship at my alter.

Tomorrow, off to deliver another batch to Dartington.

THEN, expecting Boy for a few days before biffing off back to the underground lair.

Still, couldn’t last forever, could it?

Tuesday, 20 November 2012

In which One is a raving Banshee…

Following a most harrowing drive through the winding lanes of Devon, One daintily sighed with relief at the sight of the open iron gates on the edge of my current des res.

Until….. That is, One had to slam One’s size four onto the Bugatti’s brakes in order to avoid bashing into the rear end of what can only be described as a  ‘travelling ve-hicle.’

Unwilling to disturb who or whatever was raucously marauding about in the lower level sitting room, One dragged One’s Luis Vuitton up the stone steps and snuck in the front door.

Down below the delirium ceased upon the closure of the front door and a frantic low level whispering accompanied the sound of four overgrown men attempting to tidy.

One sashayed into the melee with aplomb, One’s hands upon One’s hips, face bearing a quizzical look in the direction of the crestfallen Uncle Bert.

‘Twould appear that contact had been made over the airwaves and the assembled ugly crowd had chosen to ‘eyeball their good buddy’ dans Lovely One’s palatial residence.

Unfortunately for them, One had biffed up prior to expectation to find the following…

Chinese food cartons aplenty discarded upon the stone floor in the manner of a Roman mosaic.

Nasty, dirty calling cards in ALL toiley boileys. (to include: grime of various hues upon: seat/lid, and most distressingly, given Lovely One sashays about barefoot, little pools of number ones all over the linoleum.)

Short of lining them all up and demanding the removal of their rancid foot attire and then tinkling on their toes, One couldn’t even begin to contemplate the manner of One’s revenge.


There was a pile of Montgomery shite next to the sink!


Another coiled brownster in front of the aesthetically pleasing pebble feature gas flame fire.

Suffice it to say that should any Devonshire/Somerset or anywhere else for that matter, ever encounter problems moving along ‘travellers’ they should immediately deploy the ferocious Lovely One in raving Banshee mode.

The ‘site’ was vacated forthwith and the recalcitrant Uncle Bert is now to be found down on his knees, marigolds deployed, furiously shampooing the entire gaff.


Monday, 19 November 2012

In which One threatens that Pudsey B*****d…


And so the exhibition is over.  Finito. Gorn. Expired. Flat on it’s fiz in a puddle…

Large amounts of spons were dealt out to Dear Little S, the printer etc in order to take part in the extravaganza.  Not to mention the fecking petrol costs and the gargantuan amount of Lovely One’s energy to get the flamin’ lot done and dusted and then up three flights of stairs!

Any road up, One fronted up, done up like a ninepenny dinner, awaiting the arrival of a panting throng.

‘Twas not to be.  The artists outnumbered the guests on the opening night. Canapes galore pour Moi! 


One thought…  It’s that festering yellow bear night tonight!  All and sundry will be getting their heads shaved and standing in buckets of baked beans for the starving babies in Africa.

Beggar the starving babies in flamin’ Africa-ca-ca


Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs.  (No other feckers did!) and so it was thus, that we all stood about like expectant bridesmaids awaiting a good rogering, that never came!

So, there One was, proffering One’s wares to mister nobody.

But come the Saturday….

In came the great unwashed to pay homage to the genius that is your very own darling Lovely One.

In fact, one pair of star-struck little dears brought along a paparazzi photographer to have their likenesses professionally executed with the great artist.  (that’s me, that is)

They did in fact buy some prints and then some more on a visit to the gallery.

Earlier in the day, having executed such an exhibition piece of parking, which I might add,  no bloody one took a blind bit of notice of, I found it necessary to biff outside to feed the meter on an almost hourly basis.

On one such foray a large American gentleman was waxing lyrical about One and One’s doings and when One fronted up again, the blighter had sheared!

One met One’s costs, made a tidy sum and got a commission from a retired Barrister who’d chased me up the road to the parking meter.  So all in all a pretty amusing way to spend a weekend.

But, I tell you…..


Sunday, 18 November 2012

In which Mar is responsible for the sad demise of Kev...

Ebay ad…….  Two hearing aids – used – no reserve
Plymouth Gazette headline…………Emaciated body found in gutter, wearing Furniture Village uniform.

A sorry, sorry tale for a Winter’s eve…
Once upon a time there was a tiny little old woman known as ‘Mar.’ 
Mar lived in circa 1980’s splendour.  She tottered about the abode clad in a moulting 1930’s ferret fur cape and was often to be found sitting in the window seat wearing her sequined fingerless gloves counting her money.
Despite her magnificent wealth, her seventeen bottle a day Pinot Grigio habit was seriously making a dent in the money bag that she kept up her knicker leg. 
And so it was thus that she embarked upon a new career as a ‘Mystery Shopper.’
The day arrived and the covert camera was delivered.  Dear Little S was seconded to accompany the old girl on the stakeout and so off they sallied forth in Mar’s stock car.
Upon entering Furniture Village Mar checked in via the video camera device cunningly concealed in a Morrison's carrier.
'This is Mar calling control.  I am entering the building.' 
Mar sauntered up to the unfortunate acne covered youth who was to be her target.  
Mar flung herself and Dear Little S hither and thither upon sofa after sofa whilst at all times pointing the Morrisons carrier in the direction of the merchandiser in the manner of a dalek pointing its plunger thingy.
Apparently the object of said Mystery Shopper is to get the unfortunate shop assistant to the point of sale and then biff off having captured his/her sales techniques for the powers that be to ponder upon.
Some goodly time later Mar alighted upon a tres expensive glass topped dining table with chairs.
Stroking it lovingly with the free hand whilst brandishing the Mozzers concealed Dalek camera, she enquired of the unfortunate cove...
'Ooooh there's a scratch on there and I really want to buy it.  Any chance of a discount?'
'Well, I shouldn't really say this,' came the reply 'but you should buy it and then claim on the insurance saying that you did it, and then you will have the dining suite and the insurance pay out.'
Mar, realising that she had v prob hung the blighter out to dry, began flailing about with her Dalek video device in an attempt to either break it or alarm the cove into silence.
But, as the afore mentioned headlines now reveal...
Mar was ultimately responsible for the sacking of the individual and his subsequent loss of home resulting in his living on the streets whereupon some dastardly fiend stole his hearing aids.
Of course, when passers by approached him to offer succour or a few coppers for his upturned hat, he could only utter...
And so it was thus that he ended his days face down on the pavement in the bitter cold of winter whilst Mar sat at home swigging out of a Pinot Grigio bottle contemplating her next move...
Should she put her feet up and pick her nose, or turn her nose up and pick her feet?

Friday, 16 November 2012

In which Mar tries to show off with her naked ferret...

Oh my giddy aunt!  Have just surfaced from the kingdom of spare oom in Mars house.  I tell you, dear reader, that tiny little innocent looking personage is deffo attempting to kill Lovely One!

One arrived yesterday evening to be confronted with the little Mar cooking up  a Christmas dinner and wearing a pair of flashing antlers.  Poor dear Lovely One had to get ackled up in a scarlet stetson complete with dusting of fake snow and flashing lights.

Upon alighting from the Bentley, Mar shrieked in alarm that One might 'fall down the kerb like me mother.'

One did inform Mar that One, although past One's best, has in fact been negotiating kerbs successfully for some goodly amount of time.

Not content with that, Mar then cast aspersions about One's ability to ascend one flight of stairs carrying me own hand-feckin-bag!

Any road up, things soon settled down when Full Frontal Sister and Dear Little S biffed up to start the Christmas celebrations.

Jonathan the reindeer was switched on to serenade us with Carols, delivered in a sickly American accent.  Sadly the passage of time had not sat kindly with Jonathan and his antlers have ceased to rotate, his eyes spin wildly and his mouth, that used to open along with the words, had collapsed into menacing sneer that moved only occasionally, but sufficient to send small children screaming from the room.

Further along the windowsill an alarming light-up poinsettia flashed on and off throughout the evening until One grew cross eyed with the inhalation of fourteen pints of Pinot Grigio.

One finally managed to get jim jammed up at about 2.00am and rather than fall asleep, passed out with one shapely leg tucked up in a manner that has left One rather limp today.

Having been crammed full of Chrimbo Dinner, plus Chrismas Pudding and a bowl full of charred brown goo that looked like shite but tasted heavenly, Mar attempted to force feed One a full English upon arrival in the kitchen.

One travelling truncks were opened to display the delicious array of tulle and chiffon that One had to choose from to delight One's punters at the do this evening.

One sashayed into Mar's room to take advantage of the full length mirror, and held up one tea dress after another until a combination was decided upon. 

Poor little dishevelled Mar standing there in her Primarni dressing gown was not to be outdone by Lovely One and with a great flourish produced from the wardrobe what must once have been a fur cape.

Sadly, as the curious cape made it's escape from dans le cupboard, so did all it's fur, which flew madly round Mar like a brown snowstorm before fluttering helplessly to the carpet.

'Oooooooooooh,  Ooooooooooooooooh,' shrieked Mar, 'Woss 'appnin?'

Lovely One, never the most symathetic of darlings, had an 'ooops moment' in me shreddies I laughed so much.

'What can I do?'  she went on.

'Well I think it's passed saving, call the taxidermist or deploy the dyson.'

There she stood with her little gob drooping at the corners, face on inside out, ankle deep in fur  holding what for all the world looked like the naked arse end of a ferret.

Tuesday, 13 November 2012

In which One ponders the perfection of Salcombe…

Oh dear! Have the beginnings of a severe stoop, having been bent over the easel for the passing of many moons.

But, tis not moons of which One blogs this deep and sleepless night.  No – tis stars.

For the duration of this casting out of Wivey, One is sleeping in the attic of the Salcombe cottage, which, incidentally was the painting studio of an, in his lifetime, famous artist, Walter Shaw RI. (Even the clued up Lovely One shall have to google him!)

Any road up, I digress, – the stars…

As One has to rise early on the morrow to visit Boy and Vile ex husband.  I know, I know, I said they were coming down here, but as it turns out, One needs a plethora of stuff various from the gallery, so shall have to biff up there.  As One said, One has to rise at the crack so left open the curtains in order to be awoken by the light and lo and behold ‘twas like One was kipping in the clouds.

The stars were out in full glory to the extent that One could have reached up and gathered armfuls for to decorate the Christmas tree.  Speaking of which, when in Modders, acquired some Gisela Graham chrimbo dekkos for a ridiculous price.  Had a gander on the website, and indeed the foolish virgins had labelled ‘em up wrongly, so am calling in to buy the entire gaff-full in order to make me fortune re-selling them on ebay. (Twirls moustache – evil glint in eye)

But One digresses again, dear reader. Back to the stars which One is sure are more twinkly and brighter than One has ever seen them afore.  In fact, this being a bit of a Hampstead Upon Sea, One expects that a special little man is deployed of a night to lasoo them down, give ‘em a spit and polish and hurl the blighters back into space whilst the great and good are pushing out the zeds.

In fact, even in the swirling mists of a chilly November day the view of the bay from the cliff road is the colour of the Mediterranean sea, and down by the water’s edge the sparkling depths in the moorings are crystal clear to the seabed.

Round the back in the boatyard there is a giant plug and each night the ‘little man’ pulls it out, puts the dyson round the seabed and while it’s filling up again he nets the stars down for a polish.

In which One must be assuaged…

All going according to plan re: paintings etc.  So am expecting a sizeable catastrophe imminently.

Biffed off to the printers/framers/galleries (interspersed with a spot of retail therapy). 

There is a divine ‘previously loved’ ladies outfitters in Modbury and One always likes to pay them a visit whenever poss. and it just so happens that in order to gain access to the great Metrolopis, One has to sally forth through the Georgian relic of a village.  So it would be rude in the extreme not to pop in.

Unfortunately, since the world has turned upon it’s head and the poor are now the fatties with the rich being lean, as opposed to previous standards, the only item that would meet about the generous proportions of Lovely One was a scarf!  ‘Twas a diaphanous whisper of pink with tiny cloud like adornments and threads of gossamer attached which prob cost as much as a small car when first it alighted upon the open market.  But, nonetheless it cast a becoming rosy glow upon the perfect complexion of your very own heroic Lovely One, and so with it firmly grasped to One’s bosom, One biffed back to Salcombe.

A slight cloud was cast upon the day when One came to the stark realisation that not all the good burghers of Plymouth are well disposed in the gen direc of LO. 

One hears your collective gasp of astonishment from ‘ere!  A rather unpleasant situation arose dans one of One’s ports of call during which a monstrous scene erupted which was entirely brought about by an innocent remark made by Lovely One. It was seized upon and flung hither and thither by the cove to which it was directed in the manner of a sabre tithed tooger biffing a tasty caveman from left to right.

Obv, Lovely One remained serene throughout and maintained a softly spoken calm that further irritated the article.

One examined Oneself in the extreme in the hours that followed and decided that perhaps One can be a trifle brash at times and so shrugged One’s shapely shoulders and put the incident behind One.

But then…

During One’s riffling through the castoffs of the ‘haves’ in Modders, me phonestruck up, and guess what, the offended article was all for calling a truce.

Obv, One was serenity itself and goodbyes were exchanged politely.

Of course, being the goose that lays the golden wossnames, One should have seen it coming…

Sunday, 11 November 2012

In which One is still married to Paul Weller…

In an unforeseen mishap, somehow this particular household has gone for a 2 day silence, rather than the standard two minutes.

Ho hum, must have committed some ghastly faux pas or other.  So, not an entire waste of two days then!

In the case of your very own Lovely One, not a waste of time at all.  In fact, have beavered me way through five new masterpieces for the coming show.  Well, that’s not strictly true, since a couple of them were half done when first One alighted in Salcombe.

Uncle Bert has been off a wandering today trying to find a down market food emporium in order to stock up on frozen mixed veg and potato based products.  Mmmmm

Lovely One dined on a chicken Caesar salad whilst delighting in a Chet Baker CD, and necking a European wine lake of Shiraz.

Was, in fact, rather relieved that UB had trundled manfully up the avenue and fired up the doormobile, having been worried that someone may slap a ‘Police Aware’ notice on the incongruous ve-hicle.  Actually, was alarmed that one might get posted onto UB himself if stagnant in one particular spot for a goodly amount of time, being a being not normally at large in these parts.

Vile Ex Husband is due to arrive with Boy on Wednesday for a family meeting re: Boy and the usage of time etc.

Shall cork up the Shiraz now and go up the wooden stairs to Bedfordshire as don’t wish to be visited by the vino induced dreams of last night during which One married Tyrone from Coronation Street.   Half way through the ceremony One suddenly realised One was still married to Paul Weller. 

Paul Weller? Tyrone Dobbs?  Mmmmm dilemma.

Would that all Lovely One’s choices were so obvious.

Friday, 9 November 2012

In which One is under siege from all quarters–yet again!…

One’s first nocturnal wandering dans le splendid new holiday home and what a treat! Apart, that is, from the unwelcome arrival of Uncle Bert and Montgomery, who is at this moment scratching his rear portion to the extent that the stylish, contemporary sitting room is filling up with hairs and heaven knows what else. (Monty that is, not Uncle Bert) who is pushing out the zeds in a king sized, Egyptian cotton sheeted bed that is better than him.
There One was minding One’s own bees-tiddly-wax, floating about like Dora Carrington at Ham Spray (obv - with me Lytton Strachey holed up at Wivey with Boy) and up the tree lined avenue chugs the Bertster dans le doormobile.
Now then, One can’t be bothered to explain to you lumpenproletariat – google Dora Carrington or the Bloomsbury set.
Any road up, suffice it to say, that One’s artistic idyll has been well and truly shattered, or shat upon, if One dares venture into the walled, landscaped garden that now is the toiley boiley for Montgomery.
Fannying around with a paintbrush stuck behind me ear and a glass of Shiraz in me mit isn’t the same with UB chuntering in me shell-like about the lack of a whelk stall in Salcombe.
I should think Piers and Jocasta up the road would faint dead away at the very sight of a sodding whelk!
‘Quest que c’est Jocasta?’ Piers might enquire, pointing a perfectly manicured digit at Uncle Bert’s whelk.    Oooooh, that sounds vaguely disturbing!
So, there One was in splendid isolation biffing about like the lady of the manor when, once again, am forced kicking and screaming and thumping down to terra firma by the whelk request.
Spent all day yesterday painting Polperro, yet again, with the tide out (me water’s shite) and now I’ve gorn right off it.  However, shall have to biff on since have just received word from Boy, who having returned, back of hand against fevered brow from Uni, required One to refund the trainfare.
‘I do hope you will forgive my little indulgence of an upgrade to first class….’ One read as One’s gob dropped open in shock.
And – even when One does have some, One is still painting it up like a storm in anticipation of the next appeal to me generous nature!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thursday, 8 November 2012

In which One shall de-fungi forthwith…

Lovely One has gone all ‘Smeg and Smallbone.’  However shall One return to the underground lair again?

All too easily One has slithered effortlessly into the world of the ‘haves,’ and will be dragged kicking and screaming back into the world of the ‘have nots.’

Boy has made contact, and seems to be much happier with life whilst in Wivey and Bridgwater with his chums than in the academic world of Leeds University.  What a calamity!  He has the brain power and the aptitude to conquer the world, but neither the will nor the desire.

Oh well.  He won’t be realising mine or his Father’s dreams.  But maybe that’s as it should be.  After all they are our dreams and not his.

How vile ex husband would have relished the life of the academic, and as for Moi – well- blue stocking in waiting.

‘Twas not to be.  So, as long as Boy is happy, that will suffice.

As for vile ex husband, the Snaggle Toothed Troll has come up with yet another ruse to lure the twonk into her web.  This time ‘tis as mentor and personal chauffer to her errant,lazy daughter.

Lovely One has warned of the dangers therein, but to no avail.  Their coupling remains the stuff of nightmares!

Any road up, One is taking far better care of Oneself and is toying with the idea of scraping the button mushrooms off the inside of me thighs ( the underground lair was rather damp and encouraged the growth of fungi,) filling in the gaps in me teeth with tile grout and throwing me ‘at into the ring again.  I’ve still got lovely shiny hair – and some of it’s on me ‘ead!

Wednesday, 7 November 2012

In which One is in a purple mood…

And so the purple dusk of twilight falls, and steals across the meadow like a song…

And all is serene and right with the world in Hampstead upon sea (Salcombe)

Reminds Lovely One of when One was a proper person with shed loads of cash, staff and a Harvey Nicks charge card.  Ah, ‘tis all in the far off mists of time.

Did One say all is right with the world?  Utter Bollocks!

The crack fly removal team fronted up PDQ and Henry’d up all the little bluebottles which were still making their way out of the double glazing cases, closely followed by a laundry minion who bunged fresh sheets throughout the gaff.

The fact that Lovely One now has the distinct aroma of fly spray about her divine person appears to have gone awry and the closest One got to compensation was a bottle of vino collapso and a bag of fudge.

Any road up, the hoovering bods told One that this had never happened before in this des res but the laundry bod begged to differ and said it has!  Don’t these people know that everyone makes comments on ‘tinternet so’s we all know the score?

Then the call came from Boy who is on his way home from Uni, having found it all a bit much.

He wanted money for the train ticket, and I am expecting an imminent call from vile ex husband for some funds to get petrol for the car (I gave him) to pick up Boy from the station.

Methinks a pattern is emerging here…

Better paint up a storm this week and hope somebody buys it all!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!