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Friday, 31 August 2012

In which imitation will prove the sincerest form of flattening…

So, here One is, 2.38am, and dans le oak panelled office, deep in the underground lair, scoffing big fat raspberries straight out of the Waitrose plastic box.

There must be a name for the ‘must inhale vast quantities of soft fruits’ syndrome from which Lovely One is suffering.  Who knows?  Who bla bla…?  Anyway, rather than shuffling around the scented satins on the truckle bed, One is partaking of the British raspberries ‘grown with care for the environment by farmer’s who share our values.’  Well that’s what is says on the box – V. worthy!  One thinks.  Sadly not worthy enough to remove the leaves from the container and dispatch the SPIDER (living) that One very nigh shoved in me gob!

Any road up, am positively seeeeeething and reeeeling from a comment passed by a customer today.

‘Oooh your work is very much like J.T.’s.  Have you come across her?’


Let me explain…

Not content with being biffed out of a gallery in her locale for not attributing her work to Michael Morgan, the stealthy little article came into a previous incarnation of Red Hat and bought one of One’s.

Now, I know that we all ‘steal’ or ‘get ideas’ as One likes to call it, from one another, but this particular paintress goes in more for the style of tippexing out the signature and replacing it with her own!  Well, for all the original thought she puts into the mimicking she may as well!

Any road up, not long after the purchase, many moons ago, Princess P had made the very same comparison, in passing, rendering Lovely One a seething mass of putrid, heliotrope, shuddering lard!

‘I THINK YOU’LL FIND – HER WORK IS THE SAME AS MINE!’ I replied then and similarly today, when posed with the same enquiry.

‘Ooooh, I think I may have said the wrong thing,’ mooted the customer, as Lovely One began her usual diatribe, completely forgetting that One is a benign, smiling, accommodating fluffy bunny, during opening hours.

Rescuing the situation with a modicum of humour, (that always does the trick), One was informed of the recent illness of the aforementioned thieving, forging, never had an original idea, cheating, sly, treacherous bint.  That information almost (only ALMOST, mind) made Lovely One feel a tad contrite.


‘Twould appear the fiendish old harridan is taking part in Somerset Arts Week, which One wasn’t going to bother with – UNTIL NOW


Thursday, 30 August 2012

In which all is not lost–quite yet!…

Have spent ENTIRE  day on Old Fish Shop Gallery doings and desp thinking up stuff to entice the great unwashed Wellie-ites in to part with their pocket money.

‘Eau hiy apslootlee luvlee to hiyv a gallery in Wellington!  Niy aym orf to spend all me vast inherited wealth on larks tongues and Bolly at Waitrose. Toddle pip, poor person.’


Any road up, not to be defeated, have sent out details of forthcoming classes to be held by Lovely One in the back room.  Maybe that will generate some traffic. 

Took solace in a sausage roll for luncheon, which was poised, mid air, twixt paper bag and gob, when in biffed a tiny little personage keen on a chin wag.

‘I was wondering if you could give me some advice about selling my drawings?’ she began, as One reluctantly left the darling little sausage snackette all alone sur le table.


We then entered into a long and meaningless exchange of ideas, during which Lovely One was distracted by the sausagey wafts emanating from the back room.  One’s nasal device was fair quivering, in the manner of Bugs Bunny, toward the tasty morsel.

‘I just wondered what you thought when you see art that’s just as good as yours for sale on ebay for a fiver,’ she droned on, oblivious to the chagrin of Lovely One.

‘I don’t,’ One icily replied, drawing Oneself up to One’s full six foot four, looking like a Brick Shit House draped in chiffon.


‘Them pencil drawings over there (pointing at some exquisite work on the wall) aint as good as what mine are you know.  Everyone says I should sell mine.’


It was only the occasional distraction of the pungent pork aromas that sufficiently distracted Lovely One, that saved the article from having her Pound Shop carrier inserted into her chuff box and thence being hurled up the alley.

In a vile mood, sallied forth to the underground lair vowing to take up a sensible profession in any subsequent life One might embark upon, when…


A profitable Bank Hols was obv had down there!

Inhaled a pint of Pinot Grigio, smashed meself over the ‘ead with the empty and collapsed into the truckle bed with relief.


Wednesday, 29 August 2012

In which One is not running a fecking charity…

News reaches One of the crushing lack of interest at The Old Fish Shop Gallery. 

Tumbleweed blows hither and thither and the only sound to accompany  the Pinkster’s sighs are the ever increasing ‘Take Cares and OOOh Thankyous’ being screeched at high volume from next door.

Even the ever patient and kind Pinkster has threatened to, let me think, what was it?  Oh, yes…

‘Strangle the tits off that bint next door.’ 

One telephoned The OFSG to confer with the P about ‘what the feck are we going to do about all this’ and the screeching harridan next door was all but in the room with Lovely One.

Is that what’s driving the customers away?  Or could it be the two foot layer of pigeon shite that coats the alley? Or, perchance the stench of sewage that pervades the atmosphere every time someone in Superdrug goes toiley-boiley?

Or is it just that nobody wants what we’ve got and anyway they haven’t got any cash?

Yep!  That’s about it methinks!

Any road up, it was upon this stark realisation that yet another communiqué from Miss something or other from a school in Plymouth arrived dans me in box.

Let me explain…

A schmoozing, flattering invitation to spend a day with the ‘dear little kiddies’ in her class arrived.

‘I am a great admirer of your work… bla bla, kiss yer arse etc….’ it went on…

‘Dr P and L Jones (two v old painters of note)


‘have been and spent some time with the children… bla sodding bla….’

‘Is there a fee involved,’ enquired Lovely One.

‘No fee,’ answered the gormless article,'I would like you to work along with the children as part of the art lesson so that they can see a painting through from start to finish.’




Lovely One explained that One doesn’t live in Plymouth, but in deepest Somerset, and that one only visits when making a delivery.  You know – like DELIVERING WORK – THAT HOPEFULLY SOMEONE WILL PAY FOR – IN ORDER THAT L.O. CAN PAY THE SODDING BILLS.

But no,  the ‘paid every month, long holidaying, going home at 3.40pm-ster,’ bowled along explaining the requirements of a day with the lovely little kiddies ALL FER FECKING FREE

On and on it went until One enquired what time ‘Miss’ would be fronting up to mind the gallery (fer free) whilst One was away with the ‘kiddies’

The ensuing silence was deafening and the tumbleweed fair blew about the underground lair…


Tuesday, 28 August 2012

In which Aged P cannot be placated…

Aged P -    ‘There is a girl at the bus stop.  She’s just standing there pregnant (indicates with hand, size of enclosed infant) AND she’s drinking a can of coke!  Honestly, just look at her!’

Not exactly sure which is the major problem here.  Can it be the heinous crime of being pregnant at a bus stop? Or, is it drinking out of a can?

Any road up, have a brief look-ette to satisfy Aged P and attempt to turn the subject around…

‘Isn’t it exciting that Boy is off to University?’

Aged P -  ‘Huh!  I hope he washes his hair while he’s there!’

Obv wasting One’s time here, so grab car keys to biff off up the road for supplies for the journey.

‘Do you want anything from the shops?’

Aged P – ‘No thanks I don’t need anything apart from a newspaper so I can see what’s on telly.  Oh and some milk and some washing up liquid, but you don’t want to get that.  Don’t worry about me, I’ll walk up there later and try to carry it back myself.’

‘I’m just going. I will get it for you.  Anyway, why don’t you use the remote control to access the text on your tv, like I showed you.’

Aged P – ‘Huh, I’m not doing that! Looking in the paper is good enough for me.’

Aged P has always viewed anything new as ‘evil’ and especially designed to annoy her.

This strange attitude has grown over the years, but has always been there.  Well One recalls the utter embarrassment that Aged P showed when Lovely One chose to enter a mostly male dominated career and then, horror of horrors, bought my own house!

‘Why can’t you wait for some man to buy it for you?’ was the comment made when the wet-behind-the-ears Lovely One proudly showed off the miniscule gaff.

Given the alarming regularity of disaster in that direction, Lovely One would be still waiting! 

Any road up, ‘tis a sad state of affairs that brings us to point where we simply don’t understand one another at all.

Boy, however, is a constant beam of light in an otherwise gloomy world. 

AND One hopes life brings him everything he wants – even if his hair does need washing!


In which One is no loss to the International Peace Corps…

Back in the underground lair!  And just in time for a snuggly afternoon nappette in the lavender scented truckle bed.

Have tried One’s v best to broker a peace deal between Aged P and the Brother.  In manner of Kofi Annan, have made suggestions various in order to bring together the warring factions, but have had as much success as when One offered to assimilate Hamaas into Fatta and reign over them as their Fatt-Aas Queen.

No matter, have tried best. Best not good enough. Sheared.

L.O.     ‘When he phones you to bemoan his fate about having no money/job/prospects/hair etc., don’t counter attack with your own problems.  It’s not a competition.’

Aged P.  (clutching chest and wailing)  ‘It hurts here you know from when I lost my house.’

It took a mo or two for Lovely One to realise that Aged P is STILL going on about when Aged P deceased got into diffs and managed to get the family pile repossessed.  This event, although rendering ALL OF US homeless, has always been viewed as a personal catas to remaining Aged P, who has required constant kid glove treatment ever since.


Any road up when the Brother had biffed up with tales of woe, Aged P had launched into her monologue and he’d cleared off in a huff.

Aged P.  ‘It’s alright for you, you just put up with things and get on with it,’ she choked to me, as if I’d committed some heinous misadventure.



Monday, 27 August 2012

In which Aged P is a limited edition–fortunately!…

Having been forced to watch ‘popular culture’ tv for hour upon hour, Lovely One had a bit of a lie in, in order, hopefully, to miss all the morning progs.

No such luck! 

Anyway, having been told about some valuable first editions owned by Aged P, One offered to bung ‘em on ebay to flog.  Being housed in One’s old bedroom, which now houses the books, One had a shoofty though the groaning shelves bearing such tomes as ‘Basic Chemistry’ c1945, an old hymn book and a couple of Miss Read tomes.

Imagining the first editions to be stored elsewhere, One enquired as to their whereabouts and would Aged P like to cash ‘em in?

‘One of them is that cat with the label in the ear, and the other one is a china cat,’ offered Aged P, ‘You know that cat,’  she went on with a face like a schitzu chewing a bee, ‘Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten it!’  (One is often accused of pretending not to remember things.  I haven’t even got time off for good behaviour, or having a stroke.)

‘I thought you meant first edition books,’ One went on.

‘No, stupid!  That white cat what you bought me!  That’s a first edition you idiot!’

‘No.  A first edition is a book, not a toy cat.  The toy cat might be a limited edition, as might the china cat, but even so they won’t be worth anything.’

‘What about the cow creamer what’s signed by Tony Wood?’

Let me explain…

Years ago Aged P gave me a china cow-creamer as a present and when she thought it was worth something, she demanded it back!

I have on many occasions told her the damned thing is worth nothing, but as usual, this is deemed to be a lie in order for me to reclaim the ghastly item.

Any road up, today I showed her one on ebay.  Starting price £3.50 – no bids at close of auction.


Sunday, 26 August 2012

In which Aged P is part of a wine/drugs racket…

Five fecking hours it took!  Five fecking, raining, storming and generally getting held up for  hours to get to Lutonistan.

‘I’ve got a frozen lasagne,’ was the greeting, as Aged P stood in the doorway obviously requiring a completed menu card preference before we were admitted.

‘Special ham what’s cooked on the bone, a lemon tart from Marks and Spencer,’ she went on.

Boy et Moi were standing in the rain outside attempting to get in at this point.  With the futon growing soggier by the mo, we finally made it across the threshold.

‘I’ve got wine from some bloke who was selling it at the door.  He had it in a padded Waitrose bag.  There was three bottles of wine and a bottle of Champagne for a fiver.  That’s good isn’t it?’

Upon closer examination from Lovely One, it would appear that said bloke at the door was obv stealing said beverages and selling them door to door to naive old ladies to fund his drug habit.

‘Does he come round often?’ enquired L.O.

‘Oh not at the moment, he’s in prison,’ replied Aged P.

One felt it unwise to reveal to the Aged One that she was receiving stolen goods and simply enjoyed the lion’s share of a bottle of vintage champagne with me ‘cooked on the bone’ ham and chips.

Friday, 24 August 2012

In which One is only trying to help…

Having delivered the Winnebago to Jones the Garage for a shampoo and set, Lovely One paid an unannounced visitation on Vile ex-husband and Boy.  Obv, took own croissant et cafe, as usually proffered some ghastly sweepings up off the floor from Lidls or some such down market emporium.

Note to self:  do not under any circumcisions enter ASDA again following ill-advised sortie in that direction last evening.  Full of DIRTY DIRTY food and squeaky trollies (mmm interesting) and voice overs from the tannoy featuring somebody called Joey Essex from TOWIE (wherever the feck that is) Sheared after hearing that, with nothing more than a pair of shoes, a mop and a bottle of wine as the weeks commodities.  Fled at top speed in the Porsche, leaving the legginged lardos patting their gargantuan arses in the car park.

I digress, dear reader…

Upon entering the foetid atmosphere of the den of V ex H and Boy, immediately sat down and sewed a button on the thickly scented air, and hooked it up on the curtain rail to let in a bit of actually, breathable oxygen.

The table upon which the refreshments were served sported a thick layer of unidentified sticky substance upon which was stuck large clumps of cat hair.  Oh how they let themselves go when not under the supervision of she of the highest standards: The Divine Lovely One!

Boy emerged from his chariot looking as if he’d been encased in his onesie for some considerable length of time, but One opted for not berating the state of him verbally.  Couldn’t disguise the fleeting look of horror that wafted over me gob though.

Any road up, had paid the royal visit in order to reinforce the dictat that Boy was indeed accompanying Moi to Aged P’s in order that we three could spend some time shouting the odds and ranting together for poss the last time.

Decided to massacre two oiusuexs with one stone and offered to get Boy’s kitchen requisites and bedding delivered directly to his room at Uni.  This required Lovely One to place One’s unlined, scented and manicured pinkies on the keyboard of Boy’s pooter.

Quelle horruere!  One has never seen so much unidentified crumbage and goo in One’s entire!  Demanding disinfectant, tissues and cotton buds, One flung a wet hankie over me face and set about sandblasting the b****d.

This act of generosity and downright courage on the part of Lovely One, with her best ‘dear Mama’ gob on, set Boy off on a tirade of abuse centreing on the ‘state of his keyboard being none of One’s bees-tiddly-wax.’

One of course degged to biffer, given that One was expected to toy with the device and thence lay One’s hands upon One’s v expensive Mulberry handbag. 


Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs!  Amongst the crumbage, fluff and pie-crusts various


One carefully removed these and set them aside pointing at them from a safe distance with a, by now, blackened cotton bud.

‘They’re cat hairs,’ remonstrated the indignant Boy.

‘The cat is ginger.  It doesn’t have massive great long black pubic sodding hairs, Boy!’  countered Lovely One.

V ex H sat huddled in fear on ONE OF MY CHESTERFIELD SOFAS that One had generously donated to the pair of miscreants.

‘Shall we call in the forensic team from CSI?’ he enquired.

‘There’s no dead body as yet,’ One countered.

‘There feckin will be in a minute,’ seethed Boy.

The eventual transfer of funds from Lovely One to Boy was made on the shiny new lap top of V ex H, so as not to sully One’s digits further.

One’s Aquascutum was proffered forthwith by Boy and One was unceremoniously ushered toward the door.

Over One’s shoulder One began…

‘If you think that filthy article is being packed in my …’


The front door closed, following the flinging of me Mulberry down the stairs after One.


Thursday, 23 August 2012

In which One finally accepts One is a genius…

‘Yes, I like that one.  No, don’t want that.  Ok, that’s good.  Mmmmm I’ll take both of those.  Can’t sell that.  It’s got a nick in the edge.  Ok, great.  Thanks.  Sign this.  We’ll see how it goes.’

And off pootles Lovely One with a couple of mounted prints that were unwanted in dans me box plastique.


That is the reality of working as a full time painter.

If you have had yer arm up to the shoulder shoved up a cows arse for thirty years, or you’ve been seething quietly in an office somewhere for time immemorial, just because you spend yer first pension payment on a box of paints…



So don’t get all pissy when Lovely One doesn’t want to sit (for free) all feckin’ day trying to flog yer poorly executed, badly framed, SHITE!!

Scene setting…

Woman standing outside Old Fish Shop Gallery when Lovely One biffs up to open…

L.O.  ‘Hello,  I’m just opening up, would you like to have a look inside?’

W.   ‘I keep telling my son to bring his paintings down here for you to sell.  He does loads.’

L.O.  ‘Oh, is he a professional artist?  Where does he usually sell and what kind of work does he do?’

W.   ‘Oh he’s never sold anything.’

L.O.  ‘Well we only sell professional painter’s work.  Why don’t you tell him to join a cooperative or get a stand at an art market, or something like that?’

W.  ‘Oh no.  Well, how can he be a professional if you won’t look at his stuff to sell?’

L.O.  ‘Ok then.  You bring his stuff down here.  I and my colleague will sit here all feckin’ day, free of charge, WWW will foot the bill for the rent, rates etc. if the takings are down this week.  How does that grab yer?’

With pursed lips, like a cat’s arse, she about-faced and cleared off up the alley muttering something about cows and fat.

Any road up, having completed the delivery to Dartington, and let me add, I never had to go for approval, the MD had OK’d me from me website, so Ner ner, ner ner, ner!  I put me foot down on the accelerator of the Bentley and washed up at the underground lair exactly one hour and four minutes later.

Just as well they did want me doings, since upon my return there was a rejection letter from the local dead zone waiting room, to say that they didn’t want me services. 

How embarrassing is that fer fecks sake?  Lovely One can’t even get a flamin’ part-time, minimum wage, not even the activities organiser, but the activities organiser’s assistant’s job!

That’s it!!  No more looking for a pathetic few hours per week doing something I’m far too good for (not that you’d know it!) to supplement me income.




Wednesday, 22 August 2012

In which One is a weirdo magnet yet again…

Is this what it’s going to be like?  Inhaling four litres of fizzy water during the daylight hours without one visit to toiley boiley, yet eschewing a Horvaltine lest rendering Oneself waterlogged during the dead of, but having to haul Oneself from truckle bed for v many urgent visitations?  Is this what old age is?

Well, I tell you what!  One doesn’t flamin’ like it!

There One sat inhaling eau like a good ‘un, minding me own bees-tiddly-wax, when in biffed the first of many irritating customers (not) with the sole aim of filling One of One’s precious hours with a meaningless, show-offy rendition of his ENTIRE LIFE’S DOINGS.

Casting nary a glance at me offerings he launched into a ‘I used to be an engineer’ monologue, complete with detailed doings of entire CV.  He got to about 1970 when One began to lose the urge to go on, so sauntered out into the kitchen and bunged me ‘ead in the gas oven.

He followed me.

‘You don’t want to be doing that without lighting it,’ he said, turning it off and starting on about 1979, so I went back to me easel and started on bus driver numero nuefteen. No audience participation was required, save the odd nod, so biffed on regardless. 

In desperation, flung me gusset floss rope (which One always keeps nearby on humid days) over a low hanging beam and proceeded to fashion a noose.  As One hauled Oneself onto a chair, the bod finally got the message and sheared without buying so much as a sodding card!

Just regained equilibrium and in came that flame haired, skeletal bird that is the stuff of nightmares!  Dear old WWW had been v polite to odd bod and now One is left with a regular visitation that renders all prospective customers afraid to enter, and to be seen tearing off up the alley making the sign of the cross.

‘You haff looked at my vebsite – yes?’

‘Er, no, actually.’

‘Vi you haff not?’ demanded the demented ginger harpie, heavily made up red eyes flashing with venom.

Unfortunately Lovely One had no answer to that one, was rendered unusually speechless and shrugged One’s elegant bronzed shoulders.

Well!  That set her off on one!

‘I haff looked at YOUR vebsite and you haff not looked at mine!  How can ziss be?  You are artist, no? ‘

‘Goddit in one missus.  Except that One never actually gets any flamin’ work done, what with constant visitations from the living dead, all the live-long day!’

She must have weighed all of four stone and two of that was eyeliner, and man was she rough!  Still I expect that shifting six foot of earth off yerself every morning takes it out of yer!

Any road up, no sooner that she tottered off and in came another bod.  But she wanted Lovely One to visit her dear little old biddy art group and tell of One’s derring do!

So, she got half an hour of One grimacing beatifically and hanging on her every.



Tuesday, 21 August 2012

In which One gives up the Divine calling…

A v productive day in The Old Fish Shop Gallery.  Only 8 of the Wivey Link drivers left to paint on the massive pic for the market on 9th September in Wivey Square.  Can’t imagine who on earth would want such a thing now One has gone and done it, so the lucky raffle winner will have the additional feel goodishness of donating it to the Community Office who will bung it under the bed I spect.

A serene calm has fallen upon the underground lair.  Sadly the same can’t be said for One’s brief calling as an anchorite. 

All was well when the first article requiring guidance biffed up, proffering a large helping of gala pie through me slot.  Sent him off with the useful gem…

‘Check under the bog seat for clingfilm,’ when the next poor sap fronted up and began sliding me crack open.

‘Feck off, I’m eating a pie,’ was all One could muster and the type kicked me shed door in, so am giving up the divine calling and sticking to painting.

Any road up, since have been working on the mugshots of the drivers various, have lured another three bods requiring tuition, thereby negating the need for a temporary canter back into arse-wiping.

Had two visitations yesterday, one for the Pinkster and one for WWW.  None for the divine Lovely One – how-fecking-come?

The first lot biffed in with dogs – yipee – wanting tea and biscuits. Tea and fecking biscuits!  They introduced One to a pair of brown dogs, bringing sad tidings of the demise of a previous furry-shit-machine.  Now, One has no interest whatever in anything that can lick it’s own arse, so couldn’t remember previous canine.  Frankly, they could have had a couple of Komodo dragons on a bit of string for the notice One would of took of it!

Then some WWW chums to inform me that they could paint bodies and not faces.  Like I give a rat’s fat arse!

One only wants to hear about what One’s subjects can and can’t do when moolah is changing hands either for One of One’s or when One is dispensing paid for advice.




Monday, 20 August 2012

In which One is now a female anchorite…


Having just downed brush following the creation of above offering, am currently deciding upon what to do with rest of mortal doings.

BF has thrown in her two pennorth and informed the hand wringing Lovely One that ‘there is nothing out there for women over 50.  No jobs, nothing to do and definitely no luuurve and romance.’

Well, One had actually figured that One has missed the old sea going vessel in the latter department!  Am currently undergoing a new and fresh approach where One will be meandering through One’s miz exis without explanation or complaint. 

‘Huh!  Believe that when I see it,’ I hear you all chorus, but no, One shall not be loping around like a bi-polar bear, One shall be serene and revert to that fat bird in the old Ribena advert:  skipping merrily across the lawn going nowhere in particular.

Lovely One has paid heed to the need of her adoring public, dear reader, and is mindful of the ‘hanging on to One’s every utterance’ that you poor saps do on an all but daily basis.   So, in order to serve you better, One delved into the traffic sources of One’s faithful followers and found a goodly amount of you come from a DIRTY DIRTY place indeed!

In fact, upon commencing said search was visually assaulted by a twinkle/winkle, twinkle/twinkle site that displayed all manner of recreation area combinations, in full throbble.

Am v disturbed to learn that One’s subjects are obv reading One’s journal and then biffing off to gaze upon twinkles various, the most alarming being the ‘older women looking for luurve.’  Judging by what continually flashed up before a horrified Lovely One, their time would be better spent looking for a branch of Rigby and Peller.

Any road up, have reached the conclusion that One shall now hole up in the the shed at the far end of the grounds, with no home comforts and live the life of a female anchorite in the manner of Julian of Norwich to dispense worldly advice to the great unwashed through the crack in the shed window.

One feels sure that you, my adoring public, are fully conversant with the drill re: anchoriting.  But, for the uninitiated, just saunter up to me slot, feed in a pork pie/crispy chilli beef/peeled sheep etc., and receive the wisdom.

for example, just to give you something to go along with, -

Don’t eat yellow snow.

Never trust a smiling cat.

Sunday, 19 August 2012

In which Lovely One encounters a lounge lizard…

Discovered a lizard in the long gallery of the underground lair!  What’s occurring?  Obv have googled said reptile and come up with zippo thus far.

Have bravely wrestled the prehistoric beast into submission and housed it in a little glass tank, as it is now my sole companion.

It’s appearance set me thinking though, about a job One had once where One was laying fibre optic cables on Dungeness Beach.  Well, not actually laying them Oneself, but bossing about the bods who were (One actually had a promising career before One brought forth Boy.)

Any road up, whilst this wind blown, fly infested, going toiley boiley in a tardis on the beach, escapade took place, the doings were halted on the basis of disturbing the Lesser Spotted Feck Warbler, nesting in the locale.

So, it seems reasonable to halt the Shirleytosis Shite Excavation to maintain the habitat of the Subterranean Lair Lizard who has been christened Norman.

Have been dans le truckle bed almost all the live-long day instead of biffing off to see Aged P.  Got time all distorted AGAIN and am going next week since that is ACTUALLY the BH weekend.  Deffo losing the plot!

Spent some time clearing the grounds to the accompaniment of noises various from the block.  The Sister Ug’s ancient feline spent a goodly amount of time barfing up in next door’s bramble patch.  The v aged article two floors up berated someone who’d come to visit for not visiting and the young persons played loud music and made the noises of youth.

The afore mentioned feline was in better nick than the four foot wide, inch deep, flat-pack cat that BFP’s woman/child presented at some un-godly hour this morning.  This unusual offspring has an unfortunate habit of fronting up at all hours with road-kill various for BFP to give an honest burial to in the back yard.

As BF put it – ‘most people bring flowers.’

Saturday, 18 August 2012

In which One WLTM…

Unexpectedly back on the market, a slightly soiled Lovely One.  Thrown back into the sea like a dimpled Minky whale with the barnacles of a disaster strewn sojourn on planet earth. (Most disasters being entirely of One’s own making through being a v bad judge of character and poor at decision making.)

Any road up…

WLTM similarly circus quality excess pork carrying middle aged desperado.

NSOH required as enjoy looking at faces like slapped arses.

Must have own room to minimise physical contact down to the accidental biffing into one another when Lovely One is rat arsed.

Essential to require alternative cuisine so that two entirely different meals can be created at different times and consumed in different rooms.

Must hate and despise all arty type ‘dos’ and spend their duration sitting in the car listening to football.

Must think Moi a vile and self-centred harridan whom everyone hates. 

Should consider One a failure in all aspects of life and mock One constantly for not being able to support Oneself, and Boy, without the demon credit card.

Must give up any form of gainful employment and watch Sky Sport for a goodly part of every day, whilst wearing a yummy dressing gown.

Should, under no circumstances, take any interest in becoming part of the community or entering into any social activity that may involve laughing or enjoying Oneself.

Would enjoy lengthy periods of being ignored or given one word answers, in order that One can be driven to such distraction that One ends up saying outrageously horrid things that One doesn’t really mean in order to provoke a reaction –ANY REACTION

Oh no – I think that must have been what I put last time…

In which Lovely One needs some TLC…

I have never pulled wings off flying devices.  I am polite to customers.  I do a bit of voluntary doings in the community.  I have never eaten a live baby – well not a whole one!

So why is that I am positively dogged by misery.  I am a cheerful sort of dollop – like a giggle and a joke, yet am constantly pick pick picked at by disasters various.

‘Oh no,’ I hear you all cry, ‘ the old trollop’s wallowing again.’

Let me explain…

The incumbent of the kingdom of Spare OOm is returning from the nuptials do, complete with furry familiar, today.  So that’s one little cumulus on the old horizon.

Whilst he’s been absent the ‘digging up of the Shirleytosis shite’ has shifted up a gear and Lovely One has been THREATENED by that Clark’s sandalled harridan from down the way.  Only by email, of course, since the bullies of this world tend to avoid human contact in this cowardly way.

Lovely One has since found out that if the works are not covered by insurance (and this can only be ascertained by digging up the underground lair) the cost of refurbishment and relocation for Lovely One et al will not be met at all. 

Presumably the Sister’s Ug expect Lovely One to make camp in the car park on a permanent basis. 

Lovely One has never been so inclined to wish ill on any of her fellow humaans, but in this particular case, One can’t help wondering how easily a circa 1960 Clarks sandal can be inserted into a fat, drooping smedley botham.

Thursday, 16 August 2012

In which One is getting pissed off with shite…

Am feeling severely mifferised and badly done to by the spiteful, vindictive Sister Ugly Numero Uno.

Once again, she is soiling me inbox with her massive missives re: Shirleytosis shite and it’s meandering ‘neath the underground lair.

Lovely One and One’s neighbour from No 2 (how apt it should be numbers one and two) are currently requesting written assurances that the insurance company will reinstate our gaffs, and give them a jolly good clean.  After all, we don’t have a problem at all, it’s just the shite production from the bogs at the other side of the block that cascades beneath me Persian rug and out under the Oast house. 

Sister Ug, however ‘can’t see what would be gained by a meeting to discuss the works’ and is now threatening Lovely One with ‘being responsible for the shite backup recurring up Shirleytosis’s S bend if the work is held up any more.’

Lovely One has attempted to remain serene but alter egos of Atilla the Honey or Glad the Impaler are beginning to  rise within  the fabric of Lovely One.

Why can’t the vicious old trollop understand that we just want reassurance? No one is suggesting that Shirleytosis wade forever through merde, but  still, me and number two  are expected to tug our forelocks and say, ‘course guvner,  you do whatever you want.  We’ll stand in the car park for a fortnight.  No need to explain, we realise who’s in  charge ‘ere.’

It really is simply the officious, dictating, spiteful manner of Sister Ug that is the problem here.  She is still dining out on the story  about the chap who had her ‘by the throat’ following a similar scenario whereupon she made life v difficult for him, presumably for her own amusement.

The dear, sweet Pinkster  always says that people who hurt others are hurting themselves.

Being a jaded, disappointed old dollop, Lovely One is fairly certain that the Sisters Ug get off on being as difficult and venomous as is possible.  After all, One has been privy to the gleeful sniggering when upsetting a mild mannered cove nearby with litigation and threats about land boundaries and such.

Both would benefit from a damned good shag methinks.  But what manner of man would venture up those vinegared gussets? 


Wednesday, 15 August 2012

In which One enters therapy in preparation for a visit to Aged P…

Awoke with a start, moist and thrashing, from a ghastly nightmare involving a four-tiered pork-pie wedding cake. 

Lovely One resplendent in a calf-length, lemon crimpelene, empire line bridesmaids frock,  with rick-rack braid  round the hem, was attempting to scale the north face of the pork pie that had been liberally iced with fondant lard.  Only to arrive, dishevelled and breathless at the summit, to be beaten back by a plastic Fireman Sam and La-la from the teletubbies dressed as a fairy princess…

No matter, the serene stillness of the underground lair soon grounded Lovely One.  After a quick breathe into me brown paper bag and a session of ‘omming’ whilst focusing on the twinkling lights round me clematis, One’s equilibrium was restored.

Just as well, since have been attempting to organise road trip with Boy to visit Aged P, before Boy shears to Leeds to begin his prep for world domination…

L.O.     Hello, are you still ok for a visit this weekend?

A.P.     Is is that brown wholemeal with bits in what you ‘ave? 

L.O.     What?  Oh, don’t worry about food.  I just want to know if it’s alright to come up.

A.P.      What shall I get out of the freezer then?  I’ve cleared a space in the back bedroom.  Are you bringing that few-tun?

L.O.     We can come on Sunday and stay a couple of nights if that’s ok.  I can take us out for lunch and bring a few bits from the shop up your road.

A.P.      Huh!  I don’t go in them shops up there, all that foreign veg out in the street!  I’ve got to put drops in me eye for the rest of me life ‘cos of them!

L.O.     What do you mean?  Is there something wrong with you eyes?

A.P.      One of them done me eye test and me glasses are all wrong, so now I’ve got to ‘ave drops!  No good takin’ ‘em back!  They don’t have to do nothin’ them lot!  They’re coming out of ‘oles in the ground now, you know!

L.O.     Well, ok, we’ll be there sometime during the day on Sunday then.

A.P.     Exactly what time?

L.O.     I can’t give you an exact time because it’s a very long drive.

A.P.     Well I can’t carry a lot of shopping you know!

L.O.     Don’t worry about the shopping, I’ll bring some supplies for me and Boy.

A.P.     That bloody Eileen’s got tooth ache again.  All the soddin’ way to Folkestone, if it wasn’t wanting a piss, she was moaning about her teeth.  I’ve told ‘er: two sqaures of 80% cocoa chocolate and a glass of red wine every morning and she’d be ok.  But no, she has to go to bed at 6.30 after the news and read!

L.O.     Ok then, we’ll give you a call just before we leave.

A.P.     Is ‘ee coming?  Your Father would wear bloody green.  I told ‘im get some of them Adidias shirts from M&S in modern colours, but no, green and brown cardigans with an effing flat cap!

L.O.     Perhaps he liked green.

A.P.     That’s it, you take ‘is side!  Yer brother hasn’t been here since Easter, he used to agree with ‘im an’ all.

L.O.     Well, we are coming on Sunday so we’ll have a few trips out then, ok?

A.P.     You know I don’t eat white bread don’t you?

click ……  brrrr

Tuesday, 14 August 2012

In which One surveys a shop soiled Smeg…

There he was, leaning back in that Alice in Wonderland, Knave of Hearts way that only he can accomplish, regarding the Chesil Beach monstrosity recently dumper-trucked in to the frontispiece of his neighbour’s bijou weekend residence.

Lovely One, resplendent in 1647 animal print narrow pants and layered chiffon marquee, let Oneself out of the massive, locked iron gates that keep out the residents of the alley (they call it ‘The Mews’) from the seething snake pit of bile that is the Malthouse stabling.

‘What do you think of that then?’ enquired a smug looking Lovely Gordon, holding back his hydrangea to reveal a socking great railway sleeper complete with hand fashioned lead drainage pipe that now separates his gaff from the McCain chip eating, holiday cottaging neighbours.  ‘Surely that won’t cause offence, will it?’

Given the lightening speed with which the other residents of the alley descended upon the Chesil Beach installers One assumes anything done by said ‘others’ will cause offence for many moons’ passing.

Any road up, in One biffed for morning coffee and a private view of yet another fridge that he’d acquired in a sale. The miniscule kitchenette now resembles a small town branch of Currys. 

Parked twixt the un-plumbed-in, yet aesthetically pleasing washin mashin and the Maharaja’s wicker throne, was a shop-soiled Smeg, housing the basic stuff of life: a bottle of Bolly and a can of Beluga.

So there we were, squashed into a corner of the kitchen clutching our ‘I’d rather be in Wiveliscombe’ coffee cups, so as not to soil the Regency sofas in the parlour, and anyway they’d long since disappeared under a plethora of objects d’art, when he piped up…

‘What do you think I should do with it then?’

Lovely One, not a loss to the Diplomatic Core, told him to either take it back, forthwith, or give it to the deserving poor.

This curious uncontrollable acquisition of white goods comes as a result of being holed up down the alley with nothing to do but shoot the breeze with Vera Downend, from the other end, or spy on Lovely One’s ex Mother-in-Law, next door.

Any road up, he’s cleared off back up the smoke to have professorial meetings with learned types and won’t wash up down the alley until the weekend.  No doubt with a slightly damaged dishwasher and a Turkish ‘Arselik Tosa’ toaster in the boot.

Monday, 13 August 2012

In which ‘There wasn’t Lovely One, waiting at the Church’…

An odd sort of a day.  Having perused long and hard about a forthcoming event, One had to send a note of attendance excuse as am no longer the ‘and partner’ called for on the invitation.

Have since received a soggy missive, hermetically sealed in a GPO bag, berating Lovely One for this, that and the other and demanding payment for the uneaten wedding cake, un sat on pew, un flung confetti etc. 

How easily the moral high ground can be snatched by the invitee.  However, ‘tis fitting that family ranks be closed around their own, and a collective crucifix be held up to Lovely One whilst the assembled congregation hisses.

The fiendish side of Lovely One, however, and yes I know it’s hard to believe One has one, will secretly mourn the loss of the visual feast that awaits the attendees.

The sweatshop of Chinese foetuses manacled to their Singer treadles could be forgiven for assuming the R101 was having a slip cover manufactured when that particular yardage of tulle washed up for creation.

And frankly, were I the bulging blushing B, I’d be more concerned about the fancy dress outfitter supplying the correct uniform for the groom.

And, no, but thanks for asking, I AM NOT ALRIGHT – OK

Just recovering from that, when am telephoned by the bods engaged to dig up the floor of the underground lair to remove Shirleytosis’s poop.  The ever strange Sister Ug numero uno has told the shite recovery team that Lovely One is ‘staying with friends’ and they can come and dismantle the lair whenever it takes their fancy!

Obv, this is untrue.


Sunday, 12 August 2012

In which One has fairy lights round One’s clematis…

The clock has just chimed two, and once again Lovely One is not pushing out the zeds.  It’s like the flamin’ fly room at Rothamstead Experimental Station in here tonight.  Having dispatched the spidering device the other night all it’s garden comrades have come flying and slithering in to exact revenge.

I’m pretty certain the fairy lights round me clematis are attracting them through the open window.  Mosquitoes are buzzing, long legged spiders are perambulating across the artex and moths various are fluttering round the Tiffany lamp.

Have been wide awake now for about an hour and have been whiling away the night trying to identify poop found on the lawn in the grounds.  I ask you?  Surely Lovely One should have more exciting nocturnal activities that shite identification.   But no, One finds Oneself all alone in the world with nothing to do but google poo. 

Lovely Gordon had called earlier and left a cryptic message requiring Moi to sashay up the alley and give advice on some aspect of his doings.  Amazing!  No one ever asks for the advice of Lovely One since One’s own life is a constant journey from one car crash to another.  Donned me best Marjory Proops specs and returned the call only to find he’d remedied the sit single handed.  Did have an interesting conv re: the advantages of hiring a v small ‘woman what does’ since they can access all areas though.

Got Moi reminiscing about a Polish lady, who, of course got referred to as the polish lady, who formed part of One’s staff when One was a moneyed article with nothing to do but shop and wheel Boy around Hampstead Heath in his Porsche Pushchair.

Lovely Gordon had a Mrs Ollerinshaw who had an arse the size of the Dome of St Pauls, with, he informed a horrified One, a constant fly buzzing round it.

Which brings me neatly back to the winged worriers within me boudoir.

Saturday, 11 August 2012

In which we are not a fish shop…

There it was, a tiny piece of paper tucked under the wipers of the Silver Ghost, the contact details of the cove who’d biffed me up the rear end.  He went by the most promising moniker: Richard Wood, a name with an interesting duo of possibilities.  What a bon oeuff though!  To leave notification of his misdemeanour, which incidentally, One couldn’t detect. Restored One’s faith in H N though!

The sign writer fronted up – a rather portly painter (be interested to learn the substance his ladder was constructed from) and his tiny weeny wife, en route to the balloon festival in Bristol.  Lovely One was envious in the extreme!

Any road up, the obliging sort was perched precariously, tape measure in hand, when up trundled an elderly lady…

‘Is there a fish shop down ‘ere?’ she enquired.

Gesturing theatrically, Lovely One countered…

‘Yes, this is it,’ expecting a titter or an element of interest or even surprise.

‘I’ll have two skate wings,’ she went on, ‘I sometimes go in that Waitrose for a bit of gurnard, but it’s not the same.  My mother used to get a big slice of cod, like that it was (indicating the size), now, you can’t get nothing you want.’

‘The fishmonger’s gone to Rumwell Farm Shop,’ added the teeny weeny wife.

‘Well, the sign at the end of the alley says you ‘ave wet fish down ‘ere!’ continued the old duck, pointing with her stick. ‘Haven’t you got any skate?’

All this time the cuddly calligrapher was rocking to and fro atop his ladder waiting for someone to grab the end of his drooping tape measure.

‘That,’ she continued, ‘is leading people on,’ pointing again with her stick, and becoming a bit agitated, ‘I like a bit of wet fish.   My mother used to get a slice of cod this big.’

‘Yes, well this is a gallery now,’ interjected Lovely One, once again indicating the interesting window display.

‘Well, plaice will do, if you haven’t got any skate wings,’ she went on.

‘We don’t sell fish,’ countered Lovely One.

‘So you haven’t even got any plaice?’ she said.

‘No, I’m terribly sorry, we’ve all but sold out,’ said Lovely One, in her best ‘if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em’ manner.

‘Useless bloody fish shop,’ she went off muttering. ‘My mother used to get…’

Friday, 10 August 2012

In which One doesn’t care if Darren is awright…

Have just been tickled awake by a spidering device attempting to access me jim jams.  Sadly, ‘tis the only living thing to have attempted such a mission for many moons.

Speaking of which, arrived back at the underground lair to a deathly silence, unless you count the panting animal in the corner…

The cool stillness of the lair was a most welcome end to a moist day in the Old Fish Shop Gallery. 

Pulled the Porsche onto BF’s driveway to collect some ‘Bags of Tat’ * 

There she was, resplendent in a knitted bathing suit, soaking up the rays on an upturned orange box next to the bins.  Feverishly mopping her face with a discarded pair of BFP’s under trollies, lest her specs slide off the end of her nose, she squelched off to make a pot of tea, leaving a moist Hiroshima shadow of a knitted arse on the box.

Full of tea and advice like, ‘please live on your own or get a cat, I can’t stand the stress,’ Lovely One made the near impossible climb up the hill to the underground lair, scoffing the profusion of blackberries hanging over the wall.

The quiet stillness was divine after sitting in The Old Fish Shop Gallery listening to the hairdresser next door.

One imagines that the high pitched whine is developed over time to compensate for the noise of the hair driers when gathering important information like:

‘Awright Darren?  Ain’t seen Wayne lately.  Where’s ee to?’

And then the constant…

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, awright?’ that increases in shrillness and decibels throughout the day.

And don’t forget the, ‘Take care',’ that’s yelled up the alley to the departing hairless.

Take care!  Take feckin’ care!  Unless the idiot is met with a sabre toothed tiger on his way from the barbers to the dole office via the local hostelry One assumes he’ll remain unscathed! 

This irritating accompaniment to One’s doings is made even more unpleasant by the number of articles tagging along with the shaven headed morons, who stand outside smoking, spitting and having similarly unnecessary conversations into their mobile phones.

Gadzooks!  Have just HEARD the spidering device walking around the boudoir…

Excuse me for a minute…

That won’t be accessing all areas again this dark and sleepless night! 

Any road up, have taken the princely sum of four quid over the past two days.  Arse wiping is beckoning Lovely One as all me savings are gone.

Aah well, me luck’s run out again.  Shit!

* Bags of Tat.  -  Little bags of stuff various for the adoring public of BF to attempt to create a wall hanging/picture/bag out of slivers of BFP’s old trollies, left over wool from the bathing suit, knicker elastic etc…


Thursday, 9 August 2012

In which One is back on the Prozac…

Once upon a time, yester-bleedin’-day, in fact, Lovely One was tootling along in the Aston Martin, and got snarled up in an inordinately long queue of coaches approaching Wellington town centre.

‘Oh my giddy Aunt,’ thinks Moi, ‘Not the weekly coach party of dentists from Taunton coming to have a gander at the toothy peg technicians of Wellington again!’

In front of that bawdy ensemble rode a bus load of bloodied aproned, sabre rattling, butchers from Tesco on their weekly beano to Waitrose to discuss slicing up bodies various…



‘I can’t believe you haven’t been to Bognasty-sur-mer, (or some such place) to see the Arse, Bum, Tit (or WHATEVER) gallery!’

In case it should have escaped your notice you Asda-carrier wielding nonentity – I am up to me eyes in feckin’ paint! – was what One wanted to screech.  But, of course, One listened to the benefits of such a visit and the boring feckin’ life story of yet another prole who thought it reasonable to take up residence avec Moi for a half hour and bore the arse off One.

Any road up, no sooner than that article departed than the ‘foaming at the mouth stalker’ reared his ugly.  He invaded One’s space sufficiently that One could nasally detect  the repeat adornment of the under trollies for some many moons. 


THEN – a ‘holiday clad’ couple entered…

He – a bus pass carrying, Millets attired, sort, strode over to Lovely One’s painting of Taunton and ejaculated thus…

‘That reminds me of one of them paintings what Autistic Savants do.’

One could audibly detect the contraction of the Pinksters chuff box, in fear of what might happen next.

Unusually, Lovely One permitted the w****r to  continue, further immersing himself in a hole…

‘They’re really clever them Autistics,’ went on the moron, expanding on this theory with at least fifteen more minutes of unsolicited information.

At one point, One made a casual remark intended to alert the idiot to the fact that One had painted said picture and he might like to back track, or indeed shut his effing great gob.

But no…

Instead he opted for…

‘Oh, are you Autistic?’

They left the premises sharply at that point…

Wednesday, 8 August 2012

In which One is wrestled from the Grim Reaper by the Pinkster…

Oh my giddy Aunt!  Have just awoken in a moist little bundle, clutching me winceyette nightie tightly round me throat, from a nightmare littered with naked persons biffing about with unsightly tackle dangling william nilliam.
Lovely One is the soul of discretion, has always been thus, and takes great pains to disguise all bods mentioned herein.  On this occasion it is essential that One adopts a veritable French Underground stance as there are indeed some curious coves moving amongst us!
Let me explain…
During a huddled meeting of Moi, the Pinkster, et al, the v startling information that one of our number has a plethora of intriguing jobs listed on their CV.   Nestling among the qualifications various and some run of the mill occupations is the dubious soubriquet ‘Naked Kebab Seller.’ 
This unsolicited information was hurled like a Pepparami Javelin into the assembled mass dans le synagogue and had much the same startling effect on the congregation of the Old Fish Shop Gallery.
Lovely One had a choking incident on me Gypsy Cream and was wrestled from the clutches of the Grim Reaper only by the Pinkster performing the Hymlick Manoeuvre and then hurling a quart of Mellow Birds down me neck.  She then collapsed in a jiggling, red faced heap and very nigh had a seizure, she was hooting with mirth that much!
It transpired that this ‘curious cove’, who shall forever remain nameless, only retired from the shady world of naked kebab retailing following a near death, singed twinkle incident.
Sashaying homeward, One felt compelled to drop in unannounced on one of the contributors to the Old Fish Shop Gallery and upon the revelation of naked kebab incident, it became apparent that this pair of bods had similar trouser-negative periods hidden in their past.
This unwelcome image brought on another panic attack and Lovely One spent a goodly amount of time breathing into a brown paper bag, whilst the now, thankfully clothed pair, looked on in alarm.
With One’s overly fertile imagination, come the vexing questions…
What kind of surfaces do they sit on?
Are they allowed to wear socks and shoes?
Where do you keep your car keys?
One did saunter onto a noodie beach once as a young thing and positively marvelled at the array of super-flooo-us hair rustling in the breeze.  The acreage of elderly German flesh, like coffee stained papyrus was an assault on the senses.  Even now, some thirty-five years later, One still recalls the young woman who stripped off, lay down on the beach and spread her legs akimbo to air her twinkle, like a rabbit with it’s throat cut, in the briny air.
One can’t help but enquire…
What’s in it for me?
and the reply comes whispering on the Santana of long ago…

Tuesday, 7 August 2012

In which One hauled Oneself through a v ghastly hangover…

I promise you, one and all, that this is positively the last instalment  of the weekend sale and consequent ‘art installation’ of Lovely One at Mar’s house.
Lovely One was done up like a ninepenny dinner for the actual day of the sale and arrived in an over-fed and over-watered haze to find the Chaos Theory type had moved her doings around and….
Now, far be it from One to dampen the enthusiasm of youth, but One was that rigid with rage, you could have buggered me through me raincoat and I’d never have noticed!
Through gritted teeth One gently explained that the situation would continue only over One’s DB.
That situation resolved, One  then had a face on her like an arse’s-ends-hole and sunk deeper into a tired and emotional state of trauma.
Not only did she set up permanent camp in front of me doings, she had her whole flamin’ family (three generations of) with her…
Proceeded to clag up every conceivable entrance to view One’s stuff.  The more elderly of the clan sprawled out over the assembled DFS leatherage and the off spring…
Sprogs various were draped  charmingly across a curious fish filled coffee table that was feckin’ welded to the floor in front of One’s pitch.
Thereby  rendering even the merest of glimpse in the direction of One’s stuff nigh on impossible.
Without actually murdering anyone, One had ‘grandma’ remove the ghastly little blighters to a safe distance and normal service was resumed for a time.
When, oh when, will people  realise that their chocolate smeared progeny are only attractive to them?  One can’t recall requiring all and sundry to coo over Boy.  In fact, he shall remain in his room until he’s thirty-four and fit to converse  with.
Even though Mar had obviously attempted to kill Lovely One with her endless supply of Big Boy’s Breakfasts, One managed to haul Oneself through another successful day with One’s adoring public.
At the end, One angelically enquired of an adjacent artist…
‘Does one package the sold  items Oneself?’
This enquiry was met with a hard stare…
‘Oh, silly me,’ One went on, ‘You didn’t sell anything!’

Monday, 6 August 2012

In which One is almost slain by Mar…

Oh my giddy aunt!  Sashayed back to Mar’s house rather late for Lovely One who generally likes to be dans le truckle bed by nine of an evening, and the little blighter had a full on roast chicken dinner for One to consume!
Apparently Dear Little S had called in earlier in the evening with Full Frontal Sister and scoffed theirs and thought ‘twould be a wizard wheeze if they informed Mar that delicate little Lovely One had the appetite of a rhino-saurus.  Which, One hastens to add, is poppycock!  One’s recent gargantuan girth is due almost entirely to the vast consumption of anything vaguely alcoholic in a vain attempt to counter the stultifying loneliness of the underground lair.
Which leads One neatly on to the accompaniment for the Chicken dinner: a box of wine!
Mar produced, from behind her rocking chair, two boxes of wine into which she proceeded to poke straws in the manner of a child’s Kia Ora or such like.
‘Eee Arrr,’ slurred Mar, proffering the individual four litre box to Lovely One.
In the name of all that’s holy, how does someone so small manage to absorb such a vast amount of liquid?  Not One, I hasten to add.  One is a circus attraction sized Biffa these days, but Mar is a teeny little pensioner pocket Polly.
One can but conclude that Mar is constructed from the same material as the famed ‘One Sheet’ kitchen roll that ‘absorbs plenty.’ Or, perchance she’s some kind of human pot noodle: all dry and crispy until liquid is added, whereupon she reconstitutes.  Who knows?  Certainly not L.O. who, after cramming down the chick din, was then required to consume an individual washing-up bowl full of trifle garnished with a pork pie.
Any road up, wasn’t allowed to climb the wooden hill to Bedfordshire until two feckin’ thirty, whereupon One passed out twixt the Laura Ashley sheets.
‘Bacon, sausage, black pudden, fried slice, tomatoes, beans, devilled kidneys and how d’yer like yer eggs?’ was bellowed up the stairs at some ungodly hour.
Peering over the landing, there she was like a little boiled mouse in her jim-jams, just retrieving her teeth out of the pocket of her liberty bodice, in order to begin the day’s vast consumption of foods various.
One managed to swerve the ‘all you can eat’ breakfast, but not to be outdone, Mar wanted to pack a pickernick basket to take to the exhibition.
One stealthily made good her escape after the consumption of a mere chocolate brioche and a life saving tin mug of coffee, and was delivered by FFS to my adoring public for another triumphant day of sales.
We were, one and all, requested by the benefactor of the sale, N, to ‘be supportive to one another.’ 
Supportive? Su-feckin-portive?  What the fecks that? 
Every time someone else sold something, One died a little inside!

Sunday, 5 August 2012

In which One is seething…

                      norman poster

(One is there!  V small in the bottom, just like Lovely One)

continued saga of the weekend…

Beautifully groomed and perfumed, One was duly delivered to the v splendid venue.

Masses of red faced, perspiring painters were biffing hither and thither with canvas and easel et al.  They all seemed to be making their way up the ornate staircase, all four floors of it, to the grand chambre set aside for the ‘do.’

Fortunately, Lovely One espied a service lift and thought she’d avail herself of it rather than arrive clutching me chest and gasping for air.

The room resembled a storage depot for ‘world of leather’ given the ridiculous amount of sofas in there.  I should think half the feckin’ cows in Devon were peeled to make that flamin’ lot!

Any road up, Lovely One went into pathetic girlie mode and soon had all and sundry assembling easels and moving furniture whilst Lovely One stood to one side orchestrating manoeuvres.  One feels particularly satisfied that even at my advanced years and state of general decay, One can still call upon the great unwashed masses to ‘do me bidding.’ 

When One was young…  Aaah, those were the days!  A veritable army of helpers could be roused with the batting of a single eyelid.

Finally chummied up with a humorous bod whose pics One had waxed lyrical about in Norm’s gaff.  He zeroed in on one of One’s and One was in like a rodent up a downpipe to bag a ‘swap.’  The little peanut headed monster wasn’t having any of it though and then only went and sold the one One wanted!!  He won’t escape my clutches though, trust me, they never escape!!

Next to Lovely One was a rather too enthusiastic young article who based her doings on the Chaos Theory.  If I ever hear the words ‘chaos theory’ uttered within my earshot again, I will tear the utterers tongue out with my gnashers!  If she said it once, she said it six hundred effing times to anyone who casually glanced over. AND she stood in front of Lovely One’s pictures whilst she baffled the poor saps with explanations of her stuff.  Well, One seethed!  It has to be said, she was a sweet little blighter, in possession of that most precious of beauty assets: youth.  So, One didn’t want to spoil her day, but after all, One was there to make a few spons so, after careful thought One put on her most benevolent grimace and sauntered over and said…


more soon…

In which One displays the first of many many sales…. tra la

barbican blues small image
Of course, all One’s handbags have bags of their little own.  These, along with dainty velvet shoes, in their own boxes, packed with tissue and labelled, were packed by Juanita into the luggage compartment of the Bentley Corniche and following a final check of the underground lair, One sped off toward Deepest Devon.
Dear Little S had arranged lodgings for L.O. at the palatial residence of his dear mama, or Mar, as ‘em sez in them parts. Obv, the dear old duck had rolled out the carpet rouge for the third official visit of the week to one of One’s devoted subjects.
One does like to ‘keep up’ with the little people from time to time and in a progress not dissimilar to Elizabeth I, has been paying brief, longed for droppings in on the unwashed masses.
Made it down in record time.  That ve-hicle goes like a jit!  Went first to Dear LS and thence to Mars. 
Now, it has to be said, that your very own Lovely One has ladled on the lard over the passing of many moons, not least for the feeder instincts of Dear Little S who fair crammed chocolate cake pie down me neck til I bust out of me sloggis.
Mar is a veritable Jewish Mother.  Vast trenchers of scran were proffered to Lovely One from the word go!
When first One arrived, the sound of cocks having their necks wrung in the back garden was echoing up and down the street.  There stood the diminutive Mar with a blood stained machete between her teeth and a cock in each gnarled fist.
Flinging the cocks over her shoulder and wiping the blood onto her french maid’s pinny, she swiped me Louis Vuittons out of me ‘ands and biffed off up the stairs, two at a time, to my freshly prepared boudoir.
One was in a bit of a rush, since had misinterpreted the order of proceedings and had assumed that ‘come and meet some of the artists’ meant just that.  Unfortunately one was only excused the cocktail party if one was dead!  So, in a fresh chiffon tea dress with dainty kitten heeled golden slippers One trundled off to meet One’s adoring public.
This miffed Mar in the extreme, since she had earlier killed a fatted calf, snapped the hoofs off and assembled it between two bread vans.  (That’s what passes for a sandwich at chez Mar.)  Having just scarfed down a catering pack of sushi and five cans of Special Brew, Lovely One had no option but to decline.  But, in a gesture not often made, allowed the subservient Mar to drive One to meet the throbbing crowd of admirers lined up outside the exhibition.
to be continued…

Thursday, 2 August 2012

In which One has a go on the vomitarama…

Have just been awakened rather rudely by the crab lasagne One inhaled for supper, wishing to make a return appearance.  I am sure that when said fishy dish first made it’s debut on the ‘Today’s Specials’ board it was moist, light and delicious.  However, by supper time it has congealed to the heavy consistency of many layers of flock wallpaper soaked in river  bed slime.  It sat, in a most uncomfortable position, twixt gob ‘n’ gut as if One had swallowed the side-walking device complete with shell.  Until, it biffed up the interior of Lovely One and made it to One’s milky white throat, whereupon One was met with a gob full of disgusting goo.

So, here One is, in a vertical position, scarfing down Gaviscon like there’s no tomorrow!

Which, of course, there is, and it may well prove a significant interlude in the career of your very own darling paintress, Lovely One.  And if it doesn’t One shall have to Arse Wipe with a vengeance in order to pay the piper.

Any road up, biffed off to see BF, the tiny little genius of the silken thread, to get me kecks nipped in at the ankle to avoid walking up the inside of ‘em when perambulating up the stairs of the Treasury, Royal Parade, Plymouth on Saturday 4th August 2012 from 10.00am until 4.00pm.

After that, bogged off to The Old Fish Shop Gallery to grab another easel and was confronted by a nippy little article clad in Italian knit from top to toe.

‘I’ve seen you before,’ said the bod.

‘Front cover of Vogue?’ answered Lovely One.

This raised not a glimmer of a grimace, and she ploughed on…

‘I know.  You were in this place when it was in Wiveliscombe.  It was badly run and really clicky.’

One then placed the familiar fraulien as a ‘would be contributor’ for our little art and craft co-op. 

Now – that really dung me bell!

‘Actually',’ One began, ‘It was very well run and democratic to boot! In fact I well remember you bringing in your knitted handbags and leaving them to be accepted or rejected in our blind vote.’

‘Well, I sell internationally now!’ voiced the vexed little woollen woman.

‘Well jolly good for you!’ One went on, ‘and there’s no democratic voting in here, if we don’t solicit your wares, you don’t get in at all!’

The previous incarnation of Red Hat was run with military precision by BF, who put in procedures for everything imaginable, including the process of all co-op members voting as to who could, and couldn’t join.

It’s a sad state of affairs that some bods blame everyone but themselves for poor, boring and uninteresting work.

Lovely One is only too aware when she had produced a pile of shite!  Let’s hope tomorrow and Saturday’s good burghers of Plymouth are not so discerning!

Wednesday, 1 August 2012

In which poo poo keeps on rearing it’s ugly…

A splendid day was had by Lovely One.  Paid an official visit to one of One’s fan club and her manservant. 

One occasionally drops in to partake of tea and fancies, much like our Dear Queen, and on this occasion was treated as such. 

‘Tis rare, in these times of celebrity being meted out according to the size of one’s plastic nellies, the whiteness of one’s gnashers and the willingness to simply invite others to peek into one’s banal existence, that adoration still seeps into the worthy life of your very own goddess, Lovely One!  But, there you are, true worth is still appreciated in some backwaters.

And with this fresh in mind, shall descend upon some other lucky homestead today seeking refreshment and solace.  Before, that is, biffing off to Boy and Vile ex-Husband’s gaff to be briefed in the monetary and transport requirements of Boy’s forthcoming training to become Prime Minister.

Tired of watching that ‘sport thing’ that’s all over the telly like a rash, biffed off to the truckle bed early.  As far as One can ascertain re: sports thing.  Kenneth Branagh started the Industrial Revolution, the Queen won a gold in the Parachute jumping and Chinese people go like jits in the water.  Any road up, when bloody football re-appeared, it was more than Lovely One could take, so sauntered off with Kindle for a delve into the lives of the Fishing Fleet.

Only to be rudely interrupted by the pring-pring of Lovely Gordon checking in to tell of his doings.  One is always glad to hear the soothing tones of L.G. and was nestled down hearing about the lateness of busses from Taunton and how some blighter had put paper bags over all the bus stop signs to confuse ‘poor old ducks’, when…

We were suddenly thrust back into a discussion about the accidental imbibement of the eco friendly washing liquid. 

Quite how one can consume said substance in error is still beyond the imaginings of Lovely One!  Any road up, L.G. felt compelled to share with One the ‘cottage cheese like’ consistency of his chunder, following the four litres of organic milk what he chucked down to flush the system…

And then…


‘I produced an almost white turd,’ he went on, with, it has to be said, a certain amount of pride.

Now, Lovely One tries to take a keen interest in her most loyal subjects, but draws the line at habits ‘toiley boiley.’

‘It had the look of a religious icon,’ he ploughed on, ‘the sort one sees at the roadside in little alcoves to leave offerings to.’

One can only conclude that the ‘icon’ sped round the S bend to Shirleytosis’s bunged up khazi and held some sort of midnight mass amongst the flooded Malthouse merde.

Well, One hopes it did, anyway!

In which One encounters a fairy grotto in One’s grounds…

The summer was born, lived it’s brief and feral life, and peacefully lay down and died in the Pinkster’s field, this year.  Oh lucky P and co! How One wishes One was young and less high maintenance.
With the breech birth of The Old Fish Shop Gallery and the…
One has scarcely had a mo to patrol the grounds that are fecund and big and blousy.  A tad similar to your very own Lovely One in fact.  And so it was with a modicum of surprise that One flung back the curts in the middle of the night to be confronted with what looked like Santa’s fecking Grotto dans le back garden!
One staggered back ‘quelle surprise’ One ejaculated ‘wot the feck’s that?’
After breathing into a paper bag for a mo: had a near fatal panic attack, took a further glance in case had been a horrid dream. But no, deep in the midnight gloom there shone a flamin’ set of blinking fairy sodding lights.  And, on further investigation another set of the bastards was found entwined amongst me sacred Agapanthus, no less!!
Since the removal of me back gate by the numero uno Sister Ug, there’s been no access up the back passage, so twas a mystery, until, emerging from me panic attack/state of shock, One began to recall the root of the evil.
During the summer sojourn of Uncle Bert, he oft had his cannon ball head buried in one of those ‘entry level’ peculiar little bargain basement catalogues that are printed on ancient looking Beano comic paper.  You know the kind of thing: velcro fastening shoes, intimate massagers ( shown by some bint rubbing a vibrator across her shoulders.)  ‘For all the good that did me I might as well have shoved it up me …..’
Any road up, One does recall the clammy, sausage-fingered hand of Uncle Bert proffering said missive to Lovely One, extolling the virtues of solar powered, butterfly shaped, garden lights.
One can only imagine that these were then procured at some speed by said U.B. and secreted about the grounds when Lovely One was absent from the Underground Lair.
Now, One has been told never to ‘look a gift horse in the mouth’ whatever the fecking hell that means. But One spent the rest of the sleepless night eagerly awaiting dawn.  One couldn’t get out there and rip up the offending devices under cover of darkness, lest One should encounter a further pile of Montgomery shite.
One asks vous.  Does One look like the sort of unsophisticated, cheaply dressed, Lidl shopping, plastic shoe wearing, Lanzarote holidaying, Mirror reading, bargain-bucketter that would sanction such a repulsive addition to One’s little garden paradise?
Don’t answer that…