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Sunday, 30 September 2012

In which One encounters Vernon and ‘Elizabeth’–the world’s only steam bus…

Following the sad demise of the best, fattest, gingerest, viciousest pussy in the world, One briefly entertained the idea of having his whiskers fashioned into a bracelet or some such.  Only briefly though, since on reflection, how would he be able to get through the gaps in the fence of cat heaven?  After all, cat heaven is full of holey fences leading to overgrown gardens full of mice and cosy sitting rooms with roaring fires and brand new Chesterfield sofas ripe for the clawing.

Lovely One heaven, however, is much different: upon arrival One will be ushered to a plump fluffy cloud where One will take up the position and be fed Pickering Pies washed down with quarts of Pinot Grigio, by the Greek God for all eternity. 

Any road up, Whitby was a little treat to savour, but not for longer than a week in this inclement weather.  And as for fish and chips – NO MORE THANK YOU – well, not for a while anyway. 

Lovely One scoffed them hither and thither, even in the world famous Magpie Cafe, which always has a socking great queue outside.  But, it has to be said, Lovely One is a social outcast, not part of the crowd, a veritable Pariah, in fact.


I know, I know, Lovely One is the physical embodiment of the answer to the question ‘Who ate all the pies.’  But, ‘tis true, don’t like ‘em!  Chips, that is, not pies!

Well, following the Magpie Cafe scampi and chips (barf, barf, yuk) biffed onto ‘Elizabeth’, the only steam bus in the world. 

Driven by the singed and blackened Vernon, assisted by the equally charred offspring of Vern and his devoted wife Maureen, off we set at a bone rattling pace around Whitby.  Maureen, a slip of a bint, be-decked in soiled maroon overalls, brandishing a pre-war ticket machine and sporting a likewise ancient, pin-curled hair-do, made her way up the aisle taking the money before sitting at the front and keeping up a Vernon based monologue, at a level of decibels usually associated with a foghorn, from start to finish.

Clearly devoted to Vernon, we were assaulted by Maureen,  with the entire tale of the life of ‘Elizabeth’, both before and after she came into Vernon’s possession.

Apparently ‘My Vern doesn’t have the words ‘no’ and ‘can’t’ in his vocabulary,’  and following an actual change in the law, no less, Elizabeth was able to have an MOT and begin life as a tourist attraction in Whitby.

‘If you just look into the front cabin now, you’ll see something that no one else in the world can see…’

Being a Lovely One of a nervous disposition One clamped One’s hand firmly over One’s eyes and peeked through me fingers, just in case.

Lo and behold, a fecking great flame shot out twixt Vernon and the Vernonette. 

‘Stap me vitals,’  One thought, ‘I’ll wager he doesn’t need nose hair trimmers!’



Thursday, 27 September 2012

In which One has been to Pie Heaven…

Have sampled the delights of Scarborough and Pickering.

Pickering being ‘pie heaven.’  Absolutely peed down all day, so pie eating in the warm was a pleasant way to pass the day.

Seeing all the reported flooding, One expects Aged P to be glued to the TV expecting to see Lovely One sailing down York High Street in me Mulberry overnight bag.  Shan’t phone her since she simply adores a hand wringing panic.

Boy hasn’t taken up the offer of a sojourn in Whitby, so all must be fun and larks at the University.  Shall be, however, descending upon his new lair on the morrow with items various for a civilised existence.

Lovely One had a trip round Whitby, up to the abbey on the open topped bus.  Flippin’ ‘eck it was windy up there. 

Am mortified that Vile ex Husband was the one to be with Tigerboy upon the hour of his demise.  Still, I suppose One will have but the memories of the vicious great fat thing to comfort One.

One well remembers him sitting on the windowsill at One Golden Hill looking like a furry cushion.  Unsuspecting passers by would put their hands into the open window to stoke him and be savaged to the point of calling for help. 

He used to sleep on top of the kitchen cabinets and One titters remembering the confused looks from visitors hearing loud purring noises from the kitchen ceiling.  That was when we lived in MK at the start of our slide down the food chain.  Tigerboy was the king of the close and would wait outside the homes of other cats to duff them up when they ventured out.

Vicious to the end.  I like that.  Continuity!

Poor old Vile ex Husband is now alone, but for the flea infestation.

Wednesday, 26 September 2012

In which Tigerboy is no more…

Sad news reaches the far flung moors: Tigerboy, world’s best cat, is no more.

All that is left to remember him by is a flea infestation, a hospitalising injury for Vile ex Husband and several thousand pounds worth of decimated Chesterfield furniture.

A final visit to the vet took place but forty eight hours before his demise.  A hundred quid’s worth of injections, ointments and sprays, then back home to reside in the shopping basket until the time came. THEN another seventy five to see the furry bag of bones off to the great Iams factory in the sky, where furniture may be scratched with impunity for eternity.

So – no more morbidly obese pussies to support.  The end of an era.

Lovely One can still recall the moment the two of them came tumbling out of the cardboard box that carried them back from an otherwise miserable existence at the cat’s home in Aspley Guise. 

They shot up and down the polished wooden floors of our then, sizeable residence and explored the massive garden and street length driveway.

Like their human compatriots they slid down the social scale and washed up in a flat in Wivey to end their days.

Fat Sally was the more intelligent of the two, having been told but once not to jump onto the dining room table, she never did again.  Tigerboy, however took to sleeping in the centre of it!

Ta ta – off on the open top bus…

Monday, 24 September 2012

In which One is oooop North…

Fear not, subjects, One is alive and kicking up me heels ooop North on ollerdee, or as some would see it, stalking Boy at Uni.

Upon sight of the moors, One came over all literary and in homage to one of them Bronte bints, (can never remember which one) piped up with…

‘Heathcliffe, it’s me, your Kathy, I’ve come home, let me in your window, ow, ow, ow, etc…’

My travelling companion said it was just like being in the car with Kate’s Bush.

‘Tis a champion spot, view over ‘t viaduct in one direction and a field of lunch in the other.

Afore One bleats on about ‘oop North’, which One will for ‘t rest of ‘t week, One must inform you, Dear Reader, of a curious cove who sauntered into The Old Fish Shop Gallery at the end of last week…

He was sporting a headful of that spray on hair that adheres to whatever meagre strands you may have sprouting, and forms a kind of merde coloured candyfloss.  Beneath this farcical barnet lurked a mottled shite coloured fizzog that looked for all the world as if it was half peeled.  The garb of a ‘gentleman of the road’ set off the ensemble with a devil may care appearance.

Without a ‘good morning’, ‘kiss me arse’, nor nothing, he strode across to the Distinguished Elderly Gentleman’s wall and hollered…

‘Huh, £125 fer that!  I could’ve done that!’

‘Well you didn’t did you,’ countered a bristling Lovely One, ‘and if you think that’s expensive, you’d better not look at any of mine,’ One went on attempting to lighten the tone.

Swinging his co-op carrier in a determined fashion, the swarthy little diddicoy advanced in the gen direc of Lovely One’s wall…

‘A child could do better than that!  There’s nothing on there that I would hang on my walls.’

‘Well, there are many hundreds of owners who would heartily  disagree with you!’ One countered.

‘I brought some of my drawings in ‘ere for someone to look at.  Not to sell, just to look at’, he went on.


This must be the annoying little twerp who accosted the Pinkster with his doings and was unceremoniously ushered out of the door after having bored the tits off her for ages…

‘Well,’ said One, ‘You don’t like my work and we don’t like yours, so perhaps you’d like to leave.’

‘Oh, you want me to leave?’ he spluttered, astonished.

One ushered him toward the door and gave him a v hard stare.



Thursday, 20 September 2012

In which Lovely One has an upset system…

Vomit-arama!  Just made it back to the underground lair before a massive calling for Hughie session.  Obv, the elderly digestive system can no longer cope with a mixed gorilla washed down with a magnum of Champers.

Any road up – put paid to the evening of Vodishka and fags that One and BF had planned on the patio. 

BF had thoughtfully fashioned an embroidered replica of One’s deceased pussy, for One’s birthday, and we were going to offer it up to the walls of the underground lair until we found the spot where it caught the light to it’s best advantage.

AND – had despatched Uncle Bert who’s gargantuan trouser contents were on a heat seeking path toward some scabby old bint from the other side of the gate who he reckoned had been giving him the ‘glad eye.’ 

One delicately tried to tell him that this was not in fact a wink, but a nervous tick, but too late.  He was already making good his escape having ackled his tackle into what resembled one of those massive sling-shot efforts that Medieval marauders used to deploy to hurl flaming balls over the parapets of neighbouring battlements.  Quite fitting then, come to think of it!

When Hennery Cooper suggested ‘splashing it all over’ he didn’t have in mind the surface area of the body parts (dans le tracky bottoms) that Uncle Bert was Brut-ing up.  Otherwise it would have been available by the flagon.

A couple of hours kip and the restorative power of the Co-op’s new Lemon Meringue flavoured ice cream and Lovely One’s as good as new.  Obv still actually have the interior workings of a car crusher after all!

I spect you’re all wondering about the outcome of Tigerboy having brutally savaged Vile ex Husband…

Well – infection appears to have set in and he’s just sitting forlornly in Boy’s abandoned bedroom, refusing food, and hissing.

Tigerboy’s not much better either!

Wednesday, 19 September 2012

In which One is a sell out, yet again, TA-DA…

The Pinkster has quaffed no wine.  Nor has she been red of tooth – for TWO FLAMIN’ WEEKS – AMAZING!

But Lovely One scoffs at this achievement.


To be fair, One did make a v small telephone call to Vile ex Husband to enquire after Boy’s general doings and wellbeing.  And – all is well.  Japanese girls a-plenty and wizard wheezes and larks all the way!  Goodo!

Not so for V ex H though!  Tigerboy, the big fat ginger pussy (subject of a bitter custody battle) has lost the furry plot and taken to having fits of the screaming ab-dabs. Well, the miaowing ab-dabs, I suppose.  Any road up, during said abbington-dabbingtons, V ex H has laid a calming hand over the errant pussy until all quivering has ceased – until yesterday – when he was brutally savaged!  Now, his primary digits are swollen to the degree that they resemble a pair of Thorne’s the Butcher’s finest Cumberland sausages. 


Biffed off to Deepest Devon to pay an official visit to my subjects and drop off a palette of masterpieces.

Drop no 1 – ‘Ooooh we could have done with a brace of this that and the other…..’

Drop no 2 – ‘Yes sold everything within hours and have wanted more for ages…..’

Drop no 3 – more of same

and so it went on…

All this time Dear Little S was going like a good ‘un, whacking new ones into frames etc.


It’s not difficult – with all the manners of comms available to everyone! One can’t even go  Toiley-Boiley without being faxed, phoned, emailed, texted, or Googled, fer fecks sake!

One either needs a slave, a manager or a wife!

Some twatticus at the council in P has decided, yet again, to dig up the entire road network, so even the Meemster has taken to sashaying back and forth on a bicyclette.  Not only that, but the flamin’ Olympians have been biffing about getting clapped at, so perambulation through the streets was nigh on impossible.

Luckily, Dear Little S had procured a magnum of Champagne for Lovely One’s birthday, so that was waiting silently in the Lamborghini for when One finally washed up at the Underground Lair, in a state of flux.

Dropping off a shed load of doings at The Old Fish Shop Gallery on the way home, One availed Oneself of a mixed gorilla from the Indian takeaway. 

Whilst eagerly awaiting it’s arrival had to phone WWW to ascertain the whereabouts of the receipt rolls for the chip and pin.

‘Mmmmmm, they’re in the box under the phone.’

‘No they’re not.’

‘Try the drawers in the back room.’

‘No, they’re not there.’

‘Oh, I remember!  They’re in the middle drawer of the washstand.’

‘Where’s that?’



Any road up, scuttling down the alley, nose twitching in a cartoon manner, in pursuit of me mixed gorilla, One espied the v same chip and pin machine in the Indian.

Not only is he giving One one, he is nipping up the alley to bung it in for me first thing in the morning!







Tuesday, 18 September 2012

In which more are called, but only some may be chosen…

The scented boudoir resembles the ‘fly room’ at Rothamstead Experimental Station this night. So have deployed the DDT spray gun, sealed up the door and sheared to the kitchen for a graze until it settles.

News reaches the underground lair that a further two painter-type bods are newly ‘hanging on me every.’  Was just this morning conversing, from me pyjamas, with Dear Little S, so have instructed him in the art of assembling the Lovely One Shrine, in order that the new boys can partake in the accustomed style.

A polaroid of Lovely One with the big fat ginger pussy, a large VAT and a Marlboro Light constantly burning in a tasteful ashtray is all you little people require.  Then – sit up straight – and worship.

Any road up, am biffing off to the great Metrolopis to instruct Dear Little S, on the morrow re: framing up some masterpieces.

Have been positioned at the end of the alley, in the manner of Streryl Meep, in the French Lieutenant's Woman, keeping watch for the Greek God. 

Twinkle freshly strimmed, face waxed, charcoal biscuits inhaled (in case of parping), gusset flossed raw, Dettox Mildew remover twixt me nellies, – and nothing! Another no show.

One fears One shall have to hang up me Gok Wangers for the last time!

Have left yet another impulse buy:  A too small and young looking outfit in The Old Fish Shop Gallery for the Pinkster. Don’t know why I don’t just cut out the middle man and just take her with me and let her choose!  She’s off for another long weekend with the hubbster, although I’m not sure a tasteful dress and jacket combo is ideal when one is residing under canvas in a field and having to hoik one’s skirt up to climb aboard the chest of drawers with a hole in it that serves as a toiley boiley.

Boy seems to have found his niche and is off this eve to see ‘Hypno the Wonderdog’ with the Japanese girls from upstairs.  Anyway, now Uncle Bert’s taken up residence again Lovely One has quite enough to worry over!

Once again he left the underground lair in those grey trackie bottoms – WITH NO SHREDDIES UNDERNEATH.  The disgusting things must be old enough to vote, given the way they are ‘kneed’ out, and, even when hanging, have the appearance of being inhabited by some unseen twenty-five stoner. The, laughably called, ‘waistband’ is positioned precariously under the, visible, comedy stomach, and, having bent down to velcro his shoes, the arse area is formed into a giant jogger wedgie that gives his posterior the appearance of a giant grey cream bun!

Just the quart of Pinot Grigoi for tea tonight, methinks! 


Monday, 17 September 2012

In which Uncle Bert washes up on me shore…

If only Vi had kept her ‘and on ‘er ha’penny at the Festival of Britain, a different vista would have greeted Lovely One as she turned the Daimler into the drive. 

But no, there it was, the doormobile, with ‘home from home comfort’ hammock.

‘I’ve come to keep yer compnee, gel,’ proffered UB as he lumbered out of the sliding door, closely followed by the hell hound.

‘Oh goody gumdrops,’ thought L.O. as we heaved the carriers a-plenty into the spare room.

‘I’m off fer a kip,’ announced UB, ‘mind Monty fer us.’

Montgomery sat on the far end of the antique Persian rug regarding Moi with an air of suspicion and farting occasionally, so as to assert itself.

Any road up, in the fullness of time UB appeared from his kip wearing the most alarming apparel viewed thus far.

‘Taking Monty out,’ he said over his disappearing shoulder.

‘Hang on just a mo,’ countered Lovely One, in such a state of alarm as to render her shreddie contents no longer ‘Tena Lights.’  (They don’t remain ‘light’ following a shock like that!)

‘Don’t you think you’re a little old to go commando?’  LO enquired of the fearsome sight.

Striding forth with the gait of a cove that still had his mount between his thighs, LB was attired in a too-short T-shirt,(food stained, of course) thus revealing a convex B.Button,  a pair of what One might laughingly call ‘joggers’, though never destined to pick up that sort of speed,  also, too short, revealing mismatched socks below the elasticated ankles, above a pair of ‘Velcro’ wide-fit leatherette padders.  The ensemble was topped off with a tweed cap and as UB rested, one foot off the ground against the wall, he put One in mind of the ‘You’re never alone with a Strand,' ad of yesteryear.

Sadly though – he was!

‘You look as if you’ve got a string bag full of Galia Melons down yer keks.  You simply cannot leave this flat in that state!  Haven’t you got a pair of undertrollies with you fer Heaven’s sake?’

Lovely One was reaching fever pitch by this time, what with the looming presence of UB for the foreseeable and all the sniggering from behind hands that brought with it.

Uncle Bert duly heaved his gut to one side and regarded the danglers…

‘Wossup?’ he enquired, ‘You goes about of an evenin’ without yer brazier on.’

‘Maybe so,’ One countered, ‘Not that it’s any of your Bees-tiddly-wax, but I don’t go out waving me envelope-flaps in the faces of the great unwashed of Wivey, like you intend to with your gargantuan danglers!’

He looked somewhat crestfallen at this last outburst. 

His heart’s in the right place.  Sadly it’s about the only body part that is!!



Sunday, 16 September 2012

In which Lovely One is frantic…

In a brief sitty down between mammoth super-cleaning sessions in the Underground Lair, One happened upon a recent adaptation of Rebecca, on TV. 

Oh joy, oh bliss!  Lovely One was morphed into the Mrs De Winter character and, after screen testing the Greek God, opted for Laurence Olivier as Maxim.

Shouldn’t really indulge in those kind of dramas, for they are the reason – well – they, and the Saturday Afternoon Hollywood Movie, are why Lovely One has always been disappointed in the old roman tickle stakes. 

From v early on, One was to be found curled up in the library of a Saturday morning devouring tomes such as Wuthering Heights, Rebecca etc. 

Well, anyway, after that, One would scamper homeward for the Sat Mat, and moon about being Bette Davis in ‘Now Voyager’ for the rest of the week. 

For the rest of One’s life actually. 

Hence the selection process for prospective partners began and ended with One and One’s equally daft flatmate, The Borilla, (too big to be a bear, too ugly to be a gorilla) imagining said cove, clad in a Heathcliff get up.  If the ruffled shirt and knee breeches were a goer – he was in.  Hence Vile ex-husband, who sported the long black hair and swarthy exterior of a Moors dwelling romantic hero, thus disguising the actuality of a lily-livered, indoor Mummy’s boy.

Any road up, the cleaning went on for a goodly part of the day to avoid thinking about the doings of Boy in the great metrolopis.

Just as well, since, when not being able to Skype him, One assumed he was painting Scarborough Scarlet.

Not so, when Boy finally phoned he had been in A&E all night with suspected meningitis!  A headache had become so bad, and spots had appeared and an AMBULANCE HAD BEEN CALLED.

Disaster averted, Boy had returned too late to be able to get up for the trip and was, needless to say, agitated to say the least.

Lovely One had the distinct feeling that Boy was on the cusp of shearing, so offered all sorts of platitudes etc.

Left it a while, pacing up and down with me steam mop, steaming everything that stood still, and, at intervals attempted to Skype.


Hours pass


Scarfed down an anti-panic quart of Pinot Grigio


‘Oh, hi mum, no, I’m fine – just been out with some Japanese girls from upstairs to see The King’s Speech.’


In which it is the first day of the rest of Boy’s life…

A further furious day of cleaning took place in The Old Fish Shop Gallery, in order that Lovely One could attempt to  stash thoughts of the retreating Boy at the back of One’s mind.

When finally reclining in the truckle bed for a well deserved afternoon napette, the phone rang.  ‘Twas Boy. Arrived safely and unpacking in an enormous room overlooking the street and subsequent arrival of further forlorn students, leaving hand-wringing parents bereft on the street below.

Lovely One had been replaced in the car by a printer and fortunately G-Ma had been swerved for the journey, so with Vile ex-Husband at the wheel, a fairly blub free deposit was assured.

Today, the first full one, a trip to Scarborough was undertaken by Boy and no doubt a motley crew of nervous newcomers.

Got One thinking about the poss of Boy making a new BF to take the place of the inimitable K. 

K, an idiosyncratic boy, long of our acquaintance has spent a long lonely childhood in foster care, longing to be re-united with his erring family.  This has now taken place and he is thus fulfilled and therefore not undertaking the university place that was pre-planned for him by some sympathetic case worker.

Boy always says that he, ‘Boy’ has difficulty making friends.  One finds this diff to grasp, since he truly is a fine fellow with a ready wit and a kind heart.

No matter.  Spect he will wash up agin some similar coves in the fullness of time.

Got One further perusing the long line of BF’s in One’s shifty existence, currently with the curious, tiny, hedge-forager from the bottom of the hill.

A particular one that sticks in the mind was the truly exquisitely beautiful ‘Animal.’  Her supposed family crest bore the command


The fine boned structure, flawless complexion and long, thick golden hair, belied the outrageous monster residing within. 

The legions of men, young and old, who constantly surrounded her, unceremoniously elbowing Lovely One out of the way, would have been surprised by her navvy like lifestyle.

She never left home without a bottle of scotch in her handbag, bought a large portion of fish and chips to eat on the way home with her Chinese takeaway and shagged, then discarded anything with a pulse.

Wonder where she is now?

Any road up, Boy will be fortunate if he encounters such a chum!

Friday, 14 September 2012

In which Vile ex Husband is true to previous form…

Positively threw Oneself into re-arranging and cleaning The Old Fish Shop Gallery today, so as not to give in to the Boy related angst.

Has One been a good enough Mama?

Did One give Boy a good start in life?

Has he got enough clean pants?

Bla bla and all that…

Not that any doings inside the gaff will make a diff to the footfall outside given that a delicious drunken bint barfed up the contents of her scraggy frame all over the sodding alleyway.  Mmmm, a lovely accompaniment to the pigeon shite carpet.

Have opted for not going along on the delivery journey to Leeds, as am sure One will skrike and make a holy show of meself.  Am sticking to the plan…

Have, completely by coincidence, booked a weeks holiday, alarmingly close to Leeds, beginning on 22nd September.

Dear Little S called this ‘stalking’ and sympathised with Boy.  NONSENSE.  Complete co-inky-dinky.

Have certainly sent him off with a shed load of nice, new, clean everything (and written instructions how to use a washin mashin) Plus, a shopping list of all the everyday essentials, not that he’ll need that, having organised the whole shebang himself with no help from the oblivious Vile ex Husband. (How can someone so outwardly nice be such a fecking dick?)

The Pinkster phoned up to shoot the breeze and we laughed about Vile ex H asking for the petrol money to drive up there.  You know, considering that One has provided the car and all the money for everything from shreddies to text books.  (Not that One begrudges it to Boy – He can have a kidney as well if he wants)

Ooooh, we did laugh!  And guess what…



Thursday, 13 September 2012

In which it is Lovely One’s birthday…

Well, here we are then, another year gone by and it’s Lovely One’s birthday again.  

Form an orderly queue with your gifts and good wishes.
Sadly, another 365 days without the acquisition of true luuurve.  All that charging about some years back with persons acquired from the interweb has been put down to temporary insanity and One has accepted that a big fat ginger cat is a preferable companion.

One shall retire of an evening with a quart of prune juice and a charcoal biscuit to dream of the Greek God.  Not that One is a sucker for good looks – pray no – One has always found One’s thumbs drawn instantly to One’s knicker elastic by the company of a cerebral cove, or even better, a humorous bod.

A brief gander in the looking glass confirms that One still has One’s good looks, though absolutely not the face One deserves.  One well recalls the pitiful cry of a ‘Man’ One had in to perform some household repairs recently, who uttered, whilst visibly quivering, ‘how can someone like you have the face of an angel?’

Ah, well, slipped through the Oscar Wilde net of ‘by forty one gets the face one deserves.’  For surely, Lovely One would have a grey and wrinkled visage covered with hairy warts, considering One’s life’s misdeeds.  In fact, One still has a goodly amount of thick black hair – sadly not much of it growing out of the top of me ‘ead.

A pleasing couple of days in The Old Fish Shop Gallery at last.  In fact, having touted our wares at the market, a number of articles have actively sought out Lovely One and have bought a goodly amount of me doings this week.  Just as well, since Boy has once again required kitting out from shreddies to shoes before shearing to Leeds for the foreseeable.
My, my, things are certainly a bit different from when L.O. was twenty.  Having been shoved out of the nest straight into the world of the corner shop from the age of eleven- by twenty, could quite easily have run the United Nations with one hand, whilst conducting The London Philharmonic with the other.

Boy – an entirely diffo kettle of poisson.

Any road up, he is under no illusion that unless he ends up as Prime Minister at least, he must pay back all the money spent on his private education.
List for today…

1     floss gusset with tow-rope steeped in Dettol
2     Polish twinkle
3     wax face
4     touch up roots
5     rinse gob out with Parazone
6     dab Cilit Bang Grime and Lime ‘twixt dub-dubs
7     deploy Gok Wangers

Position self in The Old Fish Shop Gallery with opera glasses and stare wistfully up the back passage for the arrival of the Greek God, packing a bulging pocket.  Cash – of course!

Wednesday, 12 September 2012

In which One eagerly anticipates the visit from the Greek God…

‘Tis a sad, but most emphatically true, fact that a sizeable swathe of the inhabitants of Wivey would be in secure accommodation were it not for the fact that they reside within.

The delightful little town is a microcosm of oddities, in every conceivable way.  From it’s strange back to front roads, it’s narrow, dank alleyways that open out into splendid courtyards with fabulous vistas, to it’s weird and wonderful inhabitants.

Lovely One is by no means placing her divine self above these curious coves and sniggering.  No – in fact quite the opposite – One feels entirely sure that, in the manner of a Coven, Wivey called to One.  After all, here One is yet again!

The oddities in their droves biffed up at the market on Sunday. 

Princess P was charging about like a whirling dervish, rubber-gloved up and brandishing a rubbish bag, should anyone drop so much as a bogey in the gutter. 

Rosie Boycott was sashaying about, completely unrecognised by the inhabitants – they are a parochial lot who pay no heed to the great Metrolopis.

AND THEN – up swayed a v curious cove indeed!  A throwback from the Raj, wearing a linen suit with matching Panama hat.  Despite being v biz with customers various, the bod elbowed his way to Lovely One and the Pinkster, brandishing a form for us to fill in regarding the frequency with which we would like the markets to be held. Not giving a Kipper’s Dick when the markets were on, One pointed the cove in the Pinkster’s direction, whilst attempting to sell the blighter a raffle ticket.

HE REFUSED TO BUY ONE!  Claiming he had been the v first Wivey Link Driver, and they had ‘done him wrong.’  Well, it was deffo all over then, and the Pinkster steered him away before Lovely One could biff him one on the chin.  One can but hope she pointed him in the direction of Sketchleys, for there were stains in his trousorial department that had been there since the last Viceroy was in residence!

THEN – CRASH!  An easel went over in the breeze.  Either that or Dotty Dimwit shoved it over with a hard stare.  Any road up, the force of the masterpiece, ‘Over Taunton One’,  dislodged a PUBIC HAIR from under the frame, and left it curled next to St Mary’s Church Tower.

One can only assume that Dear Little S frames Lovely One’s doings whilst entirely naked, in order to bring a sexual frisson to the occasion.

Nonetheless, it is hanging once more in The Old Fish Shop Gallery, awaiting the attention of The Greek God, who issued the tantalising promise of ‘giving me his full attention’ this very week.  More than that One cannot blog.  Am still moist and panting from the smidgeon of attention what One got at the market! 

Shall, of course, remove said Pubic Hair, afore the visit of the Greek God.




In which The Sisters Ug finally have to call a Shite Meeting…

And so, the dear little personage of your very own Lovely One has just returned from the site meeting to sort out the Shirleytosis Shite Saga.

The Sisters Ug, resplendent in their sweaty, manmade fabrics were assembled in the manner of a Coven.  Shirleytosis had her face on inside out – so no change there then.

The chief Ug, in red – always an error for a girl of that girth – looked like a greasy Post Office Van looming over the proceedings.

If only the spiteful old harridans had behaved like normal people and held this meeting at the beginning of the crisis, all would be done and dusted.

But no – ‘A man is coming round to look at the drains,’ was all the communication Lovely One ever received regarding the matter.  Oh, and ‘it’s a simple little job.’

The ‘simple little job’ is going to involve One moving Oneself and all One’s belongings out for at least a month!  AND, having the entire fecking floor dug up AND great swathes of Shirleytosis shite being bucketed through the confines of the underground lair.

‘I’ve got sewerage flies buzzing around,’ complained Shirleytosis.  Lovely One vacated the premises and left the Sisters Ug pulling their wings off.


Monday, 10 September 2012

In which One is cordially not invited…

Would you Christmas Eve it?  No sooner do those track-suited little blighters clear off, than some other energetic cove is biffing about playing bat and ball all over me telly, ‘til about dawn.

So, here is your very own Lovely One doing me memoirs at the crack!

Any road up, back to the market doings…

Me and the Pinkster were minding our own bees-tiddly-wax when up bowled Lovely Gordon.  He, of course, was bringing up the rear of the laundry basket scented, chief Sister Ug with her less mobile companions-on-wheels. 

They are now accompanied by a constant medic in the fearsome shape of Nurse Vera, who ‘goes about’ with Lovely Gordon.

A ‘motley crew’ if ever One surveyed one!  They were ushered smartly past Lovely One’s doings by the chief Ug, but L.G. and Nurse Vera lingered awhile. 

Lovely Gordon was keen to divulge chapter and verse about the Malthouse Garden Barbeque, held, unsurprisingly, in the Malthouse Garden.

Being universally loathed by the residents the Ugs had found it necessary to cast their net for guests on the other side of the gate.  And so it was that Nurse Vera and L.G. from up the alley got to partake of the ‘fun.’

Lovely One, in days gone by used to allow them to use One’s own grounds for their doings, but One has long since been crossed off their social list.

One can but hope that the vinegar-gusseted crew didn’t dip into the maintenance money for the copious quantities of VP sherry, since they certainly don’t spent it on required works!

Any road up, Big B was in charge of the barbeque and soon had two recently born infants from the council estate spit roasting nicely. 

The Sister’s Ug had been warming up some frankfurters down their Liberty Bodices whilst L.G. ‘Storked’ the bridge rolls.

If the autumnal breeze threatened to douse the flames, Shirleytosis was deployed to exhale on the coals, thereby rendering a veritable towering inferno, with which to char the infants.

Lady Ya Ya, scuttled across the lawn bearing the pud, but no one had any room for the Humble Pie and custard!


Sunday, 9 September 2012

In which the crowds part and the Greek God appears…

And so the day of the Wiveliscombe Street Market has come and gone.  Lovely One was ready for the cosy confines of the truckle bed following a day spent bullying passers by into parting with their cash.

Having been ordered by Princess P to support the Wivey Link by donating raffle prizes from members of The Old Fish Shop Gallery, we raised enough to purchase one windscreen wiper of the new vehicle. 

But – people are a curious lot indeed!  The droopy article manning the gaff who introduced herself as, ‘I am the Wivey link,’ appeared rather ruffled that Lovely One and the Pinkster were muscling in on her territory, even though our gesture was purely altruistic.

Foreseeing such an encounter Lovely One had previously suggested that the bods sold their own raffle tickets, thereby, as One put it, ‘not stealing their thunder.’  But – no, One was requested to biff along with the event.  Clearly the fog horn voices of L.O. and the Pinkster were anathema to our rather more restrained market neighbours, to say nothing of the beady-piggster glares emanating from Dotty Dimwit that were drilling holes into the rear of Lovely One.  Can’t quite recall the vile deed perpetrated by Lovely One that crinkled her gusset, but she’s been spitting venomous remarks about Moi for the passing of many moons now.  Still, can’t please ‘em all, can One!

And then – the crowds parted and up sashayed THE GREEK GOD. 

The Pinkster very nigh swooned, and moist patches appeared all over the Next two-seater sofa loose cover that she was ackled up in.

More on that story later…


Saturday, 8 September 2012

In which Martin McGuiness has packed up and gone…

Can’t sleep – AGAIN

Could be the chippy tea.

Not even kept in the land of nod by bizarre encounters with Pete Waterman, who last night appeared in a mankini.  What is going on in the deteriorating brain of Lovely One?

It always used to be Martin McGuiness, who peppered Ones dreams with the odd appearance, but he’s upped sticks and sheared.  Just as quickly as he muscled in to the subconscious of L.O. and pitched his tent, he was off. 

Me and the Pinkster, who incidentally HAS GOT BROWN HAIR NOW, (and threatening to go grey), are biffing off to the market tomorrow with our wares.

Lovely One will not be going au naturel.  If One lives to be four hundred and seven, One will be blonde! I’m with Glenys Kinnock, who when asked how she would like to be remembered, said, ‘As a blonde.’

Very nigh wore meself out yesterday packing up that lot for the market – an incongruous mixture of raffle prizes, charity bits (made by my newest recruit to the gang of waifs and strays) and some v posh cushions, fashioned by a lovely young thing who is sooooo posh, One curtseyed when she biffed in!  Although One can’t envisage a Wivey arse shelling out forty five quid to sit on a cushion!

As usual, not a single person came into The Old Fish Shop Gallery until One started to pack everything up and then a coach load of Japanese tourist poured in and there was zippo left on the walls for them to buy.

Did manage to complete a painting of Totnes that will be winging it’s way to Dartington asap.  Although quite why One is bothering One is not entirely sure.  It was all very well when the bod there riffled through me box of doings, flinging stuff hither and thither, saying, ‘I’ll take that,’ or ‘I don’t like that,’ but that’s the last I’ve heard of it!  Not a ‘buy your leave.  Kiss me arse, nor nothing,’ as Aged P would say!


Friday, 7 September 2012

In which One has still got it…

As if the pigeon poop wasn’t enough of a deterrent for meandering down the alley to take a gander in The Old Fish Shop Gallery, some oik has started leaving sacks of rubbish propped up against MY NEW SIGN!

In a paddy of epic proportion, Lovely One hurled the offending detritus off me patch and set off in hot pursuit of the offender.

Reigning in me ardour and planting me most beatific grimace on me gob, I went forth, well first actually, into the charity shop. 

‘Oh, we thought it was yours,’ proffered the manageress, ‘so we’ve been putting there.’

‘Well it’s not ours, and we wouldn’t just dump it there!’ One countered.

‘Neither would we,’ retorted the bod.

‘Well you did,’ Lovely One went on, ‘You put it up against my new sign!’


Any road up, next stop the Travel Agent, or ‘Holiday Shop’ as they ridiculously call themselves now.

‘Ooooh, no. I don’t know nuffin abart it,’ said the over made up four year old on the desk.

Lovely One left, politely asking the bod to curtail such activities if she found out  ‘ooo done it.’

News had obv spread like lightening that L.O. was on the war path, as a couple of others came into the gallery to egg One on to ‘go down the Wellington Weekly office,’ or ‘get the environmental health down ‘ere.’

Anyway, the garbage bags mysteriously vanished, and were not taken by the Dusty Bin men, as far as One can tell.

Clearly, even though One has the outer appearance of a benign old fat dodderer, One still has the in-built terror inducing Atilla the Honey quality!

HURRAH  pour moi!

Thursday, 6 September 2012

In which One is a tasty morsel…

Have just had to clamber out of the truckle bed and, in the manner of Desperate Dan, heave the blighter off terra firma, placing all four legs in buckets of water, to avoid having One’s eyes eaten by white ants.  Clearly have wandered into some tropical netherworld, since vast red-arrow formations of mosquitoes have been dive bombing Lovely One all flamin’ night long.

One’s normally, silky smooth, lily white skin is utterly decimated and One has the current appearance of being entirely swathed in bubble wrap, so entirely covered is One in nibble marks!

Fly killer doesn’t appear to bother the little buzzing b*****ds, so am currently biffing around me boudoir immobilizing them with Elnett hairspray.

Shame they awoke One from One’s slumbers, as was having a lovely dream about Pete Waterman.  Heaven knows why! Have never harboured any feelings one way or another about the blighter, but even in the depths of the dream One was pondering…   ‘Brill! Maybe he’ll pay off me mortgage!’

Any road up, here One is, wide-a-soddin’-wake, on the hunt for a guava or some such. 

Another odd boddikins day was sauntered through in The Old Fish Shop Gallery.  The supposed ‘bird pest frightening Owl’ was deployed outside next door, head spinning wildly, to the obvious amusement of the pigeons, who promptly organised themselves into a gang, flew down and shat on it!

Was then accosted by a local woman obv intent on boring the tits off Lovely One with a tale about her son ‘he’s an artist, you know.  I keep telling him to sell his work in a place like this, but he’s got a job teaching at the moment.’

One restrained Oneself from the obv…


With nary a cursory glance upon our wares that irritating article was replaced by another…

‘What’s the deal here then?  How do you get stuff in here?  Is there a waiting list?’

One was busy fashioning a noose from one of BF’s wall hangings by this time.

Wednesday, 5 September 2012

In which One accepts One can occasionally be a complete dick…

Note to self:  Do not ever scoff a wedge-ette of Co-op Mississippi mud pie after 9.00pm.  In fact, do not scoff the sludgy brown goo – EVER.


Henceforth Lovely One shall be a healthy living beacon in the dark and murky depths of the Underground Lair.

To be fair: One was fit to scoff a scabby horse.  Having been holed up at Dear Little S’s gaff, seeing off vast quantities of moolah on frames various to delight the great Wivey unwashed at the street market on Sunday.

What with that and the printers, One saw off more than One has actually earned this month on cards, prints and all the associated paraphernalia what goes with it.

‘What’s the flamin’ point of it all?’ One was pondering whilst the printers biffed about.  And then – One’s eyes alighted on the actual reason for carrying on.


It shone like a veritable star on the card spinner. There it was, as if drawn by a two year old carrot with special needs, in all it’s glory.  The brave, or deluded cove that produced it was obv on hols when the teacher covered perspective.  And as for the nursery, primary colours – WELL, One hastily proffered me two quid for the item and biffed off clutching it to me chest. 

LET IT SERVE AS A REASON TO GO ON – for if persons actually part with the Queens shilling for that – the Tate is surely calling to Lovely One.

Any road up, left Deepest Devon laden down with wares for sale in Somerset – not that One expects to flog any to the tight-fisted articles.

The SS were hanging their premier exhibition as One left, overseen by their fog-horn gobbed inspiration who was cantering round the gaff like a elderly colt on heat having been the recipient of gusset area attention from a toothless old codger off the internet.


But at least now, I can see what a dick I made of myself!

Tuesday, 4 September 2012

In which One diversifies into Guano…

News reaches One, currently reclining dans le truckle bed in a consumptive fever, of artists various stripping the walls of The Old Fish Shop Gallery in favour of their Somerset Arts Week venues.  So be it!  All the more room for One, The Pinkster and the Distinguished Elderly Gentleman to shove our stuff up!

Had strange communiqué from said Pink ‘un (remember that) 

Well, if you do, you must be REALLY ancient.  Lovely One was dispatched with a pocket full of pennies on a Saturday to the Paper shop on the corner of Winch Street in beautiful down town Luton, to buy the Pink ‘Un, and/or the Green ‘Un, for One’s Granddad, an avid sports fan. There was always enough money left for a sugar mouse which the dear little Lovely One would treasure in it’s screwed up paper bag until One could stand it no more, and bit off it’s head on the way down Kingston Road.

Anyway, Pink/Green ‘Un delivered, One was then condemned to sit it absolute silence, sucking the sugar mouse, whilst the football results were on the radio.  And much later, the TV, when a B&W set was ceremoniously installed in the corner of the back sitting room.  A kind of typewriter device used to bash out the results across the screen, which were then delivered vocally by a BBC voice One can still recall.

Nanny Cooper and Aged P (then mini-skirted, bouffant hair-do’d P) would congregate in the scullery moaning about me Dad, until he turned up from the match with a pint of winkles and a bag of Riley’s toffees.  Sometimes he would have a paper bag full of salted peanuts which he would throw up in the air and catch in his mouth.  That would REALLY ANNOY me mother! For some obscure reason the tiny little Lovely one would sit and stick the ends of the winkles all over me face in the manner of stick on beauty spots. We would then be given a pin to extract the disgusting molluscs and eat them with bread and butter.

Any road up, I digress.  (Must be the feverish ramblings of the v poorly Lovely One)

Back to the Pinkster…

Apparently our wicked landlord has installed a feckin’ great, head spinning, plastic owl in the shop window to frighten the pigeons.  Presumably to alleviate the ankle deep guano that’s building up down the alley. 

Great fortunes have been made from pigeon poop.  Think of Tyntesfield.


Stop all this silly nonsense about painting and start scraping up the shite!

Monday, 3 September 2012

In which One makes a run for it…

‘I told you, STOP DOIN’ THAT RIO,’ bellowed a wizened old harridan, fag stuck to bottom lip, outside the Old Fish Shop Gallery.

Rio, pierced, three year old lobe glinting in the sunlight, blissfully carried on doin’ it.

‘GIT ‘ERE NAW!’ shrieked the harpie and set off up the alley, wheezing and coughing.

Rio retrieved, the two sat outside the barber’s shop twixt the faux bay trees and waited for Rooney to have his head shaved in preparation for imminent return to school.

Many similar scenarios were repeated.  All accompanied, as usual, by…

‘See yas’ and ‘Take cares’ and ‘Awrights,’ until Lovely One had to shut the flamin’ door.

Only to be assaulted by a ‘two little kiddie’ bearing grannie.

‘Eeee Arrrr, show the lady wot you done,’ said the article. Proudly shoving one of the little darlings in my direction.

A velvety coloured in unicorn, smeared with what One hopes was chocolate, was proffered with pride.

Suitable noises made by Lovely One, the trio bogged off with nary a glance at our wares.

Last flamin’ week we had masses of the blighters in, anxious to share their life’s doings with One, yet seemingly oblivious to the fact that WE ARE RUNNING A FLAMIN’ SHOP.  And so it was thus that One didn’t even get a single masterpiece completed.  In fact, such was the unending procession of annoyances, One quite lost One’s direction.

Was momentarily cheered by news from N that a stonking week was enjoyed at another of Moi’s galleries.


Back at the Old Fish Shop Gallery, a colouring book wielding child, dragging a disinterested looking adolescent Mama, was shifting at an alarming pace in One’s direction.

I battened down the hatches, grabbed me paints and sheared to the underground lair…

Sunday, 2 September 2012

In which One deploys the LEXI scale…

Have just awoken from a strange dream whereupon One had just decided to embark upon life’s highway with a curious cove One went to school with.

Why? And how did he make his stealthy way into One’s subconscious?

Any road up, pondering the dilemma, One couldn’t return to slumber and biffed off in search of a mango.

Flamin’ sport on TV again!  If it’s not Olympic, it’s football or some  such torturous waste of One’s license fee.

In desp, have filled in One’s details on the ‘What Sport is suitable for You?’ website.  Entering One’s vitals, the general consensus was that One should donate a pair of shreddies to be used as a refreshment marquee.

But – all is not lost – One has decided to evaluate One’s romantical past via the LEXI scale…

1st contender – JRB

No impairment in lower body, a bit weedy in upper torso, attractive, but sadly empty head. Sporadic uncontrollable movement of hands all over someone else’s nether regions.

2nd – GC

Minimal control of under trolley contents when in region of anything with a pulse.  Turned out to be under management of child-bearing housewife.


3rd – AHB

Full body movement, although probably active in 1948 Olympics judging by wear and tear.  Took many attempts, including changing the locks to get that one off the podium.

4th – Vile ex Husband

Full working order, bodily. Intellectual impairment, not fully appreciated until One had grown another smaller version.

5th – Physical impairments too numerous to mention, including selective joint problems rendering only football possible.

Lovely One soldering on to end of track, a bedraggled and timeworn baton, passed on and on and on…

I plead temporary insanity. 


Saturday, 1 September 2012

In which One goes on and on and on etc…


                                IMG_5007 (1)

And there it is!  Plymouth in all it’s glorious icons.  Sold, of course, a mere half hour after it got bunged in a frame by Dear Little S.  Which is just as well, since the good burghers of Wellington like to use galleries in the manner of museums and just come in, look around and bog off.

Somerset is still a more lovely place to rest One’s head.  Holiday makers dash through Somerset to get to Devon and Cornwall and the elderly, fortunate enough to have a pension and a shed load of cash from a house sale, sally forth to the rows and rows of bungalows eagerly awaiting them in Devon.

So, have reached conclusion that One should consider The Old Fish Shop Gallery as but a studio in which to biff out a masterpiece per week to flog in Devon and Cornwall.

Or would do if…


Have been desp attempting to finish a painting of Totnes, that has actually been requested by Dartington, with a view to ACTUALLY BEING SOLD, but no….

In they continue to saunter…

‘Mmmmm, I really should think about selling my own art you know,’ was one greeting this after.

The things One encounters on a daily basis when One has left her Kalashnikov in her other handbag…

‘Oh, and what kind of things do you paint?’ offers L.O. with feigned interest.

‘Oh comic book stuff,’ goes on the deluded article, ‘not Dennis the Menace stuff, more sci-fi.’

Mmmm, get that in – methinks!  Be retiring to the Bahamas in no time!

There followed yet another half hour of One’s life that One won’t get back.  And to make matters worse he loomed in such space invading, close proximity, One couldn’t even wield me paintbrush without the danger of having one of his eyes out!

And so it went on, for the best part of the day. 

The Wellington Food Fair brought plenty of pie-carrying coves through the doors, all making the right noises and wishing us every success for the future of the venture, but leaving empty handed (except for the pies).

It makes me think of the days One spent in a contract drawing office, eee them were the days!  We used to titter about throwing pencils out of the window and if anyone picked one up, they would be immediately employed as a design draughtsman.  Tis a similar story in Wellington: any old bod who picks up a paintbrush is an ‘artist.’

So, shall continue to sit in Somerset, painting Devon and selling it in Cornwall.  Still mustn’t grumble, at least they buy ‘em down there.