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Friday, 29 June 2012

In which One will be living off One’s body fat for the foreseeable…

BF bustled in with a selection of items various for her ever expanding legion of sewing admirers.  Shot in through the door like a Tazmanian devil in an anorak, charging about in her usual micro managing manner, hurtling items various hither and thither.  She’s deffo been at the Sanatogen again!

Lovely One sat sedately in her corner like a morbidly obese harbinger of doom with me face on inside out. 

When did the eponymous ‘they’ decide to change the rules that the likes of your very own Lovely One live by?

Let me explain…

Poor dear under qualified, overly optimistic LO et husbands various, hurtled up and down the social scale year on year by mortgaging little selves to the hilt, re-knitting slums various and selling them on for vast profits on which to live.  Now, the downtrodden likes of LO can’t get a blessed loan for love nor money – ha ha

Being one pay cheque away from disaster has lost the maverick appeal of youth and One daydreams wistfully about a mobility assisted bungalow up the town opposite the care home.  (Strategic placing methinks)

With a mortgage offer in me knicker pocket, One was forced by the spiteful doings of a Sister Ugly, (won’t expand on that) to take a ‘buy to let loan’ on the underground lair, which, at the time seemed expedient since had a tenant in it, and sauntered off to acquire another gaff in which to fester.

Then – ALL CHANGE.  So now, here One is renting One’s gaff off Oneself. 

One wonders if One will survive to see the volcanic eruption of all the ‘interest only’ mortgages come to fruition.  Should begin in around 5 or 6 six years methinks, when all the poor saps who’ve got one that they can’t pay off have loans that fall due for repayment.

The magma of human detritus will slide down the volcano of unsecured debt into the gutter of the homeless with all the other chancers like Lovely One who didn’t understand the rules of the game.

Answer me this….

How come, if a Casino operator manipulates the odds and is discovered, he/she is never again permitted to own/run or work in the industry again.  Yet a manipulative Banker caught cheating the system and thereby changing the rules for the great unwashed, he remains securely on his branch at the top of the tree? 

It’s a sorry state of affairs when the banking system is not as strictly run as the world of gambling.

And so the big wobbly LO will sit sorrowfully in me corner of the gallery in the morning hoping some kind soul will splash out and acquire a masterpiece so that One can scoff at the weekend.   Still, One could prob live off One’s body fat for six and a half years before One needs to worry!

In which I encounter my first oddity…

Had first oddity in for a chat yesterday.  Informed Lovely One that he’d already had conv with the Pinkster, who he’d thought was me.  I bet that pleased her no end!

Any road up, the conv opener was fine, involving vast swathes of enthusiasm for Lovely One’s masterpieces, whilst One sat there preening.  Then- apropos of nothing the article launched into a lengthy diatribe about various coves who’d ‘done him wrong’ throughout his life. 

Always a tad suspicious of those who offer more than the conventional amount of information about themselves, One began to grow quite alarmed at the ferocity of the individuals chagrin.

Apparently thespian activity had been thwarted by the intervention of the Mother and then tragic situations various had conspired to ruin the life chances of the bod.

Lovely One was, by this point cowering behind me easel in the corner and clutching me gluing knife in the manner of a dagger, should the occasion arise.

Then, just in the nick of time an angelic looking vision click clacked in and the bod vamoosed.

Yet another of BF’s gusset collages went!  Albeit after a debacle with the chip and pin machine which had not been explained to the Pinkster and Lovely One.  It really is so unnecessary to make us look incompetent. 

Oh how I long for the military systems of BF!

Thursday, 28 June 2012

In which Lovely One is required to tell her subjects which way is up…

In Lovely One’s capacity as all round bon oeuf, have agreed to wade through a missive penned by one of One’s acquaintances.  Have also, agreed to proffer a masterpiece for the cover of said works in order that it may be glanced upon more favourably than the rest of the self published offerings on Amazon.

Upon hearing these glad tidings the ungrateful author screeched…

‘You’d better not say anything bad about it on your blog, or I’ll come to Wiveliscombe, so help me, and sort you out!’

As if Lovely One has the hours in the day to waste on commenting on the doings of one of her subjects.

I ask you!  You little people should be content to occasionally drift into the orbit of Lovely One.  If you are mentioned in passing then be grateful that you should be momentarily lit by the passing glow of Lovely One. 

And just in case any of you should forget…

This little on line diary is purely as a record of the doings of Lovely One and does not concern itself with those of you who occasionally lunge forward to snatch at Lovely One’s coat tails.

Any road up, having put that straight, will be charging off to the gallery to knock off a masterpiece today.

If only it wasn’t so moist everywhere!  Lovely One positively slid off the satin sheets this morning having fallen asleep with me hot rammed down me jim jams.

One wonders what today will bring. V probably not the ordered doings of when BF was running the show, but nonetheless, ‘tis the only game in town – so One had better play it!

Wednesday, 27 June 2012

In which One offers herself to Wimbledon fortnight…

Am wondering what One could do as gainful employment to keep bod and soul together.  Sales at the new gallery thus far have been slow and One’s small savings have been eaten into with v more speed than One would like.

Have made ultimate sacrifice though, and steered the Bentley past Waitrose and into the Asda car park this week.  A horrid, horrid shock!  The customers seem to be exclusively from that nasty Gala Bingo ad off the TV.  You know the one, dear reader,

‘don’t let your feet touch ground and don’t look down….  la la la la….’

Accompanied by fat, Primarni clad special needers all gallumphing around on the beach at Clackers, or some other ghastly great unwashed holiday destination.

Any road up Lovely One fought valiantly around the ready made pies and value meat based snacks to the wine counter.  Whereupon a reason for another visit next week became clear.

Am deffo on look out for a little earner of some kind, even though the Pinkster says

‘You are too ill to work.’ 

I haven’t got to the bot of that yet and am assuming the lack lustre way One drags Oneself about these days may be it.

‘Don’t force it Phoebe’, was Lovely Gordon’s advice, in the manner of Nanny Cooper (she of the two inch droop of Embassy ash from the bottom lip) 

Anyway, never one to throw in the Egyptian cotton bath sheet, I am applying to be a ball personage at Wimbledon for a couple of weeks.  One has had to insist upon a lilac and eau de nil outfit though, and pointed out that play may be minimally delayed whilst One sashays across the grass to collect the tennis balls or hastily thrown down tennis bats.

Monday, 25 June 2012

In which it’s just not fun anymore…

Well I’ll go to the foot of our stairs!   Just awoke from yet another dream where am residing in sumptuous hillside residence to find Oneself in the dank, mildewed underground lair. 

There has definitely been some sort of error somewhere and the months on my calendar have been strung together in the wrong order.  It surely must be November again. Just taken a tentative peek from the French windows to check upon the progress of my new babies, the Agapanthus. 

That strange article who had governance over the grounds whilst your very own Lovely One was wowing the great unwashed with me masterpieces in Deepest Devon, let all my carefully tended foliage just wither and die. The bloke who lives in the top flat said that he could see her venture into the undergrowth from time to time with an ordinary pair of household scissors and, on hands and knees, trim the odd yardage of grass.  When One had a shrieking fit of the ab dabs on a rare visit as benevolent landlord, One was informed that garden maintenance couldn’t be undertaken for fear of disturbing slow worms! 

Well the little blighters have now become fast worms in order to escape the attentions of me ‘ovver mower, let me tell you!

Well, anyway, the Aggs aren’t fully flowered yet and don’t look as if they ever will.  Lovely One will be in recovery if anything happens to the little darlings.  With all the precipitation One’s grounds will be obscuring the underground lair completely, in the manner of Lovely Gordon’s gaff.

And speaking of LG, he telephoned One yester eve to enquire as to the general well being of your very own LO.  Sad to say, am in something of a downward spiral at the mo.  Is it the weather, or is it the disappointment of the new gallery.  Not a diss for everyone.  As you know BF is stitching up a storm, and Lovely One is most pleased by this.  It’s just that when BF et moi did all this gallery-ing before we had such a wizard wheeze and biffed about like two little round business persons injected with a new vigour, but this time Lovey One seems quite super-floo-oos to the doings. 

WWW has an entirely different approach to everything and the military precision is nowhere to be seen that BF and LO, well BF actually, put in place.  And it’s just not fun anymore.

Sunday, 24 June 2012

In which One ponders One’s porkiness…

Roll up! Roll up!

And see the big, fat, wobbly, and now, fecking BEARDED, lady!

That’s me that is!  Oh the horror of surviving to this great age!  Was just administering me weekly mud mask (and let me tell you, it’s tres hippo-esque these days) and guess what?  Lovely One only went and found a HAIR GROWING OUT OF ONE’S LOVELY CHIN!

Well, let me tell you, dear reader, I pounced upon that with all the speed a biffa like me can muster and hoiked it out!  On further investigation, it was v short, thick and black, like…. Oh no, even Moi can’t use those kind of comparisons for fear of the race police!

Any road up, it is now safely secreted in specimen jar until I can put it on ebay.

And, some unfeeling b*****d has gone and stuck a pic of One’s aged mama on the bathroom mirror again!

Bathroom mirror….   Now there’s a thing.  That’s going to have to go!  Lovely One simply can’t bear the thought of catching sight of One’s ever expanding bodzilla in the steam of the shower.  It’s a little known fact that ‘Gorillas in the Mist’ was filmed in the water closet of the underground lair!

Food has become the drug of choice.

Unhappy – eat

Happy – eat

Chicken and egg situation. 

Mmmmmm, num, num, chicken and egg….

Noooooo, not at 4.05am fer fecks sake!

Am now at such a gargantuan size that should someone wish to unravel Lovely One and knit me up again, there’s enough yarn for two Dawn Frenches, or a small ugly crowd of Kate Mosses, with a bit left over for a Keira Knightley.

And, to think, One was lauded on high for One’s pancake flat stomach as a girl.  Humping the whacking great Boy around for nine months put paid to that.

The fashion for regaining one’s figure in twenty minutes hadn’t arrived then, though, and unfortunately Lovely One DID get her figure back, even though One would have much preferred someone else’s!

Now – the dilemma is….

Should One continue on the path of self destruction, thereby ending One’s days as a headline….

‘Forty Two stone woman has to be cut from underground lair and buried in a biffa skip.’


One last try regain the svelt form of One’s youth?

It would be nice to wave bye bye to all that lard. But if One did, One’s bingo wings would reverberate to such a degree that the butterfly effect might hasten the destruction of the planet.


Saturday, 23 June 2012

In which Lovely One attempts to retain an air of quality, whilst trying not to push BF over…

Another moist day dans le gallery.  The great unwashed of Wellington are wading in, in their droves to worship at the altar of your very own darlingest Lovely One – as per…

However, as yet, none of the tight fisted petite blighters have plunged their clenched fists dans le old wallet and fronted up to exchange your earth pounds for a masterpiece.

But, not so for the doing of BF, who is mesmerising the ladies of the town into acquiring vast quantities of her fabric art, wot she stitches together from bits of old shreddie gusset and BFP’s belly button fluff. Not that I’m bitter or anything! 

The filleted little skeleton sashays in from time to time, carefully dodging the grooves in the click-together flooring and bares her little pointed teggies at poor Darling Lovely One squashed up her corner like the R101 with a face painted on the front.

Obv, am being lauded and praised in the highest.  Well, have been since studying under the auspices of Professor Hugh Jorgan FRSPA in Vienna, when me boudoir became a popular dropping off point in The Grand Tour.

Still, ‘tis nice to bring a grimace to the lop-sided face of the shrivelled up, short arsed BF –


Without so much as a buy your leave (is that an expression?) a rosy-cheeked, web footed local barged in with a child’s papier mache case full of strung together plastic beads and positively thrust them down next to Moi, proceeded to prop said case against a v expensive hand crafted piece of ceramic and blurted out…

‘Me mum said you took stuff on sale or return so I’ve brought me jewellery in.’

Now – let me explain – when offering wares to a gallery it is customary to…

a     Make an appointment with the proprietor to show said wares…

or at the very least….

b      Have the common courtesy to, at least, cast one’s beadies around the establishment to ascertain the items currently on sale within!!

Not so with aforementioned article…

‘Have you an appointment?’ enquired the serene lovliness of Lovely One.

‘Oh, are yer busy?’ went on the item, clearly not registering that One was biffed up behind the easel with paintbrush poised for action.

Any road up…. having thrust herself upon One – One felt obliged to peer, not very hopefully, into the proffered case, which did, indeed, contain some v Women’s Institue, Pickled Egg Mafia-esque offerings, not seen since a jumblington sale circa 1969.

‘I’m afraid we already have a bead lady’, said Lovely One with a beatific smile plastered across her serene fizzog.

‘I’d be VERY SURPRISED if you’ve got any of these’, went on the, by now, disgruntled local, waving a ghastly seed pearl bracelet circa 1958 under the up-tuned nubbie of Lovely One.


‘Well, I’m sorry, but we have a bead lady.  Would you like to see her work?’ I valiantly ploughed on.

‘No I wouldn’t’ screeched the item, snapping shut her little valise and stomping off up the alley with her bottom clenched in a rear view of contempt for Lovely One.  I can hear it now…

The contemptuous tirade to follow, no doubt containing the words, ‘cow’, ‘fat’ ‘who-the-feck-does-she-think-she-is’ being spat out of the disgruntled gob of the plastic bead stringer.

Any road up, we must maintain the ethos of no maker cutting across the territory of another.  A fact that I unsuccessfully attempted to explain.

No matter – I can live with the wrath of the Craft Market Cartel, even though the ever smiley W felt it necessary to say…

‘Maybe we shouldn’t alienate the community.’

But in this case …


Friday, 22 June 2012

In which I am in a bad mood again, so that makes forty-eight consecutive years now…

Well then,dear reader, after one day of being FF (facebook free) the velvet lined inbox of your very own Lovely One is free from exciting information concerning someone or other commenting or liking something banal.  Goodo!

Any road up, opted for the canoe to trundle into the workplace today and spent fifteen mins treading water at the lights in Welly waiting for some crane-bearing, lorry driving bod to negotiate round the corner without scooping up the frontispiece of Boots.  Consequently upon arrival at the shop was not in the most benevolent of moods and unfortunately was met with W deep in conv with another two unfortunates who had not quite grasped the reason d’etre of a shop, i.e.: ‘to sell stuff’

Afraid that the mild mannered and kindly W was about to take delivery of yet another un-priced, unnecessary load of K-wrap, Lovely One steamed in and pointed out the general direction to ‘which way is up.’

That it should be necessary to inform all comers that we are in the business of selling our wares to make a meagre living is boring the shite out of me.  (fortunately shite that is floating about in the sister’s ugly’s gaff – ‘farewell my beauties and Godspeed’ being the cry from the underground lair’s bog)

Any road, I digress, today’s dear little retired bods made photographic cards that they sell ‘for not enough to cover their costs’ , this information being proudly bandied about to all and sund. as if it were a positive!  I do hope I wasn’t too harsh in telling them that undercutting the other artists in the gallery who are trying to make a living isn’t a bonza idea.  What am I saying? I don’t give a rats fat arse if I was harsh, I’m fecking sick to the molars derriere with explaining to the eejits that we are not in business to massage the egos of hobbyists.

Being in a state of high flux is rather good for my production though, and have biffed off three drawings today ready for the exhibition with dead artists on Royal Parade.  Just think, Lovely One has arrived!  Exhibiting with a dead one!  The most beneficial career move in the life/death of a creator!

No sooner had got rid of the photographic pensioners than another time waster blows in with the wind.  This one went off in a little huff because I hadn’t heard of the art organisation that some of her friends belonged too.  ‘Well I’ll have to send them in’ she went on, as if I were to be reprimanded for my misdemeanour, thereby convincing me that all-comers today were do-lally!

Let me explain…

The gallery is for the sale of art work to the general public and not for the pottering painter to come in and bore the tits of Moi about what they do!

This week, sneaked in when I wasn’t there to inject an air of realism into the soup we have…

Some hand made dolls that would frighten a nappy-load out of any unsuspecting child, or adult for that matter, and a couple of hand made chairs that retail for more than the price of a small car.

The hideous dolls, that are proffered as ‘exact replicas’ of the real persons they depict are beyond the comprehension of Lovely One.  For instance One was completely unaware that Q Elizabeth the first had her frocks made out of curtain material! Or, that Jane Austen biffed about with sequins the size of frizbees sewn on her shimmy shirt!

The chairs, which are indeed beautifully crafted works of art, are out of place, unpriced and plonked unceremoniously in the middle of the floor, where, just as I predicted the great unwashed will, and already have, dumped down their filthy little Asda bags et al!

I know W is a really nice, friendly personage who doesn’t like to offend and that your very own Lovely One is a foul mouthed, bad tempered old harridan, but perleeeese, wise up and smell it for fecks sake!

The tin hat was firmly placed on the day by a well dressed, well heeled elderly personage biffing along on one of those wheely framed things who informed me that…

‘I don’t have any wall space and I’m not going to buy anything’ as she shuffled through me masterpieces.


I closed up, went to Waitrose, handled all the goods, filled a trolley, took it to the checkout and left it there.


Thursday, 21 June 2012

In which I press cont/alt/delete

I have begun a process of deletion from cyber space.  Firstly I have deleted myself from Facebook.  I never really understood it and really can’t get overly interested in passing on comments and particularly, in my case, pictures.  Nor do I, or will I ever, tweet.

I prefer to exist through my blog, where I can be Lovely One for ever and ever and not care if anyone reads it or not.

I shall exist in the real world that now consists of me and a paintbrush.

If I enjoy this process of deletion, I may well continue it to other areas.

Tuesday, 19 June 2012

In which I waste my day on One’s own…

Well,  my giddy aunt!  Looking v forward to a day on One’s own, now it’s arrived, it’s 11.05am and I’ve done sod all with it!  Toying with the idea of having a ‘Blackie’ and biffing about eating ‘dirty’ food, whilst watching backed up recorded episodes of ‘Come Dine with Me’, but, can’t even surrender to that.

Have just read the Diary of an Angel on me kindle.  What a load of nonsense, and poorly proof read nonsense at that!  Before that read a whole raft of short stories by Julian Barnes – The Lemon Table.  ‘A pleasing arrangement of words’ is about the best can be said of that.  Perchance getting difficult to please in my dotage? 

Wonder if Lovely Gordon has stopped frothing at the orifices and retuned to professoring?  Will venture up the passage in a mo to machete a way through the rampaging foliage barring his entry.  From inside One could espy a v rare specimen struggling toward daylight, clamped against the sitting room window.

‘Given to me by a gardener in South Molton. V V rare specimen’, proffered the prof.

No one can see it though as it’s entirely obscured by plants various that have been acquired and deposited on the postage stamp square of gardenage over the years.

And as for the kitchen.  Well, why have two washing machines?  It has to be said that the second is aesthetically v pleasing, although of no use whatever as is only partially unpacked and not plumbed in.  It does have a particularly attractive aquamarine knob on the front panel though which is it’s reason d’etre.

In a manner Mr Trebus would be proud of, Lovely Gordon has amassed huge quantities of stuff in his pied a terre and even though the clutter is very nigh waist high, there’s not a spot of dust or detritus to be seen. 

He’s one of those bods who begins a story half way through a sentence, having thought the first bit, and by so doing, imagines the recipient of the second half of the story will cotton on.  Having made his acquaintance some years hence, Lovely One is all too familiar with his petit foibles and can usually grasp the goings on, but I fear the washing liquid may have addled his fine brain.

Yesterday’s story involved a chap who’d taken to wearing a ‘Native American’ necklace fashioned from dried owl poop, which had mystical powers and made him see Red Indian braves.  The story went on to the ‘owl poop’ chap robbing a petrol station, buying a Buick and ultimately making off with a Ministerial sort who, having worn man made fabrics in the southern heat, smelt of sage and onion stuffing.

At this point I left the scene and went home for a nap.


Monday, 18 June 2012

In which Lovely Gordon enters the spin cycle…

IMG_1579Just returned from depositing aged Bugatti in local garagery for it’s annual seeing to.

Sashaying around the local deli, happened upon a fellow painter type personage who waxed lyrical about this and that exhibition what she’s had a gander of up the smoke.  Expressing utter horror that Lovely One hasn’t felt compelled to biff off to eyeball the works of the greats, One was relieved to be rudely interrupted by me mobile wedged in me basket between two bottles of Pinot Grigio.

Accidentally stealing a vastly over priced slab of halva that was clutched in me bird like claw I made my way out to take the call.  A small commission to paint a picture for the cover of a book, so escape was worth it, and anyway, I do get a bit bogged off with the ‘compelled to paint’ types when all Lovely One is compelled to do is pay the fecking gas bill!

Sauntering at a jaunty 45degree angle, what with the weight of purchases, I happened upon Lovely Gordon who was the bearer of v terrifying news concerning the accidental imbibement of some eco friendly washing machine liquid.

Let me explain…

Lovely Gordon, whom you will recall, dear reader, lives up the alley and ‘comes down’ for weekends to point and laugh at the inbred Wivey-ites.  Well, this very morn, looking to imbibe his usual health giving dose of aspirin, he alighted upon a half filled wine glass that resembled the dissolved doings of said aspirin.  Sadly, on slugging down the afore men. it became apparent that the liquid had been left ‘on the side’ to attend to a particularly stubborn stain acquired on a pair of shreddies. (Further enquiry Lovely One deemed tres dangeruese pour moi)

Any road up, having downed the eco friendly gloop and feeling pretty ‘under the doctor’ LG proceeded to down four pints of milk, (organic of course) and stick his fingers down his throat in order to vacate the ‘do not use internally’ liquid. When Lovely One encountered him in Silver Street I believe he was entering the spin cycle, judging from the unearthly sounds emitting from his trousourial department.  A long conv ensued re: the benefits of milk ejaculation versus the porous qualities of vast quantities of bread.  Lovely One favoured the addition of a stiff tot of Comfort, thus enabling the smooth, spring scented removal of stomach contents.

However, up the other end of the alley, there resides a retired medical bod, who I believe is actually Vera Downend from Crossroads – but I digress.  Having a hot line to NHS direct she proffered a custard filled donut as a remedy and apparently this was acceptable.

I still favour the consumption of quantities of partially set jelly that could encompass the offending innards and be removed as perfect moulds of varying internal organs, which, as a  nod in the direction of irony, could be given away with packets of washing powder.

Saturday, 16 June 2012

In which my garmentage is full of holes…

Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs!

Or maybe not.  But I’ll deffo be met by, now who is it?  St Peter Cook – that’s it.  What a perfectly delicious confection of a man!  The ultimate combination of flawless human beauty and biting satirical wit.  Lovely One used to live near him in Hampstead village before One began the helter skelter plummet down the food chain and fetched up in Wivey.

But, I digress, St Peter will be waiting for the freshly deceased Lovely One, when the time comes, with an enormous can of hairspray.

Let me explain…

One biffed off to bye-byes v early yesterday eve following a delightful scarf down of poisson et pomme frittes, whilst watching the equally divine, doe eyed, Adam, on Man v Food, to be confronted by a herd of moths ligging around on the walls, scarcely able to maintain their grip following a super sized helping of Lovely One’s ridiculously costly garmentage.

In fact, one of the bastards had a gob full of about fifty quids worth of Fastnet Wide Merino Lamb Jacket!  That effer cost me a fortune and now you can see sodding daylight through it!

Any road up, armed with a catering pack of Elnett I nuked the bastards until they were stiff as the rod of steel running down the spine of your very own Lovely One.  And so, I am expecting revenge from on high, since all critters and varmints are deemed equal at the gates of Harvey Nicks.  Or do I mean Heaven-  Same thing!

Oh my giddy Aunt!  One’s boudoir is like a 24/7 diner to the nasty little papery blighters!

The Clothes Moth Restaurant

Best End of trouser

Hold the fly

Just garnish with a hook and eye.

Fried sunhat rings

with swimsuit dip.

Side order of an underslip.

A pork pie hat

A large baked jacket.

Steamed sweat bands

strained through tennis raquet.

And to drink?

No, let me guess

Shorts straight from the trouser press.

And though I know you’re hungry moths

Please kindly leave the tablecloths!

Friday, 15 June 2012

In which it all went rather well I think…..

Just rolled out of the petit truckle bed for a quick blog and made a frightfully awful sloshing sound, due to the industrial amounts of vino collapso Lovely One imbibed this very eve.  Well, of course, as you all know, dear readers, never One to tie One on, obv the merest couple of gobfuls and She’s Off!  Although, come to think of it, it may have been the doings of the West Ackersley Boy Scout Troop who have just set up camp following a yomp across the North face of me left arse cheek.

No matter, don’t think Lovely One showed herself up too very much, although Boy took a vile photographic image of Lovely One doing her much loved ‘cat’s arse’ impression.  Note to self: must sharpen me pencil.

Any road up, it was touch and go, but Sergei the Russian mail-order bridegroom arrived in the nick of, and biffed me off in his Dr Zhivago style sled what he parked at the end of the alley and sat menacingly sharpening his molars with the metal file Lovely One fed-exed to him to get out of the salt mine.

Then, Vile ex Husband fronted up with Boy and inhaled the canapes et al in the back room. Posh J slathered a bit in the presence of V ex H (well he used to be quite a catch) Sadly having been a bit of a Sid Vicious, the fullness of time has rendered him  a ‘Sid Mildy Annoying’.

No matter, I stridgelled him with a bit of the Aroma Therapy bird’s tea tree oil and sat him in his place on the ‘Lovely One’s Ex Husband Memorial Bench’

A splendid turn-out of Lovely One worshippers biffed up to pay homage to the divine personage, including BF, the stringy little bint.  How come me and the Pinkster were slim for twenty minutes and she’s still like a filleted whisper?

Pinkster had that Union Jack frock on again and spent most of the night moaning about the hooks and eyes up the gusset of her eighteen hour corselette that kept popping open.  Well, the bloke that stressed that particular metal wasn’t bargaining on restraining that gargantuan ‘hasn’t Ginger Spice let herself go’ dollop.  If the truth be told, One reckons she blasted them off since she kept shearing to the alley for a muffled fart, thinking no one knew, but it didn’t half lift the top of the gazebo every time.

After the seventeenth litre of collapso, me numb leg started swelling up and I had to put out an all points bulletin for a pair of scissors to sever me sloggi elastic so as to resume blood flow to the swellings ankles that were hanging seductively over the sides of me cornish pasty shoes. 

A whole flock of Leopards are shivering needlessly on the plains of the Serengetti, having thoughtfully donated their skins to fashion the vast Sixteen 47 leggings what I was ackled up in.  The top half was Plumbs Loose covered in a chiffon number from the Billy Smart range, and, well, Lovely One was the belly of the ball, yet again, but sadly – no takers.

One did saunter provocatively up to the Monta-Cutie on a number of occasions but he was being reigned in by the Pinkster’s Aged P, who was, for some obscure reason, dressed as Michael Jackson.

This load of nonsense should be accompanied by some splendid pics, but Lovely One mislaid her camera and phone, so somebody somewhere is trawling through the terrifying images of One, The Pinkster, scrawny BF et all.  But still, they’ve got me phone to call for help if it’s all too scary.

Thursday, 14 June 2012

In which I am biffing about in the moonlight…

And so here I am, dear reader, at 2.40am holed up in the main sitting room, biffing out Artist Profiles etc for the Grand Opening tomorrow – nay – later on today!

The Intrepid Entrepreneur was buffeted down the alley by Hurricaine Herbert at around 11.30am, sadly too late to meet and greet the massive canvas bearing artist, who arrived at 10.30am for a pre arranged meeting (about which your very own Lovely One knew feck all)

Now I know us ladies of a certain age have fading memories and all that, but if WWW doesn’t acquire a diary I am either going to tatoo all arrangements to her forehead or have her under-trollies wired to a remote control that I can shoot a few volts through from time to time.

‘I’m real laid back’ is the response to the uber micro managing style of your very own Fuhrer, the darling, Lovely One.

Well, let me tell you dears – it will be more ‘laid out’ than laid back before this week is out!

Lovely One has been tasked with the shoppage of plonk and scoff for the ‘do’ and YOU’LL NEVER GUESS WHAT – I have been instructed to go to somewhere called Lidls.  What the feck is a Lidl?

Is is near Fortnum and Mason?  Is it a branch of Waitrose?  Is it where the great unwashed go to purchase squeezy cheese?

Not only that – Wing Commander WWW has no knowledge of wine boxes.  You know what I mean, they’re like children’s individual fruit juice boxes only Mummy sized individual boxes of delight with which we wash down the Prozac.

Any road up – I’ll go to the foot of our stairs – it has been decreed that Lovely One should acquire bottles and not boxes which are branded – common.  Common they may be, but Lovely One can be found on many an evening prostrate on the kitchen floor, operating the wine box taps with me feet and aiming the flow straight into me gob.

The Jack Sparrow pirateage of me cubes seems to be drawing to a close and Lovely One has been sent a royal command to appear between 9.30 and 10.00 am to finally take possession of me possessions! The overwhelming desire to chuck a few F’s into the pot and point out which way is up has thus far been resisted by your divine, mild mannered Lovely One.  And anyway, JS already views the LO at a fat common old dollop and One doesn’t want to put the tin hat on that impression.

Wednesday, 13 June 2012

In which the lovely nature of Lovely One is tested to feck…

‘Neither a borrower or a lender be’ me old grannie used to say, taking care not to dislodge the woodbine with a drooping inch of ash that was stuck to her bottom lip.

And how right she was.

For some weeks, nay months, Lovely One has been trying to retrieve her perspex display cubes from one Jack Sparrow.

‘Oooh, I’ll look after those for you’, he said as BF and the Pinkster unloaded Whelan’s window for the last time.  So, in the community minded spirit of Lovely One, the said cubes were left in his care.

The display items for the old Red Hat were purchased from the meagre pocket money of your very own Lovely One and even though my child had to pick his way precariously across the dog shite strewn paths of Wivey barefoot, we duly sacrificed and went without in order that the petulant little Red Hat feckers had some quality stuff.

And in the generous spirit of your very own idol, One biffed the card spinners, racks, display cubes et al all around to others who might make use of them.

Everything has been returned to One once again be of use to the majority, except the perspex cubes which have been loitering in the shop window of Jack Sparrow, covered in VERY SCRATCHY, pottery, and in Whelan’s window with some stuff from the primary school on them.

Despite numerous emails(which have been in the main ignored) and many phonecalls only half have been, very snippily and grudgingly, returned. 

Lovely One is not, however, permitted to remove the remainder herself in case the ‘children’s work is damaged.  And anyway we’ve been away for half term and I am working, so haven’t been able to get them for you.’

What does she think I’m going to do – chuck it on the bloody pavement?

‘I’ve been looking after them for a long time’ was what the Pinkster was greeted with when she was very reluctantly handed the first lot.

No, you haven’t.  You have, indeed, had them for a long time, but you certainly haven’t been looking after them.  THEY ARE SCRATCHED TO FECKERY!

Dictionary definition-


To take up temporary care of another’s possessions until return is required.


The giftage of stuff

Monday, 11 June 2012

In which I am brought back down to earth by Lawrence Olivier next door…

I take it all back, dear reader, and offer a new dictionary definition…

Wedding – Completely fabulous!

Not expecting to enjoy the nuptials or the associated mwa-mwa-ing at the ‘country house hotel’, Lovely One was left mangee-ing me words! 

The whole extravaganza was divine and fit for the attendance of your very own Lovely One.

Getting to the church on time was a bit of an undertaking as the world and his wife was sashaying into town to attend a ‘Steam Fair’, whatever the Devil that is.

Any road up, thinking I’d have plenty of time, and opportunity to park up the open topped Landau, I biffed about at a leisurely pace until I did a trial run to the church and realised that I might be driving around looking for somewhere to stop for the entirety of the doings.

And so, with some trepidation I slid gracefully into a spot vacated as if by magic in front of Lovely One and risked the wrath of Rita meter maid, rather than the wrath of the assembled company. At the end I put a fiver in an envelope for God so he didn’t give me a ticket, and it worked!  I’m not entirely sure how much credit a fiver gets One, but then, a phonecall to ask me to deliver a shipping order of stuff to deepest Devon, where I’ve sold out once again!

The hotel and rooms were absolutely divine darlings.  Just up the alley of your very own Lovely One, all 1940’s glamour and subservience. 

L.O. lay submerged in a jacuzzi bath for an eternity, sipping Krug bubbles and scarfing quail’s egg canapes.

The windows overlooked a tumbledown barn in which were roosting rooks and on the grass verge, a family of fat ducks.  Utter, glamorous heaven, and so fitting for the faded glamour of Moi.

It really was all ‘Blithe Spirit’ apart from the unwelcome addition of a Television set nailed to the wall.  There’s something not quite right about listening to lowest common denominator, popular culture drivel in divinely glamorous surroundings.  So, Lovely One reclined on the curtained oak four poster and sipped peppermint tea out of a bone china cup and, even though my surroundings were tip top, wished I could have been in the ‘Vivien Leigh’ room next door.

That is until, whilst I was dreamily imagining Lawrence Olivier biffing out of the bog wearing nothing but a silk smoking jacket and a come hither smile, I heard the following through the paper thin wall…

‘Blimey, the ‘ole in that khazi’s so small I can’t get me arse over it and me gonads down it at the same time!’ 

Not the first thing Larry would have said to Viv methinks.

With my reverie shattered I turned off the light and plunged into the satin sheets, but even with them over my darling head I heard my neighbour conclude with…

‘I’d give it ten minutes before you go in there bird.’

Friday, 8 June 2012

In which I am packing my travelling case…

Dictionary definitions No 1

Wedding -

A ridiculous waste of money spent on holding one’s friends and relatives captive for an entire weekend…

Tuesday, 5 June 2012

In which the weather is perfect…

How lovely to see that the weather is perfect for the Sisters Ugly’s barbeque.  First their shit comes back to them and now it’s going to rain on their parade.

You see, dear reader, what happens when a body is foolish enough to be spiteful to Lovely One?  Olympus is roused in all it’s splendour and the Gods start smoting hither and thither.

There are others who might heed this tale afore it’s too late to atone for sins various committed against the divine personage of Lovelyus Oneus, as I’m known on high.

Any road up I shan’t need to bother to waste the day spell casting in the general direction of the Sisters Ugly, since obv, that’s all under control.

As I blog this, One can hear the satisfying tinkle of me butt filling up.  Yesterday One was biffing about the grounds, dodging the dog shite, wishing Lovely One had a bigger butt.   Now, I know that since Lovely One actually has a circus quality butt that is able to sidle off and fill an entire two seater sofa, or is indeed the second item (first being G wall of China) that is visible from space, you little dears might ponder the sense in wishing for a bigger one.

If things don’t alter, they’ll remain as they are, and, lo, Lovely One had a spiffing idea.  I emptied the entire contents of me butt into a massive plastic tub so that it could fill up again.  A Nobel Prize for lateral thinking should be winging it’s way to the underground lair, methinks.

And still it’s tinkling down soaking the communal garden of this godforsaken, harpie ridden block. 

The usual suspects will be ackled up in their sou’westers for tonight’s little extravaganza.  The mind boggleth verily on the garmentage of the large cross dressing one.  Not the seventy five yards of tulle usually donned in a one eyed attempt at a Grayson Perry ensemble.  Perhaps a shift, fashioned from a tarpaulin? Lovely One shudders in anticipation.

Any road up, whatever they don for the occasion, that will consist only of them ( no one else in the block wishing to break bread with the repellent old harridans) Lovely One will be snuggled in me fluffy whilst they gum their Asda value brand sausages and make feeble attempts at conversation whilst pretending they even like each other.

Saturday, 2 June 2012

In which I realise I am an old moggie with short hair…


Here we have the Pinkster being our new gallery mascot.  This particular ensemble had it’s first outing at the Globe in Milverton at the opening of the ‘Jubilation’ exhibition.

All the pics were hung with a suitably Jubilee type wrapping so that they could be unveiled with great aplomb to the eagerly awaiting public. 

Most of the pre-unveiling was spent in dire trepidation, should some uninitiated sap inadvertently pull the ripcord on the Pinkster’s ensemble and unwittingly unleash the Pink one in her eighteen hour corselette that was valiantly holding it all in.

Asda Union Jack wellies completed the patriotic look that attracted the attention of the Somerset Life photographer, who snapped ‘er and me, so with any luck a puff for Red Hat will come out of that.

Obv, Lovely One wore an exquisite chiffon number what I’d nabbed off ebay.  Every so often, some newly chiselled fat bird flogs off her good stuff in the laughingly optimistic belief that she won’t lard up again, and that’s where it came from.

Lovely One knows all about that, with knobs on.  How many times is it now that I’ve flogged off a shed load of designer fat gear, only to have some minor blip saunter up to Moi and set off a feeding frenzy again.

So, here I am, with only one week to go before the not very eagerly anticipated wedding of the year to attend, having had to purchase another flamin’ load of suitably ‘Mother of the Bride’ type floaty garmentage.

As usual, it will be black keks and a black sleeveless top – but made of some wildly expensive crepe, with an overshirt of chiffon that makes Lovely One look like a feckin’ two seater sofa!

Should the weather prove inclement there is alternative ensemble in the shape of a crushed silk waterfall style jacket that makes me arms resemble sides of ham!

Have also finally succumbed to the ravages of time and have had me hair cut short.  D made a lovely fist of it, of course, but it has marked the pitiful slide into late middle age that Lovely One has been unsuccessfully fighting off for many moons.

MF like, I shall never drive through Paris with the warm wind in me hair.

The Pinkster, however, is happy in her skin.  Oh how I wish I were her.

In which I Brasso me Twinkle…


Well then, Dear Reader, here is a little pic of your very own Lovely One in situ in her new shiny new gallery (no 1 Cornhill, Wellington)

Obv, you will all be rushing to print off a wallet sized copy in order to have one to hand in all situations.  You will find that taking it out regularly may inspire you lesser beings to aspire to the general perfection of your leader ‘The Divine Lovely One.’

Following the most stressful week of not getting my own way in every eventuality, Lovely One miffed off to her truckle bed and held her breath until she was sick.

WWW, who is the new gallery Fuhrer, has proven completely impervious to the whims and wishes of Lovely One and has biffed about with a fiendish North American fervour that has utterly stunned the floaty, soft and fluffy L.O.

Retiring each evening with the back of me hand against a feverish forehead, Lovely One has spent fitful nights thrashing about ‘twixt the satin sheets in a frenzy of panic lest the gaff not be finished in time. 

Unused to not being the outright commander in all situations, poor darling Lovely One, has found it very nigh impossible to acquiesce to the whims of WWW.

It has thus come to my attention that Lovely One requires absolute power in all situations.  This acceptance of a tiny flaw in my character may explain the failure of all human relationships in which Lovely One is involved.

Any road up, as you will see from the pic, I am now safely shoved up me corner creating masterpieces for the great Wellington unwashed.

It could have all been so different though…

Earlier in the week following a visit to a car boot sale where all you people try to offload your shite onto others, instead of bunging it in the wheelie where it so rightly belongs, Lovely One returned to the underground lair clutching a silver salt in her tiny hand.  It was in dire need of a good clean, so One vigorously attacked it with some Brasso in the absence of anything better.  Unfortunately during the process, a Lesser Spotted Knicker Gnat wended it’s way up the inside of me leggins, fearlessly negotiating the blood flow hindering shreddie elastic, it trundled on and started nibbling me twinkle.

Lovely One shot off the sofa with alarming speed and jettisoning the salt, shoved me Brasso coated mit down me gusset and had a good arrap.

Note to self…

When Brasso-ing, do not attend to any twinkle related matters before washing hands. 

The unfortunate consequences are tres similar to having a bit of a ferret about after chopping chillies.

The resulting St Vitas Dance ended with what can only be described as a ‘sprained twinkle.’

Still – it’s ever so shiny, and, well Twinkly!