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Saturday, 26 May 2012

In which I am yet again utterly amazed by fellow ‘artists’…

And so the day has FINALLY arrived when your very own polyanna-math is to fill up the new gallery/studio with her breathtaking works of art.

Biffed off down there yesterday to show someone around and already there are pieces of art and some unidentifiable objects in situ..

Encountered one of the prospective contributors and had v interesting chat…

PC   ‘I had a very successful exhibition in Taunton Library last year’.

LO   ‘That’s fantastic! How much did you sell.’

PC   ‘Oh I didn’t sell anything.’

Now then, Dear Reader, Lovely One is in the business of actually SELLING her wares and hopefully the work of others.

I did point out that Red Hat is a commercial venture and we are primarily in the business of selling goods to make a profit and a LIVING.

I was then given a short monologue about a Zen Art Workshop during which the participants were silent for an entire day and lolled about drawing various parts of some poor sap’s body for an allotted amount of seconds.

I think you can safely say that …

Zen workshop bollocks will not be occurring on the floor of Lovely One’s gaff!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Any road up, I’d have to be gagged to keep quiet for half a bleedin’ hour. Never mind a feckin’ day.

Wednesday, 23 May 2012

In which I am imbibing too much praana…

Not too much Pussy singing last night! 

Nonetheless Lovely One had a somewhat disturbed night with bizarre dreams of that bloke who played Roseanne’s husband in ‘Roseanne’, oddly enough!

Oooh, it’s just come to me.  John Goodman, that’s his name.  Lovely One had somehow ended up married to him and living in Aged P’s house of my youth.  Lovely One swanned about all day doing housewife type stuff whilst JG worked as a Gladiator. 

It has to be said, and even in my dreams I’m obsessed with body fat, that the larger gentleman doesn’t favour the Gladiator look.  The comedy tummster hanging over the leather skirt, the overhang round the sides of the breastplate, and the chubby thighs crashing together above the sandalled tootsies, is a somewhat alarming spectacle. 

See!  Even my feckin’ dreams are fat!

Any road up, after a few days of him coming home covered in the skin and soggy body parts of some lily livered Christian, Lovely One’s stridgelling patience was wearing a bit thin – unlike JG.

Obv, am now so obsessed with lard related issues that even the bit part players in me dreams are flamin’ porkers.

It could have all been prompted by my obsession or even by the bottle of Prosecco that I necked straight out of the fridge while I was making supper.

Was having conv with the Pinkster the other day about it all and she’s giving up bread and wine to ‘see what happens’. Having said that, it was only 11.30am on day one and already a fiendish look was entering her gaze.

Some Antarctic scientist type cove was blathering on on Radio 4 while Lovely One was putting me face on the other morning, and maybe he has the answer.

Apparently, critters grow to enormous size when living in the cold water and nippy confines of Arctic type establishments.  Conversely, mountain dwelling critters, who don’t breathe in as much oxygen are much smaller.

Lovely One and her analytical mind has concluded thus:

I am a lard bucket because I live in a cold and damp underground lair and because I breathe too much.

I shall, of course, pass on this handy hint to JG before he biffs off Gladiatoring tonight.


In which Lovely One is wooed by a Big Blackie Pussy…


Lovely One is approaching Zombster-like state at the mo and all due to the disturbance of a big, fat, black pussy.

Obv, the little blighter has mistaken your very own dear Lovely One for the ‘sex kitten’ she used to be.  Sadly, am now a moth-eaten moggster of the most scabby variety.  This inescapable fact has, however, failed to register with Big Blackie, and every night he takes up the position on me Hepplewhite garden bench and embarks on me favourite aria from Madame Butterfly whilst attempting to spray through the open window.

Lovely One has deployed the Mega Squirtmeister water pistol, from a precarious position, stood standing on the windowsill, but to no avail. BB is utterly convinced that Lovely One is in possession of a pussy on heat.

Due to the ‘phew what a scorcher’ type weather that has currently blown in to the grounds, there is, indeed, a suggestion of humidity in the jim jam gusset area of Lovely One, but well, as for being in season, that avenue of possibility was boarded up long since!

And – Lovely One hasn’t even got a pussy anymore, the magnificent, vicious ginger beast still being holed up with V ex H and Boy.  And, anyway, he’s a chap!

The only territory marking Lovely One inspires these days is the odd fart expressed into the memory foam mattress.

See above…

Sold out again!  Am entering the territory of having to paint the same flamin’ thing over and over again.


Monday, 21 May 2012

In which nothing funny happened at all!…

Was hoping to have a home visit from Boy, but heard not a peep.

Still, got a look in from BF, bearing flowers.  One day she’s going to get caught picking them out of other people’s gardens!  I’ve told her often enough, but the foraging instincts are too deep.

Boy is under the doctor again, with a fresh ailment.  Not enough fresh air and green vegetables in my opinion.

Had to stay awake until midnight having agreed to collect a chum from the station, so kipping all morning and then…

Fired up the Ferrari and biffed off to Milverton to deliver the paintings to The Globe.

Many of the ‘serious painter’ types with determined looks on their fizzogs charging about with fecking enormous canvas masterpieces.  Lovely One has never been in there before and, believe me, there’s not much room for big ones.

Any road up, some cheerful, chatty souls as well, so that was ok.  I can’t be doing with these serious arty types.  One in particular was taking up far too much time with the organiser as the queue grew and grew, and then biffed off without a by your leave nor nothin’

Organiser looks like a bon oueff, so that was good, specially since Lovely One hadn’t read the email properly regarding delivery and had painstakingly wrapped me offerings in hugely flamboyant parcels, instead of simply providing the wrapping as requested.  Still, got off with it and having emailed the organising bod was informed that me offerings were good enough not to be inspected. Wacko!!

Have had phonecall from Dear Little S’s gaff regarding all manner or serious stuff.  Hate that!  Don’t want to get organised.  ‘Spose I’d better fall into line though.

Sold all me framed prints and a big original down on the Barbican – Woo Hoo!

Better get on with it then…

Sunday, 20 May 2012

In which Lovely One is slightly confused by Aged P…

Lovely One has just made her weekly telephone call to Aged P in order to ascertain her wellbeing and pass on the latest tales of woe from the underground lair…

LO   Hello it’s only me.  Got any news?

AP   I’m not buying any tops this year.  I never wore any of ‘em last year, bloody weather, I’m sick of it.

LO   It’s a bit milder here today and the weather forecast is for better weather starting at the end of this week.

AP   Bloody Eileen’s back from Greece.  Said it was warm there.  Still, it rained in Athens. ‘Ow’s ‘ee?

LO   Oh, alright at the moment thanks.

AP   I still haven’t heard anything from R (the brother)  I’m just leaving it.  I left two messages on that phone eye thing and ‘ee’s never got back to me and there’s bleeding’ Easter Bunnies all here on the sideboard waiting to be eaten.

(it should be noted at this point that the Brother is fifty and probably won’t eat the bunnies)

LO  - Had a bit of a set back here (explains the shite back up debacle and moving out et al)

AP   Oh I’ve ‘ad a blockage in me outside drain.  They was ‘ere within ten minutes fishin’ a brick out of it.  I went to that Indian dinner the other day.  Lovely food they ‘as. ‘Course, I ‘ad to wear a bloody pair of trousers.  Can’t never wear a frock no more now what with wearing these bloody support socks.  I’m sick of it! 

LO   Where was the Indian meal?

AP   Some Indian woman from me art class.  She’s eighty four you know and her husband’s left her but she’s ever so clean.

LO   I’ll let you know when I have to move out so that the work can be done on the drains.

AP   Where are they making you go?  Will it be a three bedroom?  I could come for a break then.

LO   They can’t ‘make’ me go anywhere.  I shall need to be temporarily housed in a suitable place for a while I expect, but I’m not labouring the point, I shall wait for the engineer’s report.

AP   Iris’s son is a millionaire.  He takes ‘er all over you know.  It cost sixty pound return on the train from Matlock.  Delphine’s going to a garden centre for lunch.  John’s bent right over now.  I’m not eating milk chocolate.  I have two squares of 80% cocoa powder dark chocolate now.  I’m having me wine now.

LO   Ok then I’ll phone you in the week.

AP   Make sure it’s big enough for me to have a holiday.  I’m washing me curtains this week.


Friday, 18 May 2012

In which there is yet another whiff of back luck…

It has been foretold that ‘yer shite will catch up with you’.  Karma, I believe it’s called. 

Well, the Sisters Ugly’s shite has caught up with them in the manner of two inches of toiley boiley detritus floating around at least one of ‘em’

Let me explain…

Yesterday’s visit from Basil and Gette turned out to be rather more than simply rodding out Shirleytosis et al.

Upon entering the underground lair of Lovely One the rodders paced up and down the sitting room scratching their heads and referring to an ancient script whereupon lay the unsolved mysteries of what lies beneath Lovely One’s abode. 

I did grasp the fact that ‘solids’ are floating about Shirleytosis’s boudoir. ‘Solids’ what a nasty word!  It conjures up all manner of dirty thoughts!  Any road up, confused as to why there’s no problem shifting the most ferocious three-bucketer from Lovely One’s toiley boiley I enquired as to why the problem was only up one end, so to speak.

Mind you, Lovely One was secretly harbouring a worm feeling inside that the Sister’s Ugly were having Lovely One’s psylium husk, vindaloo, orlistat and two pints of red wine as an unwelcome visitor on the linoluem!

Lovely One’s movements have long been a source of interest for immediate family and many past loves.  (They did indeed have to love Lovely One in order for them to live alongside the unpleasant goings on in Lovely One’s innards.)

I still recall the bright sunny morning on which Aged P, (female variety) when she was young P, all dirndyl skirted and back-combed, leant out of the window to her chum who was wheeling Janet next door down the road, and shouted…

‘She’s been!  That’s thirteen day’s worth!’, whilst the chubby young Lovely One squirmed in embarrassment from the steaming potty., and I was only twenty seven at the time! Boom Boom!

Any road up, I digress…

Turns out, according to the rodding bods that Lovely One’s toiley boiley contents flow beneath the underground lair in the opposite direction to those of the Sisters Ugly et al.  So, whilst not being responsible for the backed up shite, it is all festering in a collapsed pipe directly underneath me v expensive Persian rug.

The upshot of it all is that…



In which I await a rodding…

On the explicit instruction of a Sister Ugly, dearest Lovely One has been forced to leave the snuggly depths of the truckle bed and await the attentions of a drainage engineer.

Apparently Shirleytosis has ‘backed up’ and needs rodding.  In order to ascertain whether the problem ‘starts or ends’  at Lovely One’s end has to be verified by a ‘proper man.’

Well, dear reader, I’m hoping it’s going to be a ‘proper man’ and not the Moistening Maintenance Man that fronts up for anything from a damp patch, (and there’s plenty of those when he comes a’calling)  to a full blown leak. Not that he ever actually does anything other than cast his beady over the problermo and then shear!

It really would be a catastrophe if the grounds had to be dug up, because One’s has had the attentions of a gardening bod for a day or two and the Elizabethan Knot Garden is looking champion! Well, good in parts, following the attention of a Sisters Ugly pussy, that, every time it alights upon a freshly dug piece of earth, finds it necessary to poop on it. 

As you know, dear reader, Lovely One has a soft spot for pussies. In particular mine own, the vicious and mentally challenged ‘Tigerboy’ who, being the subject of a particularly unpleasant custody battle, now resides with V ex H.

Any road up – pussies - love ‘em! 

Except, that is, the pussies of the Sister Ugly, Her very old pussy is tres scraggy and suffering from hairless scabby patches.  It doesn’t flinch when it encounters a hound, just sits tight and blinks it’s rheumy eye over the fence.  The new pussy addition to the coven is a yowling, skeletal item that drops it’s guts all over me newly seeded lawn and attempts to scoff the airborne wildlife.

Odd.  Isn’t it? That a person’s pets should take on the characteristics of their owner.  Not that I’m accusing the Sister Ugly of shitting amongst the knot garden, just that her feline familiars are unpleasant visitor’s to One’s grounds.  They are ugly, unfriendly, sly, yet cowardly, and, frankly, repellant.

Where as, Lovely One’s pussy is a great, big, fat, adorable lump, beautiful to behold and to stroke it?  Well, that’s like having an Angel’s wing flutter across One’s cheek.  Unless, of course, you should arouse the Pussy’s wrath.  Whereupon the fleshy ginger will spit venom and fly straight for the jugular!

Thursday, 17 May 2012

In which there is real danger of Lovely One going commando…

Trundled off to Wellington to cast a beady over the new Red Hat premises yesterday.  Took Boy, having delayed the trip until the afternoon, to make sure he was out of his pit in time.

Well, that, and having been delayed by a laundry malfunction whereupon Lovely One was rendered shreddie-less and in danger of going commando.  Before heaving vast quantities of grubby items to the washin mashin  poor dear Lovely One found it necessary to alight upon the least crusty shreddies to wear that very day.  A task not performed since the student days of yore, and frankly, a dire admission for an ageing sex moggie!  Salvation was found in a pair of Primarni big pants with a fossilised tena lady still attached!  Sadly it had adhered to the gusset with such venom that, upon removal, the sticky bit continued to snag me twinkle all bleedin’ day.

Back to the floor of the gallery…

The floor of said premises having become an issue owing to what and what could not be reasonably bunged on top of the concrete and screed (whatever the Dickens that is) lay in precarious piles hither and thither.

Now, call me old fashioned but I prefers me floors laid flat in an orderly fashion and all at one level.  Any road up, that’s what Lovely One and Boy were there to organise.  K, the building site bloke, descended from a ladder, and began speaking in tongues, pointing at the aforementioned piles of floor, and pacing about with his hands in his utility belt.  Poor dear Lovely One grasped nothing of the foreign speak of the buildingesque bod but nodded from time to time to indicate having absorbed the monologue.

Meanwhile, Boy stood motionless in the corner by the door staring at the corner. 

‘Next Wensdee at the latest’, concluded the bod and with arms folded, leant back on his heels for my response.  I proffered the usual noises of gratification and agreed to front up ‘next Wensdee’ to cast me beady over it.

Not a moment too soon!  Having sheared from Auntie Wainwright at the end of sodding January with the promise of a new place to lay me easel, following month upon month of goings on, Lovely One is on me uppers, practically nil by mouth, and frankly, downright bleedin’ desperate for cash!!

Boy, still motionless in the corner pipes up,

‘I know this is probably a silly question’, pointing at the rubber ended, spiral, metal door stop sticking out of the skirting board,‘But, what’s that?’

‘It’s a coat hook for very small customers,’ said Lovely One.

Building type bod explained the item, Boy looked suitably interested and then sloped off up the alley with his jeans slung at such a precariously low angle that his Smedley Botham was practically on view to all and sundry!

And to think, in but a few weeks Boy is off to University to begin his training to become Prime Minister!


Tuesday, 15 May 2012

In which One enjoys a flurry of interest…


Oh my giddy Aunt!

I’m much in demand at the mo and it’s heartwarming for your very own dear little Lovely One, who, as you know, doesn’t have anything warmed very much any more. Still that’s what happens to an ageing Sex Moggie when she porks up to the point of Circus quality.

In fact, had it not been for the sudden and swift resurgence of interest in the doings of One, One may well have biffed out the immac, bearded up and gone on the road with Billy Smarts. Aaaah, a life on the highways and byways sustained by pork pieways.   But, ‘twas not to be…

Dear Little S called and was the bearer of bon news a deux.  Firstly, since the histrionics and unpleasant scenes of last week, when I might add, the Pinkster sloped off and hid in a dark corner, and left the poor little defenceless Lovely One to cower under the glare of a younger, though it has to be said, LOOKS MUCH OLDER, v well spoken bit who launched into One in a manner most venomous.  It must have been David Attenborough-ish to survey the scraggy old tigress stalk and then pounce upon the poor defenceless fawn. (That’s me, that is)

Any road up, I stray from the thread of me tale…

Apparently Lovely One is cordially invited to exhibit and flog her wares in a new gallery, and since One has withdrawn One’s labour from the Barbican the only way One’s legions of followers can get hold of One is on the squabbled about website of them others.  So, they want me to honour them free gratis, in return for Moi’s gallery giving them the nod on me new website. AND…  Most of the stuff me and the Pinkster’s van took to Brixham has gone – so they need more!

One small cumlington nimboid on the hoz is – I’ve been requested to paint the Brunel bridge into Cornwall.  Well – I had painted it, well half painted it, got bored, and painted stuff on the other side.  It now has biffed off into the great yonder as, Over Taunton One, Wellington Rooftops, and Cup Cakes (sold)

The remaining piece is at the top, as yet unfinished.

Sunday, 13 May 2012

In which One is the victim of a vile hate crime…

Lying ‘neath the satin sheets noir in me shimmy shirt', Lovely One shot up in bed like a thing possessed upon the realisation that One has been the victim of the most vile hate crime.

I’m sure you recall the venom spitting, Sisters Ugly’s crime against your very own Lovely One, when they UNLAWFULLY ripped me back gate out and replaced it with an inferior fence panel…

WELL…  The spiteful old hags committed an even greater misdemeanour in their doings!

I have been long since wondering about the fate of the magnificent Clematis that had been growing out of a rather splendid chimney pot up the top of the garden.  Well, it suddenly dawned on dear little innocent Lovely One that the brutish bastards had ripped it, no doubt in all it’s glory when the CRIME was committed, from the back fence AND KILLED IT!

I expect they were in league with their gusset moistening maintenance man.  Now Lovely One shall be dogged by chilling nightmares of the Sisters Ugly fawning and dripping all over the complicit little Oik.


One still has the hole in the ceiling where aforementioned Oik poked his digit, before shoving a bucket under the drip (no, not from the gussets of the Sisters Ugly) from the ‘ole!

Any road up, not a thing has been done maintenance wise to combat the slimy streak down the wall, or indeed, the damp in the kitchen.  What’s to be done?  Lovely One has pored over the lease to no avail.

Lovely One is not the sort to engender hatred. In fact quite the opposite, but on this occasion having been done wrong on so numerous an occasion, One is busy plotting me revenge.

Saturday, 12 May 2012

In which I’m not exactly sure what happened there…

Lovely One was duly collected by the Pinkster in the van and off we biffed to Brixham to deliver a wodge of Brix Pics for the holiday makers to spend their pocket money on.

What a thrill!  To actually get to ride in the very van that the Pinkster family, from one end street, tumble out of.  Spilling out into their field in all their ‘dog on a bit of string’ glory!

Unfortunately Lovely One was being observed as she attempted with eventual success to heave herself into the ve-hicle. One had spent a night of fearful dreaming about the height of the step on which Lovely One’s short fat legs would have to alight in order to take up the position.  After all, when one is familiar with sliding gracefully into say, a Mazerati, or a Bugatti, One’s little porksters can’t perambulate one into a high ve-hicle.

Any road up eventually, in situ, off we biffed into the fog and stair rod rain of Devon.

Rather enjoying me day out, Lovely One was shaken, although not stirred, by an incident unpleasant when visiting Dear Little S.

I shall report this contretempt, since the protagonist shall remain anonymous, and we will, no doubt trundle across one another’s paths again. 

And this is what happened…

Due to the fact that Lovely One flounced out of her previous gallery in Feb and then encountered a serious of unfortunate events that rendered One without an income until fecking June, One is just about on me uppers in the spons department.  With this at the front of me mind, I engaged a local brainy bloke to fashion me a website so that I don’t have to pay to be on someone else’s, that cost me ten quid a month and had never, ever been updated.

This information was duly relayed to the owner of the other website.  The histrionics that then ensued were of mammoth proportions.  The death scene in Camille had nothing on the flouncing and flopping down on chairs william nilliam of the recipient of my news.  I simply couldn’t make myself understood that


‘We don’t charge you for selling from the website’ was the retort.


Granted, it is difficult to explain the absence of the odd tenner to someone who eats luncheon sandwiches that come in their own individual fecking carrier bag!

But, Dear Little Lovely One plodded on, attempting to explain.

It wasn’t until I had heaved my fat little bodzilla into the Pinkwagon that I realised what had happened.

I had indeed been charged a healthy sum for selling from aforementioned website.

And this is how it happened…

Meandering back from Leeds having been fleeced by all and sundry, I received a text from D little S saying that someone had emailed him to buy one of me biggies off the website.  Well, it wasn’t in their gallery, so I biffed off and deposited it for the customer to collect.

Since it had been collected from the gallery itself, I was charged a percentage.  That’s fine, all is well, fair enough, it’s a fair cop guv!  I was unaware that I didn’t have to pay the same for website sales.


The thrilling histrionics episode…

Whereupon the unnamed personage informed me that…

‘No, the customer bought it from the gallery after deciding between a commission from me, or one of your paintings.’

A very grey area, into which I shan’t be straying again.

What just happened?

I don’t know.

All I know is it all got massively out of hand and left your very own Lovely One feeling v uncomfortable and worried that One might lose the much valued comradeship of Darling Little S.

Thursday, 10 May 2012

In which there is definite fluffy sharing going on…

A day of contrasts was trundled through by your very own dear Lovely One yesterday.

As per… Not quite according to plan.  One has had to draw the inevitable conclusion that One must have fronted up sur le globe before in the form of some kind of great dictator, given One’s propensity to ‘having a plan’ and lists and project management, and well, let’s face it – HAVING MY ORDERS FOLLOWED

Must have been some kind of Queen or something Boedica (her with the wheels), Cleopatra, or, and it’s more likely Attila the Honey.

Before biffing toward Pinkster’s I left explicit instruction with that lanky twerp, Vile ex Hubbster, that he was to prise Boy out of his chariot and have him scrubbed and ready for a luncheon audience with his dear Mama in the local hostelry. That was just before 11.30am, and I could tell from his voice that V ex H had just arisen from his sweaty pit! 

Ooooh I’ve made meself feel uncle dick now thinking about V ex H thrashing around between MY Egyptian cotton sheets with that shrivelled snaggle toothed troll he sniffs up to.  Still, courtesay of Boy I know that the previous evening at least, he’d been summoned to her louse ridden lair at 1.00am in the morning, if you please! Clearly for a convention of the great unwashed methinks.  I can’t believe either of them is in a fit state for chuff box rummaging and can only conclude they sit around comparing tide marks whilst in a drunken stupor.

Any road up, I telephoned again just before vacating the Pinkster’s gaff and Boy still hadn’t emerged from under the quilt.

‘Phone back in ten’ I was instructed by V ex H.  So I sallied forth to Wivey in the Mazerati and phoned again.


Another six hour drunken whining session from the Snaggled one – no doubt.  So I biffed up and rang the doorbell.

Some minutes later, the apparition of V ex H appeared with his face on inside out, wearing a white fluffy. 

‘I think he’s up, do you want to come in’ he bleated. I opted for the doorstep whilst waiting for Boy, who appeared moments later.  He was in the same state and also wearing a white fluffy.  Well to be brutally frank – what had been a white fluffy at some time in the distant past, but hadn’t had the briefest of brush with the washin’ mashin’ in many a long moon.

Do they ‘fluffy share?’ Have they got one each? Did I buy them.  Upon questioning they said I bought them one each and that they were regularly washed every three or four months.

Oh my giddy Aunt!  How do they function without the management of Lovely One? ‘Tis another mystery for that Nancy Drew/

Wednesday, 9 May 2012

In which I can’t understand Corrie anymore…

Obviously, Lovely One favours BBC4 as the natural station of choice for One so cerebrally celebrated and with a noodle stuffed full of interesting information.

But… On the odd occasion when One requires a smidgeon of ‘light entertainment’ One does rather enjoy curling up in me fluffy with one of those individual wine boxes and watching Coronation Street.

An avid viewer for ever, even with my current state of memory decay and lack of ability to see what’s coming next, even the ‘bleedin’ obvious’, I cannot understand what the flamin’ ‘eck is ocurring.

Is it being written by a different team every week?  Do they not have to trawl through the carefully constructed ‘lives’ of the characters in order to invent something akin to what the actual character profiles might do?

It would appear not.  Where have all the funny bits gone?  Norris and Mary are a dream team. So why concentrate on that ancient stick insect Audrey – ‘actchully’ .

I mean, Nigel flamin’ Havers!  I ask you.  That really stretches the credulity of even the easily hoodwinked Lovely One!

And as for that leftover Brobat blonde from Enders – well!  And that nice little Sunita bit.  Going around dressed like a thirty-bobber with her nellies hanging out and licking that bloke from the Bill.

It has really upset the equilibrium of your own dear Lovely One.

Only the year before last One had to stop watching Enders due to the abject misery of everyone’s existence.   I cannot contemplate the loss of Corrie.  It’s too too awful. 

I have long since been modelling meself on Ena Sharples and BF is a proper little Minnie Caldwell, even though her pussy has long since perished.  We even had a corner at the pub in homage to the snug in the Rovers.

I can’t go on!  I’m too distressed! 

I simply can’t be doing with all this ‘lap dancing, loan shark, murdering, granny knobbing’ nonsense.

Lovely One cannot live by Bargain Hunt and Come dine with Me alone.

And to put the tin ‘at on it – that irritating Libby Purves is holding forth on Radio 4.  Get her off!!


Monday, 7 May 2012

In which I have a moist unsightly bulge…

Once upon a time there dwelt a decaying Princess…

Throughout her long and charmed life the Princess had unsuccessfully hooked up with a number of Princes various and had plummetted down the food chain with alarming speed to finish up festering in an underground lair with nothing for company but woodlice and gloom.

Early one evening in the monsoon season which had come upon her part of fairyland, the Princess, who we shall henceforth call LO, was snuggled up in her truckle bed kindling ‘A timetraveller’s guide to Elizabethan England’, when she noticed an unsightly bulge.

No, not in her shimmy-shirt, although it has to be recorded that she has ladled on the lard since she gave up a promising career in arse-wiping, but in the alarmingly meringue-esque artexed ceiling.

‘Tis a trick of the shadows’, pondered LO, extinguished her candle and shuffled off to kerfuffelley for the night.

Awakened by Brenda the psychotic blackbird at some ungodly hour, the Princess’s gaze alighted upon, what was by now, a zeppelin sized damp bulge above her truckle bed.

‘Oh my giddy Aunt’, shrieked the P and shot out of bed like a jit.

Without delay she fired up her pooter and contacted the Sisters Ugly, who patrolled the block with all the enthusiasm and zeal of the Stazi, and in due course they fronted up for a peruse of the problermo.

Quite why it takes two of the unpleasant old trolls to examine any prob has always been beyond the limited understanding of LO, but, no matter, ‘tis always wise to defer to the guidance of the sour-faced old harridans than to question them. Otherwise they veto any maintenance wot needs doin’ and yer stuffed all ends up then…

Any road up…

They duly sent out a message to their very own handsome prince and awaited his arrival.  ‘Good luck with that’ thought LO who had been waiting since last April (2011) for him to tank her damp patch.

Six hours later than agreed the troubling trio fronted up and dabbed through LO’s receiving chamber in their Clarks sandals, circa 1962, Hotter lace-ups and great big hefty workboots, respectively.

Taking up the position in the Princess’s boudoir the booted one surveyed the ceiling, promptly stuck a digit through the plaster, bunged a bucket under the hole and sheared to the rear grounds, followed by the panting and moist Sisters Ugly.

‘Mmmmmm’ he ejaculated, with a perfectly manicured hand stroking his chin, ‘There’s a leak’, he went on as he viewed the two foot wide green slimy Tallulah falls cascading down the arse end of the block.

Now, dear reader, the Princess is not known for her DIY skills and always get a ‘proper man’ in, but even she had ascertained that there was indeed a ‘fecking leak’.

The Sisters Ugly twittered and flitted around the maintenance Prince, twisting their bloomer legs round their fingers in anticipated glee.

A brief period of discussion ensued to which the Princess was not privy and then they biffed off leaving a muddy trail across me Persian rug –(ebay £70 – no reserve) Bargain of the century, let me tell you!

And that was the last I’ve seen of any of them…

The Princess is currently reading the terms of her lease very carefully, in one hand and dialling her solicitor with the other…


Sunday, 6 May 2012

In which I have a ‘Blackie’…

Had a ‘Blackie’ today.

Let me explain…                                                         

A ‘Blackie’, as invented by Aged P, (deceased) is a day whereupon One, anyone, not just Lovely One, stays in their jim- jams all day long, partakes of only the barest rudimentary brush with soap and water, and generally ligs about being sluttish.

Kipping is permitted at any time of the day as long as a hot water bottle is shoved down the back of said jimmington-jams.  ‘Dirty’ foodstuffs, such as sausages, baked beans and white bread may be consumed at will and burping and trousorial guffs are fundamental to the success of the enterprise.

Any road up, before surrendering entirely to the ‘Blackie’ Lovely One decided to telephone the remaining Aged P,  to deliver the news about Boy and the trip to Leeds University…

LO   Hello, I thought I’d just ring to tell you about our trip to Leeds.

AP   Oooh I went to Leeds, to a place that had a balcony. It was a big tall building on a hill.

LO   We took Boy to see loads of various student rooms and flats.

AP   That Eileen always wants to go to the toilet all the time when we’re out.  Everywhere we go we have to plan where the next toilet stop’s going to be. It gets on my nerves, all the bloody time!

LO   Boy is really excited about going on his big adventure, but I’m trying to…

AP   Darren is going to start painting my kitchen ceiling next Monday.  He took me and Iris to B&Q to get the paint. 

LO   I am trying to persuade him to go catered for the first year.  I think that would be best don’t you?

AP   Paint is £57.30 that’s ridiculous, still they can afford it they’ve got a villa in Portugal you know.  Well, they’ve work ‘ard all their lives so I don’t blame them.

Having heard about the bloody sodding villa in every single solitary conversation had with AP for the last fifteen years, I am still at a loss to know whether the villa is held up as admonishment to Lovely One for not providing a free gratis holiday home or just as some kind of aspirational achievement.

No matter, we plod on…

LO   Boy has done really well getting himself sorted out and getting a place, hasn’t he?

AP   Eileen always wants fish and chips.  I’m bloody sick of it.  Why she can’t spend out a bit and have a sit down I don’t know. We always end up outside with fish and chips or a co-op meal deal on a seat.  Then we have to find the nearest toilet. I’ve had enough of it, she’s got plenty of money!

LO   I’ll bring Boy up for a long weekend before he goes off to Leeds, shall I?

AP   Phillipa has cut me ‘air too short at the back again, I don’t know why she does it!  ‘Er daughter’s getting married. It’s going to be ever such a big do you know!  She’s a lovely dancer.  She’s got ever such a good job. I’ll have to go now, me programme’s on.


Saturday, 5 May 2012

In which I can’t get enough to eat…

Flamin’ Nora!  Me Prada-Willi worm’s bin playin’ up again.  OK, maybe it was the absorbing of Pinot Grigiot times deux wot dunnit, who knows?

All Lovely One knows is that whatever I scarfed down me gullet yesterday didn’t satisfy me intestinal infestation.  Because that’s what it must be.  I started off in the manner of a person looking to offload a truckful of lard, by next month, mind.  For that is when the wedding is.  Not mine, don’t panic, legions of admirers, I’m still firmly perched on the luurve shelf, albeit secured with heavy duty brackets.

Breakfasted lightly on porridge and lunched on a miniscule sandwich of bread sliced like a lace curtain filled with low fat cheese and greenery various. 

It really was quite disconcerting scuttling round the shops with BF now she’s like a filleted whisper.  She can’t half move!  Scurrying round Chaplins like a little vole.  Long gone are the days when I used to offer to bung her in the child seat in the trolley.  It’s no joke, now she’d actually fit! She’s got stuff like, knees and cheekbones where formerly she was clad with an unhealthy cladding of lard like me and the Pinkster.  Talking of which – I doubt we’ll be going to slimming world next week, given the van load of pies she came back from Wellington Farmer’s Market with.

Any road up – I digress.  Let’s get back to ME, Lovely Lovely One and me eating disorder, for that’s what BF thinks I’ve got.  The very attractively named Prada-Willi syndrome.  That’s where you just scoff and scoff and are never ever full up.  The Abbster had that and got her stomach stapled, lost twelve stone, and had all the extra bits cut off and now looks rather trim, but she’s ten years younger than Lovely One.  Who’d want to ramp up the health service bill by shelling out for the heavy duty staples in their scores, in order to form a bulkhead in Lovely One’s ever empty insides.

No, methinks I’m beyond the interest of being saved. I did mention that I would be doing me aerobics every morning starting next week and that cheeky mare, Pinkster, started laughing!  The underground lair’s got concrete flooring, so all will be well.  It’s not as if I’m upstairs and run the risk of star jumping me way into someone else’s gaff.

Any way – I went on through the day until supper time whereupon I inhaled a couple of sea bass fillets with a lovely green salad.

Later on – not that much later – I enquired after the baguette that I’d purchased earlier and was told that it was in the freezer.  Not being able to wait for it to thaw, I bunged it down me shimmy shirt and tucked it under me dub-dubs to thaw it out.  Following that with a Pinot Grigiot chaser I fancied something sweet so went in search of me licorice torpedoes.  They did the trick for a while, until the Prada Willi worm awoke and started gnawing at me chitlins. The evening came to a close halfway down a catering pack of Bombay Mix.  In order to help it all along it’s twenty two foot journey to toiley boiley I, rather unwisely as it transpired, sloshed down three psylium husk capsules and a couple of Orlistat.

Needless to say, much time has been spent cosying up to the re-inforced, unbreakable bog seat.

Doubly unfortunate, given that the bog rolls were forgotten at the cash and carry.

I shall be raffling tickets at the Milverton Mayfair for the chance to lick the baguette crumbs off me dub-dubs. 

Wednesday, 2 May 2012

In which I don’t scoff the full Asian…

Cont…  from overblog

Well, my giddy aunt!  We got our ‘full English’ in due course.  The table for 6, even though there was obviously a full hotel, was in the lounge (yes it is a ‘lounge’ in AN hotel) was bunged in right next to the reception desk.  It was rather pleasantly set, with a sparkling white cloth and shiny cutlery.  The general tone plummeted, however, with the addition of a plastic tomato sauce bottle upended in the middle of the table in order to get the last drop out.

The spell was further broken by the addition of a plastic tub of margarine with the marked down price label over the ‘scoff by’ date that was a distant memory.

The  non English speaking waiter sashayed forth from behind reception with his first two plates of scran.  Me an’ Boy were the lucky recipients of it.  The beans, and tell me, why are beans necessary on a brekkie?,  had clearly been adhered to the plate for some hours via a too hot microwave.  A solitary rasher of bacon, an anaemic sausage and a fossilised egg floated appetizingly around in a sea of grease with a lone tinned plum tomato.  The beaming waiter plonked aforesaid down with aplomb and flung his heat resistant oven glove over his shoulder and made off for the galley.  Although exactly why the oven glove was de riguer Alla only knows, since the plates had obviously been kept warm down a deep dark well overnight.

The only contact Boy and Moi had with the offering was a brief pressure on the sausage to ascertain how much fat would issue forth should we be daring enough to attempt to consume it.  Neither of us did and scraped the whole lot on with V ex H’s, who scarfed the lot whilst we nibbled the toast.

Pressure began building and so we made way for the other stragglers, who had been viewing us with concern and opted for the ‘continental.’

And so….

Off to investigate the place for Boy.  An interesting campus that encompassed several victorian streets into it’s whole, where students various holed up for their time there.

The first gaff was dismissed by Boy as being too cramped, so off we sallied through the now driving stair rod rain and biting wind to the next quarters.  this was an improvement and Boy seemed quite keen.  We were shown around by a casual sort of cove dressed in shorts and espadrilles, who never once removed his hands from his pockets.  Any road up, Boy and he spoke the same kind of language.

Lovely One, nursing a back injury, and wearing what was laughingly called, a ‘showerproof’ coat lagged behind the furious strides of Boy and V ex H.  Occasionally one or the other glanced over his shoulder to make sure the soggy bearer of the cash was within grabbing distance.

After the first 7 visits I became confused and couldn’t remember what was what, to the consternation of Boy.  As we strayed further and further off campus looking for rooms I tried to point out to Boy that the further he went, the further away from the action he would be and the further it would be to walk to lectures.  Boy issued forth a snarl and a huff that clearly indicated that I ‘didn’t get it.’

When he began looking at places that weren’t catered, Lovely One felt it only right to point out that Boy cannot live by  lemon drizzle cake alone.  Since that’s all we’ve actually made together since the start of our cookery masterclasses.

‘I can do sausages,’ retorted Boy, indignantly.

Boy cannot live by sausage drizzle cake alone either!

I have made meself scarce for a couple of days now and today will begin again to bombard Boy with me acute knowledge of the world out there.

Will he take advice?

Will ‘e ‘eck as like!