Google+ Followers

Follow by Email

Sunday, 29 April 2012

In which we sally forth unto Leeds Uni...

And so it came to pass... In the twentieth year of Boy, Lovely One, Vile Ex Husband and, indeed, Boy himself, set out on the road to Leeds, to register their interest in Boy taking his place in the grand scheme of things and holing up at Uni in preparation for his plan for world domination. Since the sad decay of Lovely One and her rapid decline it was agreed that V ex H would take his ve-hicle. Well, I say 'his ve-hicle.' It's actually Lovely One's ex ve-hicle which I donated to him in order that he could collect and deliver Boy from destinations various. Sadly V ex H has used this mode of transport to charge william nilliam to the side of the Snaggle Toothed diddycoy in her many times of need, including the latest: her absorbtion into the local chain gang. 'See Somerset Gazette for more details.' The thirteen feet of gangly flesh distributed between Boy and V ex H duly fronted up at Chez Underground Lair and off we biffed in the gen direc of 'oooop North.' BUT, not before Lovely One had been relieved of the first of many clenched fistfull's of folders. So, in Lovely One's old ve-hicle with fuel charged to Lovely One, off we set to organise Boy's Awfully Big Adventure. Fortunately the Divine Ribena advert Mummy of years previous were still ingrained in the fabric of Lovely One and I had prepared a pickernick basket of Yogi quality goodies which were summarily consumed in the car park of Boots in Taunton where we'd had to swerve by to acquire Boy's drugs/creams various. Thereby lengthening an already rather arduous journey by an hour. Brewery/piss-up/organisation etc. Lovely One folded up in the rear behind Vile ex H and kipped most of the way in order that I didn't have to soil me shreddies in fear of being despatched from this mortal coil by the dubious Emerson Fattipaldi driving skills of himself. Any road up... We duly arrive, after several biffs around Leeds city centre, at the 'closest to' and 'most economical' hotel as recommeded by Latebookings.com An odd establishment run by shalwar-kamiz clad dusky gents from the sub-continent. An interesting mix of tasteful pieces of furniture and decor and more than a smidgeon of absolute shite. The hotel had been fashioned from the elegant remains of a Geogian mansion and still retained the fabulously ornate and high ceilings which were not complimented by the addition of an ugly low energy bulb without even a plastic ceiling rose, if you please!! Adequate little bathrooms had been deployed in a kind of sectioned off area in the corner of each massive chambre de coucher, but sadly the partitions didn't quite reach the ceiling, so any romatic triste might be interupted by the toily boily doings of one or other party! Fortunately Lovely One was retiring alone, so any associated toily boily noises wouldn't have to be drowned out by loud coughing. - Or so I thought. - For when I drew back the curtains to try to get some air into the stifling chambre, the window looked directly into the staff conservatory and One was greeted by a toothy Abdul nodding in my direction! Quelle Horruere! But not as Quelle Horruere as Abdul though, since Lovely One was down to me eighteen hour corselette at that point! We re-grouped in my room to discuss tactics, to find that each room was lacking something or other. I had a hanging rail and no hangers. Boy had hangers and no rail. I had all the requisites to make a cup of coffee, but no spoon. Boy had everything but the coffee and Vile Ex H had no kettle, cup, glass, hangers, and indeed, not even a toily boily! With my management skills and human resources training I devised a rota whereby we could all remain hydrated and abluted and Boy and V ex H once again benefitted from my poking my dear little turned up into their beeswax. We sallied forth to locate some scran and ended up at a Wetherspoons which didn't appear to cater for anyone following a healthy diet so I threw c to the w and scarfed up a cow with the hoofs snapped off and enough ice cream and cider to render my blood suger so high that I was awake all night drinking copious amounts of fizzy water, and farting, of course. We had opted to dine within, the following morn and, having paid for petit dejuener, and indeed the rooms, in cash, upon arrival, fronted up in reception, where the table was set for six. Bit of a dilemma there, since the hotel was full of similarly charged family units all ravenous for a scoff up. Oh, and by the way, that's the first time I have ever been asked to pay, in cash, on arrival for a hotel room! Another sizeable wad was then extracted from me Chloe Paddington. Boy et Maman seated, V ex H sauntered over to the window for a peruse of the grounds. 'Shall I ring for service?', I enquired, since there was no one around. 'They know we're here', replied V ex H. 'How so?', I retorted. V ex H inclined his shrunken head in the direction of a large leather sofa. I, in turn, gazed in that direction expecting to see a hidden camera with which the management monitored the establishment, but no.... Oh my giddy Aunt!! Out of a sleeping bag positioned behind said sofa appeared a further dusky gentleman who mumbled a 'good morning' and flip flopped over to take our order! To be continued...

Tuesday, 24 April 2012

In which I am miserable and have no hope...

There is no point to any of it is there? Life and all that. It's 98% boring and punctuated by brief moments of happiness which won't last. I definitely should have remained living alone with just a few cats, then I could neither upset or be upset by anyone. The endless pursuit of happiness is fecking pointless. At least when Lovely One was young One was dragged up believing that One would ape a mirror image of one's parents and settle for a boring job, a couple of camping holidays spent dragging the grandparents around the continent, arguing with one's siblings then come home and bore everyone shitless with the photos, before breeding another generation of no hopers. But now, things are different, Boy has been educated to believe that choice and fulfilment are his by birthright. Unfortunately this is simply just not the case. Granted, he will be able to avail himself of the right of passage, as it is now, to go to university. Luckily he is studying politics, english and philosiphy, and not media sodding studies, like most of them. What's wrong with engineering? Far too boring for the little primadonnas that the current system turns out. No one wants to make anything or do anything deemed demeaning. The only option left with no further education is the ridiculously named 'care' industry. Any old person can do that. There are of course lots of very dedicated people working for not enough money in indescribable conditions, but you'll only ever get to hear about the bad ones. And so it comes to pass that Moi, Boy and V ex H are off to Leeds on Friday to view the accomodation at University. I hope Boy finds it all that he wants and he biffs off to London and takes the world by storm. However, I know that whatever happens to any of them, the girls will all end up incapable of contentment, with ruined thighs and loose teeth and the boys will end up miserable lonely old men with willies like old leather duffle bags.

Wednesday, 18 April 2012

In whichy I purge me system ...

Yesterday it was the anniversary of the birth of a person whom what Lovely One resides next door to in the underground lair. Fired up the Bentley and biffed off in the gen direc of Minehead, if you please! Note to self: Get smaller ve-hicle, as attached current one to one of those wheelington binsters up a narrow passage. No matter. Biffed along through the wind and rain to an establishment I believe to be called the Dragem Inn. An attractive establishment, peopled by ordinary appearing coves quietly chowing down on their respective luncheons. Mildly aroused from stupor by woman complaining of hair in her pate. Took up position at a generously sized table for two and sunk into a pair of very attractive chairs that were very propably the most uncomfortable seating devices Lovely One had ever plonked her posteria on. They were those high backed leather contraptions with low sloping seats and a, presumably, titanium support nestling under the curiously comfy looking seat. One can then, either sink luxuriously into the rear of the device and render oneself too far from la table to eat, and with one's knees under one's chin, or perch precariously on the frontal support strutt until the pressure renders one's arse numb. Any road up we soldiered on and perused the luncheon menu. Being a v short spit from the briney we opted for the 'fish of the day' which, we were informed, was Lemon Sole. Having just fronted up at Slimming World for the weigh in Lovely One was fast approaching the eating One's own arm option, having been denied anything substantial that very morn. Well, when it turned up One was all for letting the blighters have it with both barrels, but my luncheon companion requested that I kept my observations to myself and just comment by not returning to the establishment ever again. One can only assume that the Sole in question was monikaed 'lemon' due to it's close proximity in size. In fact, there was scarcely enough ocean dwelling item to have filled a lone fish finger. Off we sped to Minehead and battled along the front in the grip of Typhoon Theresa and biting stair rods of rain. Acquired a Blueberry ice from a frostbitten bint at the station and sat on lone seat to consume the aforementioned, which incidentally tasted of toothpaste. The highlight of the day out was a trip to Mozzers for some scran for tea, since luncheon had been so disappointing. Tea Menu Langoustine seafood cocktail grilled mackarel roasted mediterranean vegetables small glass of Pinot Noir So far so good... Another much larger glass of Pinot Noir four bread rolls a bag of chips a family sized trifle More wine... a bag of licorice allsorts an easter egg some mints left over from Chrimbo More wine... cheese on toast frosties with double cream a packet of jaffa cakes more wine... a packet of twiglets and seventeen senokot tablets.

Tuesday, 17 April 2012

In which I bust out of me keks...

Would you Christmas Eve it? Well Bugger my 'at etc etc... Just got back from Slimming World with the Pinkster and even though she's been scarfing wine down like there's no tomorrow she's lost three and a half pounds and Lovely One, who has spent the entire week cooking up delicacies from the Green Cook Book, Moi has only lost a poxy, solitary pound of flab. There's no justice in this world is there? I admit, I do saunter about this parish imagining that I am still youthful and highly desirable, but was brought sharply down to earth by the bounteous Pink One who pointed out a gargantuan heffalump a couple of seats away from us and said. 'look. She's fatter than you,' as if this were some kind of compliment! Only this very morn I had been congratulating meself on the fact that me Sainsbury's wide leg trousers were hanging off me, when I noticed that they were in fact - 'hanging off me' in that I had obviously moved a bit sharpish and ripped the arse out of them. I had been parading around Norton Fitwarren Village Hall with me twinkle, smedley botham and four inches of flabby thigh on display for all and sundry to gag at. No more fecking red lentils for me this week! I don't make a good vegitarian. On the way home I careered into a field, hog tied a mookster, snapped off it's hoofs and scoffed it down in one go. Well I felt like it anyway! The Pinkster thinks she's got reverse anorexia, in that she looks in the mirror and doesn't see a fat girl. My problem is - I am fifty per cent bulimic - I eat loads of food and then DON'T make meself sick! Replacement cheque came today and some good news - three sold in Plymouth and three in Brixham - Woo Hoo!

Monday, 16 April 2012

In which Auntie Waintwright Bounces me a cheque...

Alighted from 'twixt the satin sheets at some ungodly hour this very morn only to return to snaffle up a couple more yards of snoozeage. Meanwhile, up above in flat 6, or 'apartment' 6, as that dozy, ponytailed, johdpur-thighed article down the block, insists on calling it, some DIYing cove caved in to the urge to drill a hole immediately above Dear little Lovely One's chambre de coucher. Deployed ear plugs, affixed memory foam sleeping mask, totted up some shepherd's pie filling, but no... Morpheus had sheared. So, here One is again, contemplating the week ahead's painting. Beyond the french doors hurricaine Herbert is rampaging around the estate, so no chance of nipping out to plant the odd larch to pass the time, instead of working. So, with 'he who cannot be refered unto' doing the washing up, I shall begin. I say 'doing the washing up' but not a 'proper job'. Merely sloshing the grubbied around in some mildly soapy solution before piling them in some leaning tower of Piza like art installation on the draining board awaiting the bunging back in the cupboards by Lovely One. Any road up... I must get on... Currently half way through a masterpiece of Wellington. Bravo to all those little Baileys who stick their pics on Flikr. Saves Moi the bother of leaving the underground lair to take me own. And... Have happened upon a 'screen capture' thing that even allows printing of the 'all rights reserved' ones. 'All rights reserved!' Do these amateur snappers really think their measly offerings are worth lifting? Well, actually some are because One does! Got a commission from the Normster having had a Lovely One devotee in his gaff seeking moi out having drawn a blank at Auntie Wainwright's. Speaking of AW. Bunged in me last invoice. AW sent cheque. Lovely One paid it in. CHEQUE BOUNCED. I REST MY CASE.

Friday, 13 April 2012

In which One ponders a caveman up the chuff box...

Lovely One has been contemplating me navel of late. Having lost six pounds it is barely visible now inbetween the soft, lillywhite, undulating hillocks of, ripe for the plucking, flesh. And... One has had to alight upon the inevitable conclusion that temporary insanity can overcome even the keenest of minds. I offer up this specimen for your perusal... And, no, tis not the divine Lovely One! Two persons, one the fairer sex,(well not very fair actually, but she thinks she is) the other a throbbing, bestial container of testosterone, much as one would expect the missing link in the ascent of man, have jumped the broomstick. The aforementioned fairer specimen had, prior to this ill advised coupling, been residing in wedded normality with a lily-livered streak of unpleasantness, whom she clearly thought to be interesting and a fine catch. These two came to the attention your very own dearest Lovely One when the Onester was attempting to flog residences in the parish of W. Their des res was suitably 'right on' and green to the point of mildew on close inspection. Any road up... The streak was more than a tad unpleasant and spoke to your very own LO as if she were a piece of the cat doo doo that had lain undisturbed in it's litter tray for many a moon. No matter, methinks, will be relieving unpleasant article of shed loads of cash forthwith if I flog the gaff. There were no takers, sadly and the pair continued to biff about being worthy. Until... The neanderthal item washed up on shore and really put a chat among the oisueax. Oh, to be a f on the w and to have observed that little meeting of mating areas. One suspects that the close proximity of the recreation area to the toilets wouldn't register with trogladite. Having had the lily-livered item sliding about on top of her for some years, I expect she was able to plan the next day's shopping and get in a bit of light reading whilst he raised and lowered his spotty, boney arse into oblivion. Following years of that, One can only wonder at the delight with which she received the inevitable back scuttle from the bronzed, muscular lager container. It really must have been thrilling in the extreme to have the silent, (hopefully) yet delicious, cave man wang her one up the chuff-box. Having been manacled to a cerebral cove for many a long, Lovely One pined for the, what I considered the normality of, a football loving, blue collared, pie eating, Sun reading item. These daydreams are best left as just that... And thus it was that the cave man appeared over me rear fence to forage through me undergrowth. He looked the same, he smelled the same, but a metamorphosis had taken place in my absence, he made 'conversation.' Don't these specimens know that we don't want to talk to them? I've got a cat for that! Any road up, knowing that LO is a paintress, a conv was embarked upon about 'art'. One to which I was not actually expected to partake in, just to listen and imbibe the item's accrued knowledge. During the lecture, the information was imparted to Lovely One that this back scuttling, bronzed adonis, fair busting out of his T shirt, had, in fact, MARRIED the female half of the 'right on' mildewed pairing. Press delete - error - massivo mistake-o, methinks! It is just so easy to mistake romance and lust for love, and it cannot endure. After all, look at Ronan, he's been sectioned, suffering from post traumatic Lovely One stress disorder.

Wednesday, 11 April 2012

In which I bring up the rear of 'Satans Slaves'...

Well then, Dear Reader, I spect you realised me and Ronan was off licking melted easter eggs off the inside of each other's thighs, so obv I couldn't blog. Lovely One is still picking congealed bits of creme egg goo off me twinkle. They don't taste too bad and, as an added bonus, you get to floss yer teeth after! Any road up with R off convalescing, I fired up the Ferrari and biffed off to Bath and West showground to buy a Gigantic Flea at the market. Sauntering along through Taunton Lovely One came up the rear of a small ugly flock of motorcyclists travelling under the name 'Satans Slaves', no apostrophe, of course. The aforementioned motley crew looked anything but fiendish as they veered precariously from side to side through the stately flow of Bank Holiday traffic. Bringing up the rear was a portly little blighter whose leathers noir were obv new, for the 'Satans Slaves' logo was pristine and sparkly white. His jeans looked decidedly 'pressed' and he deffo hadn't weed them yet. This sort was clearly a nervous cove as he trailed along at the rear of the pack. From time to time a kindly 'slave' slowed up a bit and waited for the newcomer and gave him a little pep talk before they shot off to catch the others up. Pulling up behind the SS chapter, One couldn't help noticing how ancient they all were. What on earth do old bikers do of a Bank Holiday weekend these days? For a start, most of them looked as if they were shelf stackers, or something similar by day, and 'Satans Slaves' on evenings and weekends. They looked as if they'd never done anything more fiendish than blow off and not say pardon. I spect they were off to Margate to nab the best deckchairs for the day. One nosed along bringing up the rear for some miles, until up ahead the lights changed, and the new Slave recruit got left behind. The others sped off as fast as their arthiritic little gloved hands would allow them to rev up the wossnames. The new boy looked lost and forlorn on his shiny new machine with the sun glinting off his 'Satans Slaves' logo. Always One to help a fellow in distress I wound me window down and passed him a black biro to cross out the last 's'. Well, after moseying along for fecking hours and being directed by the satnav up a festering farmer's back passage, we eventually alighted in a field and biffed off in the direction of what looked like action, in the far distance. There seemed to be an inordinately large proportion of chairs, of all shapes and sizes, for sale. But that was just outside. On closer inspection, in the large hanger like building, that BF dragged me round once, looking for bits of tat to knock up into works of art, there was the most incredible array of boring paraphenalia One could hope to encounter when One's got three quid burning a hole in the pocket of me liberty bodice. What posesses these po-faced types to wrap and unwrap all these bits of undesirable rubbish time after time and try to flog them, heaven only knows! So, over an hour to get there, and the same back, interrupted by 30mins of tat shuffling, not to dismiss the several hours trying to locate the Ferrari.

Wednesday, 4 April 2012

In which I ponder the wooly mammoth...

Disaster has struck the planet Lovely One.

Would you Christmas Eve it?

'Well, yes', comes the resounding reply from my faithful subjects.

I have recently alighted upon a cheesy tv programme called 'Touched by an Angel' in which all manner of ghastly situations are remedied by the intervention of an 'Angel.'

I have an idea for a further series to be called 'Interfered with by a Lovely One,' in which everything is going smoothly until a Lovely One comes crashing and barging in to queer the pitch for some unlucky so and so.

The so and so in this case is the inoffensive W.

It came to pass in the kingdom of Taunton that a gallery became available and W and LO fronted up to bung Red Hat in there and give it CPR. All was going according to p, when on the day we were to get the keys there was a sharp tug and the rug was pulled smartly from under me size 10's.

Now, Dear Reader, Lovely One has had not a thing to do with the grown up legalities at all and merely scarpered from the Barbican and painted up a Taunton/Somerset storm, whilst the mild mannered W dun the biz.

Methinks the legal bod must have inadvertanly caused us a bit of bother as neither Moi nor W ever darkened la porte of the building's owner.

After a bit of Nancy Drewing Lovely One had long conference with said building owner who, it has to be said, sounded a fair to middling sort.

Any road up, the upshot of it is that Lovely One is going to have to be inspected by the sort, but not until at least two weeks after Easter, thereby rendering the enterprise held up by many moons. Oh bugger!

I hesitated to record these events, since Auntie Wainwright will be pirouetting with glee on her hospital trolley at the commupance of Lovely One, but...
Live by the blog - Die by the blog, says I!

So, lots of paintings in boudoir and back of car and no income. C'est la vie. Well C'est la Lovely One's vie any sodding way!

Veering off a tangent...

I happened upon a tv prog (yes I watch a lot of tv, so what?) about a Wooly Mammoth last night. Some dozy looking bint in a wooly hat was clutching a phial of wooly mammoth blood - ergo - WM DNA
The sort was beside herself with joy at the acquisition of wooly M juice and blathered on about it for ages.
For the life of Moi, I can't envisage a use for it. Unless we have a speight of WM crimes and need to identify the suss.

'Ello ello, young Wooly Mammoth me lad, were you anywhere near the Co-op last night cos the centre aisle has been flattened and all that's missing is some bags of mixed salad leaves and a packet of monster munch. Could you accompany me to the station and have a mouth swab done?'

Apparently the said Woolster had been filleted by some cave man type who'd made off with the bones. For all we know it could have been some kind of Fred Flintstone-esque spare rib doings.

Any road up, the Anthropological type bint was very nigh blubbing about it all and spent far too long than could be considered healthy caressing the carcas, for my liking!

Frankly, when they first unwrapped it, I thought it was an ancestor of Bill Bailey, or Lovely One for that M. The hair was the same colour!

I digress...

Now it is up to Lovely One to salvage the gallery situation, through absolutely no fault whatsoever of the mild mannered and gentle W.
In the good cop, bad cop world Lovely One is very definitely the Bad C.
However, my manipulation skills are legendary and I've always been a devotee of Theda Bara, so I shall pull out all the stops.

But, having been given the impetus to withdraw from the clutches of Auntie Wainwright and her Olympic M diving team, I shall NOT be putting all me oeuffs dans one basket and so W et Moi are off to Welly to survery other gaffs.

Good luck BF in your quest for gainful employment!

Tuesday, 3 April 2012

In which I scub down for summer...

'Twas with smidge of sadness that I heard on the News, or was it Loose Women, that Ronan Keating and his wife have gone their seperates. But then, I thought, Ronan might like to drink at the well of the older temptress, i.e. your very own Lovely One...

Well every cloud, Ronan my sweet, and all that...

It just so happens that Lovely One is in the market for a Toyus Boyus.

As I was having the last supper, well the last one not dictated by Slimming World, I pondered on the Lovely Ronan casting his beady emerald eye over the reclining expanses of Lovely One.

'Beggorha,' he might sigh as he mounts the North face of Lovely One.

I know, I know his lovely wife was just that - lovely, but what's she got that One hasn't got more of and had longer?

I unravelled the old luuurve machine body of mine and inspected for signs of winter wear and tear...

On first unfurling from me fluffy, from the top, not too bad, but wait, some of what was up the top half has gone a bit further down over the woolly pully months.

Assault on Ronan Campaign...

1 Arms like sides of ham with massive bingo wings. Note to self: don't wave goodbye to anyone standing close by, they may sustain whiplash injuries.
Action: Get out bacon slicer or hand weights.

2 Dub dubs like envelope flaps - yuk
Action: Sleep with 'Doreen' on, tied to chandelier and hope for some uplift. note to self: don't turn over in night or situation could be exacerbated.

3 Stomach overhang partially obscuring twinkle.
Action: stain black and make like it's one of them bumbag things, or eat less and take more excersise.

4 Arse area: Now has own postcode and is marked as a 1:4 hillock on ordnance survey maps.
Action: Break out super spanx knee length re-inforced shreddies. Note to self: Don't wash very well, so scrape gusset area with stanley knife before embarking on any moonlight trysts with Ronan.

5 Thighs: Large, lumpy and stuck together.
Action: Liberally coat insides with chafing gel so Ronan may be inserted.

6 Twinkle: Not seen light of day for many a moon. May have scabbed over.
Action: fill bidet with Cilit Bang grime and lime and let it submerge for a couple of hours whilst soaking a coil of rope in Dettol to use as gusset floss.

7 Feet: yellowing nails and 5mm thick cracking grey skin on heels,
Action: Take cheese grater to heels and hedge trimmer to nails.

8 Face: Obviously still have the face of an angel, so no change there then. Just a half inch thick layer of Immac over skin and leave on overnight.

Just went to Slimming World and got weighed. Weigh enough to make three supermodels with a bit left for spares, so may have to put Ronan romancing on hold for a month or fifty.

We could do some of that 'phone sex' but it makes the handset sticky and you can't hear what they're saying.

I am a bighorror.

Monday, 2 April 2012

In which I reminisce about the Pickled Egg Mafia...


And so...

Off we went, like the boring elderly peeps we are, to the sodding Garden Centre!

'Ooooh', says Moi, 'Look. They've got a craft centre. I'm going in there first.' And I scuttled off as fast as me fat legs would allow, with me thighs crashing together causing a momentum that didn't stop for some seconds after I'd ceased perambulating.

What a disappointment that was! All that boring old stuff for card making. What is the point of that, I ask you? Sticking bits of paper on to other bits of paper with no actual design input at all, unless you count the decision of where your stick it. I know where Lovely One would stick it - in the bin.

I well remember when BF and Lovely One were in our artistic infancy being lured into the Pickled Egg Mafia Christmas Market. The event was heralded by some delightful, hand biroed A4 notices selotaped to lamp posts, hither and thither.

We duly set out our stall. Me with my tres amatuer scribblings and my first ever set of Christmas cards that had been hastily produced following inspiration from the Postie who goes around with his helmet decorated with tinsel for the festive season.

BF, of course, had professionally created fabric items all labelled properly and with prices on AND bags to put stuff in when sold. She is soooo organised, and now she's thin as well, she'd be perfect, if only she could shake the habit of drinking her own bath water.

Any road up, we attracted a smidgeon of attention from the few surly stragglers that darkened our door. So much so, that the Pickled Egg Mafia went into a huddle and duly sent a representative over to see what we'd got on offer.
She sidled along our length fingering our wares until she alighted upon me Chrimbo cards, which were fully inspected, inside and out.

On return to the Mafioso Godmother, the message was delivered that they had nothing to worry about since...
'There's no writin' in 'er cards, so ours are better.'

I do feel that, although my Christmas cards were my first foray into the greetings world, the mere fact that I had produced them from paintings and not from bits of paper stuck to other bits of paper, rendered them desirable.
No matter, sold loads.

Any road up, it marked the beginnings of a cold war between what was to become Red Hat, our art and craft co-operative and the aforementioned Pickled Egg Mafia, which was eventually to culminate in a showdown outside the Dulverton Town Hall.

BF and Moi had cased the joint, (Dulv TH Market) after foolishly having agreed to 'stall up' there one Wednesday am.

Now, it's not that there isn't a place in society for pickled eggs and clocks made out of CD's. It's just that it's place isn't next to my masterpieces!
I was duly despatched to deliver the news that we wouldn't be attending, which, foolish Pollyanna that I am, I thought went rather well.

There fell a deathly hush amoungst the stalls...
The copper rhuematism bangle seller bared her tooth,
The jeweller clenched her tiny fists,
The jars of pickled eggs trembled on the trestle table as I heard them say...
'Huh, she thinks 'er stuff is better than ours!'
Anyway that was the end of that.

I digress, dear reader...

We bought loads of bird food and bird houses for the grounds and 'him' bunged 'em up on the fence and in the tree. It is all in an effort to make the view from Lovely One's boudoir a little more suitable. The fat little sparrows that inhabit said tree are using it as a sort of motel, and shagging their little beaks off in it. How unsuitable for outside Lovely One's window! Let's hope the little blighters alight on the feeders instead of one another and render themselves too fat for luuurve - just like your very own Lovely One!

Sunday, 1 April 2012

In which I am deserted by everyone...

Well, that would appear to be that!

Woke this morning to a chill breeze blowing about in the underground lair. Tumbleweed scudding across the persian rug in the salon, and a slug trail. Don't you just have it when one of the little blighters does that?

No dog acoutrement around. In fact nothing to suggest that Darling Lovely One hadn't always abided in the singular.

Just me and the house rabbit, Lucien, who's tiny jobbies get stuck between One's toes.

Goodness gracious, I only went out to survey the acreage and do a bit of digging etc., then retired to me boudoir early to sleep off the manual labour.

Now that I'm almost completely deaf - eh? - what? - I slept the sleep of the innocent and, frankly, anything could have happened and not roused Moi from Moi's slumbers.

And do you know what? It did!

The lone figure of shirlaytosis will be meandering abroad with no companion to poo pick with now. All those bereft elderly maidens will be scuttling, heads bowed, toward the communal bins with their little bags of dog's doings, all alone.

One can almost bite into the thick blanket of silence...

But, Lovely One will bite into a big boy's breakfast, wax me face, load up a fresh tena lady, and renew me membership to Chubby Chasers.