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Thursday, 29 March 2012

In which I don't go gently into that good night and nor does Auntie Wainwright...

I did it! After many phone calls from Auntie Wainwright, I left the building.

He, who I am forbidden to blog about, came and helped me get the big stuff out and bring it home in the van.

The balmy evening crooked it's finger in the direction of small ugly crowds of parched Janners who, as if mesmerised, came and parked their ve-hicles up and down the road so Dear Little Lovely One had to drag vast masterpieces to the Hummer which was crammed so tightly up a back passage that One had to climb inelegantly out the rear door.

Snagging me Chloe Tea Dress on a door handle, I alighted from the Hummster looking somewhat of a dishevelled nymphette, giving all and sundry a free view of me knee length spanx.

Any road up, having seen the very small amount of takings I had, which no doubt I shall have to wait for fecking ages to get, I decided to take the mookster by the head ornaments and once again veer off at a tangent and take a chance elsewhere.

Never One to 'hedge me bets' I shall chuck me all into Red Hat 2, Bath Place Taunton, in case yer wondering, and paint up a storm in an effort to keep bod and soul together.

I encountered Don the Dump upon my arrival and told him of my intentions.

'What will you do with the keys?' says he.
'Hold them to ransom til you pay me,' says One.

It really does sadden my heart to leave, since it was rather fun while it lasted, but now I shall retire to the annuls of all those who have been deemed to have 'done the dirty on Auntie Wainwright.'

It is sad when things come to an end and pass into history, but AW has never understood that people move on in their lives and can't exist as her satellites for ever. Without exception, every single person who has ever worked with her is villified for one reason or another. Yesterday during the many phonecalls she made to me from her hospital bed, she said things like, 'I thought we were friends.' We weren't friends. I was the in-house painter in her gallery. I sold lots of paintings. Mine and other peoples. It is never a good idea to take a working relationship to different level.

The reason we have all continued the charade is because no one either wants to, or dares to, very gently tell her that it would be much better to acknowledge that there is a time for everything, celebrate past success and then gracefully retire.

I keep thinking 'Do not go gently into that good night' as Dylan Thomas wrote about his father, but acceptance of change and mortality is a hard thing to bear.

And as a Lovely One who clung on to her youth by her fingertips for far too long, I shan't judge. For all I know when I have to step out of the light and into me zip up slippers, maybe I'll have to be dragged screaming.

It might be soon, who knows. I have had a stoke you know!

Wednesday, 28 March 2012

I am a black hearted ratzilla...

Yesterday went out with the Pink Porkster and Boy for a scoff. Boy, even though fleecing me for vast amounts of money for clothes, turned up in a T shirt not even suitable for shining Lovely One's windows.
Obviously me and the Pinkster looked pictures of lovliness, albeit whole Murials of Lovliness. But not after next week, we're going back to Slimming World, so they should be rubbing their hand with glee when they see us coming because we've got sufficient lard to offload to keep the company afloat for the next couple of years.

Re: New health scare for you all to worry about with your very own Lovely One...

Had a call from the hospital yesterday to tell me to get down there asap to have a camera shoved up me olfactory device and down me gob to ascertain if all the Vodishka and fags have given me canker.

'No can do', says me 'I have to go to work', so they made an appointment for next week.

Later that evening lying in my satin sheeted feather four poster, I thought...


I am putting off my hospital appointment in order that Anal C can go on holiday and Auntie Wainwright can languish in her hospital bed and not worry about the gallery.


Even though Anal C absolutely loathes the very fabric of your very own Lovely One, she was prepared for me to doss at her gaff for the week in order that AW didn't worry about anything. Such is her love and devotion for her.

Very nice - you might say - to have such loyal and loving friends/employees.


I have just recovered from me stroke, am suspected of canker and they aren't arsed about that are they? As long as I put my requirements last in the long queue.


So, it is with some regret that I am indeed the black, furry, flea ridden, plague carrying rodent that is departing the descending vessel.

In this instance Lovely One must come first.

Tuesday, 27 March 2012

In which my content is limited...

It takes a while to re-acclimatise One's self into the strange and bizarre ways of West Somerset. Wellington is an odd little town. To Wivey, it's the great outside, where One goes to partake of Supermarket Fayre and, joy of joys, there is a Waitrose! One of the fears Lovely One harboured about leaving the smoke and holing up in the depths was the lack of Waitrose and all it has to offer.

West Somerset was alien enough with it's reliance on the 'gud with fud' Co-op and the odd Asda for those who undertook the great pilgrimage to Taunton. But Plymouth! Well that was another story. The great unwashed there favour Morissons, which took Lovely One a bit of getting used to. But, no more! Well, a bit more actually, since I have to make the trip to look after the Barbican Gallery tomorrow and shan't return until Sunday.

Anyway I digress...

On Saturday, when still going about my business as a lone personage, I sallied forth in the Bugatti to Welly to have a mosie round the town.
There is a charity shop situated next to a fee paying school, which is always a good sign as One hopes those who can afford the fees will be giving away some decent stuff for second hand foragers like Dear Little Lovely One.

And, so it was with great delight I happened upon a Georgian Silver Salt, complete with the undamaged blue glass liner! Unfortunately, due to the plethora of Antique Hunt/Auction Room TV programmes available for the great unwashed on a daily basis some eagle eyed cove had priced the item at it's actual value and not at the 30p I was hoping for.

Whilst salivating over the missed opportunity the most bizarre chain of events unfolded...

I had my back to the counter, which incidentally was manned by a greasy haired individual who had inadvertantly wandered in from a Dicken's costume drama, a would be customer alighted at said counter. The following then ensued...

Customer: 'Have you got any jigsaw puzzles with pieces missing?'

Shop assistant: 'Just a moment,I'll go and ask.'

He then slid off to the foot of the stairs and called up...

'Have we got any jigsaw puzzles with pieces missing?'

A suitably 'Little Britain' pause was followed by...

'No - We don't have any jigsaw puzzles with pieces missing.'

This information was then relayed to the morose looking would-be customer who then vacated the premises.

Shearing off at a tangent...

I sidled past Lovely Gordon's back passage cottage yesterday and was 'psssstd' inside for a coffee. The normally tiggeresque bouncy LG of yesteryear was absent and in his place was a forlorn streak of lovliness. A vile personage has been bullying the darling LG and IT'S GOT TO STOP.
One doesn't meet many genuinely good persons on One's passage through life and LG is one such perfect specimen.

I am not a nice person. But then you all knew that. I am forbidden hereafter to allude to the other occupants of the underground lair, furry and otherwise.

'It's only a joke' is my defence, which, of course it is.ALL OF IT

Monday, 26 March 2012

In which I scarf me first egg of the season...

What should have been a peaceable Sunday erupted with...
'Is that Easter Egg for Boy?' refering to the one on top of the dresser. I answered in the positive and was met with a tirade of abuse about not getting any for his offspring.

I have never done so before, but I expect it was a way of starting an argument. Blokenstein plonked down on the red velvet throne with his back to me.

I went about by beeswax, putting out the washing, making coffee, painting. After a further sparring match I enquired whether or not he wanted us to end up like his last wife and he.

Following a think he made moves toward a truce and the rest of the day passed without incident.

A deathly calm has fallen upon your very own Lovely One, but how long will it last.


In the bog seat saga, there has been a sinister twist. Following a meaningful discussion with the Pink Peril concerning bog seats versus arse dimensions I alighted upon a heavy duty device on Amazon.

The Pink Peril wasn't much help in that department anyway having admitted to never actually alighting on a khazi seat, but perilously hovvering above the abyss and aiming with varying degrees of success.
She regaled Lovely One with a salutory tale of bog seat/fat arse drama that took place in the Bear, a salubrious hostelry in Wivey.

Operating under the influence of many a beaker of Thatchers, The Great Pink Dollop veered off at an acute angle in the general direction of the facilities. No doubt struggling to tuck the voluminous yardage of Indian cloth, elastic waisted gyppo skirt under her ample bosom, in an effort not to pee on it, she failed to clock that the bog seat was down.

The ensuing eighteen hour corselette/recycled Thatchers drama that then unfolded, I am sure needs no embellishing from moi!
I always wondered why One's feet stuck to the carpet in that establishment.

Well Bugger my 'at...
Wondering where me reinforced Amazon acquired bog seat was, and getting fed up with attempting to use the toiley boiley whilst at a 45degree angle, it was with extreme annoyance that I realised I had omitted to change my delivery address and that the new encumbants of Maison Moist were very likely aiming their ones and two through me BRAND NEW BOG SEAT.

I did appeal to Amazon but they are clearly not sympathetic to stchoopid old bats and so I had to order another.
Rapidly becoming the most expensive bathroom fitting in existence, when it does arrive it had better not shatter, and most certainly will not be put at the disposal of seventy stones of Stones!

Well if things don't alter they'll remain as they are. So with not a thought for myself I scarfed the offending Easter Egg down in one go, thereby removing the offending article from our lives and not having the bother of giving it to anyone.

So there might be a bit of chocolate on me new masterpiece. Can you see it?

Sunday, 25 March 2012

In which I am mired in sludge...

Things didn't improve as the day went on...

I fear we have entered the realm of the 'one word answer' yet again and all because I asked for the dog shite to be removed from the lawn.

I am afraid to speak in case I unleash one of his wild eyed frenzies. As a young Lovely One I would have shrugged my smooth skinned shoulders and skipped upon my merry way, but now, well - I have become a bit of a wimp. I actually find my hands shaking which is just not me! All my emotion is now confined to the page, I don't even drone on to BF any more. My legions of faithful admirers who hang by their fingertips to my every word are then at liberty to read on - or press the delete button.

I fear I have become a bore.

I had this conversation with Posh J, who has had a marriage long hubbster problermo. She has more staying power than Lovely One and has begun to work toward a solution with the errant hubbster. Lovely One, as you know Dear Reader, is a Bolter. Mind you, errant hubbster of Posh J WANTS to reconcile, which is a start!

Blokenstein has said that we should go our seperate ways, which is what I intended before I was hospitalised, and he was in the worst mood for the longest time. But then, he reverted back and all was as it was before, and, well, I just forgot about it and the lure of my underground lair and all my lovely friends in Wivey whispered in and out of my dreams and called me back with the promise of a new beginning.

Miss Blokenstein who visited me when in hospital could see what was going on and asked me to stay until after her wedding. She clearly thinks I have more sway than I do with Father Blokenstein.

This week is the suit fitting for the 'giving away suit' but Lovely One will not be in attendance as I am painting down on the Barbican for a week. Yesterday I was told to get on with my life and Blokenstein would get on with his, so I don't know if I'm actually invited to the nuptials at all!

Who knows what today will bring.

Life is mostly full of mediocrity or sorrow, punctuated with brief periods of happiness and fun, be they imagined or real. If I could have accepted that before I was fed a diet of Saturday afternoon Hollywood musicals I would have been a more balanced individual. As it is, my unrealistic expectation of life have led me to let the most important people down. For instance my lovely Boy, who has, to my great delight, recovered his situation and is off to Uni in September.

I would sacrifice a limb if it would count toward his having a happy life.

Heaven knows I have reaped what I sowed and am mired in the sludge of my mistakes.

Saturday, 24 March 2012

In which we enter pie-gate...

It would appear that 'dog-shit gate' is proving to be more of a problem than 'TV license gate.'

I am still smarting from the request given to Blokenstein to poo-pick the back lawn. As usual, a complete overreaction has ensued and now, not only has the Stink Hound been threatened with explusion, but it's not now allowed outside at all by him.
It is a sensitive little shit machine and spends most of it's time close to Lovely One as it senses when our pack leader, Blokenstein, is in one of his many strops.

Yesterday he spent all day in his bed only coming out in the evening to go and buy himself some fish and chips without even asking if I wanted any.

Today, he has surfaced to the sofa in the sitting room to watch the football, presumably since it is not conducive to my painting, which is also done in the sitting room. I have tried to make conversation but to no avail. It looks like I am in for a couple of weeks of one word answers, no eye contact and a face like a urangatan chewing a turd. But then, maybe that's how he plans to get rid of them!

I mosied off to Wellington earlier to have a stroll in the sunshine and do a bit of shopping.

When I set out to find someone with which to share my time, I had hoped to be doing those things as a couple. It wasn't meant to be. When I returned Blokenstein had been...
'Up the town, or whatever you call it,' and bought himself some chicken and ham pie. AND DO YOU KNOW WHAT?
He didn't get any for me.

Pie gate could prove the breaking point.

Friday, 23 March 2012

In which I have a suggestion to fill the day with...

Absorbing the Stink Hound into my formerly fragrant and peaceable underground lair is not going according to plan.

When aforementioned Hound went missing in Ivybridge for a couple of days the pathetic sight of Blokenstein weeping copiously and snotting all over his Wonga T-shirt (and that's not a pretty sight, I can tell you) I caved in and allowed him to bring the thing to Wivey.

I had forsaken the love of my life (Big fat ginger cat) and let V ex H have him in order to move to Deepest, knowing that Blokenstein was ensconced with a hound dog.

It was decided that ex Mrs Blokenstein would take the furry shit machine off our hands when we returned here, but no, I am too maleable for me own good.

The deal was that Blokenstein would launder the Stink Hound on at least a weekly basis and make sure it was brushed (outside) and walked regularly. This has not happened. Currently Blokenstein is fermenting a mood noir due to the fact that he 'hates Wivey.' He is lying in his fetid pit until lunchtime, which means that the furry arse licker has to be let out into Lovely One's formerly perfect haven of a garden. Whereupon it does what dogs do and does dogs do-do ON MY FECKING LAWN!

I have asked that Blokenstein picks up the cak on a regular basis but this would interfere with his recently adopted life plan of emulating Homer Simpson.

He sits in a most ungainly position perched on top of a pile of cushions, with legs akimbo in front of the TV or ipad for best part of the day/night. Well the small part of it that he's not in his w***ing chariot.

He favours the 'commando' look so I need not draw you a picture of the floor cushion sized gonads that loll uninvitingly across me FABRIC sofa! I dread to think of the pubic droppings that are clinging to it. I mean, imagine if Princess P called and sat there, unwittingly attaching a steely grey pube to her perfectly cut black slacks! It doesn't bear thinking about!

Any road up...

I return to the current life of homage to Homer.

For this I must paint a pic...

V large, po faced fat man, legs akimbo, with, on one side of the sofa, all the electronic devices that cannot be done without. For instance iphone. Well, as it turns out that could have been done without, since there is no signal so B/stein can't continually text his brother every time something interesting happens (ha ha) during the ever present football games on TV.
Lovely One is alerted to the lack of signal first by a low growling sound, following by many an unpleasant expletive which usually involve f***ing c**t Wivey being a pathetic place etc....

A hand will then plunge into the large basket of 'snacks' that is constantly to the other side of the sofa. Presumably pork scratchings and salted peanuts are a stress reliever. Who knows? Who....

Eventually the strain will prove too much and the dressing gown clad one will slouch off to his lair for a lie down. Even his arse looks indignant as it sways out of the room.

'There's nothing to get up for' is the reply to why have you been in bed for so long.

I've got an idea.


Thursday, 22 March 2012

In which yet another part of Divine Lovely One requires medical attention...

Well I'll go to the foot of our stairs!

Fired up the Bentley and grandly motored up the lane to the Physician to deliver me shipping order of drugs required to keep my Dear Little Self aboard the planet to entertain you all and give you someone to worship/emulate/bow down before. Speaking of which, I suggest you spend an extra moment or two prostrate before the Alter to Lovely One, that I know you all have secreted somewhere in your fetid hovels.

The reason being, Dear Reader, that during the extended session with aforementioned Physician, I let slip about the fact that I feel as if I have a family sized porkus pius trapped in me throat. I had actually assumed that this was in fact the case and that in scarfing down some vittles when standing up in the kitchen due to being in a dash, the offending pie had somehow become lodged in the fabric of Lovely One.
Intending to regurgitate it at a later date in the manner of cow/cud if caught short without a Fortnums Hamper, I just set off about me business and, apart from the odd comment (ignored of course) to Blokenstein, cast the thought to the back of my mind. Well, the back of me throat, in this case.

Physician leapt from his chair and grabbed me by the throat upon the receipt of this information.
Well, you could have shagged me through me shimmy-shirt! I was that disturbed!

'How long have you had this?' enquired the enthusiastic little medical personage.
'Ooooh about three months?' says Moi 'From after the Stroke/non stroke/blood clot on the brain debacle.'
'You're not going to like what I'm going to say,' went on the, now furrow-browed, medical item... 'I am sending you to the Ear/Nose/Throat specialist to make certain you don't have cancer. Has your voice been hoarse? I can feel a lump in your neck.'
Well, of course, it has. Following me lengthy sojourn being held captive in the high dependancy stroke ward, you couldn't tell the diffo between me and that Mariella Frostrup type. Well, on the phone anyway!

Having a fatalistic attitude to any bodily malfunction I sloped off to BF's for a cup of tea. One doesn't even get a biscuit round there now she's like a filleted fart!

What's the point of getting all maudlin about any impending doom? We are all going to snuff it eventually. It's just marginally preferable not to be given a timetable of events!

Any road up, I imparted the latest tidings to Blokenstein, hoping he would be able to hear me through the headphones he constantly wears these days. Not much of a response until I enquired what he would do if I died.

'Move,' was the emphatic reply. (He HATES Wivey)

Clearly he has the same fatalistic attitude.

After some thought I decided to tell Aged P the latest development. Lovely One must be completely fecking stchoopid!
I should have realised that with Aged P's competitive edge that she would have either exactly the same or something worse. Which did indeed prove to be the case...

I delivered all, well most of the information, before being interrupted...

AP: Well, isn't that funny? I've got a sore throat too! I was just thinking of going to the ENT myself! It's like when you had that headache (the stroke I assume she means) I had the same at the exact same time. Something strange going on there don't you think?'

Well, actually, no I effing don't! (thought that bit)

AP: 'ello. Are you still there?'

Me: 'Yes.'

AP: 'Did that jacket I got you fit? I really wanted to see it on you, you know. What make was it? I'm going to Welwyn with Delphine and I thought I'd get one if they're still in the sale.'

Methinks I shall revert to not telling anyone about anything and just tapping it all out, pressing a button and sending it off into the ether.

We then went on to the spiky subject of the Brother.
AP: 'ee's not phoned me back and I've left four messages you know! I reckon yer Father was givin' 'im money!'

Quite what that has to do with the price of fish is anybody's guess.

Any road up, I held the phone away from me shell-like for a further few minutes and eventually was informed that ******* was 'on the telly' so she'd have to go.

I retired to me boudoir, making a mental note not to download anything more than a novella onto me Kindle...

Wednesday, 21 March 2012

In which a Stone shatters me bog seat...

With narry a minute to recover from the Aged P experience, your very own Darling Lovely Onezilla was thrust into the bosom of the Family Stone.

At least seventy stone of Family Stone, including Sly, or Blokenstein as you know him dear reader. And all that trembling lard made up just three brothers Stone.

My two seater sofas were as armchairs for the day which left Lovely One either perched on one of Blokenstein's inferior kitchen chairs - vile ex H got my divine ones - or manacled to the kitchenalia conjuring up Gordon Blue cuisine.

Much time was given to the discussion of the two impending nupials of a brace of Stone offspring. One, the child of Blokenstein the other, the daughter of his elder brother. Blokenstein will be giving away his daugher in June so Lovely One will once again be thrust into the wobbling mass of his siblings, where, given the current girth of Dear Lovely One, I should fit like the missing piece of some gargantuan surreal puzzle.

I had, rather foolishly as it's turned out, made the purchase of an exquisite, four sizes too small chiffon number, with the intention of offloading a truckfull of lard before the celebrations. But what with the maelstrom of stressful occurings in my tragic existence - well that's my excuse anyway - I'm still at maximum thigh circumference so shall have to go to some hideous 'Mother of the Bride' fat shop somewhere and acquire one of those ghastly floral tents that make One look like a two seater sofa.

I am informed that the colour theme of Miss Blokenstein's do is 'Cadbury purple', whatever the hell that is. I always feel that lilac favours the complexion of the mature minx like moi, but have entered into the spirit of the occasion by upping my intake of chocolate.
(Must remember to go tights-less or the friction created upon movement may well cause One to spontaneously combust)

Existing in my own private Idaho, I had no idea that weddings were such costly and stage managed events. Why can't they be content with Bletchley Register Office with a trip round Milton Keynes Tesco in the afternoon like I had?

Any road up, it would appear not and so it is thus that Blokenstein will be firing up his soiled white van and making the pilgimage to Tavistock to be fitted for his suit. He too has held off this fitting in a vain attempt to offload a shed load of blubber, but no, with his KFC and pork scratching diet intact he will be requiring the 'larger man' suit. Let's just hope it's not in Cadbury Purple or he'll be the mutant spit of a coupling between Demis Roussos and Barney the Dinosaur.

Meanwhile in Lovely Onesville...

Still no word from Auntie Wainwright concerning the supposed week running the Gallery on the Barbican. Not looking forward to THAT episode! As am fairly sure to be purloined as 'carer' to the infirm AW. Apparently one of her sons is currently in situ in Maison AW and his movements are as yet unknown so Dear Little Lovely One is expected to be given her orders at the last moment and hot foot it to Deepest at the wave of AW's gnarled claw.

As per, no mention of payment for this unwanted task, so no change there then! Am still sniggering at the emails sent to me berating me for the temerity to expect to be paid for last month's efforts. Honestly! The cheek of it! You'd think I'd do it for the kudos! Yeah right!

I could really do without the experience as I expect there will be various members of the Octagenarian Olympic Muff Diving Team simpering about William Nilliam at all hours.

They actually had the flamin' cheek to expect me to go down there on Mothering Sunday to work for the day - for £40 - when the fuel to and fro costs £60! To say nothing of the fact that Lovely One is indeed a Mother and in fact HAS a Mother, so bollicks to that one! Not that I got anything other than brief phonecall from Boy. But I did get a large planted basket from the Brother's Stone with a Mother's Day tag on it which was thoughtful.

I was musing upon where to put the pink monstrosity when alerted by a shriek accompanied by a v loud cracking sound.

One of the Brothers' Stone had descended onto me antibacterial bog seat and shattered it - what an appropriate word - to smithereens.

So yet another day will be spent not producing a masterpiece, but scouring the county in search of a super re-inforced khazi seat that will bear the weight of a super-sized male Stone arse.

Monday, 19 March 2012

In which Aged P and Blokenstein lock horns...

Have just returned from dutiful pilgrimage to Aged P's.

Four fecking hours each way with the Stink Hound panting like Blokenstein following a stroll from the sofa to the fridge.

Have been force fed 'celebrity' type tv progs for two days and have had to put an intravenous Radio 4 drip into me brain since reaching home. Something called 'Dancing on Ice' was a 'must see' for Aged P, to the exclusion of any other requests or even, indeed, any speaking or moving that might issue forth a sound.
In fact, a diplomatic incident evolved over the urgency to find out who had been voted off.

Blokenstein in a rash and never before seen move, took it upon himself to go about several urgent DIY projects on behalf of Aged P. Well, actually, on behalf of everyone, since one of the jobs was to re-hang the bog door so that it would close when anyone was in the process of disposing of a 'three bucketer.'

Instead of expressing delight, offering cups of tea, or indeed, making any sound resembling gratitude, Aged P simply said:
'What the 'ells 'ee doin' up there? I can't 'ear the telly!', and slammed the sitting room door.

Red faced and moist, Blokenstein plonked down in front of said telly and Aged P huffed off with the carpet sweeper.

I ask you? Who the hell has a sodding carpet sweeper these days.

Blokenstein started watching 'The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy'. (That puerile nonsense written for Blokes to make them laugh, presumably.) But well, we all know that when anything is written for the willy-positive gender the bar is set that much lower in the first place!

Any road up when Aged P returned she snatched the tv controller from him, shouted
'What's this rubbish!',
and promptly gave us the opportunity to sit in silence with the aforementioned 'Dancing on Ice.'
There is apparently a plethora of celebrity this/celebrity that appearing every night for factory fodder to phone in and vote for.

'Celebrity Amputations', is a programme format Lovely One would like to put forward. That would tempt me, particulary if I could choose the participants!

On Mothering Sunday we took Aged P out for lunch. I was present and card negative as Boy is ensconced with his elderly amour in his love nest in Coventry for a couple of weeks, so I didn't get a look in, despite handing over two masterpieces-worth of dosh for new clothes and all the folders in me clutch bag.

And so it was that we sped off in the Porsche with Aged P folded up on the rear windscreen shelf.
Arriving at the less than sophisticated venue we were greeted by an over made-up, pierced, hair extented bint with the welcome;

'Hiya guys, my name's Shaniquar an' Iw' be yer waitress for the mee-aw. How many mummies do we have today?'
Aged P lapped it up and positioned herself so that the rest of the room was in her discerning sight.

'Oooh look at 'im over there in 'is purple,' she launched off with, whilst shielding her mouth with her hand and speaking out of it's corner, but ruining the effect with her loud voice, to the extent that the purple-clad offender shuffled in his seat. He then evoked more comment when he and his companion ordered a bottle of wine between them.
'I couldn't drink all that, look at them - tut tut.'
More unsuspecting diners arrived and were disected at length including one poor woman who had the temerity to have come out for lunch wearing jeans and a sweater.
Quelle horruere!
'Look at 'er over there in that jumper, huh!'
'YOU are wearing a sweater and trousers!' I exclaimed.
'Yes but this was expensive', was the reply.
I give up!
I then very foolishly offered to take her to Milton Keynes to go shopping.
The experience was so traumatic, all I can say is...
More on that story later...

Friday, 16 March 2012

In which I am in it again, but unsure of the depth...

Oh gawd blimee! Am well and truly dans le maison de chien yet a-bleedin'-gain!
This time my crime is to buy a TV License.
Let me explain...

Many of your earth moons waxed and waned and lo, Mrs Blokenstein that was, clickety clacked off dans le Post Office and obtained a TV license. The license in question was duly paid for by Blokenstein, on a monthly basis, from their joint account.

With me thus far?

For reasons clear only to the GPO when paying for this service one has to pay in twelve monthly payments that include:- the first six months payments, which pay for the first six months of the license and then the second six months which pay for the remainder of the current year and the six months of the coming year.

Get it? Got it? Good!

On attempting to change the TV license to cover this gaff instead of the Devon one, Blokenstein was informed that as it was in the name of Sharon Stone (I kid you not), (but let me tell you, that's where the similarity ends) Think mutant love spawn of Bruce Forsyth and Monica Rose (off 'Take your Pick'), she must be the one to change any details.
Well as I'm sure you're aware this is a massive NO NO, since she has emptied bank accounts, played dirty and gone off in a huff after being denied access to the Stink Hound.

Blokenstein then informed me that...
'Well, now we'll have to have no TV license for six months as I'm not paying again and I can't get the money back.'
Usually at this point I keep quiet or give in as I am familiar with being sent to Coventry.

By the way, that's where Boy is...
More on that unsatisfactory story later.

Well I'll go to the foot of our stairs! There I go digressing yet again Dear Reader!
However, on this occasion, I indicated that since not having a license may involve your very own Dear Little Lovely One being incarcerated at Her Madge's pleasure, I would be purchasing one, nonetheless!

Blokenstein saw this as an affront to his authority and limped off in the direction of his lair. Not wishing to be ruled by the King of Huffsville during the impendeing visit to Aged P's, I tapped on the door in a concilliatory manner and was met by a stony silence. Geddit? 'Stoney'
Keep up, Keep up!

It would appear that I am in for one of his long periods of bitterness. I came out from my afternoon nap to find an empty sitting room and currently, at 6.00pm he's still incacerated and I am left wondering if I shall be attending AP's alone or at the very least in silence, except ofcourse for the four hour whining session of the Stink Hound, who is attending with us.

I know I am a sensitive flower, but I am very badly affected by moods of this kind, preferring to attend to matters in an adult manner. I am sure that the stress of this way of existing is part of my current health issue.

I really am afraid of what may happen next...

OOOh - he's out, and so far - not too bad...

Thursday, 15 March 2012

In which I just moan on a bit...

Heaved darling self off memory foam mattress yesterday and left it trying to forget.

Prized Boy from his Onesie and set off in the Mummer Hummer to Taunton.

Boy, having secured an interview at Leeds University required extensive and expensive grooming.

Parking the v large vehicle under observation from Polish car washer, now with the omnipresence of those irritating traffic light screenwashers from up the smoke, I asked Boy to get out of the car whilst I reversed as tight as I could into the too small space. Back I went until - clunk! I bashed into the Mini Cooper in the space behind.

'Why didn't you knock the boot?' I enquired of Boy.
'I was looking around,' came the reply.
'You idiot! What the hell were you standing there for if not to see me into the effing space,' I shrieked.
'I never knew that's why you asked me to stand there', said the dopey article.
Fortunately the owner of the Mini was nowhere to be seen and the Polish, or should that be polish, bloke indicated there was no damage.
'No thanks to him,' I huffed, pointing at the gormless lanky great figure of Boy.

Flamin' 'ell! He's his Father's son alright!

Any road up, we couldn't get in at the barbers he usually uses so we took pot luck at a 'Hair Design' studio that was practically empty.
Boy was ushered to a reclining chair whereupon he was given a scalp massage by a pnuematic young woman.
I'm sure most chaps would relish being massaged by the charming little Lolita, but as we know, Boy bats for the same side, so looked rather uncomfortable with the situation.
He confided to me after the event that he was concerned that we would be paying through the orifactory device for the privelidge.
'We?' I mused.
He couldn't get out of there fast enough.
It has to be said, it was more of a hair design experience that a bog standard hair cut.
Then - off for trousers, jacket, shirt and shoes. Oh, not to forget the fancy leather zip up document case, if you please!And the train ticket and the spends.

Blokenstein has gone off to Plymouth 'to get things that I can't get here.'
Presumably that means,

The foul stench of the sludgey embankment.
The chance to sit in lines of traffic for hours.
Having car horns sounded at one for daring to not know the way and want to change lanes.
Go to the horrid indoor market.
Walk round the miserable concrete wind tunnels that pass as a town centre.
Have lovely chats with all the unfriendly, sour faced locals.

Still, he misses it. He'll never settle in Wivey.

Have actually been paid at last! But not until after having another email telling me that I have only had to wait on one occassion.
What a load of shite! I would never have got paid at all had I not made my weekly visit for a sit in, and just stay there until it happened.

Where do people get off for Heaven's sake? I shouldn't have to ask to be paid, it should just happen, and since no system is going to be put in place to ensure this doesn't happen every time, I really don't know what to do.

What a cheek I've got expecting to be paid!

Wednesday, 14 March 2012

In which I get really flamin' hacked off...

Having spent another sleepless night tossing in me wincyette nightie until coiled like a wrung out dish rag, I had neither the stamina nor inclination to fire up the Bugatti and take flight to Deepest.

The bank, inconsiderate bastards, weren't interested in the slightest that I hadn't been paid by the offending gallery, and still insisted on my paying the mortgage. So with a steely resolve, I telephoned and enquired as to the whereabouts of MY FUCKING MONEY. Fortunately I have body fat reserves to last me a month or so, so Waitrose will have to do without my shipping order 'til I see the moolah.

It transpired thus...

Me: I still haven't had the payment.
Her: I couldn't transfer the money as I thought I was going to die yesterday.

As show stoppers go, it beats Janet Jackson's escaping tit.

Now - it's not that I don't have sympathy for incapacitated persons, but I'm not even asking to be paid wages. I am asking for the cash that has gone into her fingerless gloved claw, for my sales!

The entire day was spent waiting for the promised bank transfer that didn;t materialise. So, having no mobile signal in the underground lair, I mosied off up the square to get a bag of roasted broad beans and find a signal.

Mmmmmmm roasted broad beans from the Wivey Larder. I have missed Boy almost as much as I have missed them.
'Leave me a few in the bottom of the packet,' said Blokenstein.
Well. I very nearly choked and vo-mited!
LEAVE ME A FEW what the fuck does he mean?
'We always used to share everything,' he went on, meaning his jutting jawed, clicketty heeled trollope of an ex wife I presume.
I'd rather buy him his own bag than share the little crunchy, salty, golden,teeth breaking objects of desire. So I did just that and saved mine to scoff with a half pint of vino shite-o whilst watching Cloudstreet after Blokenstein had miffed off to bed.

Any way, I digress...

Adopting a softly softly approach I texted the offending gallery owner to ask what the hold up was and to enquire for her general well-being. I'm not being harsh, as she had accused me of earlier, when I tell you that if she does indeed hang up her soggy M&S shreddies, that no doubt some other poor effer has paid for, I won't get paid at all!

It was left that the bank wouldn't allow her to transfer money from one account to another.

Give me strength! I don't want the details. I WANT MY MONEY AND I WANT IT NOW.

The conversation was punctuated with ooooohs and aaaaahs, from her end, and I do mean HER END, and we settled upon a plan whereby she would have one of her Octagenarian Olympic Muff Diving team sycophants to transfer the money to me this very morn.

I await further developements...

There are other galleries keen to take my work. If this keeps up, they'll be getting it.

Sunday, 11 March 2012

In which I suffer stress induced guff syndrome...

It's ridiculous! Pauvre Darling Lovely One has been unable to push out the zeds. And all because of an unpaid bill. No, not from Moi. To Moi.

Yesterday a cheque arrived from Brixham to settle Febs sales from down there, but still not a sign of the biggie from my main customer.


'I can't find the cheque book.'
'I've put my handbag somewhere and can't remember.'
'I fell over in the driveway and scattered all the paperwork everywhere.'
Above are a selection of excuses proffered when Lovely One has had to go to the trouble of putting in a personal appearance in order to be paid.
What was laughingly referred to as the 'sit-in' is no longer possible now I'm back in my dear old underground lair.

I have telephoned and emailed, to no avail.

What to do?

getting more and more agitated, I phoned...
Me: hello it's C
Her: oh I'm on the other line can you call back?
Me: Hello it's C
Her: Oh I'm just dictating my shopping list to Moist Bob, can you call back later?
Me: I need to be paid.
Her: I only saw your email at 4am this morning.
Me: OK, I need to be paid, would you like me to email my account details?
Her: OK

So tomorrow I go on a little journey - yet again!

To add more grief to my already fuckety day, Blokenstein decided to put up me chandelier (I'm sure that's not how it's spelt, but I can't find the spellcheck, so bollocks!)

I have had said wondrous light fitting for many a long year. First it hung in my fabulous kitchen in East Heath Road, NW3, then it suffered a slide down the social scale and mosied off to Milton Keynes, whereupon it endured a spell in an aspirational four double bed shit hole with double garage. (Former home having been disposed of in order to pay for expensive private education for Boy.) Waste of effing time and money that was!
Any road up, it hung in the deathly cold sitting room of 1 Golden Hill before it became the victim of a broken home and ended up in my underground lair, before being de-camped to Deepest whereupon it remained stored in a damp wardrobe until it was brung back to Wivey and to it's rightful place above my darling little head in the sitting room of the underground lair.
Well, that's where it is now, following what can only be described as one of the most stressful days of my life!

I had formerly offered the services of Vile Ex Husband to do any wiring/computing/car related jobs on behalf of Blokenstein and myself.

No, No, before you berate Lovely One for putting upon the skeletal ex VH, I did offer to let him watch my massive TV when the Grand Prix is on,as payment. I have no problermo asking VexH to do my bidding and he, having suffered my management for nigh on 20 years, has lost the will and the energy to defy Moi.

But I hadn't reckoned on the Machismo of Blokenstein, who, even with his pork sausage fingers and, frankly, blind as a bat-edness, insisted upon doing the task himself. During the following FOUR FUCKING HOURS it took to attach the bastard chandelier to the sodding bloody ceiling, I very nigh had another stroke!!
Blokenstein is his own worst enemy in the course of any task he undertakes. His hatred of inanimate objects comes to the fore and in a Basil Fawlty like scenario he yells insults of varying magnitude to screwdrivers, wires, ladders, and any supernatural beings there may be overseeing the event.

His large frame was perched precariously on a filthy flamin' ladder that had previously lain outside the french doors on the patio. From time to time I tried to help, but not before ensuring I wore my designer wellies before sticking the screwdriver anywhere.
After the first two hours it became clear that the atmosphere wasn't conducive to the finishing of the masterpiece on my easel. To say nothing of the vast black shadow cast by the ladder-bourne Blokenstein.

I suffer from stress induced guff syndrome and was gradually filling up me leggings and begining to resemble Bibendum, when I took matters, and the screwdriver, into me own hands and done it meself!!

'Don't you ever buy another light fitting like that!' huffed the ruddy faced Blokenstein as he trundled off to his room.

'Workman.' 'Tools.' etc...

Any way finished yet another view of Smeaton's Tower.

Thursday, 8 March 2012

In which I attempt to surprise BF up the back passage...

Got up at the crack and intended to get current masterpiece finished today. As usual the best laid plans of mice and Lovely Ones fell apart at the first hurdle. Got distracted by the emails coming in from interested parties wanting to display their wares at WW's new gallery. BF reckons the 'no financial outlay' part of the invite was what dunnit!

Bunged a load of clothes noir into the washin' mashin and nipped round the boudoir with jolly old dyson.
Put face on
polished golden tresses with a pair of silk bloomers wrapped round me hairbrush.

Feeling all warm and housewifey, went to take washin' out of mashin...
Cloggy lumps of soggy cotton wool spilt onto the kitchen floor and every item noir was coated with soggy little white bits of fluff.
You just wouldn't credit the mess that can be made with one Tena Lady Mini accidentally left up yer gusset!

Any road up, off I sped, with a throbbing Norton between me thighs, to take some pics around and about for to mesmerise the populus of Somerset into parting with their allowance for one of me masterpieces.
The sun bogged off behind a cloud, couldn't see nuffin, so shot off to partake of some refreshment with BF. The poor dear little woolly headed scavenger has been starved of the company, and human interest stories, (gossip) of The Divine Lovely One for far too long.
Parked up, swung a shapely, leather clad leg over dear old Norton, tugged at his helmet and shook me pre-raphaelite tendrils free. A woolly mass popped into view bobbing up from behind the four foot fence. I ascertained this to be BF sashaying round to the front door of Maison Womble and thought I'd nip in through the back passage and surprise her. I imagine it's a while since anyone surprised her up the passage.
When I got there, she'd bogged off out! Flamin' nerve!

Going off at a tangent...

A little ode entitled...


Watch Out! There's a Nigel abroad,
with a jail-bait seeking pork sword.
And if found to be larkin'
with his portion of parkin,
His organ gets smote by Our Lord.


Tuesday, 6 March 2012

In which I ponder the farts in me second hand sofa...

This week have reclaimed fabulous antique gen-u-ine persian rug from Vil Ex Hubbster. Fabulous thing is threadbare and v old, but, the real thing, and I love it. V ex H is threadbare too. V e H has had custody of rug whilst Lovely One has been living with dispiriting home furnishings in Maison Moist. Tasteless, poor quality items have been banished from my divine existence.
I also collected my fabulous baroque looking glass from Dear Little S, who had somehow managed to damage it. Much shuffling from foot to foot ensued as Lovely One threatened to inflict injury on the Dear Little offender. But, I do recall the glorious thing may have been damaged when Blokenstein barged against it and it landed upon the foul smelling mutt, so I let him off. Any way, it's now in it's rightful place in the inner hall of Lovely One's underground lair. In just the right place for me to review my standard of lovliness before I admit anyone into me gaff.

In the most gentle manner I can muster I have informed Blokensein that my surroundings must be aesthetically pleasing or Lovely One cannot keep up the daily creation of masterpieces. This delicately delivered information cannot, however, have penetrated the hairy lugs of Blokenstein. I swear he's growing his own ear muffs.

Currently an opened bag of SALTED PEANUTS, if you ever did, is resting threateningly on the dining room table. Salted Peanuts are a no no. Lovely One will sanction salted mixed Waitrose nuts, but ONLY in a china dish, and definitely only in the evening. There are several sets of nasty earphones tangled together, on top of my beatiful waxed pine chest, fer goodness sake! An empty PLASTIC ginger beer bottle is discarded on the rug next to where Blokenstein resides whilst watching TV. Although he hasn't actually been reclining on the sofa of late, since his much discussed knee has rendered him sitting upright on a red velvet dining chair, giving him the oddly regal look of a diddicoy on a throne.

When he does attempt comfort on the sofa, it is on all the cushions piled one on top of another, redering his little fat legs dangling over the edge and putting Lovely One in mind of a mutant Princess and the pea.

It really won't do at all! Even when suffering some discomfort Lovely One manages to drape meself in an attractive manner across the sofa, all wrapped up in me fluffy. Blokenstein wasn't made for the confines of Maison Lovely One, he really wasn't.

As special dispensation, given that Blokenstein is behaving in the manner of benevolant uncle, I shall overlook some of these faux pas. Not the peanuts though! Whilst I am reduced to sitting prettily on my 'previously owned' sofas, I shall let this behaviour pass. After all, imagine all the unknown arses that have farted into the previously sat-upon cushions.

But - when I acquire my aspirational sofa (big feather filled, squashy cushions fashioned from exquisite fabric, long enough to recline fully, and just downright fabulous) Blokenstein will be required to sit nicely, bad knee or not!

Sunday, 4 March 2012

In which Sunday is almost all used up...

Flippin''eck! Lovely One has gone rocketing into the 21st century and gone and got a Kindle. Well Blokenstein gone and got me one actually.
As far as I can make out, all the words in the universe are floating about in no particular order until I do a 'one click' on Amazon, and then amazingly they are sucked in in just the right order for a story Lovely One might like.

Today even went without a nap in order to play with new toy.

Am currently enjoying some of Rose Tremain's stuff. That woman knows everthing in the whole entire universe.

Have finished another masterpiece too, whilst watching Columbo over me right shoulder, moving around out of the direct light. Actually followed whole story and understood plot which is amazing for a Lovely One with the attention span of a gnat Yet another view over Plymouth under winter skies festering on the easel now.

Also, have been doing amazing house personish type catering over the past few days. Firstly making a lemon drizzle cake for Boy to take for his elderly amour. Much against my better judgement I am treating this first foray into the world of luurve as if it were my most favourite thing ever. Truly I'd like to punch the object of desire in the fizzog though, as he is nearly as ancient as Lovely One and I just do not get it! Indeed, if Boy had been Girl and was stepping out with an admirer over thirty years her senior I suspect that even Passive Old Vile Ex Hubbster would have chinned him!

It's still a novelty to be back in Wivey. Lay in bed this morning listening to the Church bells calling the faithfull to worship, turned over and dozed off. Stuff like that and all the worthy things happening around and about is luverly. Poetry readings, book clubs, civic society, flower arranging and more...
Don't want to actually do any of it, but it's just comforting knowing it's all there just in case I suddenly want to arrange some flowers or take up belief in the supernatural.

Saturday, 3 March 2012

In which I contemplate several people's demise, including mine...

Trundled off to the Courthouse for luncheon with Princess P. She arrived looking immpossibly glamorous as per and I arrived, period.

Now have lots of info about local artists, which to be frank, hasn't changed much since my petit sojourn to Deepest.

It's quite odd sashaying about Wivey and seeing all the people that I'd forgotten about. They, in the main, say 'good morning. Haven't seen you for ages,' and then we continue as if one or the other of us had just been away for the weekend. I like that.

I hid a bit to begin with since having porked up a bit since last I was here, but almost everyone I've seen has done the same, so don't feel so bad about that now.

Spoke to Auntie Wainwright yesterday following my visit to Anal C to show WW the galleries and introduce her to Dear Little S and Posh J. AW is terrified about being out of the loop. If I were her, I'd be more worried about the open heart surgery that is imminent. I do understand that she identifies herself with the business, as do I, but the rest of us can trundle on for the time being keeping her empire intact and ready for her return.

With One's mortality in the forefront of One's mind Princess P et moi embarked upon a deep and meanginless diatribe concerning the fact that life is just a journey toward death. I have chosen to spend my journey avoiding the medical profession who seem hell bent on scanning my brain every five minutes. I have promised to wash up on their shore at the first indication of all not being well, but as for anything esle, I think I'll swerve it, thanks.

It must be something in the air, this dying business, as Aged P called to inform me that she has left me absolutely everything, since the Brother had already wiped out her little bit of inheritance and savings. Ooooh goody gum drops, me thinks, a whole council house full of shite! I did offer to buy the house for her a while back when shackled to Vile Ex Husband but she wouldn't have it because the Brother couldn't afford to buy it. No - I don't get it either!
Any road up, I shall have to skip the flamin' lot double quick time, since Luton Council owns the gaff, and no doubt it'll cost a pair of limbs.

Princess P says that it's what we do in the journey between being born and dying that counts. I reckon the best we can do is not leave too much shite for everyone else to clear up!