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Wednesday, 29 February 2012

In which I hyperventilate all over...

I just can't Christmas Eve it. I sallied forth in the Bentley to Plymouth with WW and offspring and when I returned to my formerly pristine underground lair, Blokenstein had laid waste to it...

The front and rear doors were propped open, there was man type washing on both airers and a ladder in the sitting room propped against my antique armoir!!
Porkus Pius wrappers littered the dining room table accompanied by Pepsi bottles that weren't even sugar bloody free! And I can hardly credit it - a copy of the sodding Daily Mirror! That's going in next door's bin!

Of course I immediately began hyperventilating and had to use the last of my emergency brown paper bags to breathe into whilst focussing on my neatly arranged set of Folio Society leather bound volumes of English and it's usage. Which came in awfully handy when I issued forth my diatribe on how 'We don't live in this sort of squalor in my gaff mate'.

Any road up, I'll go to the foot of our stairs, I retired to me boudoir and plugged meself into me whale noises and hid behind me velvet eye mask until I stopped quivering and then nipped in the bog whereupon my bare feet sloshed into copious amounts of misfire moisture thereby rendering me prey to a further panic attack.

I toyed with the notion of offering the same treatment as had been offered to Vile Ex Husband on a similar occasion...
Me: 'Take of your shoes and socks immediately.'
Him: 'Why?'
Me: 'Because I'm going to piss all over yer feet!'
I thought better of it though since Blokenstein is apt to counter attack.

The day was fruitful, as has been the week, having sold three large originals and got a lucrative commission.

I'd better get me arse into gear and paint something!

I do have a part time job in mind though, given that Hamas and Fatah are joining forces. Surely they'll be called fatass and I shall be their Queen!

Monday, 27 February 2012

In which I am bustin' out all over...

OMG At last an internet connection that doesn't bog off every time I press 'add to basket.' Don't these idiots at Sky realise I have a massive following of worshippers hanging on me every sylable?

I did phone and complain to a person who spoke 'Scotch' who instructed me how to 'unscrew this and move that wire' so I enquired as to whether I ought to be mending the bastard myself given that we are paying through the nasal device for the effer. Any road up, Bloke moved the Router, which he insists on calling the Rowter, to his den and it seems to have made a diffo.

Speaking of Blokenstein, he has been severly traumatised by our relocation to dear old Wivelyiscombe. I do remember how odd it appears to those who have lived formerly in the world outside. He is mystified by the goats living in the sitting room of the hovel opposite Lovely Gordon's house, and the horse that goes to the newagents on it's own. No self respecting Wivey-ite would bat an eyelid at such goings on, but to the man on the Plymouth Omnibus I can see the novelty, or in fact, the downright fear.

But for Lovely One it's the Dog's Gonads! How wonderful to be back where the populus are pleased to see Moi and positively snog me face off at every bend in the road.

AND - thrill upon thrill Dear little kind and gentle WW wants to get a gallery with Lovely One - and - we have - tra la. Her lovely way will gel perfectly with my cut throat, 'grab the cash and run for it' attitude.

So, persons of Somerset, get yer pocket money out and spend it on a Lovely One masterpiece, soon to be appearing in a brand spanking new gallery near you!

Before beginning this new venture Lovely One was 'pipped at the post' for a gallery manager's job in - wait for it - that inbred slum town - Watchet!, by someone who had opened and run a gallery in London. How appropriate as exerience for a venture in deepest Somerset methinks. I did inform the bearer of the bad tidings that taking money from them for the job would be tantamount to stealing as with their current plans, they would fail. She then wanted the benefit of my experience FOR FREE. You could have rogered me through me raincoat, the flamin' neck of it!

Sour grapes - yes indeedee! Didn't want the stupid job, just wanted the salary for sitting on me big bum in their gallery. So, having peed me off, I shall open one of me own and then go over there and point at them and laugh!

Kipper's Dick - couldn't give one!

I'm back - I'm bustin' out of me eighteen hour corselette - and I'm ready for action.

Sunday, 5 February 2012

In which I sell two/don't sell two...

Really, really boring down on the Barbican this cold Sunday. In fact, so mind numbingly dull that I've been working nearly all bloody day! Currently creating a winterscape of the interesting spires and rooftops of the city.

Some absolute bastard had one of my paintings 'put back', as Anal C puts it - and then - didn't come to collect it. What an effing cheek! That means it was off the wall for three days and hiding behind the counter so nobody could see it. I can't believe AC put it there without even taking a deposit. Anyway, the person left a contact number so I called and left a message this morning. The only excuse I can accept is a fatal accident endured by:
a the purchaser
b his/her child
I know, I know, I'm too lenient. They could send someone else in to pay for it!

Also, yesterday when I was snugglified in me fluffy, still drudging through Great Expectations, before me afternoon nap, Posh J phoned up to ask how much my absolutely fabulous masterpiece of Modbury was, as someone who'd just taken one of mine in to be framed WANTED TO BUY ANOTHER. Ooooh, I bet that hurt! Or maybe it didn't as they do tell me that some painters are quite generous about the sales figures of others.


I am a black hearted rogue with regard to the success of others. It's not enough for me to succeed. Other's must fail.
Who said that? I believe it was that mean mouthed old queen Gore Vidal.

Anyway, Oscar Wilde said that 'everyone gets the face they deserve by the age of forty.'
Not Lovely One.
For a vicious, vengeful old dollop, I still have the face of an angel.

Oh, and since porking up again - I've just been designated 'an area of outstanding natural beauty.'

Friday, 3 February 2012

In which I have an unpleasantly named item in me 'ead...

Back to square one. Or should that be back to round one. Or to be precise, back to round Lovely One. Still, can wobble off to Slimming World with the Pinkilicious Old Dollop - I bet she's still as fat as a little old podgit.
I expect BF is still like a filleted fart, what with her having more staying power than Lovely One or the Pink Dollop. I 'spose she'll still want to join in with the apres SW vodka and fags though. Although, having been removed from Wivey for some time, I've had no fags or vodka for ages. Do they still drink and smoke? Dunno.

Actually, I haven't had any fun for so long it's pissing me off verily! Nothing funny ever happens down here in Jannerland.

Have just sold a big B&W original. Better get on with another one in order to keep my public happy in my absence. I plan to sashay down here to the Barbican for three days a week and will, maybe, hole up with Auntie Wainwright, who is currently indisposed in hospital having a balloon inserted into an orifice and then pumped up. Horrid visions of one of those ancient balloon pumping devices of old being shoved up somewhere unpleasant are racking my dreams, and the resultant inflated Auntie Wainwright hovvering over her sick bed, lashed down with hefty ropes.

Any road up I have, not surprisingly, a plan B. I have an interview next Wednesday for a new gallery opening up - so nose picking devices crossed for that one then.

Next week will be furiously full on - Monday - Hair Do. Wednesday - scarpering up to Somerset and back and the rest of the week packing and attempting to get Bloke to dispose of his undesirable possessions. I do like Chez Lovely One to be a vision of lovliness. I've already been told that my previous furniture arrangement was 'ridiculous.' Hmmmm - We shall see about that!

Well you could have buggered me through me Onesie yester-afternoon. Just snuggled down in me blankie with a hot for me afternoon read of Great Expectations. (Do you know what? I don't really like Dickens. - There I've said it) but having just read 'Dickens a life' by Claire Tomalin (don't like her either actually) I thought I'd better have another go at him - so to speak. I started off with Bleak House and gave up after so many bods had entered the story I couldn't keep up with them, so am on G.E. now having not read it since English Literature 'O' level.

I digress...

As I said 'you could have... bla bla' when the phone rang and it was the hospital to tell me that I have a blood clot on the brain. First I had a stroke, then I didn't have a stroke, now it's a blood clot. THAT is a very nasty expression! BLOOD CLOT. Surely there must be a more pleasant description of it. So, I asked the fourteen year old doctor what he wanted to do and he said,
'Well, there's nothing we can do but I'd like to give you another brain scan. How do you feel?'
I told him I feel fine and that if there was nothing to be done that I would forgo the offer of the brain scan, there not being much point to it. They'll just get me in there again and feed me on a diet of white bread, cottage pie and sponge and custard. SPONGE AND CUSTARD I ask you, who eats 1950's nursery food like that these days? It's no good berating people for being fatties if you feed them calorific, nutritionally deficient shit like that!

Any way I am far too busy to be hanging around getting things scanned. I've got people to relieve of their cash and masses of packing to do and THEN I shall have to start organising Wivey. I expect they've all been going around doing as they please in my absence. So that'll have to stop!!!!!!!!!!!

Wednesday, 1 February 2012

In which my return is imminent...

Oh joy Oh bliss - going back to Wivey in less than two weeks!
Will have Bloke and hellhound in tow. Will they like it? Who knows? Who...?

Also have interview for exciting new gallery job. Let's hope they'll like a fat, smart arsed, middle aged genius enough to employ one. More on that story later...

Any road up, after long and protracted emails, messages etc., have got things sorted with tenant. I had a long missive yesterday to inform me of all the associated costs and intrusions into personal details and privacy that have to be endured when one rents a property. It's not my fault! I offered her the two months I am required to give in order to find somewhere else. All I needed was to know whether I was going into storage or just moving on. I know I am a cantankerous old dollop, but I have been an absolute angel with regard to the letting of Chez Lovely One. I have allowed my fabulous garden to be ignored in favour of 'letting the slow worms live in the grass' instead of cutting it, and allowed all manner of decorating etc. Plus putting in a new shower and various electrical requirements that this ridiculous nanny state deem de riguer for tenants. Never mind home owners they can electrocute themselves William Nilliam! I even had a further letter from the council, having already spent almost £2000 putting in totally unneccessary bloody wired in fire alarms etc., to ask if my letter box was fireproof! I ignored that as it was impossible to formulate a letter without including the words 'F**k Off.'

Am freezing in the gallery at the mo. Was minding own beeswax earlier, when Don the Dumps sashayed in with a face like corrugated walnut and demanded I 'come up the town with me to get some of those things that stop you slipping over'.
'I am creating a masterpiece and minding the store,' says I.
'Never mind that, I fell over and hurt my shoulder so I need some special things to go over my shoes - size 9 - medium - remember that!'.
He then proceeded to draw a little map of where the destination to acquire the items was and thrust it under my nose.
Resistance seemed futile, so off we shot, after he'd taken all the money out of petty cash to pay for said items.
His car is a mass of dents which seems rather reasonable to me having been a passenger on a number of occasions. He pays no heed to the rules of the road and edges out of turnings into traffic moving at such a pace that he is invariably hit by something or another. Luckily this morning's little escapade garnered just the occasional shaken fist or other unpleasant shout or signal.
Anyway, the deed was done relatively quickly and I was restored to my easel.

A new masterpiece in the window is attracting lots of attention. One of mine, of course.